#like the blue colors are immaculate and the brushstrokes

[fishsticksart]

Claude Monet, The Cliff, Étretat, Sunset, 1882-1883, oil on canvas

[fenicenera83]

Day 4

A painting with a secret

That summer evening was starry and sultry, in the studio the large white wooden table chiseled in gold was covered with sketches, sketches, and art books. There was a completely worn-out charcoal that had left its black dust on one side of the table, a sanguine pencil had rolled against a glass tumbler containing brushes of all sizes and shapes. There were pencil shavings a little everywhere, a metal box containing watercolors, with a brush resting between the proofs of color on the metal side of it, flowers and faces preserved by time, on thick sheets, resting almost carelessly in their perfection from shining colors and delicate shades.

There were tubes of acrylic colors, a strange new passion, mixed with colorful oil paints. A palette completely covered with colors, some almost dry, gently rested next to a glass that contained a clear liquid. Other sheets, other sketches, larger and more accurate than those done in watercolor, one could see the perfect and painstaking knowledge of oil colors, like the passion and great soul that had rested those colors in harmony and grace. The sound of pencil on paper enveloped the air, skilled and quick hands worked relentlessly, eyes attentive and absorbed, lines precise and soft, the diligence of an artist's heart. Yet there was impatience in those movements, something unfulfilled and restless. After a while the pencil was left aside, the paper pushed away, Marius rested his face cruelly on his hands, and closed his eyes, apparently, Mother Art had decided she was not inclined to hold his hand today.Sighing Marius began to reseal the tubes of color; it did not happen often for him, but when these days came he felt bitter beyond words. Marius had just closed two of the oil paints when a soft knock came from the door. Marius hardly allowed anyone in his studio, it was his refuge, and much of what was there were pieces of his soul, revealed in colors and brushstrokes on the canvases. Much there was unfinished, this was because Marius could return to a painting after years, and sometimes even change it almost completely. It was not for the public it was for him, that place, for his loneliness and passion. So that delicate intrusion almost made him uneasy, considering that his mood was already somber. With his elbows resting on the table and his face turned toward the door, Marius murmured a forward, though ready to politely withdraw the invitation. It was not necessary, in fact, who else could have that audacity but his Armand? Two deep eyes scrutinized him, from the half-closed door, as soft auburn waves accompanied that movement, an eyebrow arched, Armand already sensed from Marius's expression that something had disturbed him.

Marius turned the stool toward Armand with his hands resting on his thighs and a questioning but amused look on his face, his blue eyes shining and his smile barely noticeable. Armand waited no longer entered and closed the door behind him, leaning against it. " What troubles my Master?" murmured Armand with a mischievous smile. Marius shook his head and went back to lean against the large table, staring irritably at the papers, brushes and colors scattered on the table. " If it is inspiration you lack let me help you. You could never have a more diligent model." and Armand broke away from the door with a slow but firm step toward Marius, who was smiling, " Perhaps my cherub, but it is not only inspiration that is lacking" Marius looked thoughtful, " It is as if I want to create something different, but I don't know how to find the right means to achieve my goal." murmured Marius, as if he finally understood something that had eluded him until that moment.Armand rested a hand in Marius' long blond hair, delighted by the contact, Marius seemed to be so absorbed in the half-painted sheets before him that he did not notice that contact. Armand seemed to consider what Marius was looking at, but he saw only beauty and immaculate perfection, so much ardor and care, so much intelligence and delicate dedication, so much passion and love, all that Marius was. Then he stared at the half-open tubes, the dirty brushes, the half-used canvases, and the abandoned sheets. Armand pulled Marius close to him, resting a gentle kiss in his hair, " Perhaps Master, you do not have the right means to achieve this new goal you have set for yourself?" And Armand's smile was incredibly sweet, but at the same time fearfully mischievous, " What means, my child, do you think I lack? An artist has what he needs in his paints and blank sheets and canvases, the rest is up to him to pull it out of his soul."Marius said with a smile as he stroked the hand that Armand had rested on his shoulder, " Mh, for example a canvas can be made of something else…it doesn't have to be canvas or linen…and even the blank pages of sketchpads are not all the same…are they Master?" Marius remained interdicted, although an idea was beginning to form in him as to what Armand was suggesting, " What are you suggesting little Imp?" Armand laughed, crystal clear and delightful, " You could create a secret painting, something that would remain only for a period of time, and have in it the secret of your soul, the deepest and most beloved one, and I could be your blank canvas, I would guard it for you on me, and only you and I could look at it and know that it it exists."Armand murmured each word slowly and with growing longing as he stroked with one hand the edge of the white shirt whose first three buttons Marius had left open, and with the other the long blue silk shirt he wore over his gray jeans. Marius stood up, and in a moment Armand was forced to look toward the other so as not to leave those cobalt blue eyes. A moment later, without taking his eyes off each other, Armand felt his shirt slip off, followed by everything else he had on. The kiss that followed was sweet, almost as sweet as the blood that was the pinnacle of everything for them. When the brush touched his marble skin, Armand could not hold back a sigh of pleasure and satisfaction. Marius covered Armand's skin with gentleness and perfect beauty, weaving fiery and rebellious colors, passionate and vivid, between stolen kisses and shrewd caresses, the night embraced them in that creation, and in the end Armand guarded that painted secret until it was the colors themselves that gave way, until it was that masterpiece itself that left, leaving within him, however, the intact and splendid secret of his Master's soul.

[theblackphoenixwritings]

Day 4

A painting with a secret

That summer evening was starry and sultry, in the studio the large white wooden table chiseled in gold was covered with sketches, sketches, and art books. There was a completely worn-out charcoal that had left its black dust on one side of the table, a sanguine pencil had rolled against a glass tumbler containing brushes of all sizes and shapes. There were pencil shavings a little everywhere, a metal box containing watercolors, with a brush resting between the proofs of color on the metal side of it, flowers and faces preserved by time, on thick sheets, resting almost carelessly in their perfection from shining colors and delicate shades.

