#made a canva document and wrote

[jerry-the-leech]

im fuckn trying ok???

[glasvera]

Could you do a smut of president Loki and fem secretary reader?

Oh yeah... that can certainly be arranged ;)

Presidential Feast

President!Loki x Fem!Secretary!Reader

Description: Things are not all they appear to be in the office of the president's secretary. Though you work diligently at your desk, there is a certain someone who works even harder to get you to come undone completely from below.

Warnings/Disclaimers: SMUT (18+ only, Minors DNI!!!!), PWP, public sex, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering

A/N: I blacked out and when I woke up, there were two thousand words of Loki smut on my computer screen. Dunno how that happened. Fair warning, this is barely proofread. I'm just amazed I wrote this in one sitting LOL

Word Count: 2k

“...So, if there is any way I could speak to him directly…”

The saccharine smile wears at the corners of your lips. You’ve worn it for hours now, feigning pleasantries, signing papers, redirecting and avoiding pointless or dangerous questions from the press. You were excellent at keeping face, as it were, but even still…

This job was exhausting.

Maybe it was foolish of you to expect people to use their eyes. President Loki was clearly busy in his office, preoccupied as he leafed through stacks and stacks of backlogged paperwork. You could quite clearly see that through the door’s window. Apparently, most of your appointments, scheduled or otherwise, were incapable of seeing the commander in chief hard at work. Why else would they bother you ceaselessly for a chance to speak with him?

At least your superior had a soft spot for you. A new desk made from gorgeous stained mahogany sits before you, polished to almost a mirror-like shine. It feels sinful to rest your elbows upon it as you lean forward and prop your chin on your wrist.

Though, perhaps it’s not nearly so sinful as what happens beneath.

When the president had procured this desk for you, he ensured it was the best in all aspects. Naturally, this included a spacious, enclosed area for you to stretch your legs. The legroom truly was unparalleled and quite comfortable. If you wanted to, you could easily crouch down and fit underneath. After all, that’s exactly what Loki is doing right now.

While you explain for the billionth time today that the president is not available at present, gesturing to the clone that pantomimes reading documents the next room over, the real Loki kneels between your legs and bites softly at your inner thigh. His teeth drag bluntly over the sensitive skin before he sucks on it, marking you under the mini skirt he’s bunched up around your hips.

“He… he’s clearly quite busy--” You inhale sharply when his tongue laves over the dark bruises he’s created upon the canvas of your legs. The man standing in front of you eyes you curiously with an arched brow. Canines dig into your tongue to stifle the moan at the back of your throat. Loki’s breath is hot against your core through the fabric of your underwear. “--and I am not feeling terribly well. If you could just try again tomorrow--”

“I have been attempting to get a hold of him for three weeks now!” the man exclaims as his face grows red. “This policy needs his attention immediately!”

“Sir, if I might remind you, that is not how the American government works. You would be much better off addressing this with your representative in the House, and--ah-!”

With a hand over your mouth, you bite down on your index finger to muffle any further slip-ups. You can feel the smirk on Loki’s lips as they lead feather-light kisses closer and closer to your folds. Fingers curl into a white-knuckled fist as you grip the edge of your desk.

Thankfully, your current “client” is far too focused on his own agenda to pay attention to your strange behavior.

“That’s exactly why I’m here! I called and called, and I think they blocked my number--”

You barely hear what he’s saying even with his frantic gestures and waving his arms. The man is clearly quite animated about whatever it is he’s going on about. It’s hard to focus on that when your senses hone in on the dextrous fingers that hook in the waistband of your undergarments. It’s a bit difficult while you’re sitting down, but he manages to shimmy them down your hips without too much effort on your part.

Thankfully for you, this man seems more than content to ramble on about how important this proposal is and why it should be the first thing on the agenda. So much so that he begins pacing about the room as he talks.

And then Loki’s tongue flattens and paints a fat stripe through your folds. You’re so glad this guy is turned away from you when your eyes roll back and you clamp your hand over your mouth fully. That accursed, talented appendage zigzags and swirls, drawing patterns all along your slit but never quite high enough where you want it most. He drinks of your nectar, feasts on your essence. Your breath comes out in staggered gasps and your brows knit together.

“Are you even listening to me!?” the man practically shouts, startling you and pulling your attention away from the euphoria between your legs. “I swear, the government these days--!”

“Do you wish for me to deal with him, my dear?” you feel more than hear Loki’s words as he whispers them, his cheek pressed lazily against the plush of your thigh while his verdant green eyes gaze up at you. His lips glisten with your slick, and it makes your head spin with desire. It would be so tempting, so easy…

But you snap out of it and shake your head. No, you wish to do this yourself. It’s part of your job, after all, at least in a roundabout way. And if your intuition is correct, really all you’ll need to do is change your approach.

The real challenge is staying focused while Loki gets back to work lapping at your cunt.

“I understand your frustrations, sir,” you practically coo, removing your hand from your face and leaning forward. You bat your long, fake eyelashes up at him. His demeanor changes instantly and you see his shoulders relax. “I really am listening. You were just so passionate about it that I was taken aback.”

“You… yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just such a serious matter, and no one is listening…” he bemoans.

“Such a mischievous little devil,” Loki purrs quietly. Your legs tremble on either side of his head with the effort it takes to keep yourself composed. “You’re playing this poor man like a fiddle, aren’t you? What a cruel mistress…”  The nearly inaudible chortle rumbles through his lips and onto your dripping core. It sends a shudder through your entire body and prickles your skin.

You make a show of licking your lips before pinching the bottom one between the tips of your canines. Loki is right--you have this man absolutely captivated.

“Here, sweetheart,” you begin, sliding a sticky note towards him. “I’m sorry there’s nothing more I can do today, but that’s my personal cell. Give me a call tomorrow and I’ll see what I can do for you, okay?” It’s almost sickening putting on a show like this, but it might as well be your calling with how easily he buys it. He’s cradling the piece of paper in his hands like it’s some sort of holy artifact as he thanks you profusely and finally makes his exit from your office.

As soon as the door closes behind him, in fact, you finally exhale the breath you were holding with an airy whimper.

“Mm,” Loki moans into your folds. He rewards you with a flick of his tongue at your clit that leaves you digging your nails into the wood. “What a perfect succubus you make. Tell me…” he begins, teasing a finger at your entrance. “Who did that number belong to? I know you wouldn’t dare give such a lowly creature your actual information.”

“It’s--” You keen and bite your lip when his long finger slowly curls into you. “It was your--fuck--” Loki smiles devilishly as your hips buck into his hand. “--your brother’s cell.” Your cheeks flush and you laugh breathlessly. “I imagine that will be quite… quite the conversation tomorrow…”

An almost evil laugh thrums in his chest. “Gods, but I do love that wonderfully deviant mind of yours,” he praises as he begins thrusting the digit in and out. Kitten licks flutter against your sensitive bud, and your toes curl in your heels.

“And I--” you huff, moving instead to grip the more comfortable arms of your office chair, “I need more of that deviant tongue of yours,” you joke breathily.

He slides a second finger into you and begins pressing against the soft, spongy spot, grinning wickedly when he feels your thighs tense around him. “Making demands of your president? How terribly daring of you.”

