#landscapist

[ilikegoodstories]

Rollei Retro 80s

[parkstone-international]

Turner - the painter of light - is the best-loved English Romantic artist

[whileiamdying]

Nordic Summer's Evening #RichardBergh #Duke of #Närke, PrinceEugen of #Sweden and #Norway and singer #KarinPyk stand on the balcony of a house in #Kyrkviken on the Island of #Lidingö (#Stockholm). They have turned away from us and are looking out over a stretch of water that has a calm, mirror-like aspect. Behind them a marvelous #panorama opens up. It is #sunset and we see the last of the evening’s orange light on the surface of the water and the #forest in the background. #NordicSummerEvening is one of the most famous paintings of Swedish #painter, #portraitist, #landscapist, and #writer #RichardBergh. Although it is not directly a #ValentinesDay painting, Nordic Summer Evening has something that makes it perfect for this day. I think it is because of the #mystery behind it. It looks like something may be going on between the two characters, but what exactly? Are they at the beginning of the #romance? Or, on the opposite, is their #relationship already established? Is it secretive, or are they bound by some social conventions? That's the unknown! — #DailyArt 170 × 223.5 cm #OilOnCanvas #GothenburgMuseumOfArt #Göteborg, #Sverige (at Stockholm, Sweden) https://www.instagram.com/p/Coqh9sdpaMB/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[kecobe]

Old-Fashioned Garden John Appleton Brown (American; 1844–1902) ca. 1889 Pastel on paperboard Bowdoin College Museum of Art, Brunswick, Maine

[lingeriesourcesls]

Landscaping landscapists in Gurgaon | Landscaping Services

Landscaping landscapists in Gurgaon - Contact for a quality and affordable constructor for your Landscaping services in Delhi NCR and Gurgaon.

[aadarshinteriodesigner]

Landscaping Landscapist In Gurgaon

After reviewing the evidence, it is clear that Aadarsh Construction is the best landscaping landscapist in Gurgaon. Their years of experience, combined with their commitment to customer satisfaction, make them the perfect choice for anyone looking for quality landscaping services.

[jareckiworld]

Jens Fänge — The Landscapist (oil on canvas, 2008)

[asnowfern]

Crimson Blade - Part One

Summary: When Paris-based Feyre stops contacting their London home, Nesta engages private detective Cassian to investigate. The truth turned out to be much bloodier than she ever expected.

~~

OR a vampire Cassian and human Nesta Victorian love story

Rating: M, for vampire shenanigans

WC: 4.5k

Read on AO3 | Part Two | Part Three

A/N: Happy Nessian Week everyone!🩷🩷🩷

This fic is written for @nessianweek Day 7: Free Day and is part two of my Victorian Vampire series. Part one is Crimson Starlight, a artist Feyre and vampire Rhysand love story. While I would love for you to read Crimson Starlight first, I tried my best to make this fic capable of standing on its own.

A huge thank you to @thelovelymadone for beta-reading. You are amazing and I love you!🩷

Enjoy!

It starts with a letter. Or in this case, two letters. 

Two innocuous letters lie on the table and are the primary focus of the two sisters. One is addressed to both in the familiar scrawl of their sister, while the other is scrawled elegantly in an address to Elain. For a moment, nobody moves. However, Nesta can feel Elain's indecision and familial concern warring with personal excitement. Nesta picks up Feyre's letter and jerks her head at the other. 

Hiding a smile, she sees her sister carefully tearing with guarded excitement into her letter as her own eyes scan the contents of her sister's letter.

It has been over a month since Feyre last wrote to her sisters from Paris. When Feyre moved to the French capital to pursue her artistic dreams nearly four months ago, she sent regular letters to Nesta and Elain. The letters were not the most affectionate or frequent (about two to three a month), but they were perfunctory. They let her know that Feyre is safe and doing well. 

Nesta feels the worry ebb from her chest as she finishes the letter's contents. Next to her, Elain folds the letter and places it back into the envelope. Her spine is straight, and her movements are controlled and precise, unreadable to anyone who isn't her sister. "Good news?" She asks as casually as possible without letting her suspicions show regarding her curiosity about Elain’s mystery letter.

Elain shrugs, "You first. How's Feyre?" 

"She is doing well. She apologizes for the late letter, saying she was selected to exhibit at the World Fair and was focused on that."

Elain's answering beam is bright like the Sun: "World Fair! That's amazing. Although a little word would have been nice." 

Nesta nods, her shoulders raising slightly in a silent, resigned expression. Feyre has always been passionate. She gestures to the envelope still clutched tightly in Elain's hand, "So, good news?" 

The middle Archeron's head bobs as a spark enters her eyes, "They agreed to take me on as their landscapist. They would cover all training and living expenses as I shadow their current staff." She trails off hesitantly.

Sensing the hesitation, Nesta asks, "But?" 

