#i love you artists whose art is dependent upon others' art | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ausetkmt · 1 year

Text

It’s After the End of the World By Daphne A. Brooks

I remember how it ended. A bespectacled, lanky, light-skinned sister sporting two braided pigtails stepped up to the mic. She was rocking garden-green pants and a yellow spaghetti-strap tank top, and she came out late in the Black Rock Coalition Orchestra’s Nina Simone tribute set in New York on June 13, 2003. Armed with a startling mezzo-soprano that dipped into the outer limits of audible desire, she was covering “I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl” like her life depended on it. Her crooning felt sexy and dangerous and inquisitive as she declared, “I want a little sweetness down in my soul...I want a little steam on my clothes.” The crowd swooned. We were suspended for a moment between the grief of having lost our Nina some three weeks before (April 21, the day that Prince would die 13 years later) and ecstatic remembrance as this then-unknown singer, Alice Smith, summoned the potency of our lost patron saint.

“Our Nina”—as she is sometimes called by black feminists who feel especially possessive and protective of her—was a musician whose body of work pushed us and challenged us to know more about ourselves, what we longed for, and who we were as women navigating intersectional injuries and negations of mattering in the American body politic. She was beloved as much for the emotional force of her showmanship as she was for the lyrical, instrumental, and political force of her virtuosity. That night (one I remember so vividly, perhaps, because it was the Friday before my father died), Smith was conjuring that revolutionary, climactic Nina feeling—the erotic kind, which women of color historically have rarely been able to claim for their own, and the socially transformative kind, that marginalized peoples have called upon to bring about radical change.

That revolutionary Nina feeling runs like a high-voltage current from her earliest American Songbook covers through her Frankfurt School battle cries, folk lullabies and eulogies, blues incantations, Black Power anthems, diasporic fever chants, Euro romantic laments, and experimental classical and freestyle jazz odysseys. It is the signal she sends out to tell us that something is turning, that we may be closing in on some new way of being in the world and being with each other, or we are at least reaching the point of breaking something open, tearing down Jim Crow institutions. Often enough, it indicated that we were joining her in tearing up those unspoken rules about how a Bach-loving, Lenin- and Marx-championing, “not-about-to-be-nonviolent-no-more” musician and black freedom struggle activist should sound.

Photo by Gilles Petard/Getty Images

Soothsayer, chastiser, conjurer, philosopher, historian, actor, politician, archivist, ethnographer, black love proselytizer: She showed up on the frontlines of people-powered mass disturbances, delivering the good word (“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day”) or shining discomforting light on the stubborn edifice of Southern white power (“Why don’t you see it?/Why don’t you feel it?”). And even when illness set in, and exile didn’t soften her grief for fallen friends and their unfinished revolution, she faltered for a time but ultimately stayed the course. She was fastidiously focused, insouciantly exploratory, and ferociously inventive at her many legendary, marathon concerts—Montreux, Fort Dix—the ones in which her mad skills, honed during her youthful years in late-night supper club jam sessions, returned in full. She was epic, our journey woman, the one who was capable of taking us to the ineffable, joyous elsewhere in that “Feeling Good” vocal improvisation that closes out that track.

Today, we return to her more passionately than ever before, looking to her for answers, parables, strategies—not only for how to survive, but how to end this thing called white supremacist patriarchy that some of us had naïvely believed was ever-so-excruciatingly self-destructing. Since her death, her iconicity has grown, spreading to the world of hip-hop (which, as the scholar Salamishah Tillet has shown, frequently samples her radicalism), to academia, where studies of Simone—articles and conference papers, seminars and book projects—pile high, making inroads in a segment of university culture previously cornered by Dylanologists. We take her with us to the weekend marches. Our students cue her up, summoning her wisdom and fortitude during the rallies.

This massive old-new love for our Nina is a way of being, and her sound encapsulates the pursuit of emotional knowledge and ethical bravery. She forges our awakening. I said as much a few weeks before Nina passed, when I offered a conference meditation on the late Jeff Buckley’s cover of “Lilac Wine,” a song I had kept on a loop during my grad years and one that had taught me a few things about heartbreak and heroism. Through the voice of that white, Gen X, alt-rock daring balladeer and ardent fan of Nina’s, I could hear Ms. Simone singing to me, “Leave everything on the floor, and face the end triumphantly.”

It was a message that she conveyed all on her own when I saw her in 2000 at the Hollywood Bowl—one of her rare, stateside shows in her waning years. That night, she kept a feather duster at the piano, and after each song, she raised it like a conductor’s baton, beckoning an ovation. I remember that it was a gesture that felt cold and distant at the time, a sign of her lasting, antagonistic relationship with her audience—all of which is no doubt true. But in hindsight, I think more about the lessons she was bestowing on us, yet again, that evening. At the close of every number, we were invited to recognize the wonder of her artistry and to listen with anticipation for whatever would come next, the next better world she would create for us and with us—a black space, a women’s space, a free space. All those endings which might lead to new beginnings.

Daphne A. Brooks is Professor of African American Studies, Theater Studies, American Studies, and Women’s, Gender & Sexuality Studies at Yale University.

Listen to Nina Simone: Her Art and Life in 33 Songs on Spotify and Apple Music.

Photo by David Redfern/Getty Images

“I Loves You Porgy”

Little Girl Blue

1958

Nina Simone’s first album, Little Girl Blue, was just a run-through of the material she’d been singing in clubs, in the arrangements she’d already made. They were ready to go. “I Loves You Porgy” became a Billboard Top 20 hit in 1959 and established her career in New York. To hear it is to understand how Simone’s critical consciousness began early and never turned off. She approached the ballad from George and Ira Gershwin’s “folk opera” Porgy and Bess not as a classical musician, as per her training, or as a jazz or cabaret musician, as she had been called—only as herself. Even on paper, the song is emotionally loaded: a plea for protection to a man the narrator has come to trust. In emotional terms, Billie Holiday’s 1948 version feels optimistic, guardedly bright; Simone’s feels concentrated and gravely serious, almost private, even as she adds trills and rhythmic details to every line. When she sings, “If you can keep me, I want to stay here/With you forever, and I’ll be glad,” there is no way to know what “glad” means to her. –Ben Ratliff

Listen: “I Loves You Porgy”

“My Baby Just Cares for Me”

Little Girl Blue

1958

When Nina Simone cut Little Girl Blue, she was still smarting from her rejection from a prestigious classical conservatory. Throughout the album, she proved her chops by dropping a reference to Bach in one swinging track and improvising with a fluidity that Mozart would have admired, and also by subtly changing a tune that American listeners thought they knew. The standard “My Baby Just Cares for Me” was first made popular by the 1930 musical Whoopee!, and through such lyrics as, “My baby don’t care for shows/My baby don’t care for clothes,” its singer takes pride in a romantic prowess that can cut across class divisions. The vaudeville star Eddie Cantor performed it onscreen in a brassy, obvious way that fit the era (up to and including his use of blackface makeup). Simone’s reading is more soulful and complex. The tempo has been slowed, but the feel for jazz swing has been powerfully increased. In the middle of the song, over a finger-popping groove, Simone delivers a solo of pellucid elegance. Her vocals draw their power both from blues grit and crisp articulations, and from the way Simone bridges those styles. The way she plays this song, those old “high-tone places” and social codes no longer seem so untouchable—in the presence of such artistry, they only seem embarrassing and ripe for redefinition. –Seth Colter Walls

Listen: “My Baby Just Cares for Me”

“Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Hair”

Nina Simone At Town Hall

1959

Recontextualizing an Appalachian folk song, Simone transposed a mournful lament with roots in the Scottish highlands to 1959 America, where “black” was imbued with far greater heft. Coming early in her career, “Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Hair” promised an increasing political consciousness in her music, the intent clear in the cascade of loving, mournful, minor-key piano in the intro and her ever-profound, trembling contralto. The line “I love the ground on where he goes” held particular meaning in 1959, as the Civil Rights Movement was hitting a fever pitch but the racist laws of the Jim Crow South still held strong. Town Hall, where the album was recorded, was in midtown New York. It was the first concert hall she ever played, a venue where she would be venerated for singing her mind. The song arrived at the beginning of her fame but, more importantly, it was an incubator of her mindset to come. –Julianne Escobedo Shepherd

Listen:“Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Hair”

Photo by Herb Snitzer/Getty Images

“Just in Time”

At the Village Gate

1962

Simone’s live albums, recorded in clubs or theaters, were fundamental to her work. All of them still feel charged. By 1957, when she was still playing in Atlantic City clubs, she had established a hard line: You paid attention or she stopped playing. By 1959, when she first played at New York’s Town Hall, she graduated in self-definition from club singer to concert-hall singer, which is to say she knew there was a sufficient amount of people who would come to hear her. And in April 1961, when she recorded At the Village Gate, she could bring back that imperial attitude to club dimensions, leading her quartet from the piano.

For about one full, intense minute at the start of “Just in Time,” she winds up her quartet with dissonant, percussive chord clusters. Then she settles into the first verse, sung at confidential level, drawing out her vowels into quavers. Her piano solo is as hypnotic and repetitive as what John Lewis made famous doing with the Modern Jazz Quartet, but smudgier and more emphatic. This is comprehensive skill—singing, playing, bandleading—and the song is all zone: nearing it, then staying in it. –Ben Ratliff

Listen:“Just in Time”

“The Other Woman/Cotton Eyed Joe”

At Carnegie Hall

1963

Nina Simone once dreamed of becoming the first black female classical pianist to play Carnegie Hall, but when she finally made it there on April 12, 1963, she was working in a different idiom. Her set was filled with traditional songs and standards she made her own, including this striking mashup that closes her At Carnegie Hall live album.

A staple in Simone’s sets, “The Other Woman” is a deceptively nuanced Jessie Mae Robinson tune with immense empathy for the mistress. It was first recorded by Sarah Vaughan, but Simone elevates the song further with her ability to conjure the loneliness of womanhood better than just about anyone, particularly when her accompaniments run slow and sparse. In performances over the years, the emotional burden of “The Other Woman” seemed to weigh heavier on Simone, as she experienced infidelity from both sides. At Carnegie Hall, though, she segues into the most elegant take on “Cotton Eyed Joe” imaginable, merging folk, jazz, and a touch of her beloved classical. –Jillian Mapes

Listen:“The Other Woman/Cotton Eyed Joe”

“Mississippi Goddam”

In Concert

1964

As the Civil Rights Movement gained traction, retaliation from racist whites became more intense, reaching a terrible apex in 1963, when the KKK murdered Medgar Evers in Jackson, Mississippi, and four children in a church bombing in Birmingham, Alabama. Nina Simone’s frustration and desperation is palpable in the biting, cynical way she performed “Mississippi Goddam” at Carnegie Hall—a room full of natty whites, but the rare New York concert hall that was never segregated. Within her voice, unloosed so explicitly for the first time, a sanguine irony formed the tension between its sentiment, the very real possibility of being murdered for her race (“I think every day’s gonna be my last”).

During her set at Carnegie, which was recorded for her album In Concert, Simone referred to this song as a show tune “but the show that hasn’t been written for it yet.” Its frantic tempo reflected the urgency of the moment, a template for protest songs to follow, and the piano chords propelled the song’s existentialism with the determination of a steam engine train. It was gonna make it on time, but its destination was still unknown. –Julianne Escobedo Shepherd

Listen:“Mississippi Goddam”

“Pirate Jenny”

In Concert

1964

Nina Simone seethes the lyrics to “Pirate Jenny,” taking every ounce of delight in openly threatening her audience. The song, penned in the late 1920s by the German theatrical composer Kurt Weill, is a revenge tale in which a lowly maid fantasizes that she is the Queen of Pirates and that a black ship will soon emerge from the mist to destroy the town in which she has been treated so poorly. In Simone’s hands, it transforms from political metaphor into dark and unchained spiritual catharsis. Her performance devolves from singing to whispering, with raspy venomous verses such as, “They’re chaining up the people and bringing ‘em to me/Asking me kill them now or later.” Accompanied only by piano and timpani, she allows for long pauses, using silence as a psychological weapon. You can all but hear the audience clutching their pearls. –Carvell Wallace

Listen:“Pirate Jenny”

“Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood”

Broadway-Blues-Ballads

1964

Though the unremarkable Broadway-Blues-Ballads followed “Mississippi Goddam”’s overwhelming reception a few months earlier, its opening number, “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood,” quickly emerged and remains a tentpole of Nina Simone’s identity. (Never mind that its lyrics were written by Bennie Benjamin, Horace Ott, and Sol Marcus.) After years of “inferior” show tunes and “musically ignorant” popular audiences, as she would later call them in her autobiography I Put a Spell on You, Simone was all too familiar with this song’s themes of lonely remorse, of seeming edgy and taking it out on the people she loved, of “[finding herself] alone regretting/Some little foolish thing...that [she’s] done.”

Though “Goddam” began a pivotal year in which Simone would refocus her life on civil rights and black revolution, “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” would continue to reflect her personal struggles to come, including the bipolar disorder and manic depression that went undiagnosed and self-medicated until late in life. White audiences often saw her as the benign entertainer they wanted to; Simone long struggled to be seen as her whole, complex self. –Devon Maloney

Listen: “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood”

Photo by Jack Robinson/Getty Images

“See-Line Woman”

Broadway-Blues-Ballads

1964

In the stretch between 1962 and 1967, Nina Simone was at her most prolific, releasing at least two albums per year—and three in 1964. Broadway-Blues-Ballads premiered several songs that became fixtures of Simone’s live repertoire, including the scintillating call-and-response number “See-Line Woman.” Built on the structure and rhythm of a traditional children’s song, it tells the tale of four escorts, dressed in different colors that signify what they’re willing to do. In Simone’s rendering, the “See-Line Woman” is something of a femme fatale, who will “empty [a man’s] pockets” and “wreck his days/And she make him love her, then she sure fly away.”

Simone’s performance showcases her voice as a powerful instrument, flirtatious and sly, backed by a stuttering hi-hat and flute arrangement that never outshines her vocals. The origins of the tune that inspired “See-Line Woman” remain uncertain, but Simone’s recording leaves little doubt that the song is hers. –Vanessa Okoth-Obbo

Listen:“See-Line Woman”

“Be My Husband”

Pastel Blues

1965

The lyrics of “Be My Husband” are attributed to Andrew Stroud, Nina Simone’s second husband and manager—a strong, guiding, sometimes violent hand in her career and her life. (Billie had one. Aretha, too.) The title seems mysterious at first: Is it a proposal, a bargain, or a command? Is she saying “marry me” or “act like a husband is supposed to act”? All of her musical and expressive genius is here. Her breath and guttural sighs seem to say, “This shit is work with an intermittent erotic respite.” Her voice dips, curves, bends, and flies, provides the melody and the rhythm. She demands, she pleads. She is all strength, then absolute vulnerability.

The year Simone recorded “Be My Husband,” death came for both her closest friend, the playwright Lorraine Hansberry, and Malcolm X. Spring brought Selma, and Nina serenaded the marchers. In this season of mourning and wakefulness, “Be My Husband” revealed itself to have been all these things: a proposition, a bargain, and a command. Do right by me, Simone sings, and I’ll do right by you. Love for a man, a people, a nation is struggle—it is work. –Farah Jasmine Griffin

Listen:“Be My Husband”

“I Put a Spell on You”

I Put a Spell on You

1965

History remembers Nina Simone as nothing if not resolute, thanks in significant part to “I Put a Spell on You.” Slinky and confident, with flashes of destructive insecurity, her now-iconic cover of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ blues lament begins matter-of-factly, informative even, then whips itself into the controlled fury of a woman who has made up her mind and is bracing for the inevitable fight. Simone refuses to be taken advantage of throughout, claiming what is rightfully hers: “I don’t care if you don’t want me/I’m yours right now.”

Personal meaning aside—in 1965, she was halfway through a marriage—“I Put a Spell on You” also evokes Simone’s relationship with her audiences over the years. Its release, after all, came just as she was finding her own magic: As she wrote in her autobiography, “It’s like I was hypnotizing an entire audience to feel a certain way….This was how I got my reputation as a live performer, because I went out from the mid-Sixties onward determined to get every audience to enjoy my concerts the way I wanted them to, and if they resisted at first, I had all the tricks to bewitch them with.” –Devon Maloney

Listen:“I Put a Spell on You”

“Feeling Good”

I Put a Spell on You

1965

Throughout her life, Nina Simone rebelled against the tendency for her music to be categorized as jazz or blues, as it gave little acknowledgement to her classical training and her fluidity in other genres. I Put a Spell on You cemented her status as a singer at ease with popular music, who could command attention even when her exceptional piano skills played a secondary role. Simone’s version of “Feeling Good” is one of the album’s masterworks, and it became a standard in its own right. From the opening notes of the strictly vocal intro, she looks to nature to describe contentment: birds flying high, the sun in the sky, a breeze drifting on by. When the big band orchestration comes in, the horns and strings transform the song into a sermon of unbridled joy, peaking with a rousing scat solo that can only emerge from the depths of a free soul. –Vanessa Okoth-Obbo

Listen:“Feeling Good”

“Ne Me Quitte Pas”

I Put a Spell on You

1965

This song finds Nina Simone’s emotions at their most indulgent, her shivering voice at its most precise. Penned by the Belgian crooner Jacques Brel and originally recorded in 1959, its cloying lyrics “Do not leave me” were meant to poke fun at men who could not keep their hearts in their shirts. On Simone’s recording, however, the work becomes something else entirely: It is an agonizing mediation on the kind of existential desolation that only a broken love can bring. Andrew Stroud, a retired NYPD lieutenant, once held her at gunpoint and raped her; she remained in this relationship for nearly 15 years, during which she recorded most of her defining albums. Here, she expands and contracts, pianissimo to fortissimo, as though the entire song were a series of sighs; when she sings, “Let me be the shadow of your shadow,” in its original French, a cosmic rumble emits from the depths of her heart. The chorus is simply the song’s title repeated, and the fourth one sounds precisely like the last flicker of a candle’s flame. –Carvell Wallace

Listen:“Ne Me Quitte Pas”

Photo by Frans Schellekens/Getty Images

“Strange Fruit”

Pastel Blues

1965

In 1965, three very important marches took place between Selma and Montgomery, Alabama, in protest of laws that prevented black citizens from exercising their right to vote. The third and most successful of these culminated in a concert organized by Harry Belafonte, at which Nina Simone performed. There, Simone—who once declared that she was “not non-violent”—used music as her weapon in the fight for liberty.

Pastel Blues was not an overt protest record, but “Strange Fruit” was an unequivocal rebuke of the lynchings that claimed so many black lives. The song was originally popularized by Billie Holliday, who often performed it under strict conditions to avoid backlash over its severe message, but Simone was no longer held back by fear, having already put her career on the line with the similarly frank “Mississippi Goddam.” Over somber piano keys, she recounts the horror of seeing black bodies hanging from the trees like fruit, in one of the most startling metaphors ever set to wax. At the song’s apex, when describing how the bodies would be left “for the leaves to drop,” Simone wails the third word with an anguish that’s as unforgettable as the painful history that the song decries. —Vanessa Okoth-Obbo

Listen:“Strange Fruit”

“Sinnerman”

Pastel Blues

1965

One of Nina Simone’s most recognizable recordings, “Sinnerman” has been repurposed by everyone from David Lynch to Kanye West. What remains in its original form, however, is the pure punk of it. This live recording rides hard on a driving 2/4 backbeat, one that accelerates a full 10 bpm over its 10-minute run. Simone’s backing band is sharp, the rimshots and high hats insistent, the piano work both velvety and forceful. It is a song of apocalypse, of bleeding seas and boiling rivers and the inability to escape God’s wrath no matter where you turn.