Words are beginning to fail you even before his lips encircle your clit. Your chest heaves as you whimper with every breath. He sucks on that pleasurable little bud, timing every curl of his fingers with a practiced swipe of his tongue. Ecstasy builds and bubbles in your core, and you try so desperately to contain the sounds that threaten to spill from your lips. Even if no one is here right now, someone could walk in at any moment. That thought shouldn’t thrill you nearly as much as it does, and you feel Loki chuckle as he suckles on your clit.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” he purrs. “The thrill, the danger, chasing such forbidden pleasures…” A low whine sounds in your throat as he continues. “I wonder… what would you do if someone were to discover you like this, in the throes of pleasure?” He slows his fingers, instead thrusting with purpose as your walls quiver around them. “Would you stop me?” He knows your answer when you mewl and tighten around him, but he asks anyway. “Or would the desire only intensify as you ride my tongue and desperately chase your release?”

“Loki, fuck--!” You’re so close, so desperately close, hanging off of the precipice as the pleasure below waits to consume you.

But his fingers still inside you, and the flicks of his tongue that punctuated his words cease entirely. The edge was right there, but now you feel it slipping away from your grasp as a mournful wail rings from you.

“That is President Loki to you,” he corrects you before busying his mouth by biting and sucking at the skin of your thighs. “You will address me properly if you want to continue indulging in this… deviant tongue of mine.”

Your breathing is ragged. Your nails are threatening to rip off the padding of your armrests. “P… President…” Your eyes nearly roll back when his fingers drag slowly through your velvety walls. It’s more, but it’s not enough. Your body trembles. “President Loki, please.”

Immediately you feel his fingers thrusting vigorously in and out of your soaked core. Your moaning returns in full force, potential visitors be damned.

“That’s it. You sound so terribly pretty when you beg for me,” he praises. His tongue finds your clit and swirls feverishly about the bud, and you feel all of the pleasure that had begun to fade return tenfold as you grind shamelessly onto his face. It’s a fire roaring in your belly that licks its flames outwards to tingle at your fingers and toes. Loki moans his own appreciation as he slurps and swallows, smacking lewdly as he drinks up everything you give him. The vibrations push you over the edge as you let out a silent scream, mouth agape as your thighs clamp around his head and you buck wildly against his tongue.

Your body slumps in your chair as you stare, dazed, off at nothing in particular. Your chest heaves with the effort of catching your breath. The orchestrator of your undoing merely smirks, licking delicate stripes up your sensitive folds that make you twitch and whimper from the overstimulation.

“What a beautiful mess you make,” he regards you as his tongue collects your essence from his lips. Before you have the chance to reply, to right yourself, he snaps his fingers and vanishes from his place beneath you.

Well, he doesn’t vanish completely.

No, instead he takes the place of his clone, and when your bliss induced stupor finally allows you to glance over through the window into his office, you see him smiling wickedly and patting his face gingerly with a handkerchief. Perfectly composed, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred while you try desperately to recollect yourself from a mind shattering orgasm.

Truly… this job was exhausting. 

[doctor-dusk]

𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 (𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛) | 𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐱 𝐭.

a blurb of part 3 from prof!alex/mr. turner series.

warnings: prof!alex, age gap (not mentioned), sexual incitement. really, that's all.

word count: 1k

posting because i've been feeling pretty anxious lately (idk why but i'm fine, promise), soon part 3 will be among us. hope you like this little preview :3

[...] you felt like you were in the middle of a test. your restless eyes alternated between his face and your laptop screen, the scanned document with words you spent hours writing were now being meticulously analyzed by your teacher. not just any teacher. your favorite teacher.

he read each word carefully, as if at that moment, he wanted to enter your mind to follow your line of reasoning. his hand rested on his chin briefly, the thin beard tickling the palm of his hand.

his eyes moved to the drafts spread out on the table before his eyes, gathering them in one hand and reading them cautiously. he never actually said it to you directly, but he loved your writing. not only that, he loved your handwriting. even with the mistakes you scribbled and wrote the right word afterwards. 

he thought it was cute. sometimes your words were faster than your thoughts. just like him. 

you tried not to be nervous, but it was impossible. like it or not, he was your teacher. you were just a student, you were taking your first steps, while he already knew this kind of subject backwards and forwards.

the fact that you didn't know what he was thinking made you even more nervous. his face was too impassive. did he like it? did he hate it? will he compliment you? will he give you some advice to improve?

this uncertainty made you try to dispel your nervousness somehow, looking around the empty library downstairs as you drummed your fingers on the skin of your thigh impatiently and deliberately.

he glanced at you, noticing your internal struggle. his right hand reached yours, stilling your tapping fingers. his hand covered yours, but his touch was gentle, reassuring. 

“it's ok, darlin’. i'm almost done.” he muttered to you, his eyes still on your words marked with black ink, but completely aware of your anxiety.

his thumb traced the back of your hand in a soothing gesture, drawing invisible circles on your skin. it calmed you down somehow, but it still made you nervous. but in a good way. 

your teacher's hand remained there, tracing imaginary patterns on your skin, making you feel at ease, as if you didn't want to be without his comforting touch. his other fingers consequently rested on your thigh, gently caressing, following what his thumb did with the back of your hand.

you glanced at his hand, noticing the veins marking his skin like a canvas, the long fingers resting there, making small caressing movements. the same fingers that were inside you days ago. god, you were already feverish just thinking about it and remembering the feeling of his digits scissoring inside you, stretching you as his lips were wrapped around your clit, sucking it like it was his favorite candy.

“you okay there?” he asked quietly, breaking you out of your reverie. you just nodded, humming in agreement, hoping your face didn't give too much away. “do you want me to keep going?”

“the reading?" you asked. he chuckled, his face scrunched a bit, making the little wrinkles appear at the corners of his eyes.

“no.” he moved his hand away from yours, so he could finally feel the warm skin of your inner thigh beneath his palm. 

he waited to see if you would back down. but you did the opposite. you opened your legs a bit more, inviting him to go further. you wanted his touch, his voice, his eyes on you. you wanted it all.

his fingers followed the path through your upper leg, touching the inside of your thighs, looking at you to catch any signs of discomfort, what there wasn't. you never had any doubts when it came to him. you always wanted everything he could give you.

the path to reach the bottom of your skirt was calm and torturous. your toes curled inside your black ballet flats, his closeness made your shoulders gently touch, the soft material of his shirt brushing against your bare arm.

‘’good?’’ he whispered to you, his index finger gently brushing against the material of your lace panties. he couldn't help it, even though you were open with him, showing no signs of discomfort, he still wanted to make sure you were on the same page.

you couldn't lie. although you were enjoying it, you were a little scared. you were in the library that was empty, but still, someone could show up at any moment. it was dangerous, but a part of you wouldn't let him stop. maybe it was the thrill.

you nodded, your fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt, pulling it up just enough so he could see what color your panties were. they were gray with black details on the edges. it made him smile internally because he was also wearing gray boxers. you were unintentionally matching.

when he was almost touching you to feel your heat and wetness through the fabric of your panties, something stopped him. someone.