She nibbles on her lower lip slightly before speaking, "It would be a live-in job at their country estate for the first couple of weeks before I get transferred to take care of their London townhouse." 

Nesta smiles. Leave it to Elain to worry about a small thing like leaving her sister alone in the city that pretty much grew up in, "Go, it's just a few weeks. Imagine how much reading I can get done." 

Nesta frowns as her attention gets snagged by maroon spots on Feyre's letter. She brings the paper closer to observe the spots, completely missing what Elain has been saying. 

"Nesta!"

She snaps her head up, "What?" Nesta asks, trying to keep her irritation at the interruption hidden from the surface and let Elain only see her concern for her alone.

Elain's brows are creased in worry as she repeats slightly exasperatedly, "Are you sure you'll be alright by yourself?"

Nesta scoffs and rolls her eyes good-naturedly, "Go, I'll be fine!" She insists as Elain’s worry turns into unbridled happiness. Like the very first day of spring after a long winter, the joy from Elain spreads like wildfire.

She observes as her sister excitedly runs to draft her response, only turning her focus back to the letter in her hand after she is alone in the sitting room. 

She draws a sharp breath. She must be paranoid, right? She must have been reading too many novels recently. Why else would a letter look blood-splattered? 

She pushes the thought away and picks up a half-read journal from the desk. It's nothing, it's probably nothing. 

It’s likely a new type of ink, the color of maroon.

It’s nothing.

***

Nesta sighs to herself as she looks up from the newspaper clipping and at the cream-coloured building, raising a hand to the door handle for what has to be the fifth time. She knocks on the door before she talks herself out of it.

Is she overreacting to engaging a private detective because of an obscure brown spot on a letter? 

Maybe, but she's not letting that stop her.

Her back is rigid as she walks up the stairs, her shoes somehow hitting the carpeted surface a little too loudly. She cautiously pokes her head into the second-floor flat when the pressure of her knock pushes the door open. 

"Hello?" She calls, unable to keep down the shiver that traverses her spine, feeling like she's being watched. 

Thick curtains cover the window and shroud the entire flat in semi-darkness. The room is disconcertingly neat, without a single frame or stationery out of place. She cautiously pads across the room, taking in every framed article - from the arrest reports of major crimes like murderers and arsonists to more minor offenses like lost antiques.

Nesta starts to zoom in on a recent article of a French aristocrat getting mysteriously mauled when she spots a small poster poking out from under the chair. Intrigued, she lowers until she is balanced on the balls of her feet and picks up the sign, her blue-grey eyes widening at the picture of an elegant glass-domed building and the wordings above it: PARIS EXPOSITION UNIVERSELLE 1889

The Paris World Fair - where Feyre’s art will be showcased. Her heartbeat picks up. Of course, there are many, many reasons that this private detective has for having a copy of this poster. A possible theft or even an art enthusiast. It doesn’t have to mean anything. 

She startles at the sound of a door opening from a distance. She hurries to slide the paper back beneath the seat and draws herself to full height. Her face returns to its usual haughty impassiveness when the man enters the sitting room. Nesta bites the inside of her mouth to avoid giving away a reaction to his appearance.

Though he is dressed in sharp casual attire, every stride is taken with powerful military precision. Piercing hazel eyes lock with hers for a second before they sweep over her body, assessing. Despite how it raises every hair on her body, the gaze draws a slight upward tilt of her chin at him. A cocksure smirk graces his lips as he clocks the action. It cuts through the stern features and raises the right eyebrow, where a thin scar dissects it. 

"Please," he gestures to the armchairs before the fireplace, "Sit, and we can get started."

Nesta wordlessly makes her way to the seat, taking care only to lower herself as he does.

The man leans back with his legs crossed casually, "So how can I help you today, governess?" 

To her surprise, the muscle in her jaw tenses as the smirk on his mouth grows, and she asks lightly, "Ah, is this the infamous deductive skill I keep hearing about? The great Cassian Everly at work?" 

He leans forward and uncrosses his legs almost obscenely wide, a gleam entering his eyes, "Would you like to find out?"

Recognizing the challenge, she scoffs, "And give in to your dying need to show off? I'll pass." 

The detective shrugs, quickly brushing off the insult. He leaps off the chair, the feet of the furniture scraping against the ground as it moves backward with the sudden impact, effortlessly crossing the distance between them to grab the exhibition poster from the bottom of her seat. Green and gold flakes dancing around his pupils in teasing, knowing, "So, who in Paris do you want me to look into?" He asks too casually, yet Nesta can feel the threat.

This man is dangerous, she realizes almost belatedly as their faces are inches apart. Her eyes unwittingly take in every handsome feature, even once daring to dip down to his mouth. Her following words come out more breathless than she ever intended, "Rhysand Night." The name leaves her lips as the spell around them breaks like glass.