There were tubes of acrylic colors, a strange new passion, mixed with colorful oil paints. A palette completely covered with colors, some almost dry, gently rested next to a glass that contained a clear liquid. Other sheets, other sketches, larger and more accurate than those done in watercolor, one could see the perfect and painstaking knowledge of oil colors, like the passion and great soul that had rested those colors in harmony and grace. The sound of pencil on paper enveloped the air, skilled and quick hands worked relentlessly, eyes attentive and absorbed, lines precise and soft, the diligence of an artist's heart. Yet there was impatience in those movements, something unfulfilled and restless. After a while the pencil was left aside, the paper pushed away, Marius rested his face cruelly on his hands, and closed his eyes, apparently, Mother Art had decided she was not inclined to hold his hand today.Sighing Marius began to reseal the tubes of color; it did not happen often for him, but when these days came he felt bitter beyond words. Marius had just closed two of the oil paints when a soft knock came from the door. Marius hardly allowed anyone in his studio, it was his refuge, and much of what was there were pieces of his soul, revealed in colors and brushstrokes on the canvases. Much there was unfinished, this was because Marius could return to a painting after years, and sometimes even change it almost completely. It was not for the public it was for him, that place, for his loneliness and passion. So that delicate intrusion almost made him uneasy, considering that his mood was already somber. With his elbows resting on the table and his face turned toward the door, Marius murmured a forward, though ready to politely withdraw the invitation. It was not necessary, in fact, who else could have that audacity but his Armand? Two deep eyes scrutinized him, from the half-closed door, as soft auburn waves accompanied that movement, an eyebrow arched, Armand already sensed from Marius's expression that something had disturbed him.

Marius turned the stool toward Armand with his hands resting on his thighs and a questioning but amused look on his face, his blue eyes shining and his smile barely noticeable. Armand waited no longer entered and closed the door behind him, leaning against it. " What troubles my Master?" murmured Armand with a mischievous smile. Marius shook his head and went back to lean against the large table, staring irritably at the papers, brushes and colors scattered on the table. " If it is inspiration you lack let me help you. You could never have a more diligent model." and Armand broke away from the door with a slow but firm step toward Marius, who was smiling, " Perhaps my cherub, but it is not only inspiration that is lacking" Marius looked thoughtful, " It is as if I want to create something different, but I don't know how to find the right means to achieve my goal." murmured Marius, as if he finally understood something that had eluded him until that moment.Armand rested a hand in Marius' long blond hair, delighted by the contact, Marius seemed to be so absorbed in the half-painted sheets before him that he did not notice that contact. Armand seemed to consider what Marius was looking at, but he saw only beauty and immaculate perfection, so much ardor and care, so much intelligence and delicate dedication, so much passion and love, all that Marius was. Then he stared at the half-open tubes, the dirty brushes, the half-used canvases, and the abandoned sheets. Armand pulled Marius close to him, resting a gentle kiss in his hair, " Perhaps Master, you do not have the right means to achieve this new goal you have set for yourself?" And Armand's smile was incredibly sweet, but at the same time fearfully mischievous, " What means, my child, do you think I lack? An artist has what he needs in his paints and blank sheets and canvases, the rest is up to him to pull it out of his soul."Marius said with a smile as he stroked the hand that Armand had rested on his shoulder, " Mh, for example a canvas can be made of something else…it doesn't have to be canvas or linen…and even the blank pages of sketchpads are not all the same…are they Master?" Marius remained interdicted, although an idea was beginning to form in him as to what Armand was suggesting, " What are you suggesting little Imp?" Armand laughed, crystal clear and delightful, " You could create a secret painting, something that would remain only for a period of time, and have in it the secret of your soul, the deepest and most beloved one, and I could be your blank canvas, I would guard it for you on me, and only you and I could look at it and know that it it exists."Armand murmured each word slowly and with growing longing as he stroked with one hand the edge of the white shirt whose first three buttons Marius had left open, and with the other the long blue silk shirt he wore over his gray jeans. Marius stood up, and in a moment Armand was forced to look toward the other so as not to leave those cobalt blue eyes. A moment later, without taking his eyes off each other, Armand felt his shirt slip off, followed by everything else he had on. The kiss that followed was sweet, almost as sweet as the blood that was the pinnacle of everything for them. When the brush touched his marble skin, Armand could not hold back a sigh of pleasure and satisfaction. Marius covered Armand's skin with gentleness and perfect beauty, weaving fiery and rebellious colors, passionate and vivid, between stolen kisses and shrewd caresses, the night embraced them in that creation, and in the end Armand guarded that painted secret until it was the colors themselves that gave way, until it was that masterpiece itself that left, leaving within him, however, the intact and splendid secret of his Master's soul.

[kwangya-express]

Dream In A Dream (WayV) - EN

Author: Onyx

Keywords: Ten (Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul, NCT-WayV); Max Changmin (Shim Chang-min, TVXQ); Kwangya.

Inspiration: Teaser - Ten (SuperM); Paint Me Naked, New Heroes, Birthday (Ten); Low Low (Ten & YangYang); Truth (TVXQ)

The dust danced through the air, accentuating the desolation that encompassed every inch of the once elegant space. Amidst the wreckage, Ten, one of the 'visionary children,' now grown into an adult with intensely red-dyed hair and adorned in immaculate white garments, advanced with cautious steps. His eyes revealed a mixture of curiosity and nostalgia as he surveyed the chaos surrounding him. It was evident that the environment was unfamiliar to him. Sunflowers of various colors, crushed and devoid of petals, sprawled across the floor; their once vibrant and cheerful hues now accentuated the aura of prevailing sadness.

In the center of the room, a painting hung solitary on the wall, untouched amidst the chaos wrought by the flowers around it. The light wooden frame created a stark contrast against the fabric that veiled it, a blue so deep and radiant that it brought to Ten's mind the reflection of water touched by light. With deliberate, unhurried movements, he pulled away the fabric to reveal what lay hidden beneath: a depiction of a man seated before an expansive mirror reflecting the same image endlessly, capturing the room in which he was situated. The man's face remained obscured, concealed by a black hat and veil; his body exhibited indiscernible designs, and thick chains imprisoned his hands.

A sense of discomfort engulfed Ten as he stared at it, yet he got lost in the depth of the brushstrokes, seeking solace in the beauty crafted by hands long absent. In the midst of this scene, he found a connection to his past and a potential path for the future, recalling that, much like sunflowers always follow the sun's light, they could indicate the way he and his friends could now tread. As he was immersed in his thoughts, he was startled by a shrill and familiar sound. His cellphone vibrated in his pocket, signaling an incoming call. He retrieved the device and saw his friend YangYang's name on the screen. Ten answered, his voice somewhat shaky as he said, "Hello?"

[YangYang]: Where are you?

[Ten]: I'm on my way, just had a little setback.

[YangYang]: I see... How much longer is it gonna take?

[Ten]: Not too long, I just need to wrap up something.

[YangYang]: Oh no, not this again, man? Just give it up already. You don't need to worry, we're using the Dream Lab, Ten. They can't trace us.

[Ten]: I know. But that wasn't the setback.

[YangYang]: Then what is it?

[Ten]: (long pause)

[YangYang]: Hm. What do you know?

[Ten]: Me? Nothing! (brief pause) At least, nothing that would affect you guys.

[YangYang]: (loud laughter) I'm sorry, but we're all tangled up in this mess together. So, it does affect us.