‘’mr. turner, i found the copy of the book you asked for. it's a little old, but it'll do the job.’’ the librarian's voice so close made him immediately retract his fingers in the blink of an eye, he straightened his posture and looked at her. thank god the round table covered you from your belly down.

‘’lovely. thank you, mrs. gillian.’’ he smiled politely, taking the book from her hand and placing it on the desk, acting so naturally that even he was surprised.

she excused herself with a nod, the sound of her sandals against the porcelain floor fading as she walked away. you let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might escape your mouth if you weren't clenching your throat so tightly.

‘’fuck, that was close.’’ he muttered, more to himself than to you. then, he looked back at you, an apologetic look on his face. ‘’i'm sorry, honey. she just appeared out of nowhere.’’

‘’it's okay, there was no way you could have known.’’ you tilted your head to the side, your shoulders still brushing against each other.

he nodded slightly, his eyes falling to his lap, his hard length squeezed by the confines of his pants and boxers to the point of being painful. your gaze followed his, and you couldn't help but lick your lips at the sight.

‘’you know…’’ he began after a silent throat clearing, his gaze gently lifting to meet yours, eyes filled with anticipation. ‘’there's no one upstairs.’’ [...]

to be continued...

[otrtbs]

Hi I hope you're doing well 🌷

I had a question. I'm totally asking out of pure curiosity, it's not a criticism or anything of the sort.

In ahb (this masterpiece of yours) Sirius's favorite painting is Degas' Dancers.

I wanted to know if you knew the background of this painting and if making it Sirius' favorite was a deliberate choice or if you had no idea at all.

Because the Ballerinas in Opera Garnier in Paris were all really young and mostly, they were poor. The dancers were often their family's hope to crawl out of misery.

The audience was full of men.

In fact, the sad flip side was that there was a whole prostitution network behind the scene. With these young girls. Men could pay for backstage access to watch ballerinas change and sometimes rape them.

So Degas was a big customer.

That's how he painted the dancers and most of his works.

That's again how he sculpted the ballerina, her tutu was added meaning the 14 year old girl was posing nude.

Degas is also suspected of being Jack the Ripper, there are a certain number of credible leads and potential evidences.

That's why I was wondering if you knew.

Since there is this whole chapter where they insult Picasso (as they should) I found it strange that Degas being a known major p*do did not receive the same treatment.

Ps: I'm french, I don't know if I made any mistakes writing this, if I have please excuse me I tried my best 🙏

Okay hi, hello! I am doing well and I hope you are as well! You have unlocked Art Historian Thesis Nat, so I am going to put an extremely lengthy post under the cut, I'm so sorry (this is literally my area of study,,, i fear i am incapable of being brief about this)

I do want to clarify that right off the bat, I don't necessarily think many of these art historical figures are "good people". Like none of them are the best, most moral, upstanding citizens you should model your life after (but they're also dead sooooo). But I also understand that I did take some time in my fanfiction to make my hatred for Picasso very clear, and so I can also understand the confusion in not extending that same hatred towards Degas. But there are a few reasons for that, that I'll try to explain below!

The direct historical documentation of Pablo Picasso's violence towards the women in his life is vast and damning. If you want particularly good insight into his violence and abuse, then I recommend reading Marina Picasso's (Picasso's granddaughter) memoir titled: Picasso: My Grandfather. I also recommend Françoise Gilot's (romantic partner of Picasso) books, Life with Picasso and Picasso and Matisse. It is through the memories of the people who loved Picasso and who loved him in turn, that we hear of his sadistic nature that drove his lovers to suicide and we get personal letters that he wrote to Gilot in which he says things like "Dora, for me, was always a weeping woman… And it’s important, because women are suffering machines" and "For me there are only two kinds of women: goddesses and doormats." His granddaughter has this to say about him: “He submitted [women] to his animal sexuality, tamed them, bewitched them, ingested them, and crushed them onto his canvas. After he had spent many nights extracting their essence, once they were bled dry, he would dispose of them.” And Gilot says: "I am the only one to not have been sacrificed to the sacred monster(…) and is alive to tell the tale. He was a wonderful person to be with, it was like fireworks, amazingly creative, so intelligent and seductive(…) but he was also very cruel, sadistic and ruthless with others and with himself (…) It was the greatest love of my life, but you have to protect yourself (…) The others did not, they clung to the powerful minotaur and paid a very high price."

Why this matters: The evidence for Degas being so virulently misogynistic and cruel towards women is extremely less substantial and more speculative in nature.

Degas being Jack the Ripper. Degas being Jack the Ripper started off as a tiktok theory posed in early 2024, (though you can find an article as early as 2004 written by The Guardian's art critic here) and while fun to think about and speculate, it isn't true. August and September and November of 1888 is when the Jack the Ripper crimes were committed in London and Degas was in the South of France at that time receiving medical treatment because he was in extremely poor health. (Which you can find in The Letters of Edgar Degas edited by Theodore Reff (I'm sure there's. free PDF version out there somewhere)). Also, self-admittedly speculative, but Degas didn't visit the East-End of London when he did make his excursions to London because he was classist 😭. So, it would be odd for him to know the ins and outs of the streets where the murders took place. And also he had failing eyesight starting at 36, so the odds of him being Jack the Ripper are extremely slim.

The Ballerinas Yes, while it is true that the ballerina's were often subject to horrific conditions and were prostitutes for the "wealthy" patrons of the opera house, this does not mean that Degas partook in that. in fact, most historical documentation surmises he didn't. Degas considered himself a "realist" painter rather than an impressionist painter, wishing to document "real life" in all of its ugliness, beauty and unstylized truth. Therefore his primary concern was documenting the opera house and ballet in all of the moments, not just when the girls were dancing on stage. And in many of his paintings, Degas captures the opera patronsn in his ballerina paintings as lurkers behind the stage curtains as sinister black shadows, or as men predatorily watching in nice suits (e.g. Ballet, 1876 and The Rehearsal of the Ballet Onstage (1874)). But Degas himself, was NEVER a ballerina patron, he is even quoted as saying "People call me the painter of dancing girls. It has never occurred to them that my chief interest in dancers lies in rendering movement...". (now this is not because Degas was morally outraged at what was happening to the ballerina's, but because he viewed the men abusing the girls as committing a sin against God by sleeping with prostitutes). But while Degas had access to backstage, he was never a customer. And in fact, Degas is a notorious, well-documented celibate. This is because Degas believed sleeping with women would make him lose his special painting ability. No lie. Here's a direct quote from Vincent Van Gogh in his a letter to his brother Theo about the artist: "Degas lives like a little lawyer and does not like women, for he knows that if liked them and went to bed with them, he would become intellectually diseased and would no longer be able to paint." Degas was also known to reject ballerina's advances as well (again, fearing women would take away his magic painting power).

Feelings towards women By all accounts, Degas friends describe him as being reclusive towards women to being jovial with them, but always kind to them outside of a working environment. He even developed friendships with his fellow contemporary women painters. In a working environment, Degas was obsessed with perfection, demanding ballerinas contort their bodies in painful positions, and making them hold those positions for hours at a time. By all accounts, this was not because he hated them, but was obsessed with capturing their movements, the limitations of the human body, and he demanded perfection from himself. (x x x) (i.e. his obsession for his work and drive for perfection as a painter made him demanding and harsh towards his subjects, not his pure hatred of women).