For a split second, his brows creased. The look passes so quickly that it leaves her doubting if she even saw it. She continues, feeling the need to explain while her face becomes a little flushed at her unexpected confession, "He is my sister's sponsor. A sort of agent for her artwork. They left for Paris nearly four months ago, then nearly two months ago, my sister stopped sending us letters." She hands him the letter, "Until this finally arrived three days ago."

He takes the envelope from her, rough fingertips lightly brushing against soft skin. He carefully scans the paper products before giving the contents of Feyre's letter a quick read. "The brown spots," he declares, evidently isolating the same abnormally as she did, "are simply coffee stains." 

She bristles, asking almost indignantly, "So not a cause of concern?" She can’t help but cross her arms at his dismissal, slightly disappointed at his quick assessment.

"No," he agrees but pockets the letter nonetheless, "but if you still want a report on Night, I'll take the job." He says as he stands up and holds out a hand to her.

She smiles tightly, "Thank you." She intones as blandly as she can as she grabs his hand to stand up. Now, on her feet, she realizes he is but a couple of inches away as he takes her hand and raises it to his mouth while meeting her gaze with his hazel eyes that promise something to her.

She tries to ignore the knot in her stomach, tightening as his lips brush her knuckles, "I'll have it ready for you in three days." His eyes darkened as the words rolled off and caressed her skin in playful, hot rasps, "Pleasure doing business with you, Nesta." His name has her goosebumps rise as she snatches her hand away and walks as gracefully as she can out of the rumor like a Queen. When she no longer feels his gaze on her, she picks up the pace and allows herself to disappear into the crowd.

***

Nesta raises a porcelain cup to her lips and sighs deeply at the fragrant scent of the tea. The world passes in a rapid swirl of dark French woods outside the window before her. She sinks back to the velvety cushion, her mind again drifting back to the private detective throughout her journey from London to Paris.

She isn't quite sure what she had expected after her visit to the investigator. However, a young courier at her doorstep asking for payment with comprehensively documented papers was probably not it. Not after the burn of his stare etched into her brain, or the pressure of his lips on the back of her hand left her tingling for hours—her hand flexes from the mere memory of it.

Then she stiffens, her back impossibly straight, like a prey under attack. 

Unable to shake off the sudden unease, Nesta whips her head around the empty carriage. There is something out here. She's sure of it. 

The train lurches just as she stands, causing her back to collide with a solid, warm wall with an "oomph." Thick, calloused hands grab either side of her upper arms to steady her.

"Easy there," a low, husky voice haunting her dreams rumbles, kicking her heartbeat up a notch.

"Detective," she mumbles, her body still hyper-aware from the strange fear that struck her earlier. 

Numbly, she turns to face the newcomer. The grip on her arms tightens as her chin raises to meet him eye-to-eye. Time stills as hazel eyes meet stormy blue. She feels the lump forming in her throat as she takes in his form. He was undeniably attractive before, but now, with brown skin reflecting the silver sheen of moonlight in the most gentle, sensual caress? The man is devastating. 

Brown pupils dart around her face as the edge of his lips curves upwards, giving the teeniest glimpse of pearly white canines, "Fancy meeting you here." 

She swallows heavily as the world begins to move again. The rhythmic sound of the train against the tracks returns, loud and flashy, and kicks her excellent sense back into gear. 

She narrows her eyes, demanding, "Are you following me?" She asked as accusingly and haughtily as she could, trying to land a blow on him.

The accused waves a dismissive hand as a deep chuckle escapes him, "Trust me, if I was following you, you would never even know I was." A hand disappears into his lapels, "I guessed you would be here, and I came to return this to you."

Three pounds, the exact amount she paid him for the work. 

"Why?" 

"I know Rhysand Night. We are very good friends." He pauses, contemplating his next words, "It did not seem right to charge you when I already knew most of the information presented." 

She shakes her head and raises a hand to close his fingers around the coins. She says, "I paid for information. It matters not how it was obtained so long as it was factual."

A look of surprise overtakes him, but he silently pockets the money anyway. She turns and settles back into her seat, the glassware clinking as she once again brings the cup to her lips and sips the tea. 

"May I?" 

He sits beside hers at her nod, facing the racing, dark forest beyond the window. 

"How did you know I would be here?" She asks, unable to quell the curiosity, and almost immediately regrets it as he perks up. His smile is almost irritatingly triumphant. 

"You were always going to find your sister. No matter what anyone, even me, says about those brown stains on the letter. That glint in your eyes told me that the day we met. Considering your employment, you need a week's notice and sufficient headroom to book your transport. Of course, there are several ways to travel from London to Paris, but a person of your stature and financial position? This particular Dover and Calais route offers security and speed without burning a hole in your savings." He said, all matter of factually, as if he knew the exact steps she would make from one meeting with him.

She blinks, absorbing the information. The teacup in her hand rattles slightly as she places it back down. "You're not that impressive," she informs him curtly. 