[Ten]: It's not the best time right now. I need to have some certainties first.

[YangYang]: Dude, what's going on with you? We're in the dream world! Nothing is concrete.

[Ten]: Still, I want to pursue it.

[YangYang]: You've got to stop this hero complex. You know we're with you, bro.

[Ten]: (no response)

[YangYang]: Waiting here. Literally.

[Ten]: I know, I know... I'm on my way.

[YangYang]: Don't forget your passport and ID.

[Ten]: Oh...

[YangYang]: Please, don't tell me you lost your documents again.

[Ten]: Alright. I won't tell you.

[YangYang]: Never mind. I'm coming up there.

[Ten]: No! Leave it to me, I'll sort this out. Let's meet up in 10 minutes.

Ten quickly hung up the phone and left the ruined room behind, entering his own creative haven: the art studio. The contrast between the two spaces was striking. The change of environment seemed to release a new spirit within him. The walls were adorned with sketches, unfinished canvases, and a rich palette of colors, forming a visual kaleidoscope that mirrored the artist's mind. Almost magically, his clothes transformed. He now wore a blue beret, black pants, a coat adorned with splattered paint flower patterns, and red sneakers. The studio wasn't just a physical space but also a gateway to his true essence, reflecting a glimpse of his soul.Chaotic...

He rummaged through the disorder with determination, searching for his passport and ID. Amidst the search, his attention was captured by an unfinished painting that stood out. It was his own work, an enigmatic portrait. On the canvas, the figure of a man took shape, dressed in a shimmering black long-sleeved shirt and leather pants. The enigmatic veil was still present, but now it enveloped the figure's entire body, revealing only silhouettes and contours. The developing scene in the painting was that of a moonlit beach, its silver sand peaceful under the night sky. The atmosphere conveyed a blend of melancholy and serenity, as if capturing a moment of deep reflection.

Breaking from his reverie, he continued his search, and among piles of art materials and works in progress, a sigh of relief escaped when he finally found a small notepad, next to a rectangular semitransparent red plaque with a striking "V," the emblem of the Visionary Forces, near a paper mask – his first creation.

With a final gaze at the studio, Ten stepped outside, only to be enveloped once more by a sensation of change. His jeans and sunflower-adorned coat vanished like traces of paint being washed away by water, and in the blink of an eye, he was dressed in a canary yellow suit that radiated a brightness reflecting the vibrant spirit of a blooming sunflower. Ten spotted YangYang, also dressed in a matching full yellow suit that harmonized perfectly with his own. His friend's gaze overflowed with excitement.

"Finally! I thought we were going to miss the trip," YangYang said, as a mutual nod was followed by a knowing smile. They headed out of the building.

"Did you find the documents?" YangYang asked.

"Got everything right here," Ten replied, pulling his passport and identification from his pocket and displaying them for YangYang, who, in turn, retrieved his own ID and inquired, "Did you bring your WayV card?"

"Yeah, I thought it would be wise. At least that way we can avoid more confusion by showing that we're different from the Neo City residents."

"I'm not sure if the higher-ups make, or want to make, that distinction. After all, we're from Neo City too," YangYang reflected.

"Can't hurt to try..." Ten responded, a tone of hope in his voice even as he shrugged uncertainly.

As they walked down the notably deserted street, their plans were interrupted by an entirely unexpected encounter. At the exact moment they crossed paths, Ten experienced an energy that was profoundly distinct from anything he had ever felt before – an energy that evoked the primordial. A man of commanding presence and confident demeanor decisively disrupted their journey, approaching with a certain elegance. His appearance projected an intriguing blend of mystery and resolve. Dressed in a balance between contemporary elegance and classic style, he wore a black overcoat, black shirt, and black trousers. The aura he radiated, like that of a deity from the West, instantly piqued the curiosity of Ten and YangYang. His dark eyes emanated keen intelligence, while a subtle smile danced on his lips as he drew closer.

"I apologize for the intrusion," the man spoke in a polite yet firm tone. "But there's something I'd like to discuss with you." His gaze turned toward Ten. "So, lost child, what have you to say?"

As mutual surprise reflected in the shared gaze between Ten and YangYang, their expressions were an intriguing blend of astonishment and interest. In almost natural synchrony, they halted their steps, allowing the enigmatic man to take the lead and define the new path they would tread. Under the starry gleam that shimmered in the sky, a magical aura seemed to envelop the scene. The journey that followed was unexpectedly brief, culminating in the opening of the first door they encountered at the end of their path.

Upon entering the room, Ten once again underwent a transformation in attire. His canary yellow suit made way for a checkered ensemble with a vibrant pink shirt and a black tie. His once blonde hair adopted a light shade of orange. The next room they found was spacious, filled with an array of blue hues that seemed to stretch infinitely. At the center, a small dark wooden table held a red telephone and two chairs. One of the chairs was the subject of a camera on a tripod pointing at it, indicating it was on, but at the exact moment the mysterious man took the lead, it turned off, revealing a smile on his divine lips.

"Of course, we wouldn't want any unwanted audience for our conversation, now would we?" he announced with a shrewd tone.

Having said that, the man deliberately chose the seat opposite the camera. This choice didn't go unnoticed by Ten, who was uncomfortable with the situation, as everything indicated he was being led into an interrogation. The pressure was evident; he felt that a wrong answer could seal his fate.

"Where's YangYang?" Ten asked, his concern palpable.

"He is safe, but for this conversation, his presence is not necessary," the man reassured. The trust Ten felt, even without knowing him, was strange. The man's aura was so persuasive that it left no room for doubt, and his imposing nature was such that Ten wouldn't dare challenge it.

"Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier," the man said, showing no sign of remorse, releasing a slight smile. "I am Shim Chang-min, to those close, Max, the Rising God," he proclaimed with grandeur.

"... the bearer of dawn, the guardian of renewal, sentinel of Cassiopeia," Ten automatically completed, and a satisfied smile appeared on the god's face.

"I'm pleased to know you've heard of me, Chittaphon," the god said, and Ten shuddered at hearing his true name pronounced. "It makes our conversation more fluid," he added. The revelation that an entity of such magnitude had knowledge of him didn't put Ten at ease.

"What would you like to know?" Ten asked, revealing his unease. "I don't think I have any interesting information for someone of high position like you."

"Me? About you? Nothing. Nothing of particular importance, really. Just... Explain yourself," Chang-min replied.

"Could you repeat that? I think I misunderstood," Ten asked.

"Ex-plain your-self! Is it clearer now?" Chang-min answered emphatically.

"Why? And where's Xiao Yang? (sheep)," Ten inquired.