Conclusions: So by many accounts, Degas was not particularly fond of women, and had little regard for his dancers. But the claims that he must have slept with the ballerina's and been a patron/customer "because that's what all men did back then" are not backed by any evidence. only evidence to the contrary. I went in on Picasso because those that were close to him have written first-hand accounts of his monstrocity. This is not the case with Degas. So, while I didn't tear him down like I did Picasso, I wasn't lauding him as a saint either. I highly recommend reading the article called Degas's Misogyny by Norma Broude which details the ways in which modern times have run away with this idea of Degas being a sadistic woman-hater and how we've gotten to this point. Anyway, TLDR; I was aware of the dark "underside" of the Paris Ballet at the time in which Degas was painting his works. Do I think he is Jack the Ripper and a man who participated in ballerina prostitution? No, not at all. At the end of the day, I am just an art history girl, telling anyone who will listen that there is not enough documentation on Degas to take these claims as 100% truth, or put that man up there with Picasso. Peace and Love! <3

[odyssean-flower]

The Chief Justice and the Worst Painter in Fontaine Chapter 1: The Beginning

Pairing: Neuvillette x Gender Neutral Reader Summary: It was supposed to be your time to relax and get in touch with your (extremely) buried creative side...but then your boss showed up. A/N: hey guys here's my new fic. it's something different this time since i want to explore new things (and i need to cook on my other yandere ideas a little more) Masterpost here

You can read the fic on AO3 as well

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 (Bonus Scenes) || Chapter 4

tw: none except the author's attempts at humor

Your first-ever painting session was going wonderfully.

The sky was a deep blue without a cloud in the sky, and the winds were calm. The only sounds you could hear around you on the shores of the Great Terrestrial Lake were bird cries and the mechanical footsteps of the Meks patrolling the roads. You were far away from the hustle and bustle of the Court of Fontaine, which was just what you wanted.

The bright white canvas in front of you seemed to be brimming with possibilities, waiting for you to put your brush to it and create something beautiful…you hoped.

“Ah,” you sighed. “I don’t get why more people don’t do this.”

“I concur,” a voice said from next to you. It sounded vaguely familiar. “It’s unfortunate that the beauty of Fontaine’s waters is underappreciated even by the citizens.”

“Right?” you said excitedly as you turned your head to beam up at this newfound kindred spirit. “But I suppose it’s all for the best, considering that—”

The rest of your sentence got stuck in your throat. Because your eyes landed on the last person you had ever expected to see.

The long white hair with blue streaks (or were they horns, as you’ve heard rumored?), the elegant and flowing blue robes, the piercing violet eyes…you might not have ever seen him up close before, but everyone in Fontaine knew who this man was.

The Chief Justice of Fontaine, the Iudex—Monsieur Neuvillette himself.

That’s right. Your boss was standing right next to you as you were supposed to be enjoying your relaxing day off.

You were a low-level bureaucrat working at the Maison Gestion. Your days were confined to your small desk and typewriter, sitting in your chair as you typed up document after document, reading memos, and then re-typed what you just wrote.

It wasn’t a bad job, all things considered. You liked your coworkers, and it was fun to complain about your workloads together. It paid well enough too. However, your work-life balance was terrible. You got home late even without doing overtime at the office, and spent your days off sleeping in. Not to mention the disturbing cracks your back made whenever you straightened yourself up…

After seeing one too many of your coworkers sleeping at their desks overnight in order to make a deadline, you decided that there needed to be a change. You were going to get a hobby completely unrelated to work and enjoy your life!

The problem with spending so much of your time at work was that it was difficult to find out what you actually enjoyed doing in leisure. You barely even remembered what your interests were before you started working. It was a depressing realization…but at least now you had the money and maturity to find new interests.

You briefly considered doing a physical activity like rowing or diving, but quickly decided against it. You were a desk worker and had the physique of one as well. But on the other hand, you didn’t want to do something where you were indoors and stationary all the time. That would be no different from your time at work.

After trying out several activities, you finally decided on painting. Painting would allow you to leave the city and spend time in nature. You could sit but also wander around as you pleased. And you could create something of your own instead of being confined by other people’s rules. Yes, painting was the perfect hobby to pick up.

With that brilliant idea in mind, you happily bought painting supplies and set out for Fontaine’s beaches on the weekend. You were looking forward to a day of relaxation and artistic joy.

But now…

“M-Monsieur Neuvillette!” you stammered, jumping out of your chair and nearly knocking it over. “I-I-I had no idea you were here! Please forgive me for not noticing you!”

You were suddenly extremely aware of your appearance. Since it was your day off and you weren’t expecting to be around anyone else, you were dressed in well-worn clothes (read: frayed and faded), and your hair was matted with sweat after carrying your heavy painting tools all the way out here.

“There is no need for you to apologize,” Neuvillette said. His calm demeanor was completely at odds with your panicking self. “I should be the one apologizing for startling you. I was simply happy to see someone else enjoying one of my favorite spots to watch the sea.”

“Oh, no, not at all! You shouldn’t apologize! I’m the one who—” This isn’t going anywhere, the rational part of your mind screamed.  

Driven by the survival instinct of saving yourself from dying of embarrassment, you quickly gathered your painting supplies in your arms and stood up. They seemed a lot more unwieldy than before. “I’m sorry, Monsieur. I didn’t know you frequented this spot. I will move myself somewhere else so as to not disturb you.”

“There’s no need for you to inconvenience yourself in that way,” a furrow formed between Neuvillette’s brows. “You will no way disturb you. I’m perfectly fine with you staying here. In fact, I would welcome your company.”

“Oh, no no! I wouldn’t be good company for you at all, Monsieur! I'm terrible at talking and am not interesting in any way! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall leave you be!” You blabbered on as you backed away as fast as you could. A shadow passed overhead. You looked up and saw clouds. Where did those come from?

You had made it some distance away, cursing yourself in your head all the while, before you heard the rumble of thunder. The sky was now covered in clouds, and it looked as though it was going to rain at any minute. That was weird. The weather forecast said that it would be sunny today, and there wasn’t a trial today, so you had assumed that it would be clear skies today. As the first drops of rain hit your face, you suddenly remembered something: you forgot to take your chair.

You would rather jump into the sea than go back there, especially after how you acted. But on the other hand, wouldn’t leaving my chair there make me look like a careless slob? What if Monsieur Neuvillette thinks that and decides that I’m not fit for my job? And then I’ll get fired and get thrown out onto the streets and then no one would ever hire me again and—

More rain fell, shaking you out of your panicked thoughts. You took a deep breath and calmed yourself down. You were a grown adult who was capable of behaving in a normal, mature manner. You would simply walk over there, politely greet Neuvillette, get your chair, and then calmly take your leave. Simple.

Repeating those steps in your head, you ran back to the spot (because the rain was really coming down now) and to your surprise, found Neuvillette still standing there. He didn’t seem to have moved from where he was when you last saw him. The rain was soaking into his hair and clothes.

The sight made you feel a bit lonely.