He smirks, "But I got it right, didn't I?" He crooned as her hackles rose while the smile on his rugged, handsome features only grew like a cat who captured the canary in a trap.

She doesn't deign to give him a further chance to gloat and asks, "So why are you going to Paris? It can't be for me." She intones sharply, determined to cut his fire with her ice.

Though the burning gaze says otherwise, he tells her, "The World Fair is always full of mysteries. I'm here to see which one I can uncover this time."

The chair drags against the carpeted surface as she stands, bidding him a farewell, "Then I guess I'll see you there." She says flatly as she can without revealing how scared she is at his unnerving comment. She is almost at the door in her haste when his voice calls out with a touch of panic:

"Nesta?"

His face is touched, just barely, with nerves as she stops in her stride and turns back to him expectantly. As her gaze meets him, the nerves fade from his face as he smiles like a devil at the sight of her.

"Don't leave Paris without saying hi." He says it like an order, but she can hear his question beneath the façade. He can’t fool her, and she can’t fool him.

The sides of her lips twitch upwards as she heads back, "I'll see you around, detective." 

***

Nesta slides down the staircase of the hotel lobby and instantly spots the man waiting for her at the base. He takes a gloved hand, raising his lips in greeting. A stray wavy strand escapes from the neat bun and falls to tickle her hand as molten hazel brands her. 

"You look exquisite, Nesta."

She lets her gaze rake through his body, dressed in the most layers she's seen. Though every tailored shirt, vest, and jacket clings to his muscled form and attracts wandering eyes. She murmurs thanks as she takes his elbow and loops an arm around. She stands half a step too close, the proximity sending a message more evident than anything that can be said out loud. His elbow is tight around hers as they exit the building, leaving behind gloved whispers.

He offers a hand as they step out of the carriage, greeted by a row of neat, affluent townhouses. He tilts his head towards her slightly, his mouth curved into a small smile, "I think you'll like this." 

She releases a breath she hasn't realised she has been holding as they walk through an intricately designed door. Her ears pick up on the dreamy and melodic harmony of strings and winds, the music stirring something profound within her. There is a splattering of applause as the piece ends before a solo piano act begins in a flow of lively keys. 

"Is that Claude Debussy himself?" She whispers to Cassian in disbelief, her arm tightening around him. "How did you-" The words trail off as she finds herself unable to finish the sentence. 

How did he know her love for music? She wonders, her breath hitches in her throat at how his eyes hold tender affection as he observes her reaction. It is all Nesta could do to meet the gaze head-on.  

He answers, "I thought you might enjoy this." As if it is no trouble at all to jump through hoops for her happiness—the things she holds dear.

She squeezes his arm and gives a small smile in return. With a little bow, he leads her onto the dance floor. His palm is heavy on her waist as another warms her hand through her glove, their bodies so close that the space between them heats up. The first note of the piano has them moving, her feet following quickly in his lead.

There is an ease to dancing with Cassian, she realizes. The proverbial wall between them thins with every spin and twirl of their bodies, with every swell and fade of the piano. 

"How are you enjoying Paris?" He asks, his cheeks slightly flushed from the movement, "Was the visit to your sister all you hoped it to be?"

Their hands drift apart as she spins away, effortlessly joining again as the dance spins her back into waiting arms. Her eyes narrow, "Fishing, Everly? I'm sure you know full well how it went." 

The evening with Feyre and Rhysand the night before was fraught at worst and awkward at best. Even the extraordinary charm of her sister's art sponsor could not dispel the awkwardness of her unannounced arrival. Conversations were tense and stilted, leaving Nesta more suspicious than when she first stepped through the door. 

"Feyre," she continues, their feet moving quickly in time, "Feyre is different. I can't quite put my finger on it, but she does. And I'm not leaving until I figure it out." 

"Cassian," he says instead.

"What?"

Their eyes lock as they circle each other, their steps in a perfect semicircle, "Call me Cassian." 

A little laughter bubbles up her throat, escaping her lips in a huff. The music comes to a close and ends the dance with a dip. Strong arms support her securely as he pulls her back upright, their faces inches apart. For a stretched beat, hazel eyes darken and dart towards her lips. His sculpted lips are parted, almost in anticipation. 

She steps back, giving him a little bow as etiquette demands. "I'm not leaving Paris until I figure out exactly what is going on, Cassian." She feels his weighted gaze even hours after they have parted.

***

The moon hangs high in the sky as Nesta sneaks out of the exhibition housing the World Fair artworks. The night is still, and the building feels eerily abandoned. Even the warm summer night fails to tamper the shiver that travels down her spine. 

She looks back at the shut wooden door and heaves a sigh. Once again, there is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Feyre's artworks, while stunning in their bright coloured strokes, are standard. Normal like Feyre's flat is, regular like her studio is. Not even a paintbrush needed to be put in the right place. 

The golden brunette thoughtlessly tugs the hood of her coat over her head and heads back to the inn. The fast pathway has her cutting through a park, keeping her footsteps light and quick. 