As a child, Simone learned “Sinnerman” from her mother, who sang it in revival meetings to help sinners become so overwhelmed as to confess their transgressions. Hellfire, brimstone, and damnation were the lullabies on which she was nursed, and it explains her disdain for the fearful. “Sinnerman” is an attack; its hypnotic repetition is designed to induce you to God or madness, whichever comes first. She unleashes her voice, sharp and wide, like sunlight glinting off the blade of a knife. Here, Simone—whose life was as violent and lawless as her music was transcendent—channels heaven and hell equal measure. –Carvell Wallace

Listen:“Sinnerman”

“Lilac Wine”

Wild Is the Wind

1966

“Lilac Wine,” a woozy torch song, originally appeared in James Shelton’s if-you-blinked-you-missed-it 1950 Broadway musical revue “Dance Me a Song.” In 1953, Eartha Kitt dropped a cover and the song became a standard. Nina Simone’s arch-dramatic reimagining is as exotic and dizzying as the titular intoxicant, veering drunkenly between minor and major keys. Simone slows down the tempo to a dirge-like crawl; her classically inflected piano accompaniment is spare and insistent like a metronome. But it’s her trembling singing that really delivers the devastation: The way she captures crestfallen confusion and inebriated fogginess in her vocal performance is astonishing, and no easy feat. Even more astonishing: The way she balances the song’s damaged gloom with a heaving romantic tenderness. –Jason King

Listen:“Lilac Wine”

“Wild Is the Wind”

Wild Is the Wind

1966

Nina Simone debuted her elegant take on “Wild Is the Wind” on 1959’s At Town Hall—a year after Johnny Mathis scored an Oscar nod for the standard—though it would be another seven years before Simone introduced her ominous studio version. Wild Is the Wind, one of three albums Simone released in 1966, is filled with songs that yearn for understanding and romantic resolution, but few capture the feeling with as much uneasiness as the title track. One minute she’s completely swept away by love’s rapture with classical-piano opulence; the next her vibrato purrs on its lowest setting. The music cuts out. Nina smirks sharply. “Don’t you know, you’re life itself,” she coos. Some annotations of this line end it with an exclamation point, but Simone sings it more like a question. She knows how she feels, but there’s still something uncertain about it, perhaps a reflection of her own turbulent private life at this moment. –Jillian Mapes

Listen:“Wild Is the Wind”

“Four Women”

Wild Is the Wind

1966

While most of her records featured interpretations of songs written by others, Wild Is the Wind is special for a composition penned by Simone herself. On “Four Women,” she deconstructs the shameful dual legacies of slavery and racism in America, narrating from the perspective of four black female characters. Aunt Sarah is forced to work hard and be strong, lest a whip be cracked on her back; the biracial Saffronia exists between black and white worlds, shouldering the knowledge that her father “forced [her] mother late one night”; Sweet Thing is the little girl forced to grow up too fast, who has come to understand her body as something that has a cost. The song is set to a simple melody of bass and percussion, with Simone on the piano, but the tension builds with each vignette. By the time she gets to Peaches, the most vengeful character, Simone is yelling with the fury of many generations, and the instruments crescendo. With “Four Women,” Simone took a stand for black women, whose suffering at the nexus of race and gender discrimination is often rendered invisible. Shortly after its release, it was banned by several radio stations for supposedly incendiary content—a possibility that Simone must have anticipated. But she was a fearless fighter, and the song was her affirmation that black womanhood would remain at the heart of her activism. –Vanessa Okoth-Obbo

Listen: “Four Women”

Photo by Michael Ochs Archives/Stringer

“I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free”

Silk & Soul

1967

Though urban America was unraveling in 1967, with riots exploding in Detroit and Newark, Simone was being encouraged by RCA Records to go easy on the activism and focus on her career. She released three studio albums that year, the final being Silk & Soul, which was mostly filled with love songs and strings. However, right at the top of Side B was a track that would become an anthem of the Civil Rights Movement: “I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free,” written by the jazz pianist and educator Dr. Billy Taylor.

The song’s swinging melody and finger-popping performance belies its message, summarized in the yearning ambiguity of its title. The contrast between the emotion of the lyrics (“I wish I could share all the love that’s in my heart/Remove all the bars that keep us apart”) and the upbeat, gospel-based arrangement added depth and power. Out of this tension, the song rang out as a hopeful but realistic vision of emancipation. –Alan Light

Listen:“I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free”

“Come Ye”

High Priestess of Soul

1967

“Come Ye” is the sparest track on High Priestess of Soul, an album produced with a fairly heavy hand by Hal Mooney. By then, Simone was seen widely as not just a musician but as a kind of power station of black consciousness, with the ability to politicize audiences—even white and American ones. In vocals and percussion alone, this is an original African-American folk song: polyrhythmic, in a single tonal center, played with hand drums. In four verses, Simone gradually raises its stakes until it all ends direly: “Ye who would have love,” she sings. “It’s time to take a stand/Don’t mind the dues that must be paid/For the love of your fellow man.” This is the intersection of cultural memory, passion, and action—medicine, warning, and alarm. –Ben Ratliff

Listen:“Come Ye”

“Backlash Blues”

Nina Simone Sings the Blues

1967

Simone’s friend Langston Hughes mailed her the lyrics to this song in poem form, and she took immediately to his indictment of “Mr. Backlash,” a personification of white oppression of black America’s small gains (and the “black, yellow, beige and brown” among them, equally oppressed). Simone delivered these promises and threats with a slinky blues rasp, forecasting that the person to receive the backlash would be the oppressor himself. Its lyrics also dovetailed with the rise of the Black Panther Party, which had begun exercising their right to open-carry in their efforts to protect the black people of Oakland from police brutality. Simone sang easily, measuredly, with the confidence that one day a score would be settled: “Do you think that all colored folks are just second class fools?” –Julianne Escobedo Shepherd

Listen:“Backlash Blues”

“I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl”

Nina Simone Sings the Blues

1967

In the 1960s, Simone left her first label, Colpix, ended up at Phillips, and then hopped over to RCA Victor. In 1967, she recorded her debut album for RCA: Nina Simone Sings the Blues, a hard-driving, tough-talking collection of originals and covers. On “I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl,” she borrows the basic blues progressions from “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out,” a 1920s cautionary standard originally popularized by Bessie Smith. But Simone comes up with an original lyric that bypasses social commentary and conjures up bawdy flirtatiousness and lust instead: “I want a little sugar in my bowl/I want a little sweetness down in my soul/I could stand some lovin’, oh so bad/I feel so funny, I feel so sad.” Impressive in her thematic range, Simone had no problem mixing double entendre lyrics about ribald sex and in-your-face politics on her albums: “I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl” appears alongside her classic civil rights protest song “Backlash Blues.” Songs like this serve as a reminder that the revolutionary activist who can’t occasionally admit to being horny isn’t really the revolutionary activist we need. –Jason King

Listen:“I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl”

“Why? (The King of Love Is Dead)”

’Nuff Said

1968

What and whom are we mourning? How will we mourn, and can we transform the depths of our despair into living in a way that honors what we’ve lost? Nina Simone turns each of these questions over and over from multiple vantage points in this nearly 13-minute performance, recorded on April 7, 1968, at Long Island’s Westbury Music Fair, three days after Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assassination. She and her band learned the song, written by bassist Gene Taylor, earlier in the day.

Shaped by the improvisational urgency and rawness of the moment, the live rendition of “Why?” captures many Ninas: the sermonizer accompanying herself on piano and leading her congregation through the wilderness; the Civil Rights dreamer delivering a delicate jazz tale of a nonviolent folk hero; the anguished pallbearer voicing a funeral hymn; and the master of the black freedom struggle jeremiad who laments, “Will the murders never cease?” before slipping fully into her militant “Mississippi” self. She mourns not just for King but for the numerous slain leaders, martyrs, fellow freedom-fighting artists, and “many thousands gone,” as her friend James Baldwin put it—the black subjugated masses who shape the epic sorrow and weariness of her subdued vocals. This dirge-turned-protest-song absorbs the weight of all these bodies but also defiantly affirms the presence of she who remains on the battlefield. “We’ve lost a lot of them in the last two years, but we have remaining Monk, Miles,” Simone reflects slowly, speaking to the audience. From the rafters, a stentorian voice finishes the list: “Nina.” –Daphne A. Brooks

Listen: “Why? (The King of Love Is Dead)”

“The Desperate Ones”

Nina Simone and Piano!

1969

Nina Simone never had the widest vocal range or the purest pitch, but she had a once-in-a-generation talent for conveying the meaning of a song through tone and phrasing. With few exceptions, once she sang a song, it was hers, and she was never afraid to make bold choices that could seem downright strange at first listen. Throughout the 1960s, that incomparable voice appeared in many settings, from huge orchestral arrangements to minimal ballads, as she moved confidently from one musical genre to the next. And at the tail end of the decade, she made an album that returned her to the milieu of her first days as a performer.

Nina Simone and Piano! closes with “The Desperate Ones,” an oblique song by Jacques Brel that depicts, with heavy romantic imagery, the weariness of the ‘60s youth trying to remake the world. It was always a quiet song, both when Brel sang it in 1965 and after it was translated into English for the 1968 off-Broadway show Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living in Paris. But Simone’s performance takes the hushed intensity to an almost frightening level, showcasing her staggering ability to convey feeling with simple elements. She just barely hints at a melody as she reframes the song’s story as something passed between strangers in a darkened alley. Singing in a raspy whisper, her voice is filled with yearning and empathy and wonder, and the starkness of the arrangement highlights its eerie magic. –Mark Richardson

Listen: “The Desperate Ones”

“To Be Young, Gifted and Black”

Black Gold

1970

Lorraine Hansberry, the first black woman to have her work produced on Broadway (A Raisin in the Sun), was a friend and mentor to Simone, and a key figure in her political awakening. When Hansberry died of pancreatic cancer in 1965, at age 34, the singer was devastated—and when Malcolm X was killed the next month, her radicalization was complete.

In 1969, Hansberry’s ex-husband adapted some of her writing into an off-Broadway play called “To Be Young, Gifted and Black.” One Sunday, Simone opened the newspaper and saw a story about the production. She called her musical director, Weldon Irvine, to help with the lyrics, and the song—which would be her final contribution to the protest canon—was finished 48 hours later. With its simple, direct message of racial and personal pride and forceful melody, the single was a Top 10 R&B hit and Simone’s biggest crossover success since “I Loves You, Porgy.” It would be covered by Aretha Franklin, Donny Hathaway, and Solange, and CORE named it the “Black National Anthem.” Simone even performed the song on “Sesame Street.” –Alan Light

Listen: “To Be Young, Gifted and Black”

“Just Like a Woman”

Here Comes the Sun

1971

In the early 1960s, as Simone’s star was rising at New York’s Village Gate club, a young Bob Dylan was scratching at the door of the folk scene brewing across the street, doing parody songs between sets by bigger names. Less than a decade later, Simone had five Dylan covers in her discography, none more necessary than “Just Like a Woman.”

In Simone’s hands, Dylan’s half-improvised song about watching an ex-girlfriend walk away became a heartfelt paean to all women. Each once-bitter read from Dylan—“she takes just like a woman,” “she breaks just like a little girl”—was now delivered as an affirmation of female resilience and vulnerability, a human frailty that invited empathy rather than contempt.

Voiced by a woman—especially a famously forthright, tenacious one like Simone—the song got a first-person adaptation; rather than infantilizing the “woman” in question and separating her from the world, Simone’s interpretation closed the gap. Released near the height of her influence as a political artist, it’s a feminist treatment with an inversion that feels contemporary, even half a century later. –Devon Maloney

Listen: “Just Like a Woman”

“22nd Century”

Here Comes the Sun

1971

As Nina Simone tells it in her memoir, by the early 1970s, everything was coming undone for her; she had “fled to Barbados pursued by ghosts: Daddy, [sister] Lucille, the movement, Martin, Malcolm, [her] marriage, [her] hopes…” On its surface, “22nd Century” translates this personal moment of peril into big, broad, metaphorical strokes that wed the apocalyptic with cathartic possibility and radical euphoria. “There is no oxygen in the air/Men and women have lost their hair,” she prophesizes, holding steady at the center of an intoxicating swirl of flamenco guitar and calypso steel drums. “When life is taken and there are no more babies born....Tomorrow will be the 22nd century.”

In the future that is Nina’s, things fall apart so that notions of time, space, and the human can be razed and take on new shape. But in this era in which she sought out Caribbean maroonage, there is perhaps an even deeper connection forged by way of this hypnotic, nearly nine-minute odyssey. Covering Bahamian “Obeah Man” Exuma’s stirring, hybrid mix of junkanoo, carnival, and folk, she sticks close to his original recording from that same year and merges her Afrodiasporic revolutionary vision with his: “Don’t try to sway me over to your day/On your day,” her reaching vocals insist. “Your day will go away.” –Daphne A. Brooks

Listen: “22nd Century”

Photo by David Redfern/Getty Images

Medley: “My Sweet Lord/Today Is a Killer”

“Emergency Ward!”

1972

No artist ever wielded power over an audience as deftly as Nina Simone, but the same can be said of her talent for turning covers into transcendent events. By 1972, she’d perfected—several times over—both delicate alchemies. She used her crowds’ expectations to lure them in before delivering uncomfortable yet necessary truths, all while constructing what one academic, quoting theorist William Parker, called “inside songs”—covers that dig up the song lying “in the shadows, in-between the sounds and silences and behind the words” of the original.

That creative electricity is palpable on this gargantuan, 18-minute live jam that takes up an entire side of Emergency Ward!, the record now considered Simone’s major anti-Vietnam War statement. Backed by a gospel choir, she invites the audience in with George Harrison’s then-two-year-old mega-hit, locking into a mesmerizing church sing-along before revealing the Trojans within: David Nelson’s brutal poem about the desperate, decaying hope of the Civil Rights era. Lines like "Today/Pressing his ugly face against mine/Staring at me with lifeless eyes/Crumbling away all memories of yesterday’s dreams,” dropped into the rhythm of Harrison’s exaltations, inflate the performance like a hot air balloon, making it the ultimate testament to Simone’s ability to turn even a simple interpretation into a political masterpiece. –Devon Maloney

Listen: Medley: “My Sweet Lord/Today Is a Killer,”

“Funkier Than a Mosquito’s Tweeter”

Is It Finished

1974

Nina Simone’s palate was always broad, but with this reimagining of a Tina Turner barnburner, she used minimalist funk arrangements as a platform for her unleashed vocals—mewling and crawling at alternate intervals, the disgusted cursing of a woman highly over a dusty dude. The openness of the 1970s served her more adventurous impulses well, though by the time she cut “Funkier,” she was fully spiraling into depression and alcoholism. (Who could blame her, with the serrated knife that had been the late 1960s, from Civil Rights to Vietnam?) Her edge showed in this song: Her voice cracks with exasperation, alluding that the predator she sings about might well be the good ol’ US of A. Spent, she wouldn’t record another album for four years. –Julianne Escobedo Shepherd

Listen: “Funkier Than a Mosquito’s Tweeter”

Photo by Jack Vartoogian/Getty Images

“Baltimore”

Baltimore

1978

Following the death of Freddie Gray in April 2015, Simone’s 1978 recording of Randy Newman’s “Baltimore”—“Oh, Baltimore/Ain’t it hard just to live”—was widely circulated on social media, illustrating the continuing endurance and power of her work. The song was the title track from a particularly fraught album that appeared as Simone was living in poverty in Paris and her recordings were getting increasingly rare. She fought so much with Creed Taylor, who had signed her to CTI Records, that she insisted he not only leave the studio, but the country. She finally cut all of her vocals in a single, hourlong session.

She did acknowledge, however, that she liked this song, which Newman had recorded the year before. The narrator of “Baltimore” is worn down by the American economy and malaise—“hard times in the city, in a hard town by the sea”—and finally decides to pack his family in a “big old wagon” and send them out of town. Having fled the U.S. years earlier, Simone’s reaction to the lyrics was personal. “And it refers to, I’m going to buy a fleet of Cadillacs,” she said, “and take my little sister, Frances, and my brother, and take them to the mountain and never come back here, until the day I die.” –Alan Light

Listen: “Baltimore”

“Fodder on Her Wings”

Fodder on My Wings

1982

In the early ’80s, Nina Simone was living in France and she was deeply lonely; her family life was strained, and she was suffering from encroaching mental illness. A new song on her 1982 album, Fodder on My Wings, captured with startling intimacy the pain of this period, and she returned to it frequently through the next decade, cutting another studio version three years later (the synth-heavy take on Nina’s Back!) and including it on several live albums, including an awe-inspiring performance on 1987’s Let It Be Me. The title of the song itself is titled “her” wings while the album it appears on uses “my”; the slippery point of view underscores its heavily personal nature, as Simone sings of a bird that traveled the world, from Switzerland to France and England—all places she herself had spent time—and then crashed to earth. “She had dust inside her brain” is the harrowing image the sticks with you, but Simone’s vocal makes a song of weariness and defeat carry an air of defiance, a wise word from someone who survived to tell the tale. –Mark Richardson

Listen: “Fodder on Her Wings”

“Stars”

Let It Be Me

1987

Simone first covered Janis Ian’s searing, mordant meditation on fame during her infamous set at the 1976 Montreux Jazz Festival; suffering from bipolar disorder, she goes through something like a mental breakdown during the performance. (The scene is a highlight of Liz Garbus’ Oscar-nominated documentary What Happened, Miss Simone?) This spine-tingling 1987 version—Simone’s best, most coherent rendition—was recorded live at Hollywood’s intimate Vine Street Bar & Grill for Let It Be Me.

Written by Ian when she was just 20, “Stars” is a potent critique of star-making machinery: The narrator is both a weary observer of fame, watching faded stars who live their lives in “sad cafés and music halls,” and a tragic figure undone by fame herself. Simone’s embittered, conversational phrasing transforms the song into a cosmically exhausted, stream-of-consciousness rant. She sounds so nakedly weary and afflicted with pathos, you worry she might not even make it to the last verse. But ultimately, Simone’s piano accompaniment builds to a rousing, show-must-go-on climax: “I’ll come up singing for you even though I’m down.” Break out the Kleenex: Few other songs in Simone’s arsenal can make you truly grasp the toll she paid for being alive and giving us her music. –Jason King

Listen: “Stars”

“Papa, Can You Hear Me?”

A Single Woman

1993

In 1993, Nina Simone recorded and released her last studio album, A Single Woman. Living in Southern France, she was lured back into the booth by Elektra A&R executive Michael Alago, who brought major label marketing dollars and seasoned producers and orchestrators. Taken from the 1983 Barbra Streisand film Yentl and penned by Alan Bergman, Marilyn Bergman, and Michel Legrand, “Papa, Can You Hear Me?” is a powerhouse musical theater showstopper that no one would mistake for a conventional jazz standard. But Simone—who starts the song with an allusion to the Negro spiritual “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”—slyly reconstructs it as an interior, howling lament for her father, who passed away in the early 1970s while they were estranged.

Backed by swelling strings, Simone pulls every ounce of melancholic emotion out of the heart-wrenching lyrics. As the chords ramp up, so does her quivering voice; every time she tackles the song’s falling Middle Eastern vocals runs, it sounds like tears streaming down her face. One of her most dramatic performances captured on record, “Papa, Can You Hear Me?” finds Nina Simone working through the despair of her own orphanhood, exorcising her troubled relationship with the men who defined aspects of her complicated life. How fitting that her final album—a musical commentary on what it means to be a mature, single woman living in exile—captures such pure, unadulterated human feeling. –Jason King

Listen: “Papa, Can You Hear Me?”

#Nina Simone #Black Music #Goddess #Black Voices #Black Music Month #2023

11 notes · View notes

valkblue · 2 years

Note

2: and how does flipping it afterwards feel?

3: please don’t just say horses.

4: go on, I want names.

7: 👀

9: 👁 👁

13: me curious.

20: FLEX UPON THE STRUGGLING!!

30: ✨ S p o t l i g h t t i m e ✨

🤣

2. Is it easier to draw someone facing left or right (or forward even)

Depends on the subject, really. Some people are easier (for me) to draw on their left side, others on their right. I don't know why but it is what it is. I'd rather draw someone from a nice 3/4 view but when you tend to draw a few characters more than once, you have to change your angles or they're going to look like they all have a creak in their neck real fast! That being said, profils are hard but fun to do too!

And flipping is always weird. Even when the character looks ok in proportions and symmetry.

3. What ideas come from when you were little

Ok, I wont. There were DINOSAURS as well!! And boats.