You steeled yourself and walked up to him. The chair was still there. You resisted the urge to grab it and run away, and then cleared your throat.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Neuvillette…”

He turned around with a start. For some reason, the rain lightened up a bit at that moment. “Oh, you’ve returned. I thought you were going to move somewhere else to paint?”

His voice was as emotionless as his face, but you thought you could detect a bit of hurt in it. It must have been just your overactive imagination.

“I was just…” the words got caught in your throat. Somehow, it felt wrong to tell him that you only returned to get your chair. But surely he’d understand, right?

The defiant part of your mind chose that moment to make its appearance. Why are you acting like a scared mouse? You were here first, and you had no idea that this is his favorite spot. This place is big enough for the two of you.

“Pardon me,” Neuvillette’s voice snapped you back to reality. “But I believe you were about to say something?”

“Oh…oh, yes. I was just going to say…” you forced a smile on your face. You must look ridiculous right now. “I was just going to say, I decided to come back here because, well, if the Chief Justice says that this is his favorite spot, then it must be scenery worthy of even someone like me to paint.”

Neuvillette’s face still didn’t change, but it seemed to soften almost imperceptibly. The rain stopped completely now.

“I’m honored to receive such a compliment, though undeserved,” he said. “I do look forward to your work.”

You nodded, even as you were thinking, Crap! He’s going to be looking at my painting!?

With shaking arms, you set up your easel and canvas, which had miraculously remained mostly dry. The chair, on the other hand, was soaked, so you had to stand and paint. You moved the setup several times to make sure it wasn’t getting into Neuvillette’s line of sight before dipping your brush into a pot of paint.

The clouds were all gone now, like they were never there.

Though you technically answered to Neuvillette as an employee of the Maison Gestion, you had never actually talked to him or even seen him up close before. Your desk was on a separate level from his office, and he was always busy, so even the higher-ups rarely saw him. You had seen him sitting in his high seat during trials at the Opera Epiclese, but that was about it.

So, this was your first time being in such close proximity to him.

The sun felt like a laser, or maybe a spotlight, beaming down on your head. The gentle breeze ruffled your hair but did nothing to dry your sweaty hands that were gripping your equally sweaty paintbrush. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears.

Yes, you were definitely feeling very relaxed right now.

You sneak a glance at Neuvillette. He was gazing out at the blue waters. He hadn’t attempted to watch you paint even once. If you hadn’t known any better, you would have thought he was a statue. It was warmer now than before. Doesn’t he feel hot in those robes? You thought.

The painting was nearly done. It was, in your opinion…definitely a canvas with paint on it. You had tried to capture the shimmer of the waves and their unknowable depths, but you hadn’t come close. It felt almost shameful, considering the view here really was beautiful. You could see why Neuvillette liked this place.

You wouldn’t have cared at all about the quality of your work if it hadn’t been for him, since this was supposed to be a way for you to unwind. Resentment bubbled up within you, but you quashed it down. There was no turning back time now. You comforted yourself by vowing to completely avoid him at all costs after this. It wouldn’t be that hard to do.

After you put the finishing touches, you stepped back. The painting was not hanging on the gallery walls anytime soon, but it was done. You turned to Neuvillette.

“Um, Monsieur Neuvillette. It’s finished.”

He turned and looked at your painting. His violet eyes scanned it carefully from top to bottom, like it was a piece of fine art hanging in the museum. You shifted your feet nervously. It felt like you were being judged. Was he going to fire you if you didn’t meet his standards? That was an absurd thought.

After what seemed like an eternity, he turned to you. “The way you captured the light on the water is quite inspired, [Name]. I can see that the meticulous and detail-oriented mind in your work is also present here.”

You blinked. Three thoughts rushed through your mind at once.

He liked your painting.

He knew your name.

He knew your work.

A light, airy feeling filled your chest. It felt like you were floating. Maybe you were actually watching this from above your body, considering how surreal this felt.

“T-Thank you, Monsieur Neuvillette,” you managed. “I-I, just really love the sea. It’s so, um, cool.”

Neuvillette nodded solemnly. “I can tell that. If you would like, I can show you other scenic views of the sea that might inspire you further.”

“Great!” you exclaim before you knew what you were doing. “I’d love that.”

Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but you could have sworn Neuvillette’s lips curved into a smile. “Then it’s settled. Next week, I will send you a note with directions to another one of those spots.”

You nodded, even as if you were thinking, Next week?

And so, your artistic journey with the Chief Justice began.

[delightfullyatomicfest]

I’m still obsessed with Ken Womack deciding a cartoon strip character was Paul on 9 May 1969.

Mainly because it seems like a misinterpretation of an image based on a misrepresentation of the situation?

Here’s what Womack wrote thanks to @muzaktomyears.

To summarise: Womack says the other three cornered Paul, insisting he appoint Klein. Paul started to lose him cool when the others accused him of creating needless roadblocks and wanting to appoint his relatives, Paul refused to sign, there’s a quote from Paul saying that was the night we broke The Beatles and that it was the liberty bell moment and… that’s it, end of chapter with some musing about Mal’s heartbreak and the pic of ‘Paul’ (i.e. Maisie) framed like this:

But… that seems a pretty lopsided view of how it went???

According to You Never Give Me Your Money, on 8 May the other three had signed with Klein without Paul’s knowledge (though George tried to tell him but he’d changed his phone number). The contract appointed ABKCO ‘exclusive business manager’ to Apple Corps Ltd ‘on behalf of The Beatles and The Beatles Group of Companies’. They knew at this point that Paul might not sign and it still needed to be ratified by the Apple board of directors (I.e. The Beatles).

On 9 May they gathered to do LIB overdubs and the other three tried to strong arm Paul into signing with Klein, bullying him and growing furious with him:

You Never Give Me Your Money p. 130

[Note: Womack included a quote from Paul about the 15% stuff but not the bullied and ganged up on bit.]

Rolling Stone

Edit to add one more:

And In The End, p. 113

So in the above we have:

‘They really bullied me and ganged up on me’

‘The others grew furious, but McCartney held his ground’

‘They said “Oh, fuck off!” and they all stormed off’

‘Lennon, Harrison and Starkey lost their cool and unleashed an unsparing verbal assault on McCartney leaving him bruised and bleeding on the canvas’

(These are selective quotes so this post doesn’t get too long - more context here which is also the source for the below paragraph. Also the quotes are all Paul’s POV - I’d like to find what the others have said about this day).

John then called Klein, who was on his way to the airport, and Klein came back, lied to Paul about needing approval from the board of ABKCO to try and pressure him into signing and, according to Glyn Johns “… all that equipment was not enough to prevent me hearing Paul McCartney defend himself from Allen Klein’s attempt at bullying him into submission. It was extremely unpleasant to witness”.

[Note: Womack doesn’t actually mention Klein being there]

Paul continued to refuse but the other three carried on anyway. John and George signed the document ratifying their decision to appoint ABKCO exclusive business manager to Apple Corps Ltd. The unanimous agreement rule which The Beatles had always had was resoundingly broken (though they’d already broken it on 21 March 1969 when they appointed Klein against Paul’s wishes the first time).