She stills when the sound of a throaty moan slices through the silence of the woods. She should move, she should move. 

But she doesn't. 

Despite her better sense, Nesta moves safely behind the trees toward the sound. Stormy blue eyes widened to mimic the moon above while blood roared through her ears. 

It was Feyre and Rhysand. With another man, she doesn't recognise. 

Except Rhysand has what could only be fangs extended pointedly at tender skin. Feyre's lips are fused to his neck, arms holding him tight in an embrace. She lifts her head, exposing her own set of razor-sharp canines and blood running down her chin. Nesta watches, horrified, as Rhysand releases the man's hand and whispers into his ear. 

The man retreats, his steps heavy and slow like a zombie. Nesta's vision tunnels back to the couple. Rhysand approaches her sister with a predatory gleam, his mouth opening wide as Feyre bares her neck at him. It is too obscene and intimate both at once. 

Nesta opens her mouth to scream. 

But no sound escapes. A rough hand clamps tightly over her mouth. "Don't make a sound or even move a muscle." 

Her heart stings with betrayal at the familiar voice. She begins to shake as another strong arm encircles around her middle. Her breath feels cut off as she soars high up in the night sky, stopping when the street lights are nothing more than fireflies blinking in the dark. Shakily, she turns to look up at her captor. 

She thinks bitterly that it is unreasonable for him to look so beautiful, bathed in silver moonlight. It distracts her, pulling her attention away from the monstrously large leathery wings flapping to keep them airborne. Or elongated fangs that can pierce her flesh like a hot knife through butter. No, instead, she is entranced by the way the light reflects off the contours of his face and accentuates his cheekbones, the way his hair gathers deliciously in the wind, taunting her fingers to reach up and yank. 

His eyes are darker than she's ever seen, pupils blown wide, pushed to the edges until there is just a rim of gold. 

Her brain slowly moves again, and her blood speeds as she seethes, "You've been lying to me all this time. Covering up for them, distracting me, and leading me in circles." 

"Nesta," the voice is strained.

Cold fire surges through her veins and laces her words, "Bring me back down now."

"They could've killed you if they've seen you." He argues sharply. 

She barely hears him over, her heart pounding in her ears, pushing aside the chill of fear to dig her nails deep into muscled forearms, "Bring me down. Now." 

She can almost hear his jaw click in tension. But powerful, leathery wing pitches with the wind, and they descend. Not back to the same woods but precariously outside a dark window. It falls open with a swipe of his nails.

Nesta extricates herself the instant her feet touch the ground. At any other time, she may have dwindled to observe her surroundings properly, what is sure to be his room. Instead, she whips around, striking out like a viper, "He did this to her." 

Hazel eyes flash dangerously, his lips curling into a snarl, "Don't talk about what you don't understand." He hissed at her like she was a silly little prey who could be coaxed to the slaughterhouse.

The wolf emerged from hibernation and roared within her. She shoves the hysterical laugh that threatens to escape and scoffs derisively. She hisses, "Feyre was human when she left. Not," she swallows the lump in her throat, "not this monster Night turned her into." 

"A monster." he echoes flatly, a hint of hurt flashes past his face. It is gone within a heartbeat, replaced by a determined predator's glare.

"Yes," She tilts her chin to level a stern gaze at him, refusing to step back even when he is close enough that the heady scent of snowy pine and sandalwood envelops her. 

She is as stiff as marble as his face lowers towards and the tip of his nose ghosts along the nape of her neck, "Then do you know," he growls, breathing deeply, "how delectable you are to monsters like me?" He whispers as his hot breath practically envelopes her, urging the wolf inside her to let him in and let go of her burdens.

A whimper wrangles out of her as a hot tongue laps her throat with one long lick. The strangely erotic action sends a spike of heat straight between her legs. He chuckles lowly, the barest of movement in the front of his thigh, rubbing delicious friction against her core, “So what does this say about you? Enjoying the attention of a monster?" He crones, his breath hotly against her neck while baiting her like she is nothing more than an insignificant plaything to him.

Slap!

Her hand stings from the impact as she spits venomously, "Is this what he did to her? Seduce her into it? With music and lies?" She wrestles herself out of his grip, stumbling backward. Hot tears prick the back of her eyes, but she holds firm, throwing him the coldest look she can muster, "You tell Feyre. If she ever valued her relationship with us, she would tell us the truth. Otherwise," she takes a breath, "otherwise, she's dead to us."

She straightens her back, her legs moving almost mechanically out of the room. 

"She was dying, and he saved her." He croaks out, desperately like it was something she wasn’t supposed to know. Yet the secret stops her in her tracks and hangs between them heavily. Nesta would have done anything to save her sisters, even if it cost her life. But this…

The ends shouldn’t always justify the means—even miracles carry a heavy cost, for the roads to hell are often paved with the best and good intentions.