4. Fav character/subject that’s a bitch to draw

My baby Vivian. 😭 I don't understand why she's so hard to draw while others of my characters aren't.

7. A medium of art you don’t work in but appreciate

Traditional painting, on canvas and with paint everywhere, and happy little trees and 'beat the devil out of it'. I love to see the brushstrokes on a painting even though I couldn't paint on real canvas for shit.

9. What are your file name conventions

Ahahahahhahahhhhhhhelp. It ranges from very proper names to absolute chaos. Like this...

13. A creator who you admire but whose work isn’t your thing

Oh, very good question. 🤔 For a time it was the French artist 'Boulet', but I've lost track of what he was up to the last few years so I'm not quite sure 'admire' still applies.

20. Something everyone else finds hard to draw but you enjoy

Mechs, ships and armors! 😭👍💕

30. What piece of yours do you think is underrated

A few might apply, but I'd say this one:

#ask game #art ask #hathorik #thank you!!!#💕

6 notes · View notes

notesapp-neurotic · 7 months

Text

What is Narcissism?

nar·cis·sism

/ˈnärsəˌsiz(ə)m/

noun

excessive interest in or admiration of oneself and one's physical appearance.

selfishness, involving a sense of entitlement, a lack of empathy, and a need for admiration, as characterizing a personality type.

PSYCHOANALYSISself-centeredness arising from failure to distinguish the self from external objects, either in very young babies or as a feature of mental disorder.

The word also derives from the Greek myth of Narcissus. A God whose standard was far too high for anyone to reach… that is, besides himself, of course. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses tale of Narcissus, a nymph named Echo fell tragically in love with Narcissus. When she advanced him, Narcissus did not comply. Heartbroken, Echo ran away into the woods, and for years her crying was heard from acres throughout the land, all until that was the only thing left of her. Echo's home-girl Nemesis(the goddess of reputation) heard of this, and cursed Narcissus to fall in love with his own reflection, ..since that was the only thing he ever paid attention to anyway. When Narcicuss was at the lake, flirting with his reflection, truth daunted on him that he could never actually have a physical relationship with himself… so he committed suicide… the big guy felt big lows.

Widely used as an insult on some of the most atrocious people. Perhaps even used to describe some of the people in your own life. Narcissism has been looked down on by society, and even deemed a mental illness for hundreds of years… and no one is safe. It has spread to the brains of every influencer who is obsessed over their looks. It could be your ex’s, or friends. Parents, relatives… it is noted as a horrible, and toxic connotation of selfishness and greed. For thousands of years, our communities have depended on each other to help one another improve as a whole . If you did not serve in your community, you were looked down upon, or even ignored completely. Even people who just thought differently were considered narcissists, all because they didn't help the community improve in the way the “officials” knew how. Soon, individual thinking became a rebellion because it was so taboo, and Individuality won free rein over the people. The era of supermodels, artists, and inventors were at the summit. Unfortunately, there was a plateau somewhere because the narcissists who branched out, and created a new world, soon created the narcissists who use “self care” and sexuality to earn more money for their already multi million dollar businesses. The ones who thought outside the box, not only paved the way for the dreamers, but also the manipulators who memorized the exact script used to get their way. They thought outside the mob, and observed for their own interest, without empathy. Now, notice how I used the word ‘narcissist’ both as a negative adjective, and a positive adjective…

I had a teacher tell me that “Narcissism is neither good, nor bad. It just depends on what you do with it.” Highly influential artists like Andy Warhol, Cleopatra, Eartha Kitt, and Davie Bowie were all considered narcissists, but look at how each of them created a new world for everyone who came after. They trusted their inner intuitive instincts, and removed themselves from the crowd for the better. They expressed themselves over, and over in deep interest in themselves, in order to learn about other people. Andy Warhol's art was for him to explore his own sexuality, which inspired many to explore, and to express their sexuality in their own way. Eartha Kitt was simply a confident woman who knew who she was, and what she wanted, and she was described as a narcissist. Cleopatra, highly intelligent, had an image she showed to her people in order to gain respect. David Bowie put on an image to make way for the free spirited. Each of these major, iconic historical figures thought selfishly, to believe selflessly.

Then there is the negative narcissist. The righteous one. The one with the mind of an artist and free soul, but with the sacral chakra of a dictator. The taker, the manipulator. The apathetic. This narcissist is smart, and aggressive, and a little bit of a sociopath. They use their image to control others, and to always grab the attention, and validation from any poor soul who happens to get near them. The fallen angels. The demons. The ones God said “no, no” about. This narcissist is empty, and although always filled with new, and fantastic ideas…each one is for the success of one party, but at a huge expense for another. The obsessed, the ones with temporary confidence, until they actually become who they boast about. A fraud. These remind me of politicians.. Some… some.

Now the teacher who taught my class and I about Narcissism, was our teacher who taught us about the cultural balinese performance of masks called Topeng, a tradition that dates back from 896 AD. Topeng tells stories that are hundreds of years old, played by the same characters, by the same people for decades. These actors are dedicated to their characters for life, as well as their own. It is an incredibly honored art, used in healing retreats across Indonesia to help unblock the subconsious. When the actor puts on a mask or tapel, they transform and take on the spirit of the character within the mask. The tapel, is charged by intentions. First, the mask is carved by an expert, and then for months after the actors training, and after countless mediations and ceremonies, they are allowed to put on the mask. When you start to move with the mask on, naturally, your body and psychology will adapt to the mask's spirit. You will see the world through the eyes of the character, even if you do not agree with them.

My first wild experience with the mask was a surprise. Our teacher handed us a velvet bag, each with our own archetypal mask inside. We were asked to stare at our bag, and to send the mask our energy and then to imagine that it was sending it back. Next, we were told to not look at the masks when taking it out, and to keep it face down when putting it over our face. None of us knew which mask we had on. We moved for an hour in the room, all crawling or jumping, or strutting. Yelling, or laughing, growling, or snarling.. Hey! It's an acting school, what do you expect?

Suddenly, I started to feel very strange. I looked around at everyone, and expected them all to be as well, but none were. Everyone was fighting, and the ones who were laughing, were the ones who pitted everyone else against each other. I noticed that two of my peers were pushing one another, arguing in babble. (You don't use words in masks when you interact with other characters.)

I approached them in distress, as if I were a stressed out mother wanting her sons to stop competing with one another. If you don't know this about me, I am naturally very timid due to my wretched anxiety. I tried to stop my peers from hurting one another, but I was too afraid to get in between. I became overwhelmed with all the hate around me, and I couldn't understand why there was so much of it. I didn't have the strength to stop it.The idea of any evil in this world began to frustrate me, and at that moment I couldn't understand why it even existed. I ran from one person to the other, yelling at them to wake up. To wake up, and to see how beautiful life is supposed to be, and how they need to enjoy it before it is too late. That all the battles they have now, don't matter nor have they ever , and nor will they ever, but no one was listening. I already don't feel like I'm listened to in my everyday life, and being in a position where I felt like I could help but with no one listening, and with my lack of confidence, I gave up. I broke down. I cried, with drool pouring out onto the floor. My teacher came behind me, and rubbed my back harshly to activate my spine, which activated the chakras, and activated the character even more. I was screaming in agony and in pain.

At the end of class each of us discussed our own experiences. When it got to me, I told everyone. My teacher responded and said, “You went to each character and felt like a mom. Your two peers who were fighting had the King and the Warrior mask. Those two always come at eachother's throats, just like brothers. You felt like a mom to them, and does a mom have a higher rank over her kids?” he asked. I nodded. My teacher continued, “Back when these archetypes were created, the king had a higher rank over the warrior, but God was above them both.” He smiled, "the mask you have… is the Priest.”

The reason why I was crying was because there was something in me that refused to surface. Again, like in my first entry, movement releases trauma in the body. Moving the body unlocks the physical traumas, the mask unlocks the mental ones. Forever, I thought I resisted the mask because I was being cleansed of some sort of demon, or because my grandfather was a preacher, and I had some sort of religious guilt, but really,... it was because I wasn’t courageous enough.

(Working with the masks also helps an actor unblock their subconscious so they can find a part of themself that relates to the character that they are playing, who happens to be the complete opposite of who the actor was actually brought up as. I say” brought up as”, and not “who they are” because our “self” mostly consists of words, judgments or beliefs passed down from family.)

After the experience, it left me in even more awe over energy, intentions, performing, and the use of oneself. It also made me highly interested in the concept of narcissism, and how narcissistic I was, and how the world is now. How, before this class, I was stuck to only one way of thinking, or how with other things, I changed my way of thinking in order to please someone. Both examples of narcissism.

1. I refused to connect with others,

and 2. because I wanted someone to like me.

I made it a personal goal of mine to break my narcissism and ego . Narcissism, to be made clear, is who you think you are. Who you portray yourself as, the one dimensional you. Ego is what you believe you can do. Everyday I’d do something that I was normally afraid to do. Mind you, I've jumped 14,000 ft out of a plane,and I perform in front of people everyday, but for some reason introducing myself to strangers one on one makes me want to die on the spot. So I started small, like going to the movies by myself, going first in class, taking myself out on a date. Anyway I did it. I wore all black for a while before too, so I started to wear clothes that made me stand out again. I also stopped fixing my hair right away after movement class, and stopped worrying about my makeup spreading. When I have an in depth, heartbreaking scene in class, my mascara always runs. Now I've just stopped fixing it. I don’t care when my mascara is all over the place, it means I did well. It meant I fucking gave it my all, and now I wear my smudged mascara as a badge of pride. With movement… I have very long hair, and I sweat a lot too. After movement, people would say ”your hair!” in amusement because it would look as if a tiger had given me a bath. Again, I didn't care. I was giving it my all, and I didn't think a lot of it. When I stopped, I noticed that a lot more people cared about the way I looked than I did. There were little things, but I found it funny that people even cared to audibly state stuff like that.. like..I know what I look like… I choose to look like this lol.

I'm not blind , I'm working.

I began to find it a very funny observation from people, considering we all had the same classes, and learned about the same topics on how to stop giving a fuck. It was every class too…Its funny how long we take to normalize things.

What really stuck with me .. were those comments from others. Harmless words that in truth don't affect me in an offensive way, but a in a peculiar confusing way. It brings me back in time to when I supposed to care, but had to pretend I didnt. Those who had trapped me into one way of thinking for such a long time. In grade and middle school, or in mine anyway, because it was a super small uniform school… if you stood out you were pretty much harassed… being the top student, being the dumbass, ect, ect (and also the first 10 years of anyone's life becomes the setup for the rest of it, i went to that school since I was three) I took what others said as negatives, because others looked at it as negatives. I fixed myself up because thats what they liked. I genuinely thought that that is what i was supposed to do.

I let other people's narcissism affect mine. I realized… fuck, I actually do care alot about how people see me, or how they thought of me.. Only because they care! And the people before them! I started to catch myself judging others because I, MYSELF, would NEVER be caught DEAD acting or dressing, or whatever like them. That I was the righteous narcissist. I realized that even the most genuine people could be narcissists too, but again, that's not even a bad thing! But they acted like bad people because that is how they received the word! That was what was expected of them.

What's bad is ignoring the truth about yourself, and continuing to hold yourself up to an imaginary pedestal simply because you do not understand the other person's point of view. This goes with EVERY topic. Serious, or not. Heart wrenching, or not. Good and Evil, Evil or Good. If you refuse to look at the intentions on both sides you are resisting evolution. Continuing to judge one another, continuing to belittle their hunting abilities in a world where it's most important, leaves them with nothing to eat. No, it does not mean to AGREE, or even to allow specific situations to keep happening like abuse, or wars, or chaos in general, but to find what it is that's good. Find what is good, and build off of it. Law of humility. Find the essence, find what, or how to transform their violence into passion, and their evilness into creativity, expression, and to where it harms no one but opinions. If manifesting is real, which it has been proven to be, why aren't we collectively manifesting actual peace?

Imagine there was a church, that wasn't actually a “church”, but a temple or something where everyone, no matter your religious ,spiritual, or political beliefs, could go and come together to just meditate?

“Sitting around the campfire, singing kumbaya isn't going to do shit!”

Well fuck, I mean, if it takes months of ceremonies and mediations to CREATE AN ACTUAL SPIRIT, then do any of us really understand energy? Are we really being taught the extensiveness of science? And why the hell is spirituality not being taught hand in hand with it??? Those "you'll be in my prayers" might actually mean something. Meditating together, as well as action might actually help… just a little bit. Fuck… why cant we all just get over ourselves? Why can't we all get over our narcissism and really try and understand each other. Understand the world deeper, the universe deeper. You are not one way of thinking, and believe it or not, a person could be the most stubborn person on the planet, but who knows who they would be in an unexpected situation. Think...who would you be if this happened? Or that? Who would you be in this family or in this life? How would you imagine yourself in any, and every situation you come across?.How would you honestly handle it? Who would you truly be? Instead of hiding from the dark, light a goddamn candle.

Be so full of yourself that you see yourself in everyone, and they in you.

1 note · View note

paranaturalpop · 3 years

Text

I rate your pnat ships by how well they work as foils

I’m Professor Pops, welcome to Literature 405: comparing and contrasting in pnat ships. Love is in the air but all that really matters is narrative symmetry!

Mina and Agent Day (submitted by @anxanhh)

two women on missions who need a confidante.

Mina is a calculating woman of science with a tender, vulnerable heart deep down that she guards. Day is a fun, giggly love goddess but beneath the surface she is just as calculating.

They are both focused on their prospective goals to the point of subterfuge.

They have similar missions, to solve the many mysteries of Mayview, but they’re at odds instead of working together. Will these lone wolves learn to let their walls down and work towards a common goal?

Their spectral energies are complementary colors!!!!!!!!!!!!

9/10 so different yet so alike. They should kiss and also develop as people.

Spendcia

Where's that post about paranatural having what my hero academia wants?

These two had interacted in cannon only once before we found out they were dating, power move on Zack’s part

The cousinhood and the consortium seem to have bad blood…. Enemies to lovers????

As teachers, Garcia is tired and phoning it in while spender is energetic and committed. But when it comes to mystery solving Spender is burning himself out while Garcia keeps him grounded.

Garcia does things like pack spender lunches with little hearts drawn on the bag but was surprised to be called his boyfriend. He acts chill but inside he is deeply invested in spender but also knows about spender’s isolating tendencies.

8/10 there's a reason these two have been off and on again for 6ish years, they’re walking a tightrope of vulnerability.

Imaax (submitted by Rubyya)

The Destiel of Paranatural. No I will not elaborate.

Here’s a pnat history lesson, the original ship name was Maxaac, but Zack weighed in on twitter with a much better alternative: Imaax. Also sometimes called Team Lightning Rod.

Black and blue colors, just like the emotional bruises they leave on the people around them.

Isaac wants to be seen as heroic and Max wants to be seen as aloof. It presents in different ways but deep down they both really care what other people think.

They both fear sincerity. Isaac protects himself with theatrics and Max with sarcasm.

Isaac puts on a big show of having strong ethics but he’s a little mean on instinct. Max puts on a big show of cutting people down with his snark and devil-may-care attitude, but when push comes to shove he’s kind and cares how other people feel.

Max immediately insults every person he meets and they still want to be best friends with him, while Issac tries so hard to be cool and nice but people just can’t stand him.

The meta tension between Isaac, who wants so badly to be the protagonist, and Max “magnetic personally” Puckett who is exhausted with being the protagonist, is delicious.

There’s a reason official art tends to portray them together. They bring out the best in each other. Isaac brakes through Max’s performative pessimism and Max brings Isaac down to earth.

10/10 these two were written as a pair and it shows.

Suzabel (submitted by Rubyya)

One of my fav tropes is ‘enemies to friends’ where the enemy part is completely one-sided. Isabel probably thinks she and Suzy get along great.

Both the heads of their respective clubs, but with very different leadership styles.

Isabel only studies her grandfather's spectral style to please him and is a near master of it, while Suzy is incredibly self-motivated even though her actual skills are lacking.

Isabel is at a crucial time in her life where she’s learning to distance herself from adult authority figures in order to take on more personal responsibility. Suzy is already blazing with independence and could help her adjust.

Inversely, Isabel could teach Suzy a thing or two about treating your club members with respect and doing the emotional labor necessary to prevent future conflict.

Red and pink! Valentines colors!

Isabel could kill you but would never, Suzy would actually try to kill you.

Investigative reporter/person living mysterious double life is a great dynamic.

Back when Izzy had Eightfold they had the ship name ‘Paper Girls’ which is awesome

7/10 Don’t ask me how I know this but they would kill at karaoke together. And they’re ok foils.

Bullymagnet

Max ‘too cool for clubs’ vs a boy who defines himself by his tight knit group.

Max is learning to be less passive aggressive and johnny is learning to be less aggressive aggressive.

Max’s entry to spectral life was when he injured Johnny and saw a shade of a doctopi on him, and Johnny's first shade was Max's doctopi after the hit ball game.

Johnny refuses to commit to not bullying max anymore even though he really likes him, and max is working on being nicer but he’s still gonna be snarky with people even though they’re his friends. Old habits die hard.

If he hadn't seen that shade, Max might have joined Johnny's gang. He has the style, the stunts, the snark.

8/10 Just two bros whose lives are changing forever.

Isaac and Dimitri (submitted by Rubyya)

Here’s my pitch for a ship name: Brainstorm

Orange and blue are complementary colors.

Isaac hurt Dimitri accidentally somehow. Hurting others accidentally is the central theme of chapter 5.

Idealist/pragmatist is a classic dynamic

They both have relationships with their spirit partners that are rooted in fear.

Dimitri’s self concept is overly dependent on his sense of intellectual superiority, and Isaac’s on ethical superiority.

7/10 have not directly interacted in the comic yet but the narrative symmetry is there

Johnny and Isabel (submitted by Rubyya)

Burnhound Vs Shockadile

These two are natural leaders who know how to treat their friends with respect.

These jocks are both lethal weapons, but while Isabel is a master martial artist, Johnny is a passionate but blunt instrument.

They’re both going through similar identity crises.

Isabel is struggling to reconcile her violent and disciplined upbringing with a good, gentle heart and Johnny is trying to reconcile his violent and self-centered lifestyle with a developing respect and empathy for other people.

Johnny dies his hair red, so he would think it’s cool how Izzy emits a fiery red aura when excited.

8/10 there's a reason these two were the team leaders in the hit ball arch.

Violet and Lisa (submitted by Rubyya)

People have been theorizing about what kind of cryptid Lisa is since day one meanwhile Violet gives off big normie energy.

Lisa is very plugged into all the Mayview weirdness as the queen of the school underground, while Violet was the only person who thought to go get a teacher during the hit ball arch. Lisa was also the only one who really spoke openly about how something was clearly very wrong with Jeff, everyone else talked around it and played by the so called ‘rules’. Lisa’s secret brokering Vs. Violet’s ‘sunlight is the best disinfectant’ attitude presents two different approaches to trying to survive in a school run by a mysterious shadow organization within a town that contains several other mysterious shadow organizations.

“If you were, I’d have to be jealous too.” just two middle schoolers pinning over their crushes.

7/10 two girls against the world.

Isaac and Johnny

ship name: Firestorm?

Just 2 fiery redheaded mediums with anger management issues that command primal forces and wanna be best friends with max

Johnny chooses to have red spiky hair, Issac has had red spiky hair thrust upon him.

Both met Maxwell Pucket and decided they needed to change for the better.

I’ve said this before but Johnny and Issac have equal and opposite philosophies. Johnny doesn't care about the greater good, he just cares about a small group of people who he loves. Issac cares about the greater good, but can’t connect with individuals and ends up hurting them. Together they form one GoodTM boy.

Both their spirit partners want revenge on Spender. This spells trouble.

If there’s anyone to teach Isaac about unconditional friendship, it’s Johnny

Isaac has sworn off violence and Johnny worships at the altar of it.

9/10 they’ve only interacted in canon once so far but I’ve think we’ve got a big storm coming.

Suzy and Collin (submitted by Rubyya)

The Bakudeku of pnat. I will continue to not elaborate.