The full page from You Never Give Me Your Money is here but here’s the really pertinent section:

The signing of this resolution is surely the Liberty Bell moment and Womack doesn’t mention it, nor the fact that they’d previous made unanimous decisions.

So turning back to the cartoon - I imagine Paul was furious (YNGMYM mentions his rage on the next page in the context of drumming for Steve Miller), but from the sources above it seems that there were four other people who’d be equally good candidates for someone going apeshit and screaming at the top of their lungs.

Also, I don’t even know if Mal was there for these bits of unpleasantness (he’s not mentioned in YNGMYM).

Here’s Womack’s sources by the way:

Womack’s source for the events of the day is Anthology p. 326. I went and looked it up. It’s all from Paul and Neil’s PoV and says the same as above - the closest thing is Paul says about anger is “there was a big argument and they all left, leaving me at the studio”. (Here free on the internet archive). The fact that it is all from Paul’s PoV suggests JGR haven’t spoken about this day but I could be wrong on that.

That twitter link is Paul saying that was the day the liberty bell cracked.

And here are my sources:

Rolling Stone article Why The Beatles Broke Up: https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-features/why-the-beatles-broke-up-113403/

You Never Give Me Your Money by Peter Doggett

Amaralto’s quote from Sound Man by Glyn Johns book (god I wish he hadn’t turned the audio off. Why couldn’t he have MLH’s lack of ethics when it comes to recording the Beatles interactions?)

Beatles Bible 9 May 1969: https://www.beatlesbible.com/1969/05/09/mixing-get-back-album-inserts-2/#:~:text=It%20took%20place%20at%20Olympic,Klein%20as%20Apple's%20financial%20manager (which also doesn’t include about the signing of the resolution that evening. Is YNGMYM wrong about the day or is it just that no one thinks it specifically matters?)

Paul McCartney Project, 21 March 1969: https://www.the-paulmccartney-project.com/1969/03/allen-klein-becomes-business-manager-of-apple/(When they first appointed Klein as Business Manager when Paul was out of the country on his honeymoon. Paul sent a legal rep along but they went with majority - not unanimous - rule and voted Klein as Apple Business Manager).

[requirecookie]

Stormy's Thoughts on AI

In the wake of another author being stupid with AI (leaving a prompt in the final product - it's happened before, it'll happen again), I felt like putting a couple of thoughts in order.

First, my bias and usage: I used Midjourney for a couple of weeks when it first came out, but when it quickly became public knowledge on how LLMs were created, I went "nope" and have tried my best to avoid it ever since. (IE, I get those stupid auto-gen Google answers, but don't voluntarily use ChatGPT, art generators, etc, etc).

I just can't conscience using something built off the back of theft? And I don't know why that's so incomprehensible to some people?

Some people use the argument of "well, humans get inspired by existing works, how is it different when a machine does it?". I've seen people use this as a gotcha that they expect to end the argument, some users of AI use it as a shield - it makes sense to them, therefore they're doing nothing wrong, and some people just genuinely don't understand.

For those in the third category, all you can do it start by explaining how LLMs work, where the data comes from, and that it's a word-predicting Plagiarism Machine.

For the others, I've fallen into using the example of 50 Shades.

As godawful as those books are, they represent something about the human who created it. EL James looked at Twilight, went "idgaf about vampires, I want to write about fucked-up power dynamics" and spat out three novels.

Are they good? No. Are they better than anything AI will ever produce? Yes.

Humans bring their history, their bias, their preferences, their wants and needs, all of it, to the table when creating a work. And that is so much more valuable, so much better than what the Plagiarism Machine can output.

I don't believe that art is suffering, or that there's anything romantic about a creator torturing themselves, or needing to despair in order to put words on the page or paint on a canvas. But knowing that a human was involved, does matter.

Someone sat down, and felt something, thought something, when creating.

They wrote a joke that they laughed at, wrote a scene that made them tear up, put in a reference to a friend, a childhood pet, or just some dumb movie they watched a year ago, and the text is richer for it.

I was already vehemently anti-AI after I learned how the LLMs were created, but I can tell you the exact moment that it was absolutely cemented, soul-deep that I'd never, ever, ever use one.

I'd opened a document to scratch down the rough first draft of a scene - the context and content don't matter for the purpose of this - but it was a line of dialogue from a tertiary character (and it is perhaps generous to describe him as so) - he has less than ten lines of dialogue across the book, appears in two brief scenes, and is otherwise a background detail.

I scratched down this line, and he went from "oh, yeah, this guy is an asshole, I know that" to "I need to put my fist through my monitor and punch him".

(For the people this will make sense to: he had immediately hit "James" level of hateability in this scene).

And I know this maybe sounds like I'm trying to toot my own horn, that something I wrote was soooo amazing that I emotionally reacted to it, but...it's not that.

It's that by sitting there, and actually writing the scene, I found the depths of how awful that character was, which isn't something I would have gotten if I'd just one "ChatBot, generate me a chapter pls".

I enjoy the process of writing, of discovering bits of character as I go, following the weird tangents that characters will take me on, because all of it makes me a better writer, and the story better for there being someone active in the process.

I'm not the only author who, for years or decades, has said, "I just want to be able to plug my brain into a computer and pull the words out", I can't remember anyone I know saying "I wish I could plug my brain in, and have the machine pull out a pale imitation of the words in my head" or "I wish I could put my words through the filter of another author".

Yes, some people have wanted to imitate - for example - Tolkien, but in that direction is - as above - going to bring in your own biases and perceptions about what his work is like, what parts you want to emulate, and where you want to diverge. We can see that with Tolkien himself in a way, with the Ents being a direct response to Macbeth, and his disappointment that Birnam Wood wasn't actually on the march.

I hope for AI to crash in the same way that NFTs largely have, and that there's a future where seemingly every single site and app tries to push a new AI feature (or rebrand some bit of ordinary automation as AI), but I fear that we're some time away from the bubble bursting.

While I think we're a while away from pressing one button to get an entire 100k book (though with the speed at which things advance - compare the original "Will Smith eating Spaghetti" video to the very recently released clips from Veo 3), it's easy to imagine a Big 5 publisher getting some BookTok darling to sit in a room for a week to prompt-engineer a book while an editor fixes the most egregious flaws, and the following month they come back to do it again.

I hate the fact that AI is everywhere now, because it makes me hesitate to use things like Grammarly - previously, before I'd put a novel out, I'd do my own checks, get beta feedback, but then run each chapter through premium checking, just as a final sanity check (as I'm not in a financial position to hire a human editor). Now, even if I'm not using the "rewrite with AI", it still feels...like something I have to sit and think about, whereas five years ago, it was just a really good spell/grammar checker?

(I haven't used it at all for my WIP novel as yet, and I'm really leaning towards just relying on my own edit and what my alpha and beta readers pick up on).

For now, there's not really anything that any one person can do, except refuse to use it, refuse to support "creators" who use it, and call people out on it when it's being discussed. It's all small things, but the right argument at the right time might make one author decide to hire a cover artist, or another realise that they can make up their own elven names rather than relying on today's code slop.

For now. I'm going to stop procrastinating and get back to the chapter I'm supposed to be working on.