She stops, just barely long enough to reply. "Depends on your definition of saved." She says as softly as she can, for if she releases her fury, he will see her bruised heart in pieces beneath her façade. Some things are never meant to be played, no matter the tragedy.

Feyre was as good as dead to her as was he.

[mybeingthere]

Peter Coker, RA (British, 1926-2004)

‘One of the foremost realist painters in England … Coker will be remembered for the refreshing nature of his astringent vision, for his consummate mastery as a draughtsman, painter and etcher, and as a proud and vigorous inheritor of a great artistic tradition.’ (Frances Spalding, Independent, 20 December 2004)

Peter Coker was born in London on 27 July 1926. He first studied at St Martin’s School of Art (1941-43; 1947-50), and began to exhibit regularly at the Royal Academy from 1950. Though he was a contemporary of John Bratby and Edward Middleditch at the Royal College of Art (1950-54), his work related only briefly to the raw figuration of the Kitchen Sink School. This was signalled by his paintings of a Leytonstone butcher’s shop which were included in his highly successful first solo show (Zwemmer Gallery 1956). His development as a landscape painter originated in his first encounter with the canvases of Gustave Courbet on a trip to Paris (1950). By the mid 1950s, he was an established landscapist in the French manner, working from the motif on the coasts of Normandy (1955) and Brittany (1957), and drawing inspiration from such contemporaries as Nicholas de Stäel. Later in the decade, he revived the spirit of Barbizon in his paintings of Epping.

Coker moved with his family to Manningtree in Essex (1962), and added occasional appearances at Colchester School of Art to teaching at St Martin’s. Nevertheless, he concentrated on his work, and made time for painting trips to France, the North of England and Scotland. He held solo shows at the Zwemmer Gallery (1960s), the Thackeray Gallery (1970s) and Gallery 10 (1980s), and continued to exhibit regularly at the Royal Academy. He was elected an Academician (ARA 1965, RA 1972), and had his early images of the butcher’s shop presented at the RA in one of an increasing number of public retrospectives (1979).

From 1972, Coker made several visits to Bargemon, Provence, during which he gradually accepted the character of the South of France, and integrated its startling light and colour into his established palette and handling. Late in the decade, he applied this approach to an ideal motif, in beginning a series of paintings of the garden of the Clos du Peyronnet, Menton. Following the death of his son Nicholas in 1985, he stayed at Badenscallie, Ross-shire, Scotland. There he began an impassioned series of landscapes, extended on subsequent visits, which focussed on salmon nets drying at Achiltibuie. These reaffirmed his essential identity as ‘a northern painter’, which had actually become more strongly emphasised by his contrasting achievement of painting the south. The many studies and paintings inspired by both Mediterranean France and the West of Scotland comprised important elements of such recent retrospectives as that of drawings and sketchbooks at the Fitzwilliam Museum (1989) and that of paintings and drawings at Abbot Hall Art Gallery (1992).

In October 2002, Chris Beetles mounted a major retrospective of the work of Peter Coker and, at the same time, launched the artist’s authorised biography. The beautifully produced hardback book, with over 250 illustrations, contains contributions from Richard Humphreys (Tate Gallery), John Russell Taylor (The Times), and David Wootton (Chris Beetles Ltd). The book includes a comprehensive biography and chronology, essays, appraisals of his work, a catalogue raisonné and lists of his exhibitions and sketchbooks.

While the monograph and retrospective were being planned, it seemed that the artist’s career might have been drawing to a close. However, the joint project revived his energies significantly. This was manifested by a range of new work, which was shown at Chris Beetles Ltd during spring 2004. The motifs are mostly familiar, being drawn from existing sketchbooks, and range across France and encompass Britain. Yet the handling was freer than ever, and the palette more vibrant – accomplishments of which Peter was justifiably proud. This display was complemented by an exhibition of recent Parisian subjects, touring to Gainsborough’s House, Sudbury, the Royal Academy of Arts, and the Graves Art Gallery, Sheffield.

Peter Coker died in Colchester, Essex, on 16 December 2004.

[mythologer]

Peder Mønsted (Danish painter) 1859 - 1941

Sibylletemplet ved Tivoli (Temple of the Sibyl at Tivoli), 1884

oil on canvas

121 x 95 cm. (47.6 x in.)

signed, located and dated bottom right: P. Mønsted Tivoli 1884

private collection

© photo Bruun Rasmussen

Autotranslated Catalogue Note Bruun Rasmussen

Exhibited: Charlottenborg 1885 No. 294.Peter Mønsted made several trips to southern Europe in the 1880s, including Italy. Many of his best works date back to the decades before the turn of the century, where his work on light and color effects resulted in such mood-saturated works as the Tivoli picture here. Mønsted became extremely popular in his day and was one of the most wealthy of the Danish painters. His popularity is still high at times, and abroad has also caught the eye of the Danish painter, who equally skillfully mastered Italian summer days and Nordic snow landscapes.