"Because it was you who invaded my domain, and today I'm in a good mood, so I'm giving you this chance," Chang-min responded seriously. "As for your friend, unfortunately for him, he was linked to you, but it was you who connected with my domain and left the door open."

"No, sir. I assure you I didn't invade anything," Ten hastened to say.

"Words of mortals hardly convince me, Chittaphon," Chang-min replied. "By the way, be careful with that nickname. There are certain beings who wouldn't react well to hearing it."

"I'm sorry, sir, Chang-min, right?" Ten spoke hesitantly, choosing his words carefully as if weighing each sentence. "We are in the Dream, using the Dream Lab..."

At this moment, Changmin let out a loud laugh, interrupting Ten's words. "You're astute, so tell me, do you really believe you're still in the dream world?" Ten shook his head dispiritedly, denying it.

"Something must have happened," Ten murmured, searching his mind, rifling through his memories for what happened before he entered Neo City. "We tried to synchronize again all together, the mission was vital. We received a signal from others like us, lost in the Dream. Taeyong assured us there would be no more failures this time. My leader, Kun, had no choice." He reflected aloud but realizing he had revealed more than intended, his eyes widened, and concern settled in.

Changmin remained silent for a moment, seemingly pondering Ten's words. The West God arched an eyebrow. "I knew a conversation with you would bear fruit," he said with an enigmatic smile. "You're lucky. If it were my brother, the situation would be quite different."

"Thank you?" Ten replied uncertainly in his voice.

"It's amazing to think that there was a time when I still cared about you lost children," Changmin muttered, his voice laden with gravity. "But let's get straight to the point: you children are irreparable errors of the Cosmos, and now I see how powerful you're becoming. Neo City should have never existed." Ten had already imagined this, but hearing it directly from a god made it even more distressing. "The gap between humanity and the Cosmos is shrinking," Changmin continued.

"Theoretically, it's not our fault," Ten tried to defend.

"But the Dream Lab is," Changmin emphasized. "You're creating an opening in the veil that protects Kwangya."

"But we navigate through the Dream," Ten protested.

"It's not that simple. How do you think you arrived in my domain? Or better yet, what explains the inexplicable connections all of you have?" Changmin rose from the chair, emanating total irritation. "Kangta was merciful in allowing the construction of the carriage for you. Otherwise, none of your journeys would be so easily accessible, and the price for staying here would be higher."

"You said 'price,' what do you mean?" Ten sighed, delving into the depths of his thoughts.

Changmin observed for a moment, his dark eyes scrutinizing every expression on his face. "At first? Your memories," the entity replied. "But don't fool yourself, losing your memories means losing your individuality, and losing that in here is a fate worse than death. You would be led to eternal madness, a mind empty and without control. And you humans are the most susceptible. That's why you're our biggest problems," Changmin concluded, his words heavy with gravity. "Even for us, inhabitants of the Cosmos, we can't handle it so well. Just look at what happens to the children of the Mother Tree."

Ten nodded, recognizing the truth in Changmin's words. The complexity and risks involved in their forays into the Dream were becoming increasingly evident. Sitting back in the chair, the Rising God continued, "You have no idea what you're tampering with. The Ether offers endless possibilities, but the fragile human mind could easily get lost in them. Whether it's the carriage or the plane, they shield your minds from collapsing. Your minds are left vulnerable, something easily manipulable. Moreover, the abundant flow of Ether could shatter your minds, which is why our esteemed general created this device to protect you. However, you can't always rely on this protection. Hence, the loss of memories," his tone was taking on a darker nuance. Their gazes met, a silent understanding passing between them. "Why are you telling me all this?" Ten asked.

"It would be imprudent of me not to explain at least the basics before recruiting you, don't you think? Usually, it's my brother who takes care of this sort of thing, but this time you'll be working directly for me," the deity said, a smile dancing on his lips.

"Recruiting?" Ten repeated, seeking clarity.

"Yes, I can't lead you the way you are now. You presented me with a big problem to solve. And since I'm in a good mood today, I'll decide to give you a chance," Changmin commented.

"A chance to save Kwangya?" Ten speculated.

"Oh no, I don't care that much about that. The real issue is that you opened the door to my domain and don't know how to close it. And until that's resolved, you'll be under my command."

Ten realized he had no choice, no power or influence there. He looked at Changmin with frankness, his expression serious. "I accept," he declared. A satisfied smile curved the entity's lips.

"I, Shim Changmin, the Rising God, declare that the group known as WayV is now part of my subordinates," Changmin proclaimed firmly. A stream of something akin to water began to flow before Ten's eyes, intertwining his hands like chains, meeting the palm of the god's hand. "The pact is sealed," he said.

Ten sat stunned in the chair, overcome by profound dread. "I can't decide for my group," Ten rushed to emphasize. The words spoken echoed in his mind as he tried to process what had just happened. WayV's fate was now intertwined with a god of Kwangya.

"You fooled me," Ten retorted.

"I would never do that. It was you who didn't pay attention to my words," Changmin replied. 

"You share the same individuality, that's how it works here. The fate of one affects all," he explained. Ten felt a wave of terror for what he had just committed to, as the understanding of the complexity of the situation deepened.

"Will I remember this conversation later?" Ten asked dispiritedly.

"Maybe. Who knows. I'm not the one who controls the Nexus," Changmin jeered.

As Ten's thoughts plunged into shadows, an unexpected sound cut through the air. A red telephone began to ring, emitting a piercing tone that echoed through the space around them. Changmin looked surprised at the phone and, with a quick gesture, answered the call.

The voice on the other end of the line wasn't audible to Ten, but the expression on the god's face changed drastically. His brows furrowed, and his gaze turned serious. He listened attentively, occasionally nodding or asking short questions. He was engrossed in the call, but he quickly covered one side to avoid being heard. Instead of speaking aloud, his lips moved, saying, "We'll talk another time," and he gestured for Ten to leave.

Something strange began happening around Ten. The colors and shapes around him seemed to distort and blur, as if reality was dissolving. He felt a whirlwind of sensations, as if he was being sucked into a vortex.

Ten blinked, confused and slightly disoriented. He was back in what he believed to be reality. He rose from the bed, rubbing his eyes as if trying to dispel the haze that lingered in his mind. He approached the window, and as he looked outside, it was as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes. The city before him was a futuristic metropolis filled with gleaming skyscrapers, neon lights, and flying vehicles cutting through the sky. The landscape seemed straight out of a sci-fi movie.

"Damn it," Ten cursed.

Realizing he was in Neo City, Ten grew even more bewildered. He looked around, taking in the sight. The truth finally clicked: He had been in a dream within a dream. All of this had been part of a dream lived within a world he still didn't fully understand. And now, waking up in Neo City, Ten was facing this truth. The idea that the Dream Lab could have been breached and that he had been dragged into this situation was unsettling. The blend of dreams and reality felt almost surreal, and he found himself questioning what was true and what was imagined.