Suzy once stole Collin's phone which prompted Collin to try to cut her hair which prompted Suzy to stab Collin and at no point did either of them think to move to a different bus seat. As different as they are they are also very much the same.

Collin is the definition of mouth service (constantly disapproving of suzy’s antics but going along with it anyway.) while suzy is all action.

Despite their different attitudes they both seem genuinely passionate about the journalism club.

Fashion icons. Suzy’s sunglasses and legwarmers, Collins sweater vests and wrist bands, this duo could walk for Paris fashion week: middle school edition.

We’ve gotten an indication that Collin cares a lot about what Suzy thinks of him (taking off his wrist bands when she made fun of Max's) but we haven't gotten any sign yet that the feelings are mutual.

5/10 I think their story is yet to be told and we’ll get to know more about how they compare/contrast to each other in the future. Maybe brought on by Dimitri's betrayal?????

Cody and Isabel (Submitted by @a-bitchtm)

Cody is gay by WOG but that doesn't matter here since we are evaluating thematic compatibility, not romantic compatibility.

Red Vs. Blue

Izzy’s arch about stepping into her role as leader through communication and honesty contrasts Cody’s role as the secret class president. Izzy finally told Isaac the truth about the consortium, while Cody blatantly lied to max about being president.

Both seem to have generally good motivations and the skills/talent to back those motivations up.

Isabel is in the process of unlearning the ‘firm hand’ philosophy that she learned from her grandpa and Cody’s dad straight up tried to mind control him into murdering a toddler.

They were both taught to fall back on their capacity for violence and intimidation but those teachings conflict with the people they really want to be.

6/10 just two kids who are being led astray by authority figures trying to learn to be themselves.

Cody and Collin (Submitted by @gatortavern)

They both like vests.

Both beholden to blood thirsty predators

Collin is a journalist, Cody is a vampire/leader of the shadow government. It’s a huge power move on Cody’s part to hang out with Collin.

Cody’s support of his friends is enthusiastic while Collin would have you believe Suzy has kidnapped him.

4/10 they hang out for a reason but those reasons have yet to be fully developed

Isabel and Max (submitted by @Paranatural-goofiness)

They’re both people who have learned to put up walls to keep people out. Isabel through violence and intimidation, max through sarcasm and mockery. T

he other side of this is their mutual journey to let their walls down and connect with other people more genuinely, starting with each other.

Their search for acceptance and identity has led them both to become incredible athletes. Spectral fist martial arts = shred eagle stunts

As we saw in the hit ball game, Izzy faces things head on while Max is all about evasion. However we’ve seen how Izzy has actually learned to be evasive and guarded about her feelings while Max is a little more forthcoming.

8/10 Never has there been faster friends.

Isaac and Cody (submitted by Rubyya)

Drama kings

Isaac wants the likability Cody has.

Parallels of power: Isaac with power he didn't choose and cant control vs. Cody who also didn’t choose to have his power (elected), but wields it like an instrument.

Involuntary anime hair and involuntary glowing monster eyes

These two definitely both fall under the category of “lawful”.

I can see these two ending up on opposite sides of a conflict because they both have such rigid personal codes and an intense sense of duty.

I know I’ve been approaching almost all of these platonically but Isaac probably really wants a cool vampire boyfriend deep down

7/10 Unstoppable force, meet immovable object. You two should watch anime together.

Hijack and PJ (submitted by @gatortavern)

They both wanna join the activity club so bad

Both have immature ideas about heroism and villainy.

Both aspire to heroism while at the same time understanding that they aren't that yet and maybe never will be.

They both, like many people in this comic, wanna be friends with max.

5/10 Two supernatural babies who should play wii sports together

Stephen and Isaac (@Gatortavern)

Two boys who are easily overwhelmed

Lawful vs. chaotic

Isaac has enough secrets to give Stephen his conspiracy fix for a long time.

In their own ways they both just want everything out in the open.

Isaac is Stephen's dream, someone actually living a secret double life, and Stephen is Issac's dream, someone with a cool scar who would think he’s actually very interesting.

5/10 these two are both very intense in their own way.

Johnny and Ed (Submitted by @theevilbrainman)

Two souls lost in the wind

Two people for whom friendship and loyalty is central to their character, and they’re both struggling with personal growth because of it. Johnny is afraid to change because his friends have always liked the person he already is, and Ed is struggling to even define himself outside of Isabel, the person he cares about the most.

Both impulsive and uninhibited.

They both live lives free from expectation. Johnny’s wild bully persona means no one is surprised by his antics or cruelty, while Grandpa Guerra doesn't really care if Ed takes up phantom fist like Isabel. He actually calls him a freeloader. Not having much expected of you can feel free but it’s also lonely and can warp your self-perception.

6/10 these two crossed paths at exactly the right time.

I didn't cover every submission because even though only 9 people submitted you sent in 34 ships between you. Pnat’s fanbase is small but very dedicated.

Honorable mentions:

Johnny and clear sinuses, submitted by @gaul-the-unmitigated

Isaac and therapy, submitted by both @squidgeons and @somethingfishysgoingon

PJ and Johnny, submitted by @gatortavern, who seems to be under the impression that Johnny Would protect PJ and not destroy him just by breathing near him.

Day and Scabs, submitted by @gatortavern, because funny.

Special thanks to everyone who sent in ship between people who have never interacted in cannon, which was a lot of you. My eyes are opened now, so many possibilities.

#paranatural #pnat #q #ships #valentines #dr. zarei/agent day #imaax #spendcia #suzabel #bullymagnet #shipping #pnat spoilers

131 notes · View notes

zeldasayer · 4 years

Text

I transcribed and translated Pedro’s interview from GQ Germany for all of us. I tried translating as good as possible but bear with me, English is not my mother tongue. By @sixties-loser

Pedro Pascal, the star from “Game of Thrones”, “Wonder Woman” and “The Mandalorian” talks about becoming an adult, film, fashion, corona – and a painful surgery in the exclusive GQ interview.

It seems almost eerie how empty the streets of LA are in the sunshine. Meanwhile a new normality seems to be coming to Europe, most people in L.A. are still cutting their own hair. Many have not seen their friends for half a year. The pandemic is out of control. The reaction towards it too. Inviting someone into their garden for a “distance drink” can cause the same distress as suggesting to switch spouses.

Therefore, it was particularly surprising that Pedro Pascal immediately accepted. He accepted the drink, not to switch spouses. He is one of the rising stars and newcomers this year – if it wasn’t for corona sending the whole film industry into a forced vacation, there would most likely not have been time for said drink. After having his skull crushed in “Game of Thrones” followed the lead role as a DEA agent hunting Pablo Escobar in “Narcos” in 2015 and now he is stepping towards big Hollywood films. From the 1st of October onwards the Chilean-born actor will be starring in the blockbuster “Wonder Woman 1984”. Moreover, the second season of the “Star Wars”-series “The Mandalorian” on Disney+ starring him as the lead is going to air in October this year – but he will be underneath a helmet. Well, we all are under a helmet in 2020 in one way or another. We want to meet the man who a few years ago still worked as a waiter in New York, whose parents were political refugees who found asylum in Denmark and settled in Texas and whose son one day signed up for a theatre group in High School.

Then, the cancellation! While we were in the middle of fixing up the house and the garden for the drink with Pedro and organizing the fashion shoot, which was not easy considering the safety measures in L.A., his management called with an unfortunate message: Pedro – no, not sick with corona – had to get emergency surgery because of a damaged tooth and was lying in bed with a swollen face that was hindering him from speaking and taking pictures. The sun is shining onto empty streets. And our empty garden.

A few days later he nonetheless arrived at our front door without a swollen face but still with threads in his mouth. He was not chauffeured by a limo-service but he came with his own car – he even picked up his make-up artist. He is helping her carrying all of her utensils into the house and declares: “I’ve got time today!”. What a celebrity! It seemed like we did not want to ask him how he made it to the A-List of Hollywood but he wanted to ask us how we made it to the A-list. Pedro Pascal! Yes, what kind of a celebrity?

Pedro Pascal: Sorry for messing with your plans. The surgery was an emergency.

GQ: Really? We were wondering whether the swelling wasn’t the product of a secret visit to the plastic-surgeon. Apparently, they are drowning in work because of the quarantine in Hollywood.

PP: I have to disappoint you. A few days before our appointment I was rushing to the hospital with a fractured tooth and the worst pain in my entire life – a hospital in which treats people with severe cases of corona. I was unable to reach any dentist! Right in front of the parking lot a specialist called me back. The pain was hell despite the ten injections I got. The doctor said I was not an exception because a lot of people are grinding their teeth because of all the stress.

GQ: What are you most afraid of at the moment?

PP: How the government is handling the pandemic is worrying me more than the virus itself. This shortage of intelligent management of the crisis is a moral shame. The leadership crisis in this country is turning us all into orphans – destitute and abandoned.

GQ: How did you spend your time over the last few months?

PP: I spent it with frozen pizza and sweatpants in Venice Beach. I live in a rear house that’s in a family’s garden. Actually, there are a lot of good takeout places nearby but for some reason I just love pepperoni pizza from the supermarket.

GQ: That does not really sound like movie star-lifestyle. What does it feel like being suddenly stopped from top speed to zero?

PP: Regarding what is going on around the world one should hold back one’s own mental turmoil. I would be lying if I was saying that I am not disappointed. The whole team put a lot of heart and work into the production of “Wonder Woman 1984”. We had a lot of fun on set. I wished to travel around the world and introduce the film with the same lively energy.

GQ: You come from a politically engaged, socialist family that fled from the Pinochet-regime in Chile. What do you remember from that time?

PP: My sister and I were born in Chile but I was only nine months old when we first found asylum in Denmark. From there we quickly came to San Antonio in Texas where my dad started working as a doctor at the university clinic.

GQ: Texas is not known as a socialist utopia. How did you assimilate?

PP: San Antonio is not a Cowboy-town but very diverse with big Asian, black and Latino communities. I remember it as a romantic place, culturally open. The culture shock only came as we later moved to range county in California. There the atmosphere was suddenly white, preppy and conservative.

GQ: How were you received in California?

PP: I’m still ashamed of the fact that I did not correct my classmates when they kept on calling me Peter. I am Pedro. Even if I didn’t grow up in Chile the country and the language are still a part of me. I was very unhappy in that environment. However, I was fortunately able to go to another school close to Long Beach where I felt more comfortable. Through the theater group at that school I found my way.

GQ: Were you able to visit Chile as a child?

PP: Yes, when my parents made it to the list of expatriates that were able to travel to Chile without consequences. First, there was a big family reunion and then my sister and I stayed there for a few months with relatives while my parents went back to Texas. They likely needed a break from us. They got us when they were very young, had a buzzing social life and my mother was obtaining a PhD in psychology.

GQ: Was your mother a typical young psychologist who wanted to apply her theoretical knowledge at home?

PP: You mean, whether I was her guinea pig? For sure! I remember strange tests and sittings that were disguised as games where someone was watching me react to different toys. I cannot have been older than six but I was already aware of the dynamic. My favourite thing was being questioned about my dreams. That was a wonderful opportunity to come up with fantastic stories.

GQ: Was that your first performance?

PP: Of course! My mother worried about my strong imagination because I was living in my own fantasy world rather than reality. I hated going to school. I was always categorized as the troublemaker. At one point, the topics at school became more interesting and my grades also went up. There are so many kids that are unnecessarily diagnosed with learning disabilities without considering that school can be abhorrent. Why is it so accepted to be bored in class when there are so many stimulating ways to convey knowledge?

GQ: Considering al that has happened this summer around the world: Do you believe that we can seriously demand social change now?

PP: I Hope so. After lockdown, the first time I went out was to protest for “Black Lives Matter” on the streets. The energy was peaceful and hopeful until the police provoked severe conflicts. Nevertheless, we cannot run from problems like we used to this time and we cannot distract ourselves from them either. It seems like the pressure of the pandemic led to a new clarity: We cannot go on this way.

GQ: The “Wonder Woman 1984” Trailer revives the optimism of the 1980’s. From today’s point of view, it seems almost nostalgic.

PP: That’s right. You really are happy for two hours. The director Patty Jenkins created a film full of positive messages. We shot in Washington D.C., then in London and Spain – this sounds like I am talking of a past time.

GQ: Do you miss traveling?

PP: I’m just now realizing the privilege of just packing up one’s stuff and being able to fly anywhere. An American passport used to guarantee unlimited travel. And that’s why it the small radius of our lives is actually unimaginable. Over the last years I often retreated for a break after shootings because I was constantly on the move and overstimulated. My friends were already complaining I had become too comfortable. We all took social contact for granted and are only realizing now how dependent we actually are on human contact. Over the last weeks I often longingly thought about all the parties and dinner invitations I declined.

GQ: In L.A. people spend more time at home or nature than in other metropolises that are more geared towards public life. Could this city become your second home after New York?

PP: My Real Home are my friends. I have been a nomad since I was little and I do not have a place where I have put down roots. Up until not long ago my physical home was a place in between departure and arrival. Therefore, it was something I did not want to complicate through the accumulation of stuff. On the contrary: Without having read Marie Kondo’s book I have freed myself from excess baggage over the last few years and I lived relatively minimally.

GQ: Is there nothing you collect or something you just can’t throw away?

PP: Books! I even still have the literature I read when I was a teenager and when I was in college. Recently, I stumbled upon a box full of old theatre manuscripts and materials from my time at the New York University. I also cannot part from art easily, just like I cannot part from lamps or old photos. On the other hand, I can easily get rid of furniture and clothes.

GQ: Do you remember roles that were really only completely defined through the costume?

PP: Yes, I am particularly thinking about “Game of Thrones”. At that time I understood for the first time what it meant to be supported by a look. This is thanks to the costume designer Michele Clapton. She created very feminine robes and brocade coats for my character that nevertheless looked masculine when worn and I felt very sexy in them. Of course, Lindy Hemmings power-suits and Jan Swells bleached hairstyle for the tycoon-villain in “Wonder Woman 1984” were very important as well. At first I did not really see myself in the role because the cuts and colors of the 80s do not really fit my body. I’m more the 70s type.

GQ: Do you incorporate those inspirations into your personal wardrobe?

PP: In my free time I choose comfort over a cool look these days. Sometimes I miss the times when I expressed myself through a certain style. It is hard to imagine that I went to Raves as a teenage in the 90s; I was a real club kid with ridiculous outfits: overalls, balloon pants, football shirts and a top hat, like in Dr.Seuss’s “Cat in a Hat”. Later in New York I was hanging out with a group of people that felt it was very important to have a certain style. The fact that I am basically only wearing sweatpants everyday is actually tragic.

GQ: whoever plays roles in comic book adaptations becomes a bodybuilder and eats ten chicken breasts a day. You don’t?

PP:My body would not agree with that. It is hard enough to stay in shape normally. When you’re in your mid-forties you have to live with a lot more discipline. Up until before my tooth-incident I worked out with a trainer in my garden multiple times a week to keep the quarantine body in check.

GQ: Apart from the personal trainer, are you in a steady relationship?

PP: I am not ready for that yet. Maybe at some point I will be but until then I’ll let it be. I can’t even offer you absurd corona dating stories.

GQ: What would annoy you the most if you were your own roommate?

PP: I can be quite controlling. I have to conjure all my humanity to prevent myself from going through my entire film collection. When I don’t want something I cannot keep it to myself or be passive-aggressive, I always have to take it to the frontlines. Other than that, I tend to have tunnel view: when I am not feeling well I cannot imagine to ever feel better again. I have trouble relativizing my emotions or to wave off problems. Method-acting would really not be for me. This is why I try to only work on projects that feel good, where there is mutual support and encouragement.

GQ: When we were trying on the clothes earlier you spoke of a lack of self-confidence. How does that get along with a career like yours?

PP: Isn’t it interesting how these characteristics and circumstamces relate? Self-worth comes from inside but it is also influenced by what society values because we often internalise the public gaze. I have lived in New York for 20 years, I studied there and made a living by working as a waiter until my mid-thirties because the theatre and film jobs I got did not pay the bills. There were so many times I was almost there. The disappointment of having missed the perfect role or opportunity by a hair’s width can be crushing. When should you give up and what is plan B? That is a question that is not only on many actors‘s minds but also on many others minds who struggle for a living – no matter how much potential they have or how close they seem to be to the top. We are seeing now how our narrow definition of success destroys society. At the same time, we are realizing that where we come from and the color of our skin still decide whether we can exist with dignity.

GQ: What are the positive aspects of a relatively late success as leading-man?

PP: I feel like I can decide over my own life without the pressure of having to accept projects or to have to present a certain identity on social media. This is for sure also because I am a man. Regardless of age, Women have to try harder to stand out.

GQ: Life always consists of risk management – now more than usual. For what would you risk losing something?

PP: Generally, when you never risk something you might never get ahead. That is for friendship, love, work and creativity. I have to be ready to take risks for the things that really matter to you.

#pedro pascal #THANK YOU MY LOVE!#submission

267 notes · View notes

wexhappyxfew · 3 years

Text

The Nightingales of Fortune Favors the Brave

A Band of Brothers Fanfic Coming Fall 2021 (or presumably whenever Landslide finishes up!)

HELLO!! If you’re reading this, then as you can see, I’ve finally created a master post with all my Nightingales (well, not really mine THE PUBLIC’S but you’ve all gifted them to me ever so graciously, and it honestly, it means the world to me). Just to see the excitement and reception I’ve gotten from so many people in the fandom involving a female group of Pathfinders - an area of war, I have wanted to cover ever since nearly over 2 years ago I got involved in the fandom. All OC’s will have their creators name listed beside them - I did not create any of these OC’s, all credit goes to the lovely people who crafted and gifted them to me for FFTB!

Viewing where I currently am in my life, I’m going to going to college this year! I got accepted into the school I wanted, the program I wanted, even a scholarship! And I’m beyond excited. I really wanted to have something there for me when college does finally, you know, HAPPEN, and so Fortune Favors the Brave was the only way to go! To have a wonderful group of Nightingales, of female Pathfinders in the Band of Brothers fandom, seemed to be the way to go. Updates and such will definitely be different - I’m picking up more work hours this year, probably even summer classes, night classes, weekend classes - whatever I can do to benefit my degree and myself, I’m taking the opportunity.

And so, updates will presumably be quite different, depending on a variety of things, but...this will be my college story! No matter how many years it takes to complete and update and write, this will be the thing I have with me through it all for when I need a mental break from school! And I am beyond excited for when I do finally get to share this story more than anything!

We have such a great group of OCs here - different backgrounds, different reasons for joining, different creators who gifted them to me, different friendships, relationships and abundances of sisterhood and brotherhood moments. I’m truly beyond excited to showcase the Pathfinders side of the war in the light of 16 female OCs, whose stories will be told through their viewpoints based on different episodes whether whole or split!

So thank you ALL!! These past 2 years have been a joy in the fandom and let’s hope for another few more! I’ve managed 3 fics and 4 books total and I’m excited to bring, presumably, my FINAL Band of Brothers fic in the fandom to you all in the near future. Thank you!! <3

THE NIGHTINGALES

Team C DZ C for 506th PIR, 501st PIR

-> 2/506 PIR (Stick 2/Plane #4)

-- TOCCOA VETERANS --

Team Leader

Captain Eleanor Graham - @basilone

Eleanor Graham had never met a challenge she couldn’t conquer - the eldest of four and a farmer’s daughter, teamwork and diligence were drilled into her mind like clockwork, along with being as much of a leader in the eyes of her family as she could. There was more to life than a farmer’s wife for her future though, no matter how much she adored the farm her family had grown to craft from the ground up. Iowa brought no opportunity except the farm life deemed fit for her, so upon seeing the advertisement “ It’s Your Fight Too “, OCS had never seemed like a better choice in her eyes. Because it was all their fights - man, woman, child, anyone - it was a World War, a fight for all their lives, for human lives. And with the capability to obtain Captain just before leaving for Camp Toccoa, it solidified her position for not only leading in Easy Company, but leading the Nightinagles - the first stick of female Pathfinders.