* * *

Born at the end of the ‘golden age’ of Danish painting, Peder Mønsted can be described as a product of that era. A landscape painter renowned for the clarity of light common to the painters of that age, his naturalistic ‘plein-air’ views made him the leading Danish landscapist of his age. He was also known for a number of portraits, including that of King George I of Greece.

Mønsted was born in Balle Mölle, near Grenna in eastern Denmark. He studied at the Prince Ferdinand’s Drawing School, Aarhus where he studied under Andries Fritz (1828-1906), a landscape and portrait painter, before moving to Copenhagen. Here he studied at the Royal Academy of Art between 1875 and 1878, and was taught figure painting by Julius Exner (1825-1910). Here too he would have come across the work of artists such as Christen Kobke (1810-1848), an outstanding colourist and Pieter Christian Skorgaard (1817-1875), a romantic nationalist painter, a knowledge of whose work is seen in the Danish landscapes and beech forests of Mønsted’s. As early as 1874, at the age of 15, he took part in the December Exhibition in Copenhagen. In 1878 Mønsted left the Academy to study under the artist Peder Severin Kröyer (1851-1910).

Mønsted travelled extensively throughout his long career, being a frequent visitor to Switzerland, Italy and North Africa. In 1883 Mønsted travelled to Paris where he worked with W. A. Bouguereau (1825-1905) for four months. As early as 1884, he visited North Africa returning later in the decade. The early years of the 20th century saw Mønsted returning to Switzerland, the south of France and Italy, the latter being the source of inspiration for many Scandinavian artists of the 19th century. The war years curtailed Mønsted’s travel to Norway and Sweden, however the 1920’s and 1930’s saw him return to the Mediterranean. From 1879 to 1941 he exhibited regularly at the annual Charlottenborg Exhibition. Throughout his long career, Mønsted continued to paint the Danish landscape and coastline. His is a romantic, poetic view of nature; he was an artist who depicted the grandeur and monumental aspect of the landscape, with a remarkable eye for detail and colour.

His works can be found in museums in: Aalborg and Bantzen.

[softlysuited]

The Sunless Skies Log

I started up a new playthrough of Sunless Skies, which I've played for about an hour previously and know nothing about except it seems Extremely My Shit. And, given my april new years resolution, I thought it would be fun to start a little log of my adventures!

Here follows the tale of Comrade O'Conner, a former revolutionary and asylum inmate dreaming of immense wealth who has taken the helm of a ramshackle old locomotive named The Orphean, just returned from a disastrous voyage in the Blue Kingdom (I'm excited to find out what all this means!) --

Session 1

15 March 1905 - 28 April 1905

Upon arriving in New Winchester, we took on a few new supplies and learned of a quest: Verdant Seeds for a Florid Landscapist in Titania! Not knowing where Titania might be or how to acquire Verdant Seeds, we nevertheless took on the quest.

Heading north-northeast, we sighted Titania before too long. But without any Verdant Seeds to give, we had to depart. Not without some new companions, however: the Rat Brigade, rodent mercenaries who signed on as our Chief Engineer. Fuel ran dangerously low on the journey back to New Winchester, but we survived. Unfortunately, buying some new fuel left us nearly empty of coin.

Next, we found the pretty greens of Port Avon, and Verdant Seeds! Our necessary refueling meant we could only purchase one sack, and the Florid Landscapist required five. But this is what beginnings are made of! We established a healthy little trade route between Port Avon and Titania, earning just enough to stay ahead of our supply and repair costs.

The Orphean in Titania

During these interminable runs, we joined the Tacketies in attacking one of the Queen's locomotives like any respectable revolutionary, and aided Titania against an attack by a swarm of Chorister Bees!

Alas, as we closed in on Port Avon for the third or thousandth time, we found there we no more Seeds to be sold! We would need a new source. We had hoped there would be a little surplus left over for another Jerusalem cannon or perhaps some more crew, but it seems we were to come up empty yet again.

Oh well. Surviving is better than the alternative.

Current Crew: Captain: Comrade O'Conner Chief Engineer: Rat Brigade

[magicalheirponsol]

@lured-into-wonderland replied to this post [x] : // Nunnally & red camellia taken from her hair & Ponsol & (human au)

((I opted to place this on the dash to reply to it so as to make it easier to trace where this came from as Ponsol isn’t on this blog. As with Ravein’s please do as you please with this ^^ Thanks for sending in a request for him though he’s not a super active muse of mine~ Whichever verse for her you sent over is up to you if you wanna continue this or consider it canon 8) ))

-

Ponsol was sitting on a park bench, going over his itinerary for the day. He was a busy man, and this park was a lovely place- quiet and peaceful. The air was nice and in the spring time, the flowers bloomed beautifully, all thanks to the landscapist who is hired to make it look nice.