[cozmic-ash]

I am, as usual, late lol, but Y'KNOW. This is gonna be a long, rambly post lol, sorry, I have a lot of thoughts.

2023 was a weird year for me, artwise. When it began I was still deep in my Art Block From Hell, which had begun in mid-2021 and lasted the entirety of 2022.

Being in the thick of such a ridiculously suffocating art block, for TWO AND A HALF YEARS, is like... I can't describe how fucking life-draining it is. It felt like something was fundamentally wrong with me -- like a part of me, which used to be as effortless as breathing or blinking my eyes, had ceased to function altogether. It wasn't just a regular art block, it was a complete identity crisis. I could no longer trust the instincts I'd honed over twenty-plus years, could no longer trust my sense of observation or my ability to recreate what I saw. I felt BROKEN, and every single time I picked up my tablet pen it was like I was scraping my insides with a spoon, trying to pick up whatever tiny dregs of dried-up, crusty shit I could manage to puke up onto my canvas. It was fucking painful and humiliating and completely demoralizing.

I'm not really sure what finally got me to do so, but sometime in summer (my memory is shit lol) I downloaded Game Maker, found a video tutorial on youtube, and just... gave myself over to it. I made myself learn how to use Aseprite, and working with pixels, making teeny-tiny little sprites, forced me to work in ways I usually don't. It was a lot harder for me to find the flaws in my art when my art was thirty-five pixels tall and the anatomy was stylized to communicate clear information rather than be a recreation or approximation of reality. I think I really do credit that time working on game dev as the thing that finally cracked loose all the gunk that was keeping me stuck -- I could not perpetuate the cycle of toxicity I'd fallen into because I could barely even conceptualize what 'good' or 'bad' pixel art even looked like lol. I just knew that I was making art, and for the first time in two years, it didn't feel like I was having to desperately beg the emaciated husks of my sense of self-worth and confidence to cooperate while doing so.

(I actually sort of abandoned my foray into game dev around August/September lol, as my adhd-brain, flitting around like a little hummingbird to every dopamine-rich-flower, is wont to do 🥲 But I wanna get back into it at some point!)

From there I had a rush of inspiration for an original project I've been mulling around in my head for years, and I wrote thousands of words in my worldbuilding document, made a map, developed the shell of a possible actual STORY. I returned to sketching. Conventional sketching. It was, at first, largely still comprised of that same demotivating struggle against myself, but I was so deep in the throes of inspiration (after several years of this project laying dormant in my google drive) that I NEEDED to sketch. So I kept going. And after a while, it got....... easier. And I started hating everything I made a little less. I painted, properly, for the first time in years. I stayed up late into the night, even if it meant I would be tired at work the next day, because drawing felt so damn GOOD again and I had missed that feeling so much. All I wanted to do was draw. For the first time in two and a half years, I could finally see the light at the end of the fucking tunnel.

I still don't think I'm quite out of the woods yet. My style is changing, as all artists' styles do over time, and that comes with stumbling adjustments. My confidence is still small and shaky and recovering; I still catch myself second-guessing what I've drawn, and even looking at some of the things here on my grid makes me cringe a little bit for one reason or another.

But compared to both 2021 and 2022, the volume of art, and in particular the volume of art I don't actively despise, is WAY higher, and I'm really really hopeful that that means I'm finding my footing again.

So! Here's to 2024, and to continuing to move towards the light at the end of the tunnel 🙏🌟 I'm gonna try.

[snoodls]

2023 art retrospective! ✨

I can't believe I'm writing one of these again already; where did this year go??

Looking back on this past year, wow! I can see and feel my confidence with my art growing tremendously. Finally it feels like I'm comfortable with tools and the process. I'm not totally lost when I open a canvas; there's a sense of reassurance that I can do it, and if I can't, I will figure it out along the way. 

Overall, finding time, space, and energy for art proves to be both exceedingly difficult and yet the only thing that I want to do when I get home. I know logically this is mostly because of my job--new office, new boss, new responsibilities, new position--and a few huge life transitions, but when you're someone who makes things who is not making things, it can be rough seas in the brain soup.

I think a major theme for this year was getting back into creative habits. It's an annual tradition at this point to nosedive into an artist's block death spiral. February into March into April...were all lean months for my creativity. Intense job/interpersonal stuff plus news of two of my big art inspirations both suddenly dying...the world hit me hard in these months.

I owe a lot to Lynda Barry's Making Comics for giving me my spark back and for helping to heal a part of me that I didn't realize was so broken and bruised. I remember when I picked the book up around my birthday; the cashier said the book made her cry and I didn't understand. I asked why, and she said "It's just healing." I was skeptical, but now I get it. I've been observing more, giving more credence to my creativity, and being less afraid of making a "bad" drawing.

Now I've been focusing on creating portfolio pieces that I'm proud of and happy to display in my space, as well as finally getting around to my hoard of accumulated characters. I've been picking away at my personal site and uploading much more to toyhouse to keep track of them all.

The last month or so has been completely consumed by making gifts, meeting deadlines, finishing owed art, continuing special projects 👀...so I haven't had much of a presence here. I've been doing lots of traditional art--getting back into acrylic painting and hopefully back into oils soon. I started pine needle basket weaving and have made 2.25 baskets so far! it's a long, tedious, menial process, but it's so satisfying to have something physical (and functional) that you've worked on for hours. I've also been living in my sketchbook the past week--practicing with pens, markers, and practicing itself. I've been conditioned to have the sketchbook be a precious space, and I am trying my best to break out of that. If you want to see some of my traditional sketches and offline stuff, I made a little collage for this year's picks too. ↬ sketchbook 2023

I think for next year I'd like to continue finding better balances--in how I spend my time, how I can spend my time...and to continue pushing myself out of my comfort zone with experiments and messiness. I want to continue being creative in so many more mediums--more film photography and video, hopefully!

In my sketchbook I wrote this meandering paragraph that I want to share: this is a living document--of breath, of movement, not of polished stasis. I reject capitalistic notions of being "industrious" "beautiful" "marketable" "pristine" and on public display at all times. I am not a product to be consumed; neither is my work. I embrace the messy, the incomplete, and the ugly. I refuse to tailor myself to an unseen audience. We thirst for the drafts, the brushstrokes, the incomplete works of the famous. Is this because, in our minds, this makes them more human? Less untouchably great? Or do we see ourselves in the struggles and not in the finished pieces? How charitable is that reading? What I would give to see my inspirations' marker streaks, their 12yo sparkledogs. Framing these byproducts--there's that word again--as art reframes them, reframes myself. To be human is to mark-make, to scribble in the dirt. I hear they reconstruct civilizations from stuff like that.

All my best to you & yours, and happy new year!

art featured: garden ghost | Vagabonds - Aqua Fria River | 6040 elk? | i'll still be around | blue sky | umm hihihi omg hi ...? | porcelain | nothing to remember | Lacquer | river bed-time

[blakegopnik]

THE FRIDAY PIC is "Glyph C," by Denzil Hurley, from his current show at Canada gallery in New York. I wrote about Hurley in today's New York Times — my text is below — talking about the way a lot of his paintings, although clearly made objects, seem to reference the found objects that have sometimes been presented as abstract art.