[jockedguy]

Distraction

Summer explodes.  The heat, the sun.  The green on the trees.  And in its aftermath, things slow down some.   After winter’s cold, dark hand bosses everyone down the streets, people want to stop and take in the warmth.  It’s no longer necessary to hurry or scuttle through the wind and snow, coats tugged tight against faces - now there are long, luxurious strides, more skin bared with the passage of every June day.

And with it, comes the inevitable douchebags.  Showing up and showing off, right down Main Street, chests proud and arms swinging, lats spread beneath the thin white strings of tank tops.  Basketball shorts.   Somehow brand new looking sneakers, no matter the day, or maybe slide sandals.  They do it to be seen, to be watched.

On the outside, Ethan watches, sees.  He is scornful, in passing conversation.  Sometimes laughs at a meme he sees online, scrolling through Facebook, with a close approximation of that type.  Let’s be honest, he thinks.  It’s the jock stereotype.  The dumbass, muscle-obsessed, sports-ardent jock.  And the jocks are on parade.  Behind the wheel of shiny, glinting cars with music hammering the air.  In uniforms, sometimes, black eye-paint streaked and pants muddy, cleats half-unlaced.  Their fresh, aquatic colognes painting the air with invisible, heavy brushstrokes. 

And yet, for all his disdain, Ethan watches them.  He didn’t always.  And in the winter, it almost feels like he gets a bit of a reprieve - but still, his eyes travel, involuntarily, towards them, whenever he sees a Jock.  At work, stocking shelves, he sees a Jock go by, and there goes his attention.  He sees the baseball cap - Red Sox! - fitted, dark gray, bright red B, flat-brim, over short, dark hair and dark eyes that sort of suck light into them.  Red tank-top, showing off smooth, taut biceps and deltoids rounding slowly higher, still works in progress, but growing.  Basketball shorts - gray with a bright Nike swoosh like a blinding white grin down the thigh.  His calves lead down in tight diamonds to his Nike Roshes, also flame-red, the outsoles nearly sparkling, clearly well-maintained

Ethan’s face matches the Jock’s sneakers as he rips his gaze away from the bro.  Fuck, he thinks to himself.  It happened again.  How long this time?  He shakes his head back and forth to clear it of cobwebs and sets back to the task at hand.  

But still, he thinks to himself, how fucking cool would it be to have a body like that?  Being a Jock aside - he’d never dress like that, no way - just being fit, being in shape.  Being in tune with the body, being agile, being corded with muscle.  It makes a sort of practical sense, really.  He wonders why he doesn’t go to the gym, actually. 

(The Jock bro is crossing the parking lot, his shadow thrown back behind him like a long, thick sword.  A brief smile dusts the corner of his mouth, and then he reaches up to curl the earbuds into his ears.  Music swells up, the same thud and shout that accompanied his lifts not 30 minutes earlier.  He stops at the edge of the parking lot, hikes himself up onto the top of the picnic table, head bowed, knees spread, nodding to the music.  The Jock bro checks his G-Force watch, chunky and black against his tanned forearm.)

The Jock was wearing a lot of cologne, Ethan notes idly to himself.  He doesn’t hate it.  It doesn’t smell expensive, but it doesn’t smell cheap, either.  The only words that come to Ethan’s mind are swimming pool, locker room, weight room, high school, mall.  A splash of color and sound.  The cologne is fresh, sharp, clean.  That’s it, he thinks.  It smells clean.  Transparent, almost, like fresh glass.  Like ... like a mirror.

Ethan blinks and looks around.  He’s in the bathroom.  Must’ve wandered in here, he thinks to himself.  And there in front of him is the mirror over the sink.  “Gonna have to get these blackouts checked,” he says to himself, murmuring, chuckling.  Ethan blinks at himself.  Not scrawny.  Wiry.  Dark hair, a little curly, a little fluffy.  Time for a cut.  Long legs, long arms.  Squat torso.  Size 10 sneaker, currently a battered, low-top Chuck Taylor, the laces variegated with years.  Black-rim glasses and a well-maintained goatee. 

He flexes, then, pulls a double bi, right there in front of the mirror.  He holds it.  He puffs his chest out, he sucks his stomach in.  He tenses all of his muscles in the vain, pathetic attempt to somehow envision his biceps inflating, suddenly popping out like found baseballs - or softballs, even! - seeing the veins fill and surge and rise out of his skin like fleshy worms ...

The disappointment is nearly intoxicating, along with the rush of vertigo that hits directly after Ethan relaxes the flex.  No, he isn’t fit, muscled.  He’s got some wire under the skin, but so little mass. 

Need to eat more, Ethan muses, the smallest trickle of a stream of consciousness beginning to flow beneath his thoughts.  Protein would help the muscles grow.  But because those thoughts are so foreign - they almost don’t seem to belong to him - his brain rejects them as important on a surface level.

Ethan shakes his head.  Work, that’s what he was doing.  And life outside of work, well, that’s going okay, isn’t it?  Nothing too crazy.  School, with its accompanying homework, all the flipping of textbook pages and the quick pace of keyboard fingering, face lit by the screen, crafting essays.  Of course, sometimes it isn’t as quick a pace.  Sometimes, it’s an argument with speed.  He struggles.  Everyone struggles from time to time.  Just need more coffee.  And he always has coffee after a good, hard workout.  And that’s why he’s tired, of course.  Balancing school and work and his workout routine is exhausting, sometimes.

Ethan feels himself slump a little as he turns to exit the bathroom, feeling a dull ache in his shoulderblades, in his neck.  He reaches up to rub at them, digging in with his fingers, and issues an involuntary moan, a deep, throaty sound that verges on indecent.

(The sun is setting.  The Jock bro cracks his neck from side to side, feeling the pull in his lats, his traps.  He tilts his head to look up at the rapidly darkening sky.  The first hot breath of night-wind skirls across his face.  He tilts to one side, digs in the pocket of his shorts, and pulls out his phone.  His fingers tap over the number pad, and he lifts it to his face, skin bathed in the eldritch, electronic blue)

“Fffffuuuuuck,” Ethan judders out, his upper teeth clenching against the lower, his lips pressed tightly together in order to stifle the noise he makes as he bucks back & forth in the bathroom stall.  One hand has flung out against the tiles to keep himself steady as the other one jerks himself off, pumping wildly as his seven-inch cock, engorged in his hand, becomes like steel.  Ropes of saliva spray from his mouth, his head flung back in the crescendo of the orgasm.  It doesn’t once occur to him that he is fucking jerking off in the bathroom at work.