Assistant Team Leader

Lieutenant Florence Godfrey - @pxpeyewynn

A British lady and an artist at heart, from the little town of Avebury, set inside Wiltshire of Great Britain, her father made it big in New York just as the war that swarmed throughout Europe, erupted into spitfire. And suddenly thrust into the world of an America before war, was unsettling. Her country fought while America remained neutral. Yet, when the advertisement flooded throughout New York City - she couldn’t help but take it as her only way to get into war. OCS was beyond enough challenges, but walking in as a Lieutenant for Easy and for the Pathfinders, she was no longer the little girl who prayed at night to whomever was above to end the people’s suffering, or avoided interaction to instead draw in her notebook. She was a Lieutenant, and she was a woman at war - yet what was she even fighting for?

Eureka Operators (each equipped with a Eureka Transponder each)

Sergeant (NCO) Marie Reynal - @thoughpoppiesblow

Grandmère Reynal always held her at night, under the dark night sky and sang in her soulful Cajun French, the words flowing from her lips and remaining an ever-present comfort in times where food was hardly ever on the table, or when she had to watch the other girls at school get the latest Mary-Janes and she was stuck with her old ones. Her grandmère taught her to appreciate the small things in life. But when the “It’s Your Fight Too” poster came out in the papers, Marie Reynal knew there were larger things in life than the newest Mary-Janes at school. Packing up what she could, Marie headed out to Camp Toccoa, equipped with nothing but some clothes and her fiddle.

Corporal Edith Lockner - @mercurygray

Remember to look up - her mother would always tell her that. Especially when things on their little farm got hard in Stanford, Illinois where the only thing that occurred there was the wagering price of corn that fluctuated with the ever-changing times. So...she figured that’s why she always tended to look to the stars when her mother would tell her that before bed each night, looking out the wooden window under her quilt as a cold draft blew in. She always imagined herself up there, amongst the stars and for once seeing what the stars saw. But to be up with those stars and to get to study them, she’d need a lot more money than what ever amount the corn tended to bring in. And the Airborne with a fantastic pay grade, along with the Pathfinders and their earnings -- it seemed her ticket out. Maybe there won’t be stars - but anything’s got to be better than here.

Wireman

Corporal Chiyoko ‘Luna’ Omori - @papersergeant-pencilsoldier

Know your place. Eyes down, mouth shut. And most importantly, honor your family. Chiyoko Omori has never been one to step out of line, nor has she been one to speak when otherwise not spoken too. Trained in the art of kendo, the Japanese martial arts that her ancestors trained in, she leads with discipline and integrity amongst the group of Nightingales training as Pathfinders, as the solo wireman of the group. Her intelligence, more than once, has saved her and in war might just save her again and again. Her father’s garage had always been home to a multitude of repairs and many she had learned to do herself. But there she had been Chiyoko. But for war, she must forget who Chiyoko is and embody the only other name besides her family name that she will ever know - Luna.

Lightmen (each equipped with 2 Halophane Lamps each)

Staff-Sergeant (Senior NonCom) Sarah Prowse - @junojelli

For once in her life Sarah Prowse would not have her twin brother by her side. He hadn’t been by her side for years after he went back home to fight with the English and lost his life at Dunkirk. But this was real, this was happening - and the Pathfinders withheld the opportunity to prove to herself that Edmund had died with valor and courage. And he would not have died in vain. The nannies had always said they were inseparable but they weren’t those kids anymore. This was real life. And in real life, there was love and loss and pain. And sometimes the only way to get through it all was to do the thing to distract you most from it all. Some days she wished her family could’ve just stayed in England - maybe Mum would still be here. With her sharp mind, and the ability to read people like an open book, rising to the rank Staff-Sergeant had come easily - reading the field and reading people were pretty similar...right?

Corporal Jean Dawson - @tvserie-s-world

Life in Louisville, Kentucky had always been a sort of cozy-comfort that Jean Doxon had always enjoyed. The weekend fairgrounds filled to the brim with people enjoying the night life it offered, early summers filled with watching her father race horses around the tracks sprinkled throughout the town and nights by her boyfriend, Glenn Hartley, where the sky seemed to stretch forever into the night. That is before the war sent him away to the Pacific. And their only form of communication was reduced to letters, with pressed flowers and the hint of rose perfume. Jean refused to mope about, when she knew this war was hardly far from over. Quick-thinking on her feet, and a town champion for knot-tying in her days in elementary, she packed what she could and left for Georgia the second she was able to take the first train out. The Airborne had much to offer, but more importantly so did the Pathfinders.

Corporal Mercy Codonoa - @whoahersheybars

Mercy Codona always been a traveler, never staying in one place and always on the move to somewhere new that she might've never quite been before. This meant new neighbors, new friends and a new way of life. Something the United States readily offered. Each new town in a new state had a different way of life than the next. She figured that's why she was so quick to adapt to her surroundings - nothing was ever permanent, nor set in stone. Neither was family. Orphaned by 17 and left to fend for herself, left in the care of her mother's estranged sister, Mercy took the liberty by herself to do what she could to support herself. Taking up odd jobs in each town she traveled to and managing what she could to feed herself. But she was proud of her Romani-Croat heritage and what her ancestors had done in their past lives. She intended on continuing what their stories had not finished. If only she could continue to support herself. It was only when the "It's Your Fight Too" showed up newly on the Fort Wayne clipboard by the post office in April 1942 and then and there in that moment did she decided - with the extra money the Airborne offered, along with that of the Pathfinders, she'd be able to support herself in the future as well as possibly find people with the same dreams as herself for their futures, and for once finally belong.

Private Kennedy Rutlidge - MINE

Kennedy Docherty had always had quite a wild and exciting mind, always having a new idea, or a new method on selling the most recent paper that got her a few cents an hour. All through her schooling years and even up to her senior year, she took to the busiest corner on Lake Ave and Lyell Ave, calling out to sell her papers, before heading home for the night and running her normal routine the very next day. She spent summers at Lake Ontario, in her grandmother's home on the lake, where some of her fondest memories of her youth had been born. She always believed that's why she was always fascinated with flying, like one of the birds or hawks that flew out across the lake in the early morning. What she'd give to get that feeling just once in her life, away from school and away from the constant need to make as much money as she could to help with the family. The words "It's Your Fight Too" scrawled across the paper in early April had caught her eye within a second and left her running home just that night to break the news that she was signing up. And almost a week later, she found herself packed on a train towards Camp Toccoa, Georgia, bright eyes and the last bit of innocence fading from sight.

Security Personnel

Sergeant (NCO) Alexandra Calypso - @iilovemusic12us

A Boston girl who grew up with her proud Jewish faith, with a Greek mother, knew hard work and sometimes it was pushing yourself to the very limit beyond what the human body could handle sometimes. So that meant falling, scrapping your knee a few times, sucking up the tears, sending a quick prayer to God and moving on with your life. Life had always been like that - they weren’t the richest, nor the poorest, but there wasn’t ever enough food on the table or enough money to fix the roof, or even to keep the mortgage paid. But her parents never stopped working. And she supposed what drove her to the Airborne and to the Pathfinders was seeing how hard they worked. And they paid well she had heard. She could work with it. And if anything, the Pathfinders were more accepting than any school in Boston she’d been to.

Sergeant Nellie Shaw - @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant

Hailing from a small, coastal town in Maine, the proud Scot wanted more than anything to stay out of war when it finally came knocking on America’s doorstep. But Nellie Shaw, loyal as saint, knew that there was one thing she could do for this country and that was fight. Give her a pack of cigarettes or a bottle of gin, and she’d go in swinging for the war effort, even with her grumpy morning attitude that slowly became infamous in her elementary school days among the school children. She had no purpose on a farm on a mountain side anymore, rather destined to do what part of the fight she could. Taking Greer Riddell under her wing, the fellow Scot befriended the least likely person to enjoy her company and yet Nellie’s easy-going companionship slowly became integral to the entirety of Easy Company and the Nightingales.

Private Greer Riddell - @leighinthesky

Schruz, Nevada was home for 21 years and by the looks of it, home for the rest of her life. A bee farm in a tiny town wasn’t idle for the rest of her life, but if she never got the money for college to get out of the small town, she feared she wouldn’t ever leave. And knowing the military had offered 16 women a stick of a plane to get their shot at becoming Pathfinders for the Army was her ticket straight to Toccoa, Georgia for training. The pay could send her not only to college, but could get her out of that tiny town which had confined her to nothing but her family and a cute little bee farm where hard work always paid off. Don’t be fooled by her subdue and withdrawn nature, the second her hands touched the rifle - the field was hers and yet so was the valley.

Codebreaker [Betchley Park Member]

Sergeant Laverne Robinson - @vintagelavenderskies

For her 23 years of life, Laverne Robinson had known just about every spot in London where you could catch a smoke break and not get caught by one of the older women and get scolded for doing so. She blamed her older brother, he blamed her. It was a mutual thing. But that had been the only thing to fear in London - until war struck, which sent every eligible man off to fight for the effort. Her brother included, leaving her staring out the rain speckled window all alone as the smell of her mother's soup wafted past her nose. Yet, like many women of the time, she wanted to fight too. Fluent in French and German and skilled in mathematics and code-work, Bletchley Park seemed the best fit. Working on codes, both sculpting and breaking them inside the building, keeping her lips shut and going on about her normal day when not inside the institution, life didn't seem as dreary as she had anticipated. Because she knew she was apart of the effort to end this war. That was until, she was called upon in late March 1944 to join up with the 101st Airborne with the first female stick of 12 pathfinders to make the jump into Normandy and assist them in anyway possible. Laverne knew it was a once in a lifetime opportunity and if her brother were there, he would've told her to run with it. Becoming a professor of mathematics would have to wait.

REPLACEMENTS

Corporal Alessandra Lisi - @tvserie-s-world

Alessandra Lisi had never known her parents. She was always told that sickness had taken them when she was just a child. Her brothers had been older than her and had tried to protect her from the sight of her parents dying. And so when their Nonna had taken them into her home without hesitation, Alessandra grew to look to her Nonna as the other parental figure she’d ever had. Of course, her brothers were always there for her, protective as they were, they never let her get into any sort of trouble without hearing about it first. Alessandra grew to adore her Italian heritage, cooking with Nonna on Sunday’s, inviting family over to enjoy the meals and even getting to stir the sauce as Nonna dropped in fresh, cut tomatoes. That was life and it had always been life as such. But when war sent her 3 brothers away, she knew she would not go down without a fight either. Upon receiving the paper in November 1943, she noticed the cover page withheld the picture of 12 women, adorned in jump wings as well as military grade goggles and scarves standing with wide smiles and bright eyes in front of a C-47, the title 'The Nightingales', lying just underneath. Female Pathfinders. If her parents were here, they would've been telling her what Nonna would've been telling her now. Fight for what you believe in, because while there's life, there's hope.

Private First Class Bettie Smith - @sgtxliptons86

Brooklyn, New York had it all - the kids in the streets, the shops on the corners where you could get a piece of candy for as little as 5 cents, even the corner stores in the summer where you could get ice cream for a dime. And as Bettie Smith grew older, running the streets of Brooklyn became like a weekend job - checking in on the younger kids of friends, riding bikes past the floral shops and picking up flowers for her sister, getting a bag of charcoal for her father. Even throwing some curses towards the boys who would heckle her for the way she wore her hair or the old shoes laced on her feet. Her older sister wasn’t too pleased with it all, but ever since Ma had passed, she seemed to let it slide - it was an escape for Bettie. So when war came knocking on the Smith’s door, anger, yet pride for their country filled the home, as well as the streets of New York, as more men and women began signing up for the cause. More friends left to join the effort, leaving Bettie there on the concrete doorstep. So when Bettie received the daily paper in November 1943, showcasing the 12 female pathfinders of the 101st Airborne, front and center for all to see, Bettie took it in quite large strides and took the first train of December 1943 to Fort Benning, Georgia.

Private Annie Laine - @wereinadell

Annie Laine, the daughter of Finnish immigrants, had always dreamed of leaving the quiet countryside her parents had always preferred for their family for the big cities of the Midwest - maybe she’d go to Chicago and study theater, or maybe she’d go and finally attend college in Milwaukee. Anything to get out of the small town she currently resided in. But the countryside had brought alone its perks - orienteering and hunting were big in the Laine family and every child, her 3 brothers, her and her sister, had all been taught the noble art. Swimming the streams, fishing in the lakes, taking hikes through the forests and coming back with a deer for dinner - life had always been quite peaceful Annie felt. But she could always hope that one day it changed. And it seemed war rung those bells quite early on. Annie was tired of structured life and if anything, she knew that the start of structured life in the military would fall quite nearly to shambles once they hit war. The November 1943 issue of the daily newspaper brought upon not only sudden interest in the military, but in that of the female pathfinders who were paving their way in all of military history to be the first stick to jump into continental occupied-Europe. All it took was what cash she had saved for college and a small suitcase to get her on the way to Fort Benning, Georgia.

Private Marla Hughes - @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant

Lafayette, Louisiana had been home all her life - Baton Rouge just to the East and New Orleans just a little further. It had always been home for as long as she could remember. With the fancy parties her father always allotted for the family to attend, talking with the men in pristine suits, or the women with the big hats, some days Marla Hughes just wished to be able to go outside and enjoy nature instead of suffocating amongst the people who seemed to live in a world that didn’t even seem like real life. She supposed that was when she had hit her breaking point and joined the Airborne in Fort Benning, Georgia. She was tired of the life that did absolutely nothing for her. There was more to this world, so much more and yet she was confined to a party dress and an expensive glass of wine that tasted bitter when it rushed down the throat. There were small bars, where the music played, and you could dance until your feet grew tired, there were beer bottles awaiting to be clinked together with friends and there were people beside the stuck-up society she was forced into. The Airborne accepted anyone far and wide - and maybe she could strip of the posh life given to her and finally be set free.

THESE ARE THE NIGHTINGALES!!!

> if you have any questions, feel free to send them in! if not, it’s all good! these are our 16 nightingales! :) thank you to all of you who sent them in back in early December! It’s been an honor to craft these wonderful OC’s!

#band of brothers #fortune favors the brave #the nightingales #pathfinders #easy company #bob fic #band of brothers fandom #band of brothers oc #master list post

67 notes · View notes

longitud-de-onda · 4 years

Text

Porque el querer causa pena, pena que no tiene fin

pairing; mad sad genius (we never got a name) x reader summary; you can love someone with all your heart, but nothing compares to the madness that exists in their absence rating; t warnings; language, a bit of alcohol, angst, it isn’t specifically covid-19 but it is a pandemic science fiction story, so the quarantine and other situations are taken to the extreme which could be potentially triggering depending on how you’re handling the quarantine. word count; 3.0k a/n; this is fanfic for ngozi anyanwu’s for all the lovesick mad sad geniuses which aside from pedro’s amazing performance, is a brilliant monologue. we’re taking the title from the rosalía song (maldición, cap. 10: cordura) that helped inspire this.

You met him at an art gallery. It was your own show, and you were standing in the corner drinking wine from a clear plastic cup, the edge of which was sharp against your lips. You held a paper plate with five almonds, a mozzarella and tomato crostini, and a mini chocolate cupcake carefully balanced in your other hand.

He was standing in front of your favorite piece. No one else was. Probably because the gallery owner told you it wasn’t the sort of work that would stop anyone. That out of all the work in your collection, it was the type that belonged in the back, where it would be found by the people who cared enough to wander there, whose interest would likely be piqued enough for them to enjoy it. It hurt to hang it up on the back wall and not up in the front where you wanted it.

But he hadn’t stopped at everything else. He had walked into the gallery minutes before, giving every painting a quick glance before settling on the one in front of which he was standing. He had been there for almost five minutes before you decided to walk up next to him.

He looked over upon seeing you approach and your heart stopped. He was the most beautiful person you had ever seen. His smile reached his eyes and you found yourself falling into them. You almost asked him if he would model for you.

You didn’t paint portraits.

“This one is beautiful,” he told you.

You smiled and took a sip of your wine. You didn’t need convincing that it was beautiful. That much you already knew. It was the one piece you were confident beyond belief about.

“What do you like about it?” you asked, jutting your chin up at the painting in question.

“The artist seems to have cared. You can see the brushstrokes. They’re more detailed than the others. Someone only spends that much time on something they really care about.”

That was when you fell in love with him. Thirty-three words. That was all it took.

Your first date was dinner after the gallery closed for the night and he dragged you out to his favorite burger joint because he said you deserved it after opening an exhibition. After wolfing down more than enough food and splitting a tub of fries, you spilled out onto the streets in a pile of laughter and joy and you’ll never forget the look on his face when you asked for his number.

Your second date was a night you’ll never forget. He had taken two days to contact you after the first night, and you had begun to worry you would never hear from him again, but he called you and said he wanted to meet you at 6pm the next day and to dress nicely. You showed up where he told you too and he was there with that goddamn smile.

He took you to a Chinese restaurant and said I’d take you somewhere nicer but I don’t think you’re that kind of woman. And you would have slapped any other guy in the face but he looked so earnest and he was right about you. It was like he could read you like a book. And when you laughed he’d sometimes stop laughing with you just to stare with a certain reverence that made you question what you did to deserve the sort of man who looked at you that way.

He took you past all the big theaters showing musicals and stopped at one tucked away with a modest set of doors but the grandest entry hall you had ever seen. You let him lead the way as he took you through the doors into the auditorium and you walked down the aisles to seats near the front.

You didn’t know what you had done to let him know you loved comedies, but he had picked out the perfect play. By the time it was over your stomach hurt from laughing so hard and your eyes held the watery ring around them from your tears. You hit the cool night air just as it started raining, and any other time you would have run for cover but with him and his smile next to you, you didn’t give a shit.

The aimless wandering that night was your favorite part. You were doubled over laughing as he told you the parts of the play he liked, and the parts he didn’t.

“She was a fucking genius and a poet, you know?” he said.

“Who?”

“The playwright.”

“What? Why?” you asked.

“She wrote a play about another fucking genius,” he said. “And despite it being the funniest shit ever made, it still had all those deep-ass lines. You know, like, ‘If you got one friend when you die then most people never have something like you.”

And he didn’t know why you started giggling until you calmed yourself enough to tell him what the real quote was in between fits of laughter. He had that look from earlier that night on his face. The one where it was like he didn’t even know you could see him. He gazed at you like he could see you. Not just on the surface, but underneath everything too. Like he could see every thought that went through your head and took the time to hold every one and appreciate it before letting it go.

He leaned down to kiss you and you tilted your head up to meet him and you wondered how you hadn’t kissed him before. Why you didn’t when you said goodbye your first night. Why you didn’t when you were getting to know him over a burger. Why you didn’t let him kiss you that first fucking moment when you fell in love, right there, after he told you about your own goddamn brush strokes.

You fell in love all over again the following weekend when he took you to his favorite spot in the park, a large grassy hill overlooking all the kids playing below and you spread out a blanket and ate sandwiches that he had put into little ziploc bags. You told him that he should have packed some wine and he said baby, we didn’t need any alcohol our first two dates and you flushed and told him about the wine you had at the gallery and he laughed.

“I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to walk up to you without it,” you protested when he jokingly expressed mild disappointment.

“If you hadn’t walked up, I probably would have shouted ‘where’s the fucking artist, I need to talk to her!’ by the end of the night,” he said, and you found yourself laughing again.

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s happened at one of my exhibits,” you said.

You met him every morning before work to go out for coffee, even if it meant waking up an extra hour early because he’s a morning person. You had his coffee order memorized by the third day.

He invited you to his apartment one day and you found yourself laughing over home videos of him as a kid late into the night. When you said goodbye, your heart yearned to stay. To take one of his shirts and wear it as you curled up next to him in bed. Instead, you kissed him good night.

After dinner one evening, you brought him to your place and showed him the little studio you had in the most well-lit room. He spent almost an hour exploring it, asking you questions about every little thing, the brand of paints you liked best, the angle you preferred to set your easel, your favorite tools, your favorite color, and telling you how honored he was to be in the workplace of a genius.

You didn’t tell him he was the smartest person you had ever met.