Admittedly, the landscapist had an excellent sense for aesthetics. That’s what made this location a place he often liked to relax at. Not all too often, else people will soon start ambushing him here for the sake of networking.

A real pain in the ass it is.

As he’s organizing his schedule on his tablet, he notices someone approaching him. Glancing up, he notices Nunnally. Being well versed with people, he was sure that he may have recognized her from somewhere.

She wasn’t someone he remembers meeting in person, so it was more than likely she was someone that he may have read information on if he found her face to be familiar. Perhaps she was a popular person, or she had relations to someone powerful.

Perhaps someone in her family was into politics? Was it the government? He was sure it would come to him later. When she approached him, she plucked a red Camellia flower from her hair and held it out for him.

Being as well-versed with flowers as he was, he knew that red camellias had the meaning of passionate and romantic love. Golden eyes staring into hers, he flashes a smile to her.

On the off chance that she was a person of interest, it would behoove him to not burn any bridges too soon. Networking was important for someone who had grand aspirations to be big in the future.

He accepts the flower, “if you’re giving me this flower while knowing what it means, I must say that’s a bold declaration.” He sniffs the bloom, relishing in the scent of the flower, though faint as it was a flower that has been plucked.

“I cannot say that I return the notion, but I am willing to offer my company to you as a way to start a budding friendship instead if you would be open to that.”

[connoisseur-art]

Poxpoliñas en claros

Ricardo Sanz (b. 1957) Spanish Portrait Painter and Landscapist.

[jackhkeynes]

Madray

Madray is a polity in the southeast of India governed from the city of the same name [Madurai].

The British ship Phœbos in the early sixteenth century stopped at the port of Romeswarm [Rameswaram] in Madray on its geoscopic voyage around Africa and on to Borune [Borneo] (where it would meet the Morrack [Moroccan] ship Cynthia travelling in the other direction).

The death of King Rahulamathavan in 1735 is thought to have been due to an early outbreak of pennackit dysentery [cholera] (although global outbreaks of the disease would not begin in earnest until 1753).

As part of the general Democratic Wars period in the mid-eighteenth century, many states quarrelled for control over parts of India, including Madray. Both relatively nearby powers like China and distant trade interests like Britain became embroiled.

The eighteenth century also saw many technological developments out of this region. For example, the use of pedal holes in musical instruments was pioneered by the peria nadaswarm (the apex of arms races to widen pitch ranges and increase volume) which would influence instruments like the torriot into their modern forms.

The voidtale craze begun by Elsebeth Sneider in 1795 reached as far as Madray; the renowned landscapist Narayanan is especially remembered for his series of works depicting the planets from their surfaces.

[kecobe]

The Seine at Argenteuil Gustave Caillebotte (French; 1848–1894) ca. 1892 Oil on canvas The Clark Art Institute, Williamstown, Massachusetts

[grapecaseschoices]

1-5 for Andy? (houndedfangs here uwu)

thanks for the ask!

1. What's their name?

Erkan Andrew Yasar.

2. How do they look?

Andy's fc is Can Yaman: But twc is a less heavily bearded, younger looking Can. 1, 2. The dimples are less covered ;-)

Andy is 6'0" and I've always described his figure as a 'brick wall', but I think twc Andy is a tad more svelte -- he doesn't have og (or exile) Andy's military training history or post-military regimen. He's proably softer, but still broad becaue that's his body type.

He's always well dressed. Like this and this. I've always felt that twc!Andy is younger than og!Andy in both mental (ie experiences) and age, so his style is a touch more casual. But he still has that love of color (pastels) and creams -- probably even more so. Maybe even darker stuff like so: here.

3. Do they have any piercings/ tattoos/ scars?

Yes, to scars. He's a bit of a scoundrel as a teen. But also he does a lot of gardening/is open to helping others with their stuff and likes to do his own sectioning, creating boxes for plants (in another life he is both landscapist and florist), so I picture he has roughened hands.

No piercings. And I don't think he has any tatts.

4. What is their personality like?

This is my creature at the end of book 3:

I've always seen Andy has the affable (more politess-leaning) villain sort. Now while this Andy isn't a bad guy, but he still has og's neutral tendencies.

He's polite but not necessarily nice, friendly but not necessarily kind. He's observant to the point of over vigilence (well not twc Andy as much), steady, and a tad clinical. He's loyal like a dog. Ambitious, (sort of) self-aware (... mostly), Catholic, vindictive, and in love with puns. He certainly does things lawfully (his by the book stat is 69%) but like I said it's because he navigates NeutrallyTM. He abides by the rules because there is no reason not to function as such -- but he's highly selfish and self-focused. But because he's logically focused and because he is loyal his results end up benefiting others (ie, his loyalty to Wayhaven as a place he grew up. His being aware and sensible leading to him to choosing Mason yet also saving Sanja).

5. What is their favourite animal?

A snake? LOL. Andy doesn't really care about animals.

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