Ethan’s phone rings.  At least, he thinks its his phone.  Who else would have Turn Down For What as a fuckin ringtone?  Well, him and Justin.  Shit. 

“Yo.”  His voice sounds so far away as he picks up the phone.

“Bro!  What the fuck, you get lost?”

“Uhhhh ...”

(The Jock bro is laughing silently, knee-slapping.  He fuckin loves the first Uhhh.)

“Well, hurry the fuck up.  I’m waitin out in the parking lot.  Pick me up some eggs, wouldja?  I forgot em.  Oh, and chocolate milk.”

“Uhhhh ... okay.”

Ethan takes the phone off the side of his face and adjusts his backwards-facing hat.  The bathroom is filled with the smell of his cologne, which - even though he’s been told that one spray is enough - he has sprayed on at least five times this morning before leaving the house, and another before work started.  Now, of course, it mixes liberally with the strong, earthy musk of his cum, which has splattered all over the toilet and the floor.  Ethan stares at it, confused, and then remembers, and a horking, jerking laugh spills up out of his throat and into the air.  He turns on an immaculate, white and gray, Nike AirMax Wright, and leaves the bathroom without either cleaning up or washing his hands. 

The night air is cool around Ethan’s bare arms.  Still too skinny, he thinks to himself.  The trickle of his stream of consciousness has suddenly become a whitewater rapid.  A constant rising static, flooding out his other thoughts.  Need more mass. 

“Yo!”

It carries from across the parking lot.  The dark has fully descended now, like an eyelid shutting on the world.  Ethan feels his Nike Elite basketball shorts swishing around his knees.  “Yo!”  He cries back, and the sound carries a lot further than he thought it would, surprising even him - but only for a moment.

“Ready, bro?” 

“Fuckin course I’m ready.” 

“Gonna fuckin hit it tonight.”

The world is breaking up into kaleidoscopic colors.  Ethan rubs at his eyes, lifting his Ray-Bans to do it.  Something feels wrong.  Like two super-imposed images have become suddenly unmounted, and he is looking looking through through a haze of exhaust smoke.  “Uh, hang on ...” 

Deep down, in the dark miasma of his brain, sullen red Klaxons have surged to life, and the alarm is cranked up to full volume.  The clothes on his frame feel suddenly alien, the hat feels too large, the sneakers, too big.  He feels like a kid, playing dress-up in an older brother’s clothes.  His heart rate surges, and his eyes dart from shadow to shadow.

“Sup, bro?”  The Jock bro is looking back at him, vacant eyes slightly curious, mostly bored. 

“I’m not your ... bro.  Bro.”

The Jock bro moves closer.  Ethan would, instinctively, move back, but he doesn’t, not quite, he doesn’t think he does, anyway.  The Jock bro is standing so close now, so close that he can smell the entirely unnecessary aftershave under the cologne, so close that he can smell the residue of iron on his fingers, the rasp of slightly fruity pre-workout on his breath.  His hand comes up, grasps Ethan’s bicep.  His eyes fix, anchoring on something far down inside. 

“Bro.”

The anchor is being reeled back in, up through Ethan’s body.  He feels giddy, dizzy.  It is not an entirely unpleasant sensation, Ethan would reflect later - if he were able to reflect, later, beyond flexing in the mirror ... and well, let’s be honest, every reflective surface ...

“Come on, bro.  Let’s go.”

An invisible cloud grows around Ethan as he nods, just once, and then grins, slightly vacantly. “Hey bro.” 

“Yeah bro?”

Ethan flexes, as hard as possible, his muscles standing out in relief against his short, broad frame.  The night flees from their laughter as they throw arms around each other’s shoulders and head towards the gym.  And behind them, trailing a sweet, fresh, clean scent; mildly intoxicating, definitely distracting.

[euphoriaimaging-blog1]

6-Mistakes to Avoid While Photo Retouching for Fashion Enthusiasts

To become a skilled photo retouching service provider for fashion enthusiasts, it is crucial for every artist to recognize when too much is too much, and what mistakes to watch out for. Training your eye to discern the difference between quality photo retouching and visually poor photo retouching should be one of the first steps on your journey.

Below here is discussed six mistakes that can greatly impact the quality of your photo retouching. Have a look to determine how to avoid these mistakes for providing an outstanding photo retouching to fashion lovers.

Mistakes to Avoid While Photo Retouching

Skin Texture is Key to Great Photo Retouching for Fashion Enthusiasts

Skin generally comprises the bulk of the time that we spend while photo retouching a person and it is often the first aspect that can make or break the image. The physical visual properties of the skin can vary drastically based on a host of factors: skin tone, visibility of facial hair, size of pores, blemishes, freckles, wrinkles, moles, surface texture, lines, etc.

Skin also varies in an appearance on different areas of the body, with differences in texture, hair thickness, pore size, how incidental light reflects, and tone. A little bit of anatomy knowledge goes a long way when producing a quality retouch of skin, as it can help train the eye to recognize once the appearance of the skin has slipped into the overly soft or overly blurred territory. In most cases, when skin doesn’t look right in a retouched image, it’s because it has lost texture, leaving nothing but the skin tone and reflection of light on the skin. Pores vanish, hairs blur together, and in an effort to make skin appear desirably smooth, your subject has been rendered into the plastic.

It’s important to also consider the lighting situation for which the skin was captured under, as the skin will photograph differently under direct early afternoon sunlight, or a high-contrast lighting modifier, or a softbox, window lighting, and other lighting situations. The detail that is rendered in the skin will also vary depending on the camera settings, such as focal length, distance to the subject, aperture size, and potentially shutter speed.

Some setups will soften skin texture, while others may carve out textures noticeably. If an image was captured outdoors during golden hour with a large aperture opening, then over-sharpened, rough, crispy skin in the post may appear unrealistic when compared to a studio portrait captured with a beauty a dish that might call for more detail.

Skin the texture is imperative if perhaps the most important aspect of retouching, so take your time to really understands the anatomy, and perfects your technique for flattering believable skin.

Eyes & Teeth Should Not Lose Realism

Eyes can arguably be the most magnetic aspect of portrait, beauty, and fashion imagery. They often allow the viewer to really connect with the subject, but can easily become a distracting element if overdone. Visually, we recognize three main components of the eyes: the pupil, the iris, and the sclera.

Catchlights are often recommended for breathing life into the eyes and should be paid attention to. Major common mistakes with the eyes; however, are often the iris and sclera becoming overdone in retouching. The iris should not be overly saturated with color, nor should it appear to glow due to intense dodging. If dodging is performed to the iris as a whole, without purposeful brushstrokes focusing on the ciliary and collarette areas of the iris, then the eyes begin to look animated, in an undesirable cartoon-like manner.