You didn’t tell him that he was the genius out of the two of you. That he could talk about his work and you could listen for hours to his voice but not understand a single word he said. That he would talk like no one was listening and then say the most serious shit. The sort of thing that made you rethink life, and by the time you had escaped from your thoughts he was already on another topic, rambling about the multitudes of things he loved. He saw the beauty in everything.

How the hell could a man like him love you?

He was the sort of person you would hear about in movies. The type to never stop dreaming. Someone watching the two of you would think you both mad. He had his head in the clouds and you would watch from below in awe as if his brain was firing off fireworks, and then you would speak about anything and he would give you that smile and that goddamn look that drove you crazy.

Your entire life he was there, living his own life without ever having met you, and you often wondered how many times you had almost met. You lived in the same city, surely there must have been times. Hundreds if not thousands of moments in which your paths nearly crossed. Whether what kept you from meeting was a mere 3 feet of distance in a crowd or a mere 3 minutes of time and space in which one of you was running late or early to something along which way you would have found him.

But you were lucky to have met him when you did. Gotten to share the brief moments while they lasted. That was before the virus hit.

You were sitting on his kitchen counter, covered in acrylic paint he had bought at the grocery store as the two of you detailed messy renditions of Van Gogh’s work on his cabinet doors, and he had wrapped his dirty hands around your waist, leaving two purple handprints on your painting shirt, and pulled you into a kiss. And this one was different. It was deeper, searching for more. There was more heat and passion. Your whole relationship, months of it, had been slow and beautiful and intimate, but there were times where it was more like friendship then romance and neither of you minded as you walked along the fine line between the two, happy with the state of things as they were. But you had loved him since the first day and you didn’t mind the idea of, one day, collapsing naked and sweaty into bed with him instead of snuggling up against his side as he wrapped you in his arms like he usually did when you did decide to spend the night.

But that was for another day. You broke apart after minutes to return to your project. By the end of the night you were screwing the doors back in and he was admiring everything. If you were being honest, he was completely helpless when it came to handiwork. Couldn’t hammer a nail, tighten a screw, sand some wood, or even recreate a decent Starry Starry Night, but that didn’t matter. Because his kitchen looked vibrant and beautiful and the art reminded you of all the ideas you could see swirling in his head. The fucking genius.

The reports had started to come in by then, but it wasn’t until the following morning that you realized how serious everything had gotten. Schools announced that day that they were closing. He called to tell you he was working from home. You got the call that evening that you would be too.

A week later and you had met with him once, in the park. It was a long trek for both of you, living on opposite sides of the city. But the brief kisses, kind words, and soft touches on the waist, thighs, arms, neck, jaw, nose, back, anything? Those were all worth it.

The following day you learned you couldn’t leave your neighborhood. You video-chatted with him in tears. If only you had let yourself follow the thoughts of moving in with him instead of stamping them out as soon as they started to take root in your head. If only you had let him spend the night one more time. So you wouldn’t be clinging to his fading smell on the t-shirt you stole from his closet.

It was like your whole world cut out when the strikes started. No internet. No cell service. No connection. The postal service was all but gone, and you had no way of connecting with him. Your only source of news was the newspaper, three times a week, delivered to your doorstep. And your neighbor who got it every day and would shout to you the important things.

You wished you had photos of him framed around the house.

Then when you did, the sight of him staring at you from every corner of your apartment was enough to drive you mad with longing that you took them all down.

When the government got the strikes under control, they started to introduce the plans for rolling out the internet services again. Things had become grim. You spent every night dreaming of him, but you were starting to forget his face. Did his nose curve that much? Were the creases around his eyes that deep? Was his shabby beard that full? Did he have dimples, or were you just making that up?

You would stare at the photos on your phone, desperately trying to commit him to memory. Remember how he looked when the man in the photo came to life in three dimensions. How did he walk? How did he wave his hands?

By that time, life was different. You didn’t make art anymore. What was once your life had been shoved into your studio room, the light turned off, and the tubes of paint left to dry up. Your apartment didn’t smell like clay and charcoal and linseed oil anymore. You didn’t have it in you to keep painting. You went to the grocery store once every fourteen days, grabbing produce and frozen goods, bottles of alcohol and some cleaning supplies before handing over your newly minted ration card to receive the staples. Rice, pasta, beans, eggs, flour, sugar, a couple bags of dried fruit, a bottle of milk. It wasn’t so bad when you lived on your own, but you felt bad for the mothers and fathers in line behind you, knowing that their children might be too picky to even eat the food they were lucky to get.

The introduction of connectivity services was a slow process. Neighborhood by neighborhood across the country so as not to overwhelm the systems. There were new rules. It was only to be used for three things: education, work, and essential communication between legal family members.

Your finger hovered over the call button next to his name hundreds of times, but you could never press it out of fear that someone would be watching or listening. You knew that when you walked the streets they were. It was likely the same for your phone now too.

One day in a drunken fit of anger and yearning and the craze of love, you deleted all the photos on your phone, hoping that maybe without them you could forget how much you missed him.

You tried to forget him. But every night you dreamt of his slowly warping face. You wondered if he was doing the same.

Sometimes you would watch the DVDs you had and try to replace his image in your head with the actors. Sometimes it would work and weeks would go by with only dreams of the movies. But it would always lose its effectiveness. Usually around the time that you remembered that he was probably your soulmate and you didn’t get enough time.

In every single one of the possibilities of your lives together that you daydreamed about for hours every day, there was never enough time. But this reality was the worst. You were sure of that.

You had read every book in your house. Read every poem you could get your hands on, even the ones you had risked your life for in searching them on the internet, carefully saving pdfs and screenshots and printing them out on the dwindling paper in your apartment. Words didn’t do the same thing they used to anymore. They didn’t bring joy and excitement and escape. You stopped reading them.

You talked with your neighbor for the first time in a month. It seemed that almost everyone had stopped reading books. You wondered if people stopped doing other things too.

The world before was starting to blur around the edges. You couldn’t remember if the path you liked to walk in the park had such an erratic course or if it was more subtle than you could remember. What did you like to do on the weekends? There was a place, a building, that you liked to go to. You couldn’t remember what it was called or what was inside, but you remember the feeling of standing there. The musty smell and the awe and the sensation that you were staring out at all of humanity. And you had no idea what the fuck it was.

You weren’t sure how much of the world before you had forgotten. But you couldn’t shake him from your memory. You wished you could.

When you weren’t working you were cooking or eating or sleeping. And when you weren’t doing that, it constituted the dangerous time where you didn’t have anything to do and nothing to interest you.

And every fucking thing you did, be that making pasta or lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling, made you think of him. You had loved him as you’d never loved anyone before. And you never told him. Did he even know that you loved him? Did he know that you knew he loved you back?

You would close your eyes and the only thing you were sure of in your mind’s image of him was that goddamn smile.

taglists; (let me know if you want to be added, removed, or moved around)

perm taglist; @turquiosenights @el-lizzie @sparrows-books @dxxkxx @opheliaelysia @trashbin2 @rzrcrst @arcadianempress @stevieharrrr @peterparkers-tingle @blushingwueen @coredrive @lokiaddicted @mserynlarsen @badassbaker @1-800-fandomtrashqueen @flower-petal-blooming @talesfromtheguild @eupphoriaaa @weirdowithnobeardo @gaybroadwayloser @randomness501 @adikaofmandalore @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @poesdxmerons @bountyguild @sinnamon-bunn @readsalot73 @gooddaykate @rage-isaquietthing

pedro taglist; @pascalisthepunkest @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead @mrsparknuts @souls-rain @twomoonstwosuns @sophiasescape

#for all the lovesick mad sad geniuses #pedro pacal #24hourplays #ngozi anyanwu #camila writes #rated t #under 5 #angst #pedro fics #fatlmsg #fatlmsg fics #mad sad genius x reader

326 notes · View notes

emilydaisyanimation-year2 · 3 years

Text

Research - Philodemus & Ancient Greece

I thought it useful to conduct some research into Philodemus and his life, since familiarizing myself with his history may help to properly influence my animation and style. Me and my tutor also agreed that researching different aspects of Ancient Greece, including the mythology and art, would also be valuable in influencing my style and condensing it down into something that fits the poem I’m to animate. I want to be able to properly represent the subject I’m animating, even if only visually, and after reading this particular poem, feel it due dilligence to at least understand Philodemus and his thought process to see how far that will take me also.

Philodemus

Above all else, Philodemus of Gadara was an epigrammatist and Epicurean Philosopher, whos works were largely thought to be lost until their discovery in Herculaneum ruins in the 18th Century. Philodemus prided himself on his philosophical values, and rather frequently wrote about them when manuscripting. Philodemus’ life before he moved to Italy is not well documented, but it’s thought the town he hailed from also produced several other famous poets and philosophers.

When it came to education and learning, Philodemus devoted himself to Zeno of Sidon and became a lifelong follower, adopting and supporting his philosophical views. Upon the death of his master, Philodemus left Athens, though it is also theorized this occured because of his incurring divine wrath in the form of an epidemic due to his teachings.

Much of the research and biography about Philodemus is uncertain and come from several varying sources, but for certain the general concensus is that the man was eloquent, intelligent and rather kind. People of the time tended to respect the man more than his controversial writings, but in the modern day, Philodemus’ teachings and scriptures are hailed as being some of the first instances of Epicurean Philosophy, and are respected for their boldness.

The Muses

Since the Muses are directly referenced in Philodemus’ Poem, I thought it best to conduct at least a little bit of research into them, to document the basics and learn of their importance to the Greeks; it may help to skew my perception and improve my visualisation of them in my animation.

An exert I found has this to say of the Muses:

‘The Muses were the Greek goddesses of poetic inspiration, the adored deities of song, dance, and memory, on whose mercy the creativity, wisdom and insight of all artists and thinkers depended. They may have been originally three in number, but, according to Hesiod and the prevailing tradition he established, most commonly they are depicted as the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne.’

The Muses, from what I could find are referred to by various names and backgrounds, but this list seems to be the accepted one:

• Thalia (“The Cheerful One”) was the Muse of Comedy and was often portrayed holding a comic mask or a shepherd’s crook;

• Urania (“The Heavenly One”) was the Muse of Astronomy, and you can often see her holding a globe;

• Melpomene (“She Who Sings”) was the Muse of Tragedy, and she is either holding a tragic mask or some other symbol of tragedy (sword, club, buskins);

• Polyhymnia (“She of the Many Hymns”) was the Muse of Hymns and sacred poetry, often depicted with a pensive look hidden behind a veil;

• Erato (“The Lovely One”) was the Muse of Lyric Poetry; naturally, she’s usually represented with a lyre;

• Calliope (“The One with a Beautiful Voice”) was the Muse of Epic Poetry; Hesiod claims that she was the foremost among the nine, since “she attends on worshipful princes”; Calliope can often be seen holding a writing tablet;

• Clio (“The Celebrator,” “The Proclaimer”) was the Muse of History, and, quite fittingly, she usually holds a scroll;

• Euterpe (“She Who Pleases”), was the Muse of Flute-playing, which is why she is time and again portrayed with an aulos;

• Terpsichore (“The One Delighting in the Dance”), was the Muse of Choral Lyric and Dancing; as expected, she is usually shown dancing and sometimes holding a lyre.

(Source: https://www.greekmythology.com/Other_Gods/The_Muses/the_muses.html)

The Muses served as inspiration to the Greeks, being Goddesses of the arts, science and literature, so it’s really no surprise they are so frequently mentioned and looked up to in poems from the time. I am imagining Philodemus to have written the muses into his poem in place of any other deities, since the aspects they represent link more closely to Epicurean Philosophy than anything else. Visually, the muses are tall and have a bold feminine presence, which I feel may be an aspect that influences my own interpretation of them.

Greek Art

Greek art is perhaps some of the most recognisable around the globe, and comes generally in a select few forms: Sculptures, Architecture, Pottery and Paintings. I want to focus in particular on pottery here, as well as some sculpturing, since I feel that could be a positive influence on the way I design and model my characters.

On pottery, the art sticks to a very limited colour pallette, that being the colour of the actual clay pot, and blacks and whites for emphasis and design. I really like the limited colours, and I think I could use that concept rather cleverly in some instances in my animation. The characters are of course all flat, but have strong structures and designs, with prominent features like noses and arms. This, above all else, will be what influence my own characters.

Sculpturing tends towards the more realistic side, and the detail present is incredible. Such time and effort went into modelling and chiselling every part of these sculptures that I had to give them credit in my research. I don’t think I’ll take much beyond anatomical research from this, but it’s still a useful point of study.

2 notes · View notes

thissimplefeelingzine · 4 years

Note

regarding your inexperienced w zines mod team- do u at least have somebody handling finances that has experience w a completed zine? that’s SUPER important, especially now, and I would urge you to reach out if not and find somebody to handle that positon. looking forward to this zine!

Hello anon,

I am Mod Dogfeathers*, and while posting directly to our socials is somewhat rare for me, I am This Simple Feeling's current Finance Mod, and so I thought it very important that I address your concerns directly, myself. I am very shy, I am neurodivergent, and I have severe social anxiety, and so most of the work I've done for This Simple Feeling thusfar has been infrastructural and supportive, somewhat away from wider visibility. However, I am extremely aware of the awesome responsibility that falls squarely on my shoulders as finance mod, and that the community around our zine– from my fellow mods and our potential contributors to the fans who will be cheering us on and reading issue 6 next year– must be able to depend on me to manage our finances through every stage of This Simple Feeling's production. The success of our project requires the community's collective confidence in me, and I am extremely keen to build that trust.

So, first, I want to apologize for the length of time that you've had to wait for this reply, and assure you we've been taking your concerns very seriously. Much of this time has been spent in deliberative reflection as to whether or not I should remain in this role. I love this project, and I have invested a prodigious amount of time and effort and affection into it since Head Mod @menecio approached me in early November 2020; I desperately want it to succeed. I have never wavered that I want to remain in this role, and my fellow staff have not wavered in their conviction that I should remain here, too. That said, I am aware that the success of our zine does not particularly care about what I want or what feels good, and so I took some time to seriously assess my own capabilities, to strenuously question my resolve, and to seek advice from people with zine experience who I trust. We have determined that I shall remain Finance Mod, but I want to stress that this was neither an easy nor an immediate decision– I did not let it be an easy or immediate decision, because what has always mattered to me is what's best for the zine. In the end, that determination was made based on the work that I've already done and the trust that my team has in my abilities.

Nevertheless, we want to emphasize that we continue to take your concerns seriously; we recognize that my lack of zine experience is both significant and reasonable cause for concern. We are taking additional measures to address that lack, beyond those that I insisted upon when I accepted this role. I will shortly lay out some of my relevant experience, but in recognition that it is limited and that it may not be sufficient to assuage your concerns, I want to make clear one of the additional measures that I requested during this period of consideration.

My husband and my partner of ten years, Tom, is a trained accountant, and he will now be supervising my work for this project directly. He had already agreed to assist me informally, and had– with supreme patience– already conducted a few intense, 6 hour long sessions to explain the ways that double-entry bookkeeping and Microsoft Access can be used to manage a project of this nature. He will continue to do that, but he will also be keeping an eye on my work and checking up that work periodically. I will still be managing our accounts, my name will still be on our books, and this will still be my job, but Tom will be actively present to confirm that I am doing this correctly. He does not have zine experience, he is not involved in fandom, and he does not have fandom-relevant socials– he has no specific pull towards fandom participation, the way I do– but he has worked for several years as one of two accountants for the library of one of the USA's top 40 public research universities, managing the extremely complex and surprisingly variable needs of such a massive nonprofit, and has been responsible for controlling several million dollars of public acquisitions spending in that capacity. (His way of describing this: "Each year we spent about the same amount as the budget for 10 Things I Hate About You, and I was in charge of a little over half of it.")

As part of this supervisory role, Tom is also going to maintain a presence in our server. He is not a mod and plays no part in decision making beyond occasionally giving us financial advice when asked, but he has appropriate server roles to provide direct access to mod discussions, so that he can be present to pay attention when I bring financial data to the team, and to answer our collective financial questions, should any arise that are beyond my personal capacity. When his schedule permits, he is also available to our contributors and mods to answer their questions directly in server.

What follows is a non-comprehensive, but hopefully thorough, summary of my relevant experience.

By training and professionally, I am a studio artist with an MFA, the terminal degree in my field. I manage my own studio practice. This is a complicated, variable job that requires a great deal of flexibility, responsiveness, and skill– most of which does not actually involve the hand-skills necessary to create the literal artwork the studio practice ostensibly produces. As an artist, I am a sole proprietor, and my studio is my business, but with very specific needs not necessarily found in other businesses, and I run it without assistants. I maintain my inventory and my supplies, I purchase and manage equipment necessary to create work, I manage my work through various states of creation and exhibition and– sometimes– publication, I take on clients for commission, I apply to shows (for which there is always a fee), I work with gallerists and curators, I research and make connections with different platforms and specialist logistics businesses (PayPal/money handlers, banks, streaming platforms, printers, data storage). All of those affect my studio's finances, and so they must be managed carefully, in addition to sales of prints and original artwork (thusfar handled privately, as is fairly normal– we are often encouraged not to maintain digital storefronts, because it can dissuade potential gallerists from representing us; I am in the process of threading that needle.) In this capacity, I have no employer: I am responsible for taxes– both knowing what they are and paying them– and fees, I am responsible for my costs, and I am responsible to my business partners. There is no external buffer– if I fail any of this, I am the only party responsible for making it right.

Because I believe in the transformative power of art (and, for that matter, fandom), I try to work with local arts organizations and nonprofits when possible, particularly when it comes to showing my work and engaging in community arts efforts. I prefer to support group projects that elevate multiple artists, and/or organizations that serve diverse communities. Prior to COVID, I was doing a volunteer-intensive residency with local community arts nonprofit whose mission is to bring art and heritage craft skills to communities that would not otherwise be able to access such training; COVID has necessitated a change in my ability to serve them, but I do still work for them in a more limited capacity, usually grantwriting.

Though I prioritize nonprofits, I have also worked as an assistant/intern for urban galleries using for-profit and co-op funding structures, which involved both basic work associated with gallery assistantship (manning desks, running errands, calling support businesses, promotion, show installation, etc), and sometimes work on specific projects that required knowledge of the institution's fiscal state and available funds (from contacting local businesses about the replacement of a gallery's floor and helping to plan the launching of a new residency, to more routine tasks, such as contacting local bakeries about catering or hosting satellite shows, and ordering promotional material from printers.) All galleries run on extremely tight budgets, and having been exposed to a variety different gallery funding structures (with concomitantly different priorities and audiences) gives me an awareness of the work and the precision required to achieve ambitious goals with extremely limited finances. They are why I price things out on three levels: the ideal, the nearly-ideal, and the most affordable that still meets our high bar for quality.

I have experience writing grants, both for myself and (more notably) for the nonprofit at which I am an AIR (artist in residence). The most ambitious of these grants has reached the second stage of consideration, which is notable both because the granting organization is not arts specific, the deciding board is composed mostly of bankers with deep fiscal expertise, and we were asking for funds significantly in excess of what that grant usually offers. That decision is expected in June of next year. Grant-writing is less of an abstraction on the skills necessary for a zine than it might initially seem: both involve my operation as an agent representing the organization for which I requesting money; art grants are usually for very specific projects with very specific constraints; they usually require that our funding comes from multiple sources that are then pooled to enact the project; the projects have a specific lifespan and a schedule on which key stages must be completed; they require extremely precise budgeting; we are directly accountable for both the project and the precise management and tracking of said funding; and we must be ready to provide statements and proof of the project's progress and funding at every stage of the project's active lifespan, as well as a summary report at the end.