When it comes to the white area of the eyes, the sclera, we often associate healthy eyes with its brightness. While this is true, it’s easy to go too far very quickly, causing the sclera to appear more akin to card stock than to an eyeball, or something resembling 1% milk. The same can be said of teeth, as over-whitened teeth in the post can lose texture or realistic hues. If you paint teeth over with a perfect white, versus a color with a slight yellow tint to it, teeth will often look gray and unappealing. Lighten them when needed and digitally bleach them as you like, but look out for when teeth start to glow strangely or look unhealthy.

There is a host of ways to photo retouching for fashion lovers’ eyes and teeth beautifully in order to highlight their color and details, so it’s merely a matter of finding the technique that fits with your workflow. The key takeaway is to learn what looks inspirational vs. bad CGI.

Think in 3-D

This photo retouching for fashion flaw is often a nasty sidekick to incorrect skin retouching, but the issue at hand is when an image becomes too flat, as though everything exists on the same plane. This becomes particularly apparent when it comes to photo retouching makeup, as eyebrows can become sticker-like with lips suffering a similar fate.

Whether it is makeup details on the face or your subject’s limbs, pay attention to how shadows appear in your final product. Is there a noticeable separation between the subject and the background? Do the lips and nose appear to protrude appropriately, or do they lack in shape? Reference the original photograph, and ensure that the depth that has been added or subtracted has led to a 3-D appearance.

Watch Out for Overly Distorted Shapes

This is the step that will often draw the ire of fashion and beauty bloggers the world over. When a model or celebrity has their physique heavily manipulated; the before and after imagery comparison can make photo retouching for fashion lovers easy targets. While clients may request that subjects are slimmed down or enhanced if the final result ignores all laws of physics and anatomy, most viewers can tell something is off.

This is not just limited to the body below the neck, as many photo retouching for fashion service providers manipulate the size of the nose, eyes, and mouth with the liquefy tool. When done haphazardly, those overly manipulated features can confuse viewers, or degrade the aesthetic of the photograph.

As recommended for retouching skin, learning about anatomy is important when it comes to realistically manipulate physiques. Jokes are often made about missing knuckles, knees, and ribs in badly retouched photographs, but it is surprisingly common. Don’t be another perpetrator of bad Photoshop plastic surgery.

Improper Colors, Contrast, and Saturation

When using any sliders within applications, you have the ability to add a little or a whole lot. Taking the saturation slider from o to 100 will turn most skin from a realistic tone straight to Cheetos orange. Color grading can absolutely be stylistic, but when colors are too vibrant or saturated in instances that don’t call for it, the overall appearance of the photograph will be downgraded.

Improper color management can shift colors, remove detail, add visual distractions, or change the intended mood and feel. A high-key portrait that is color graded with green or blue highlights to the skin may make the subject appear sickly, while overly warm tones can cheapen the effort spent on improving skin detail.

Correcting or changing the exposure, particularly with using contrast in the example above, can also have adverse effects. If the transition from highlights to shadows leaves no room for mid-tones, that issue we mentioned earlier about a lack of dimension is right back in the overly contrasted limelight. You may want your highlights and shadows to pop, but find a happy medium that won’t sacrifice depth and detail.

A Disproportionate Amount of Detail

Great retouching is often time-consuming, especially in beauty photography. Removing distractions on the skin, cleaning up hair, smoothing out tones and textures, and enhancing any features can take well over a couple of hours. This can push an impatient or frustrated retoucher to spend a lot of time in one area of the photograph while neglecting others. Skin texture on the forehead and cheeks may look great, but look utterly forgotten around the mouth, or on the neck and shoulders.

The eyes may be immaculately retouched, rendering them in sharp detail, but the skin could look flaky or fuzzy. This can also manifest itself when it comes to textures, as the skin may be realistically porous, yet the eyes are blurry. The face may be gorgeously retouched and detailed, yet the limbs appear like over-blurred creamy peanut butter. Clean skin yet untouched hair can also bring down the quality of your photo retouching for fashion as the hair may become overly distracting. If you are committed to a polished final product with your photo retouching, see it through. You never want to look at a published image that you retouched, and think I could have done this and that in order to improve it.

Pace yourself if necessary, but commit to a consistent level of retouching to the entire photograph, and produce the best work that you can.

[sein-ser-etre]

“Fränzi in Front of Carved Chair” Ernest Kirchner; 1910; oil on canvas; 49.5 x 71 cm

“Fränzi ante una silla tallada” Ernest Kirchner 1910 óleo sobre lienzo; 71 x 49.5 cm

I am obsessed with the general duality of being right now. This Kirchner shows the conflicted inner duality of the model Lina Fehrmann (nicknamed Fränzi by the Die Brücke) sitting on an antropomorphic chair. I want to write about her painted face, not the face from, say, photographs. I will also be providing only a formal analysis, and will be making very far-fetched claims, just how I like it.

Fränzi’s face shows how the human condition is split by its own insecurity of being. Emotions are examples of this insecurity. Kirchner used a variety of arbitrary colors and applied them with a variety of brushstrokes while dividing her face with a vertical axis of symmetry to charge one side with rawness and congested emotion. This is the insecurity of our being. In other words, we cannot be sure of our existence because of the transcient nature of our emotions

Lets look at her right side (the picture from the left). Her eye is dark and blue, and addresses the viewer. Her expression is calm and drowsy, and it almost achieves a sensual status.The brushstrokes follow an anticlockwise pattern, like an impossible, circular river that masks Fränzi. They are wide at her cheek and almost tendon-like, as if her muscles emphasized her immaculate challenge to the viewer. Indeed: that pink and that blue clash with the overwhelming ly green flesh to create an calm acidity. This side is defined. Her eyebrow is neat and slender and thickens as your eye goes from left to right. Her ear is an oval surrounded by an unknown orange, just like her eye and brow.

Lets look at her left side. Her pupil is more blue than it is dark. A bold line runs the inner corner of her eye and arches as it runs past the eye itself and seems to stop at her cheek. The cheek is messy. The green, the blue, and the pink fight each other for dominance. There’s vey dark hues here. Her ear exploded. The orange background is almost gone. Theres unnatural shadows at the base of her nose. She just looks droopy and sad and I am not sure if she is looking at the viewer. Has she been crying? Have you been crying?

Which side is more real?

[micaramel]

Artist: Kerstin Brätsch

Venue: Museum Brandhorst, Munich

Exhibition Title: Innovation

Curated by: Patrizia Dander

Date: May 25 – September 17, 2017

Note: A publication associated with the exhibition is available for download here.

Click here to view slideshow

Full gallery of video, images, press release and link available after the jump.

Video:

Jane Jo, excerpt of Commercials, 2009, Video, color, sound, Approx.01:00 min. Courtesy Jane Jo and Kerstin Brätsch

  Jane Jo, excerpt of Commercials, 2009, Video, color, sound, Approx.01:00 min. Courtesy Jane Jo and Kerstin Brätsch

  Jane Jo, excerpt of Commercials, 2009, Video, color, sound, Approx.01:00 min. Courtesy Jane Jo and Kerstin Brätsch

  DAS INSTITUT and UNITED BROTHERS, Taiyo no tate (Sunstorm) Green Flash / Blue Flash, 2012, Video, color, sound, 4:21 min.

  UNITED BROTHERS with Kerstin Brätsch and Sergei Tcherepnin, Sunbathe Museum, 2012 Video, color, sound, 2:27 min. Courtesy the artists and Green Tea Gallery, Fukushima

  KAYA, excerpt of KAYA I, 2014, Video, color, sound, Approx. 30:00 min. Courtesy the artists

  KAYA, excerpt of Friedrichsplatz Burial, 2013, Video, color, sound, 143:26 min. Courtesy the artists

  KAYA, excerpt of KAYA Green, 2014, Video, color, sound, 11:42 min. Courtesy the artists

  KAYA, KAYA Silent, 2013, 2015, 2017, S8, black and white, no sound, 06:14min Courtesy the artists

  Images:

Images and videos courtesy of the artist and Museum Brandhorst, Munich. Photos by Uli Holz.

Press Release:

“Kerstin Brätsch. Innovation” is the first comprehensive exhibition of the Hamburgborn and New York-based painter. In Brätsch’s work, the influences of the digital age are coupled, in a unique manner, with a reflection on art-historical traditions. Her complex and consistent work oscillates between a conceptual analysis of painting and a devotion to painterly processes. With around 60 large-scale paintings on paper and Mylar film, and in the marbling technique, more than 40 handmade glass works, numerous videos, two slide projections, a large installation, as well as several in situ interventions, the exhibition provides a first comprehensive overview of the artist’s painterly practice since 2006.

Kerstin Brätsch’s pictures reflect the pressure to which the medium of painting is exposed by the increasing dominance of digital technologies. In the digital realm, images become mere surfaces that can be pasted across all kinds of different supports and can be circulated with ever-increasing speed. Brätsch reacts to this change, especially in her series of works “New Images / Unisex” (2008/09) and “FürstFürst” (2009), which are based on digital designs by the artist Adele Röder (with whom she founded DAS INSTITUT in 2007). The paintings evoke technical motifs, the imagery of design, or corporate advertisements. She brings the materiality of painting – the inevitable corporeality of paint and the support – into contrast with the immaculate nature of digital images.

Brätsch further suggests, through her purposeful references to alternative arthistorical genealogies, a new perspective on the (male-dominated) history of modern painting. This becomes particularly evident in her engagement with the metaphysical strands of abstraction and the animistic qualities of painting, for example in the coin paintings of the “Stars and Stripes” series (2009-2012), which the artist describes as a “wishing wells”. For the “Psychic” series (2006-2008), which she created during her studies at Columbia University in New York, she visited countless fortune-tellers. Their character readings served as the basis for her depictions of oversized faces. In the “Psychic” paintings, where we might usually encounter eyes, nose, and mouth, we find abstract patterns and shades that invite viewers to project subjectivity into them. For Brätsch, the “Psychics” visualize energy forms or “Power Heads” that are supposed to “stare back” at the viewer. Brätsch undercuts not only our expectations of the genre of the portrait but also formulates a central subject of her work: the relationship between painting and subjectivity – a connection that is softened, destabilized, and sometimes parodied in her work.

One of the central motifs of Brätsch’s images, the brushstroke, is a good example of her engagement with this topic. She enlarges and isolates the brushstroke, transforming it into a representation of itself and letting it wander through various series of works. It becomes the signifier of a subjectivity that cannot be sure of its foundation. Brätsch uses the brushstroke like a digital sample which can be endlessly combined and take on a variety of forms through additive combinations. The brushstrokes in the “Blocked Radiant (for Ioana)” paintings (2011) are thus transformed into undergrowth, claws, and ribcages, but also appear as purely abstract patterns and structures. The “Interchangeable Mylar (3 parts)” paintings on polyester film (ongoing since 2012) consist of three layers. They can be combined in various permutations, each time with differing visual results. As a consequence, the brushstroke – and indeed the painting – loses its permanence and stability.

In 2012, the artist began to translate her brushstrokes into elaborately crafted works in glass with the help of the stained glass master Urs Rickenbach. She thereby provides an element that is conceptually closely bound to physical expression in painting with a real, material body. Its transparency seems, however, to negate true physicality. This ambivalence is continued in her latest antique glass works. She paints on the glass and uses fragments of stained-glass from the borders of church windows, glass stones, or agate slices to create representations of figures that are both corporeal and spectral.

The contradictory corporeality of the image – in psychological, material, and social terms – is also central in KAYA (her collaborative project with artist Debo Eilers). For their so-called “Bodybags”, the artists cut up Brätsch’s paintings on Mylar film, stuffed them with objects by Eilers, and crudely stitched them back together. The “scars” of the images remain visible; the bodies (of the images) are battered, maimed, and reassembled from fragments and leftovers into a symbolic and yet futile form of healing.

With her glass works as well as with the “Unstable Talismanic Rendering” marblings (ongoing since 2014), Brätsch’s work opens itself up to centuries-old craft techniques. The references to alchemy and to the mystical and spiritual connected with these techniques thereby come to the fore. By using these supposedly minor forms of artistic expression, Brätsch is also advocating for an alternate history of painting which takes into account less trodden pathways and moments when artists have departed from the canon.

The title of the exhibition, “Innovation”, is derived from an advertising slogan from the compressor company Brätsch in Hamburg. It seems to perfectly encapsulate the expectations of a first survey exhibition: the pressure to prove oneself again and again, and to continuously put out new works and ideas. Brätsch’s strength lies in her ability to expose these types of mechanisms and expectations with great humor and clarity.

Kerstin Brätsch does not consider her works as isolated or static, but rather as objects of exchange and interaction. This is also reflected in her collaborative projects. Thus, alongside works by Kerstin Brätsch, the exhibition also features contributions from and with DAS INSTITUT, Full-Fall (Davide Stucchi and Mattia Ruffolo), Gaylen Gerber, Jane Jo, Allison Katz, KAYA, Kathrin Sonntag, UNITED BROTHERS (Ei and Tomoo Arakawa), and the filmmaker Alexander Kluge.

Link: Kerstin Bratsch at Museum Brandhorst

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