I have curatorial experience with local and regional art shows, usually organized by a small independent team working closely with a local, preferably-nonprofit gallery who is lending us their space; those roles are very analogous to the XO/logistical role I am currently fulfilling for This Simple Feeling. Though we worked with local galleries, and could sometimes make use of some of their equipment (such as hammers and nails and– if we were very lucky– leftover paint), we were responsible for every aspect of the actual hosting of the show and associated costs. This included equipment rental, installation costs, costs to repair & repaint to walls from the normal damage of installation, catering, sometimes utilities and space rental, etc. All of those costs were additional to the cost of recruiting artists, hosting calls, managing the artists and their work, managing sales of the work throughout the duration of the show, managing the sales of any prints the artists or merch the artists wanted to offer alongside the work, and organizing any publications or promotional materials released for the shows. Each show had different financial needs, but they all required budgets prior to their beginning, modified when necessary as the project came closer to realization and new constraints presented themselves. The businesses we solicited quotes from and our cost-reduction strategies varied from show to show, but all of the teams I worked with were semi-formal groups of friends and collaborators, similar to the teams that design zines, and so we did not have a pool of institutional capital to use for funding– we had to generate or barter for all of that ourselves. We did it because we loved it and we believed in it, not because it was potentially lucrative (community art shows almost never are, even less than zines; the point is celebration of our community.)

And that, honestly, is one of the most relevant bits of experience I've accumulated to date, tangential but applicable to a project like this: the awareness that this kind of project is done for love, not money. Issue 6 is being produced for charity, but even wildly successful for-profit zines will almost never be able to make enough profit to adequately compensate the cost of the staff's time, which would be upwards of $20k, if you paid them $10/hr, which is below the cost of living in most parts of my country. The cost to hire freelance writers is, at minimum, $.10 a word. The artwork in zines would cost in the hundreds– and, more realistically, thousands– of dollars, in a professional illustrative or fine art context. The writers and artists who contribute to zines absolutely make work that reaches (and exceeds) the professional standards required to participate in those industries. Our contributors have trained for years to hone their skills, and they put those skills towards making work for us, for free; our staff similarly donate their time to accomplish very complex tasks to support that creative work; that time could be spent producing work for those professional contexts, but instead they give it to us, and they do that because they believe in us and our community, and they want to celebrate a fandom and a ship– Star Trek and K/S– that have brought us together, and (with Trek and K/S specifically) have supported fandom engagement for over five decades. They give that work to us, and the only thing they ask is for us to make a zine out of it. I am an artist and a writer, I have formal training in both disciplines, and I understand these costs: I cannot express how seriously I take the gift of their time and energy, and how profoundly I am humbled to be trusted with it.

If I sound zealous, it's because I am, and because I am excruciatingly aware that from the moment our staff begins working on this project and our contributors start making their works, the financial responsibility for taking all that gifted energy and skill and effort becomes solely my own. If I fail as finance mod, I do not fail only myself, as would be the case in my studio practice– I also fail my fellow mods and every single one of my contributors, and I fail the community responsible for the generation of work that has provided me solace for decades. If I fuck up as finance mod, it is solely my responsibility to make it right.

As I said before, your concerns are absolutely reasonable– I share many of them– and all of this experience is tangential, and zines are different projects to those that I've worked on before, with different constraints and needs. I have thus taken action and structured my own work as a mod to assuage these concerns in myself, in ways that I hope will concomitantly assuage some of your concerns as well. I am paying attention to my own inexperience, I am preventing myself from functioning on auto-pilot, I am taking nothing for granted, and I am being actively vigilant for the inevitable gaps in my own expertise.

That's easy to say, but what does it look like? Thusfar, it takes the form of huge amounts of research, and the connection to a extant network of experienced zinesters, both of which are repositories of information with which I am trying to plug some of my gaps. I know well, as an academic who also practices disciplines (art and writing) that are precarious by their nature, that there is a big difference between external research and experience– but if everyone starts somewhere, then I have gone to great lengths to map out the place where I'm starting as thoroughly as possible. I have read (and often annotated) literally every resource on the production and staffing of fandom zines that I could find. When I have a question, I check these sources and I also look for examples of whatever I'm curious about 'in the wild'. To determine the likely price of our zine, for example, I looked through seven pages of tags on popular hub/promotion blogs on Tumblr, and generated a comprehensive Excel sheet from one such session that allowed me to compare prices against the number of pages and the kinds of merch offered alongside the zines in question. To balance the holes in that mode of data collection, I have also sought contacts and tried to build a relationship with communities around zine production: i have close friends who work on zines (and who initially got me interested in this kind of project– you know who you are, and my thanks is infinite for your patience and your willingness to act as resource), and I regularly make a pest of myself by asking strange questions to folks in Discord servers dedicated to the topic (I am also grateful to these communities, in similar terms). When possible, or if the question is specific enough, I try to go directly to the source: when I was uncertain what, specifically, could be used to verify a PayPal account, and found conflicting answers in their documentation, I spent three days talking to various help desk personnel until I found a solid answer on which to proceed. All of this is basic, and deserves no accolades.

If I am anything in my personal art practice, it is a colorist, and so I already had fairly deep knowledge of color theory prior to my involvement here– however, because color accuracy is so important to printed artwork, and depends so much on printer technology, the capacity and setup of individual print shops, and digital color spaces, I have spent time researching this too. I have requested printing samples from 7 different printers, and I have peppered the ones that meet the zine's standards with esoteric questions about what kind of printing presses they use and what ICC profiles their digital presses are set up to handle. I have done this because when it comes time (very shortly) for our Art Mod (@i-drive-a-nii-san) and myself to make some final determinations on which printers we want to use, it is important to me personally that we have the most comprehensive data available with which to make that decision. The zine that we publish needs to be pragmatically affordable– but within the scope of that pragmatism, I want the best quality possible, so as to do justice to the contributions that will live on its pages.

I am aware that all of my experience is tangential, and that the direct relevance that it has on this situation is limited. I am aware that there are gaps in my knowledge. I am aware of the awesome responsibilities I have as finance mod, and that I am a potential bottleneck upon which this project either breaks and fails or through which it passes and succeeds. I am aware of the gift inherent in every work we receive and every moment of staff working time, and the legacies at play with K/S specifically. I am aware that all the book-learning in the world has limited bearing on the actual experience of doing something on the ground. I find my experience lacking, and for that reason, I very seriously considered stepping down. I am humbled by the responsibility required by this position; I decided to stay because the trust my team expressed in me was also humbling.

My experience may be tangential, but there is a final element that I strongly suspect is applicable to my role as finance mod (and mod generally): in a project like a zine, done for love and for community, there are a myriad ways in which trust matters, small enough to overlook but overwhelming in their accumulation. The trust of the external fandom/zinester community matters, and for that reason I am being as honest as possible, and almost ceded my position to someone with greater experience; the trust of one's fellow staff and collaborators also matters in significant ways. An administrative team that trusts each other– that has confidence in each others' abilities and convictions, that understands each others' outlooks and that communicates well, and that deeply believes that that they will mutually have each other's backs– that kind of administrative team is an awesome thing, and their confidence is often perceptible to the contributors in very real ways, who then trust the administrative team to have their backs and to support them as necessary. Collaborators and administrators who have established that trust with each other tend to work together more effectively, and produce stronger work as a result, especially in a creative capacity. Good work requires creative risk-taking, which in turn requires the certainty that administration can support the necessary risk-taking and facilitate its success. The establishment of such trust is not automatic– we must work for it, actively– but the team involved in issue 6 of This Simple Feeling has that trust in each other, and the willingness to build it with both our collaborators and the wider community around our zine.

My confidence in the rest of my team is unshakeable. They have, in turn, expressed their confidence in me, that I am able to do the tasks and handle the responsibility involved with being finance mod on a project as specific and complex as a fandom zine for charity; I will trust them, and I will continue to work to earn their trust. I will also trust the broad community of zinesters around me, and solicit their expertise to help me navigate unfamiliar waters, and I will trust the professional expertise of my partner, who I have asked to donate his time. I will not lie, and so I make no promise that I won't fuck up in this role– but I will absolutely promise that if I do, I will make it right, and I will do everything in my power to prevent such fuckups from occurring in the first place.

I encourage you or anyone else to contact me if you have further questions; I can be reached through the contact forms on my personal Carrds– both linked on This Simple Feeling's staff bio on the Carrd– or alternatively you can request my Discord handle via DM on This Simple Feeling’s Tumblr or Twitter.

- Mod Dogfeathers/42/booleanWildcard/NAB

* I write fanfiction under the name booleanWildcard, and I am known socially as 42 or */asterisk. I post drawings as Dogmachine. I sign my visual work as NAB, my initials.

* We are using Microsoft Access instead of Excel, because Access is more flexible and comprehensive with its ability to cross-reference multiple fields. We will use it to generate reports for release, including possibly ones that can be plugged into Excel/Google Sheets

#tsfzine #ask #mod team

7 notes · View notes

gvldntrbl · 3 years

Text

&&. cauldron above, ( geneva d'amati tulloch ) was just spotted in the fae lands — word has it ( she ) is/are affiliated with ( dawn court ). ( she ) is a(n) ( 83 / appears 31 ) year old ( high fae ). it’s been said that ( she ) resembles ( logan browning ). ( she ) has been said to be ( creative & clever ) but also quite ( candid & amiable ). ( she ) is currently serving as ( custom clothier ). @ahqstart

BASICS

Name: Geneva D’Amati Tulloch Nicknames/Alias: Gen, Genny, Eva, Skye (close family) Face Claim: Logan Browning Age: 83 / appears 31 Gender: Female Sexuality: Pansexual Species: High Fae Rank: Custom Clothier, Owner of D’Amati House of Fashion (Lumenopolis); Dawn Court

PERSONALITY

Geneva reminds one of the first glimmer of sunlight after a starless night. Or a literal breath of fresh air. There’s a captivating sense about her. The curiosity that she has about the world reflects itself heavily in her work. Since childhood, a favorite inquiry of hers is two worded. Why? Or why not?

A proper child of Dawn, Geneva’s more inclined to relate to the arts. While her siblings and friends felt drawn to painting, music or literature - she hearkened the call of fashion. Specifically, the thin grasps of ideals and designs that ultimately culminated in its creation. As the youngest child of an adept merchant and negotiator, Geneva’s interest in design and fashion were indulged. Even encouraged.

RELATIONSHIPS

Parents: Celestia D’Amati Tulloch (mother - deceased), Lorenzo D’Amati (adoptive father - alive; merchant in dawn court), Jacques DuBois (biological father - alive; duke of night court) Siblings/Family: Two older siblings from her parents. Geneva is the baby of the family. Assumed unknown siblings from Enzo’s side.

Spouse: N/A Current Partner/Mate: N/A Current Allies: Whichever court(s) is an ally/are allies of Dawn Enemies: Whichever court(s) is an enemy/are enemies of Dawn

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Hair Colour: Black Eye Colour: Blue Distinguishing Marks/Fun Facts: Geneva’s hair and fashion sense are the most noticeable, depending on the day. Geneva is fluent in Italian and Gaelic. She’s learning Arabic with hopes to open a second boutique in the Golden City at Day Court.

BIOGRAPHY

Geneva carried the two names of her family out of pride, love and respect. Her mother, Celestia Tulloch was a high fae from an old family within dawn. Not one for politics - instead the Tulloch clan were known for the artists they produced. Of which, Celestia continued the tradition. It was how she met Lorenzo D’Amati, Geneva’s father, an immensely charming lesser fae merchant whose nature aided greatly in his success. Born and raised in Dawn Court, Geneva understood complex ideas as simple. Such as the ease and normality upon which her parents open marriage was presented. While Celestia and Enzo were in love - it did not hinder the couple from indulging in others. From time to time. Which was why Geneva gave no merit to the whispers she’d hear when her appearance was compared to Enzo’s. Or better yet, the older siblings that her parents had before her. Not that children born of their parents’ lovers were taboo. They were not. At least in Geneva’s experience.

Geneva only heeded the rumors when her magic of daydreaming and dream walking failed to reveal itself. The young fae’s wings and heart matched her home court. But appeared that her magic did not. It was a worrisome time. Geneva being unable to fully feel a part of her home. The choice to blend in and join her friends in developing and progressing their illusory magic did not exist. The rite of passage to dream walk with her friends eluded her. And the magic of her siblings, of her mother and ancestors, it seemed had denied her. Truly, Geneva felt like an imposter. A high fae without magic was well... essentially human. Regardless of the wings. It was during that time that Geneva designed more, created more pieces of fashions, in an effort to make sense of her life. To be able to understand something. From this, the idea for the D’Amati House of Fashion arose.

Until the shadows began to move. Literally. From her own imagination, Geneva fashioned dark creatures at night. While she was born and raised in dawn, it seemed that she was a child of night. Only when both Celestia and Lorenzo sat Geneva down did she learn the nature of her father. ...Not Enzo. Another high fae from night court. While the animosity between their courts crest and waned, it seemed the passions between that of Celestia and her un-named lover from night court had not. And thus, Geneva was made. The news was surprising. Even moreso when Geneva learned that she could not learn the name of her father. As it was not time. A private tutor was sent for and secretly, Geneva learned how to develop her magic.

For a time, it seemed that was all that encompassed her life. Fashion and magic. The two hand in hand. One embraced in the light, the other hidden away in the night. Finally, Geneva was given his name. Better yet, Celestia dream walked with Geneva. Something her mother had done times before. But it was different, that time. She revealed his face to Geneva, sparkling blue eyes that she’d recognize anywhere for they were her own. ‘You’ve always asked why I called you, Skye.’ Celestia shared. ‘The answer to your question is tri-fold. One is what you’ve always heard, that you are my little sky. Two, that your eyes match its color. And the third is that your eyes are his.’ Unbeknownst to Geneva, that would be the last time she dream walked with Celestia. The highfae had grown ill and, finally at peace with whatever awaited her, Celestia shared one final truth with Geneva. Her father’s name. She wanted her daughter to have all the love available to her from those that could give it. It was why she waited so long, Geneva learned. The timing, according to Celestia, had not been right. But now was. It seemed the young fae had another father to find. Or... rather to learn.

#ahqintro #intro post: geneva d'amati tulloch

4 notes · View notes

eltigreus · 4 years

Text

what’s changed?

when I was younger (not that I now am old or anything), I used to tweet, livejournal, post, share, reblog (with vivacious commentary), and unabashedly expose my self and my expressions in whatever manner I could think of on a daily basis, wherever possible. multiple times a day, in fact. the epitome of screaming into the void - simply for the sake of assuring myself that I am alive and I have thoughts/feelings. but now...

I find myself: habitually/obsessively running my thoughts and opinions through judgement filters before even allowing myself to consider them; reactively scrutinizing the art and expressions of others for no good reason other than to be contradictory; scavenging the depths of my mind for good content and throwing out practically every seed I pull up before it even has a chance to be germinated; refusing to share anything of myself that feels underdeveloped or inadequate for this social platform or that; and (at times, desperately) looking for any minuscule moment of every day life interesting enough to capture on video that I could share with friends, family, followers, and anyone else that might help to contribute to the proliferation of vast opportunity for creation in the realm of entertainment for myself and my cohorts.

“What happened?”

how did that bombastically outspoken, overly-enthusiastic, naïvely ostentatious young artist end up this way?

a while ago, I spoke to a friend who told me,

“You’re all dusty? You used to be so much... shinier?”

to which I immediately shrunk in reaction. “life happened,” I thought to myself.

but, whose life is it? whose life are you leading? whose life are you aspiring towards? is it one of your own creation and desire or is it the one you were indoctrinated to believe is the only “true” option for success in your profession? the one with flagrantly rapid [commercial] success, un-stifled money flow, influential notoriety, and - of course - lots and lots of beautiful [men] of all shapes and sizes at the tips of your fingers awaiting your beck and call?

the reality of this enviable latter life is one only a privileged few get to lead in the business of entertainment; and it is apparent that a vast majority of those few don’t look like me, nor would they refer to themselves as “movement artists” - nor do they seem to register aloud their own contributions (or lack thereof) to the privilege of living this reality; that’s another tangent emotional pi.

“You’re all dusty?”

I’ve had the dirt kicked up on me quite a few times before that day when I met my friend. I had felt myself becoming much more dull in the months that preceded this meeting, but never was able to admit to myself what was happening until someone else was awake enough (and loved me enough) to point it out to me.

“You used to be so much... shiner? You can’t keep giving and giving your light away to other people. You have to replenish and recharge yourself if you want to have anything at all to give to someone else.”

these were some of the things my very conscious friend had said to me that day. he was/is right.

I love to give and I love to avoid myself. but, clearly, this wasn’t always the case. frequently, I attributed this development to the consistent loneliness I was experiencing (even before the quarantine). upon further reflection, I think it would actually be more accurate to say “this re-development” of myself. I think, perhaps, the reason that bombastic young artist was so unapologetically expressive was because he had the time to be so; he had the time to be bored enough to indulge in his own organically-sprouted curiosities and decided to respond to his findings aloud - to himself, to anyone who might hear in passing, to whomever.

the reality was that the make-up of his audience was of no importance; the importance was the act of sharing, the purity of expression - of earnestly recounting experience and emotion. not being concerned with how to indulge in dialogue but inherently knowing that the conversation must be started in order for one to begin to learn.

so how can I expect myself to be so suddenly inspired now when I never give myself enough time to relax and be bored?

quite probably possibly, the production mindset has skewed my view of [my] value. though the efficiency skills I now posses are very useful in a creative process when time is not on our side, the incessant need to constantly produce something in order to feel sufficient - to feel purposeful or worthwhile in any manner - can take irreversible tolls on the body and psyche.

“You’ve got to save some light for yourself.”

I have given my light to choreographers, directors, producers, employers, educators, entrepreneurs, puppet masters, and clowns all with varying degrees of mutual benefit as collaborators and acquaintances. you can tell the ones who are ready to reciprocate your efforts of light-giving from a mile off and - hopefully - you make the effort to ensure that you are able to stick around and continue trading frequencies/creative opportunities. but, why is it that one would choose to stick around when one’s intuition screams at them that their currently-involved endeavor is a one-way highway and all signs along the road offer (clearly threatening) admonitions of fines, tickets, and legal action against those that pick up... hitchhikers?

though you inherently know better, for some reason, you still hope the ones who are there to take what they need and then thank u, next themselves out of your realm of existence will somehow (miraculously) see you as something... special? some thing “worth” taking the time to get to know and grow with. unique enough to take a chance on for a fantastical project that is bound to be the next multi-million dollar franchise which will set you up to do whatever it is celebrities do when they’re not being famous... for the rest of your life? it sounds as ridiculous as it is.

it’s hilarious (and unsurprising), but my professional life and personal life have very closely mirrored parallels. to consider myself a “hitchhiker” in regards to my past methods of approach at forming relationships (romantic and otherwise) with humans is, unfortunately, fairly accurate. the co-dependent nature of matrimony which had been instilled in me since I was a young one has very undesirable affects when put into practice as an “independent adult.”

but how could you expect anything different when your focus is divided between your profession, your partner, your bills, your friends, your dog, your chores ... this list goes on and on. when do you turn your undivided attention inward to reflect on what it is you need/want? I’ve found that even when I am involuntarily alone, I tend to refuse avoid every opportunity for relaxation and self-consideration. (un)fortunately (for me), the Pandemic currently circulating our Mother Earth has removed virtually all possibilities for external distractions. (a moment of singularity is much more easily served surrounded by accessible bars, intoxicants, and unimaginably beautiful people, after all - no?)

before I run off my rails, I think I must pull this train of thought into the station. this lengthy rumination of my past experiences is not meant to serve as a “warning” for those interested in undertaking an artist’s life. I write this, first and foremost, to employ what I’ve criticized myself for not doing throughout this piece: I write this as an act of screaming into the void once again.

I write this to assure myself of my own ability to communicate emotions/thoughts and experiences, and to remind myself of how much I love to do so. I write this also to offer another perspective to others who may feel jaded or deceived along the current portion of their artistic journey. I write this as an act of defiance against my own insecurities.

I write this in the hopes of encouraging whomever might stumble upon it to give yourself a break and assess/pursue what it is that will bring you true fulfillment in this life.

I write this... because I wanted to? because I wanted to. because I wanted to express myself without being bogged down by the waterfall of irrelevance that my mind produces when it feels unsafe or exposed. because I am an expressive human who must allow room for expression when the motivation is pure.

because I’m trying to cure myself from this long-time build up of artistic epididymal hypertension.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

12 notes · View notes

elisaenglish · 3 years

Text

Art and the Human Spirit: Olivia Laing on What the Lives of Great Artists Reveal About Vulnerability, Love, Loneliness, Resistance, and Our Search for Meaning

“We’re so often told that art can’t really change anything. But… it shapes our ethical landscapes; it opens us to the interior lives of others. It is a training ground for possibility. It makes plain inequalities, and it offers other ways of living.”

The composite creation of a doctor, a philosopher, a poet, and a sculptor, the word empathy in the modern sense only came into use at the dawn of the twentieth century as a term for the imaginative act of projecting yourself into a work of art, into a world of feeling and experience other than your own. It vesselled in language that peculiar, ineffable way art has of bringing you closer to yourself by taking you out of yourself — its singular power to furnish, Iris Murdoch’s exquisite phrasing, “an occasion for unselfing.” And yet this notion cinches the central paradox of art: Every artist makes what they make with the whole of who they are — with the totality of experiences, beliefs, impressions, obsessions, childhood confusions, heartbreaks, inner conflicts, and contradictions that constellate a self. To be an artist is to put this combinatorial self in the service of furnishing occasions for unselfing in others.

That may be why the lives of artists have such singular allure as case studies and models of turning the confusion, complexity, and uncertainty of life into something beautiful and lasting — something that harmonises the disquietude and dissonance of living.

In Funny Weather: Art in an Emergency (public library), Olivia Laing — one of the handful of living writers whose mind and prose I enjoy commensurately with the Whitmans and the Woolfs of yore — occasions a rare gift of unselfing through the lives and worlds of painters, poets, filmmakers, novelists, and musicians who have imprinted culture in a profound way while living largely outside the standards and stabilities of society, embodying of James Baldwin’s piecing insight that “a society must assume that it is stable, but the artist must know, and he must let us know, that there is nothing stable under heaven.”

Punctuating these biographical sketches laced with larger questions about art and the human spirit are Laing’s personal essays reflecting, through the lens of her own lived experience, on existential questions of freedom, desire, loneliness, queerness, democracy, rebellion, abandonment, and the myriad vulnerable tendrils of aliveness that make life worth living.

What emerges is a case for art as a truly human endeavour, made by human beings with bodies and identities and beliefs often at odds with the collective imperative; art as “a zone of both enchantment and resistance,” art as sentinel and witness of “how truth is made, diagramming the stages of its construction, or as it may be dissolution,” art as “a direct response to the paucity and hostility of the culture at large,” art as a buoy for loneliness and a fulcrum for empathy.

Laing writes:

“Empathy is not something that happens to us when we read Dickens. It’s work. What art does is provide material with which to think: new registers, new spaces. After that, friend, it’s up to you.

I don’t think art has a duty to be beautiful or uplifting, and some of the work I’m most drawn to refuses to traffic in either of those qualities. What I care about more… are the ways in which it’s concerned with resistance and repair.”

A writer — a good writer — cannot write about art without writing about those who make it, about the lives of artists as the crucible of their creative contribution, about the delicate, triumphant art of living as a body in the world and a soul outside standard society. Olivia Laing is an excellent writer. Out of lives as varied as those of Basquiat and Agnes Martin, Derek Jarman and Georgia O’Keeffe, David Bowie and Joseph Cornell, she constructs an orrery of art as a cosmos of human connection and a sensemaking mechanism for living.

In a sentiment to which I relate in my own approach to historical lives, Laing frames her method of inquiry:

“I’m going as a scout, hunting for resources and ideas that might be liberating or sustaining now, and in the future. What drives all these essays is a long-standing interest in how a person can be free, and especially in how to find a freedom that is shareable, and not dependent upon the oppression or exclusion of other people.

[…]

We’re so often told that art can’t really change anything. But I think it can. It shapes our ethical landscapes; it opens us to the interior lives of others. It is a training ground for possibility. It makes plain inequalities, and it offers other ways of living.”

Throughout these short, scrumptiously insightful and sensitive essays, Laing draws on the lives of artists — the wildly uneven topographies of wildly diverse interior worlds — to contour new landscapes of possibility for life itself, as we each live it, around and through and with art. In the essay about Georgia O’Keeffe — who revolutionised modern art while living alone and impoverished in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the world’s first global war — Laing observes:

“How do you make the most of what’s inside you, your talents and desires, when they slam you up against a wall of prejudice, of limiting beliefs about what a woman must be and an artist can do?

[…]

From the beginning, New Mexico represented salvation, though not in the wooden sense of the hill-dominating crosses she so often painted. O’Keeffe’s salvation was earthy, even pagan, comprised of the cold-water pleasure of working unceasingly at what you love, burning anxiety away beneath the desert sun.”

In an essay about another artist — the painter Chantal Joffe, for whom Laing sat — she echoes Jackson Pollock’s’s observation that “every good artist paints what he is,” and writes:

“You can’t paint reality: you can only paint your own place in it, the view from your eyes, as manifested by your own hands.

A painting betrays fantasies and feelings, it bestows beauty or takes it away; eventually, it supplants the body in history. A painting is full of desire and love, or greed, or hate. It radiates moods, just like people.

[…]

Paint as fur, as velvet, as brocade, as hair. Paint as a way of entering and becoming someone else. Paint as a device for stopping time.”

In another essay, Laing offers an exquisite counterpoint to the barbed-wire fencing off of identities that has increasingly made the free reach of human connection — that raw material and final product of all art — dangerous and damnable in a culture bristling with ready indignations and antagonisms:

“A writer I was on a panel with said, and I’m paraphrasing here, that it is no longer desirable to write about the lives of other people or experiences one hasn’t had. I didn’t agree. I think writing about other people, making art about other people, is both dangerous and necessary. There are moral lines. There are limits to the known. But there’s a difference between respecting people’s right to tell or not tell their own stories and refusing to look at all.

[…]

It depends whether you believe that we exist primarily as categories of people, who cannot communicate across our differences, or whether you think we have a common life, an obligation to regard and learn about each other.”

In a sense, the entire book is a quiet manifesto for unselfing through the art we make and the art we cherish — a subtle and steadfast act of resistance to the attrition of human connection under the cultural forces of self-righteousness and sanctimonious othering, a stance against those fashionable and corrosive forces that so often indict as appropriation the mere act of learning beautiful things from each other.

In another essay — about Ali Smith, the subject to whom Laing feels, or at least reads, the closest — she quotes a kindred sentiment of Smith’s:

“Art is one of the prime ways we have of opening ourselves and going beyond ourselves. That’s what art is, it’s the product of the human being in the world and imagination, all coming together. The irrepressibility of the life in the works, regardless of the times, the histories, the life stories, it’s like being given the world, its darks and lights. At which point we can go about the darks and lights with our imagination energised.”

Among the subjects of a subset of essays Laing aptly categorises as “love letters” is John Berger, whose lovely notion of “hospitality” radiates from Laing’s own work — a notion she defines as “a capacity to enlarge and open, a corrective to the overwhelming political imperative, in ascendance once again this decade, to wall off, separate and reject.” She reflects on being stopped up short by Berger’s embodiment of such hospitality when she saw him speak at the British Library at the end of his long, intellectually generous life:

“It struck me then how rare it is to see a writer on stage actually thinking, and how glib and polished most speakers are. For Berger, thought was work, as taxing and rewarding as physical labour, a bringing of something real into the world. You have to strive and sweat; the act is urgent but might also fail.

He talked that evening about hospitality. It was such a Bergerish notion. Hospitality: the friendly and generous reception and entertainment of guests, visitors or strangers, a word that shares its origin with hospital, a place to treat sick or injured people. This impetus towards kindness and care for the sick and strange, the vulnerable and dispossessed is everywhere in Berger’s work, the sprawling orchard of words he planted and tended over the decades.

[…]

Art he saw as a communal and vital possession, to be written about with sensual exactness… Capitalism, he wrote in Ways of Seeing, survives by forcing the majority to define their own interests as narrowly as possible. It was narrowness he set himself against, the toxic impulse to wall in or wall off. Be generous to the strange, be open to difference, cross-pollinate freely. He put his faith in the people, the whole host of us.”

In a superb 2015 essay titled “The Future of Loneliness” — an essay that bloomed into a book a year later, the splendid and unclassifiable book that first enchanted me with Laing’s writing and the mind from which it springs — she considers how technology is mediating our already uneasy relationship to loneliness, and how art redeems the simulacra of belonging with which social media entrap us in this Stockholm syndrome of self-regard. In a passage of chillingly intimate resonance to all of us alive in the age of screens and selfies and the vacant, addictive affirmation of people we have never dined with tapping heart- and thumb-shaped icons on cold LED screens, she writes:

“Loneliness centres around the act of being seen. When a person is lonely, they long to be witnessed, accepted, desired, at the same time as becoming intensely wary of exposure. According to research carried out over the past decade at the University of Chicago, the feeling of loneliness triggers what psychologists term hypervigilance for social threat. In this state, which is entered into unknowingly, the individual becomes hyperalert to rejection, becoming inclined to perceive their social interactions as tinged with hostility or scorn. The result of this shift in perception is a vicious circle of withdrawal, in which the lonely person becomes increasingly suspicious, intensifying their sense of isolation.

This is where online engagement seems to exercise its special charm. Hidden behind a computer screen, the lonely person has control. They can search for company without the danger of being revealed or found wanting. They can reach out or they can hide; they can lurk and they can show themselves, safe from the humiliation of face-to-face rejection. The screen acts as a kind of protective membrane, a scrim that permits invisibility and also transformation. You can filter your image, concealing unattractive elements, and you can emerge enhanced: an online avatar designed to attract likes. But now a problem arises, for the contact this produces is not quite the same thing as intimacy. Curating a perfected self might win followers or Facebook friends, but it will not necessarily cure loneliness, since the cure for loneliness is not being looked at, but being seen and accepted as a whole person: ugly, unhappy and awkward as well as radiant and selfie-ready.”

Having met with Ryan Trecartin — “a baby-faced thirty-four-year-old” of whom I had never heard (saying more about my odd nineteenth-century life than about his art) but whose early-twenty-first-century films about the lurid and discomposing thrill of digital culture prompted The New Yorker to describe him as “the most consequential artist to have emerged since the nineteen-eighties” — Laing reflects:

“My own understanding of loneliness relied on a belief in solid, separate selves that he saw as hopelessly outmoded. In his world view, everyone was perpetually slipping into each other, passing through perpetual cycles of transformation; no longer separate, but interspersed. Perhaps he was right. We aren’t as solid as we once thought. We’re embodied but we’re also networks, expanding out into empty space, living on inside machines and in other people’s heads, memories and data streams as well as flesh. We’re being watched and we do not have control. We long for contact and it makes us afraid. But as long as we’re still capable of feeling and expressing vulnerability, intimacy stands a chance.”

Vulnerability — which Laing unfussily terms “the necessary condition of love” — is indeed the bellowing undertone of these essays: vulnerability as frisson and function of art, of life itself, of the atavistic impulse for transmuting living into meaning that we call art.

Complement the thoroughly symphonic Funny Weather with Paul Klee on creativity and why an artist is like a tree, Kafka on why we make art, Egon Schiele on why visionary artists tend to come from the minority, and Virginia Woolf’s garden epiphany about what it means to be an artist — which remains, for me, the single most beautiful and penetrating thing ever written on the subject — then revisit Laing on life, loss, and the wisdom of rivers.

Source: Maria Popova, brainpickings.org (25th February 2021)

#quote #women writers #love #life #art #meaning #existential musings #all eternal things #love in a time of...#intelligence quotients #depth perception #creative power #mind matters #more than words #essential beauty #stands on its own #elisa english #elisaenglish

3 notes · View notes

spellnbone · 4 years

Photo

Edgar writes the Theatre & Arts Column for the Daily Prophet. His philosophy is that if someone has a voice, they have to use it to do good; this means that on the one hand one has to push art to its limits or even further, and on the other hand one has to make those voices heard which don’t have a platform yet.

Edgar’s Introduction to Theatre

Much like most families with comfortably filled wallets, the Bones would take their children to the theatre on the weekends quite often. Most of the children adored it but also took it somewhat for granted -- which made the culture shock of moving to England only worse. There are theatres in Hastings, yes but they are small and not at all as dramatic and colourful as what the Bones had grown to know in Mexico. They lacked imagination! And since there was no theatre club at Hogwarts either, it was only on his first trip to London at the age of thirteen that Edgar rediscovered his love for this art.

After that, he began reading and loving play-scripts more than novels, eventually writing down his thoughts, comparing, analysing, interpreting with fervor and a very new, strange sensation growing within him: passion. For someone who found interest in literally anything he encountered (except Quidditch), it was a surprise to many to see Edgar so into something (though one might not forget that his new love for theatre came around the same time as he was beginning to grow apart from Amelia). His friends from school might still remember that one of the best ways to get Edgar talking in a social situation was by expressing a badly thought-out opinion about theatre. Suddenly the shy boy who so often was accused of boot-licking would throw himself into passionate speeches about love, death and every other grand topic of life inbetween.

(One of his favourite topics, that is, urban legends he loved to ramble about for hours was Mundungus Fletcher. Each and every article covering the fiasco was bought six times and each and every time Fletcher’s photograph was cut out and glued to various surfaces; Edgar’s notebooks, the under-side of the topbunk above him, the walls in his room at home. It was the same grotesque-fascination-turned-unstopple-obsession that the Muggle play Cats had about ten years later).

It was during this time also that Edgar began reading the news. Initially he only ever snatched the arts section (despite its terribly boring focus on mainstream theatre), he’d eventually also begin reading the other articles, finding himself growing more and more educated and opinionated about political topics, too.

His passion ended where the stage began, though. He never tried to direct a play, write one himself, or -- Morgana forbid! -- tried to star in one. He was quite content to be but an observer. However, after graduating and leaving England to finally go back to Mexico, he fell in love with an actress of a small travelling troupe (and shortly after with her brother, the director), and before he knew it, he was travelling around the world with them.

When he came back to England, he wrote for the hebdomadal East Sussexian Wizarding paper, simply because the owner was a good friend of the Bones family and needed someone to fatten up the paper with some think-pieces. Edgar neither saw his calling in that nor ever made a name for himself, he was mostly just passing his time, trying to figure out what he really wanted to do with his life. It was only when he met up with Ainsley Abbott again around his 19th birthday that he began considering journalism as a proper career. She’d told him that the Daily Prophet was looking for a new arts columnist and remembered that he had always had a thing for theatre.

London’s Theatres

Contrary to movies, most other Muggle art isn’t completely disregarded by the Wizarding World. Of course one will always find some bloodpurists who think that all magicless art isn’t worth their time, but the more commonly agreed upon opinion is that when it comes to old-fashioned art, Muggles aren’t all that bad at it. The Daily Prophet has therefore always covered the Wizarding Westend as well as the Muggle Westend productions, giving the former more attention but never discriminating between them all too much. They are, after all, similar in many regards: the leads will most likely be traditionally good-looking, born and raised in this country and culture, and introduced to the director by personal connections. The themes of the plays perpetuate conservative values and ideals and have to please the broadest audience possible, therefore not contain any smut or controversial themes.

They’re usually even located in the same buildings as the Muggle theatres, either in magically hidden back halls or underground:

“Two, reserved on the Daily Prophet.”

The lady behind the counter, despite looking just like the other ticket vendors next to her, gave it a nod and handed them their keys. They were small little copper things, meant for a one time use of a door that was titled: “Staffs Only”.

Muggles had this thing to believe that theatres were haunted. The possibility of that, considering just how few people actually died in such places compared to normal apartment houses, were slim, and the idea absurd once you knew what truly caused the mysterious whispers, the unexplained floor-board creaking, and distant moaning: A second theatre down below. Wizarding. Vibrant, crowded, cheerful.

Not having even yet reached the first floor below, the music already met Edgar and Amelia. The chit chat was lively, and unlike the Muggle theatre above, time had not changed the customs of exhibitions and shows here: Roasted-nut sellers were walking around with their goods on a tray hanging down their neck, a fire-spitter was entertaining a group of kids in a corner, and on the stage stood one of the actors, cheering and shouting blurbs about the play in an attempt to motivate the audience. No seats but on the upper balconies, were ladies sat whose robes were so fluffy and wide that their companions for the night attempting to sit next to them probably needed to shout to have their words heard.

The idea to even pay attention to those independent artists who always seem angry or angsty, who always seemed so desperate to speak up about issues that no respectable Wizard would care about? It was unheard of by the general Wizarding Public who didn’t have a great variety of news outlets.

It was only when Edgar accepted his job as the new arts columnist that the ‘Off Westend’ productions -- that is, the exhibits shown in garages, the plays held on rooftops, the stories told by otherwise drowned voices -- were finally given a platform through and by the Daily Prophet.

Edgar’s Own Private Resistance

For about eight years now, Edgar’s been publishing little articles of about 300 to 500 words a day which are usually reviews and recommendations, as well as longer think-pieces on the Sunday edition. They’re all signed E.V.Bones (or at times solely E.V.B when the space is spare), much like his letters, so it all depends on the wit of a person whether they know who is writing the column or not. It’s earning him 6 to 10 galleons per piece, that is 40 to 70 galleons a week, which (at least in modern equivalent) is 210 to 350 pounds a week, so he’s not poor but also far from becoming rich with this. As of now, he never considered changing his job, though. Partly due to the fact that he gets to see all sorts of plays for free, partly because he usually does all his work at the office only once a week (usually a 12 hour work day) and has the rest of the week to deal with Order business. But most importantly he’s still at the Daily Prophet because it allows him to fight this war in his own, quiet terms.

Upon reviewing a play, Edgar always asks two questions: how does this further the progress of art, and how does this further the progress of society? While the opinions in his writing are always expressed quite subtly (as otherwise, Edgar’s arch nemesis Kenny Mack, his editor and son of the Daily Prophet’s current owner, will simply censor out what might be too controversial for the general readership), they’re never suppressed or gentle, certainly never excuse conservative, problematic productions.

(It was because of one of those harsher reviews of his that he met the then-adored Lydia Avery, who he had equated to a piece of morning toast -- something you thoroughly enjoy in the moment itself but would never crave if hungry or a somewhat interesting person. Most of his review had been about the blatant racism of the play, though, and and yet, while up until this day Lydia might still be upset about it, Edgar never left their conversation with anything other than appreciation for her. He’s well aware that actors are a symptom of an ill society, not the illness itself.)

The idea that he could use his job for something bigger, something good, came the night after Ainsley had suggested he take the job at the Daily Prophet. “Me?” he had asked over a cup of tea, not even 20 years old then, not yet in the Order, not yet jaded and made brave by war, not yet used to the idea that every helping hand counted, “Reviewing art for the whole of Britain? Why would anyone care about what I have to say?” “They don’t,” Dell had replied in this earnest way of his, “but it’s not about you anyway. It’s about them. There’s people out there who have no one who listens to them, even though they have something to say, even though so many others want -- no! need! -- to hear what they have to say. It’s not about you. It’s about them. And you’re the one who’s going to make sure they’re heard.” “But the Daily Prophet? It’s so conservative.” “Not your column, it won’t be. Not if you write it.”

What his brother Dell was saying and what Edgar grew to understand over the years, was that there are so many Muggleborns and Halfbreeds out there who never see themselves represented in a positive, hopeful light in stories, or at least by the actors telling those stories. The mainstream theatre productions simply do not care to show such representation, to tell such diverse stories. It’s the back-alley theatres that dare to break the rules of what is acceptable, to break the norm, to help society and art evolve. And Edgar hopes that by writing about this, more people will be able to realise that they’re not alone. That there’s others like them, out there, everywhere. That despite the way the (relatively neutral) Daily Prophet reports it, Voldemort doesn’t have that many people on his side, at least not compared to just how many people are against him. By drawing attention to those smaller plays and their values, he helps to grow and foster a community where like-minded people can meet and share their opinions and realise that they’re not alone at all.

And thus, Edgar had accepted the job, his agenda of political nature, safely tucked between 8 and 11pm, and sometimes also during matinées.

#{ it’s rotten work }#{ wisdom begins in wonder }#m:mundungus #m:lydia #did i just equate mudnugnugus fletcher to andre wlws cats?#maybe so!

8 notes · View notes