I didn't mention "Glyph C" in my Times piece, but even though it's very different in look from works I did mention, it seems to share their hint of foundness: It makes me think of a trace left from a lost ancient script, or an early example of electrophoresis, documenting our first encounter with DNA.

It looks like there's more to the piece than shape and facture and color — that it has a history that has nothing to do with fine art.

----------

And here's my Times piece:

There’s found abstraction: Weathered posters hung in galleries by the Italian artist Mimmo Rotella; animal bones that were at the root of Henry Moore’s sculptures.

And there’s made abstraction: Almost all other abstract art, by the likes of Agnes Martin or Donald Judd.

But the works by the painter Denzil Hurley now on view at Canada seem to inhabit a new category we might call “made found abstraction.”

Hurley’s objects are clearly made, from scratch.

“Orange Glyph,” for instance, presents a bright orange canvas that would live happily among the postwar monochromes of Yves Klein.

The piece titled “J2#1” involves an all-black oblong, about head-high, whose subtle mottling make it a dark counterpart to the all-white paintings of Robert Ryman.

But Hurley pushes beyond the customary “made-ness” of his abstractions by adding elements that produce a found, functional vibe. The canvas in “Orange Glyph” comes perched on top of a wooden stick that makes the whole ensemble look vaguely useful, like a protest sign soon to be lettered. “J2#1” is anchored in a crude block of lumber, as though waiting to have a marksman’s target stuck to it.

Hurley was a longtime art professor who died, age 72, in 2021; he knew his abstract antecedents by heart. He was also Black. I wonder if the “foundness” in his works captures a sense, widespread among Black artists, that mainstream culture never made those antecedents as fully available to him, or to any Black artist, as they might have been to white artists, who could access European art’s grand tradition without any question that they had a right to it. By making found abstractions, Hurley links his works to functional traditions that bypass fine art altogether.

[darkspine10]

GF Fanfic - Finding Roots

Tangled Roots (21,306 words) by darkspine10

Chapters: 4/7

Fandom: Gravity Falls

Rating: Mature

Leaving her clothes drying next to a radiator, Pacifica tried and failed to walk outside and face Mabel and Zera for the sixth time in a row. It was taking her an age to step outside, self-conscious of them seeing her bare skin. She mainly put it down to her being uncomfortable in the borrowed swimsuit. Mabel’s taste in pink was a bit more vibrant than her own, to put it lightly, but the colour wasn’t the problem.

Mabel was by any standard slimmer than she was. She had a slenderer frame in general, with her gangly limbs and wiry body. It meant that Pacifica struggled to adequately fit in the bikini top. Her asymmetric breasts were disgustingly crammed in, showing more cleavage and nipples poking through the fabric than she would ever be comfortable with in public. Fortunately, she only had to entertain her sister-in-law and her wife, a marginally easier prospect. In the end she opted to wear the osprey skull necklace over the swimsuit. As a fashion statement it was gauche, but it would serve to draw attention subtly away from her insecurities.

Meanwhile a bandage patch taped on her arm covered up the scratches. Cleaned of blood and dirt, after all she’d inflicted upon herself it turned out the cuts weren’t actually that deep. With luck the marks would fade in a few weeks, leaving barely a trace of her self-caused attempt at scarring herself. Good, she thought. It had been deluded of her to think of doing such a thing in the first place. “Fucking hell,” she muttered, aghast at her own behaviour. She dipped into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face to wipe away the last trace of her fading and smudged make up. The morning felt like a very long time ago.

She wandered around Mabel’s new living room. It was lightly furnished but had an inviting stone fireplace and couch combination that she had to tear herself away from lest she curl up and fall asleep. Cardboard boxes full of ornaments and disassembled furniture were strewn everywhere. Pacifica stepped on tiptoes, afraid of coming upon Mabel’s pet snake. It wouldn’t be good if she ended up accidentally stepping on her and getting bitten. She had enough marks from tonight already.

Before finally leaving the sanctity of the living room, she wrote a quick note in her journal. The book had thankfully remained dry in an inside pocket of her jacket, though she made sure to position it by the fire to rid any chance of damp setting in. Her urge to document the encounter with the ape monster made her pen dance across the page in an unbidden flurry. It was times like these she felt closest to Mason, understanding the frenzied desire to commit the memories to paper before all the details were lost. Satisfied she had enough notes to remind her of finer details later, she steeled herself, for the cold and the company, and stepped into the garden.

A set of square granite paving stones lead out through the grassy lawn, saving her bare feet from treading on dirt. Approaching the hot tub, she climbed up wooden steps, slicked wet with condensation. A layer of steam hanging above the water was tantalisingly warm against her icy skin.

Zera and Mabel were already soaking in the water, their arms in a reclining position in adjacent corners of the pool. Mabel’s tattoos were on full display all up her arms, a riot of colour. She had seen her skin as a canvas, continuously adding to the collection over the past 15 years. Pink and green butterflies, a golden pine tree, blue swirls in an alien language, she had it all. Compared to Pacifica’s pure, untainted body each tattoo was a link to the past. Mabel noticed her lingering at the edge of the light and waved her over. “Come on in Paz, the water’s lovely.”

Pacifica rolled her eyes. Of course it was lovely, Mabel was in precise control of the temperature with a dial. She stepped gingerly around fake plastic stone cairns which attempted to give the hot tub the look of a Japanese onsen. A gaudy plastic flamingo and inflated palm trees rather clashed with the effect.

The second her toe entered the water it was as if a weight lifted off her shoulders. Her muscles began to relax as a lot of the stress she’d been holding onto melted away. Even though the bandage on her arm was waterproof she still felt a tingle when she lowered herself into the steaming water. Wiggling until she was comfortable, she made sure her chest was partially under the water’s surface. She spread her hair out on the side of the hot tub, as it was still taking ages to dry from her first plunge, so she wasn’t about to restart the whole process.

“So,” Mabel asked, glad to see her friend was enjoying the restorative qualities of the water, “what brings you out here on a night like this?”

“Would you believe I was out looking for a dangerous monster?”

“Really?” Mabel was shocked, though only mildly. In this town monster hunting was a semi-regular occurrence. “I thought maybe your house had burnt down again.”

“No, it’s still standing. At least it was when I left,” she added, making both Mabel and Zera laugh. She smiled, easing up amidst the jovial mood. “I guess I’ll tell you the full story.” The full story was quickly pared down into edited highlights. She didn’t mention her motivations, besides that Manly Dan was involved, and focused more on the practicalities of her search for the Unshriven and ensuing pursuit. The couple remained enraptured during her entire narrative. “Anyway, then I blundered over your fence and that’s how I ended up taking an unwanted dip.”

Zera wagged a finger. “That’s what you get for vaulting into random strangers’ gardens.” She flashed a wink at Pacifica to show she was only teasing.

In the other corner Mabel was her usual excited self and had hung on every word during the story. “Woah, that ape thing sounds intense.”

Zera simply nodded, her eyes half-lidded and seemingly content to rest in the water with her head leaning on the side. Pacifica couldn’t blame her for not being as invested; she had interrupted the pair’s private relaxing evening after all.

“You’re pretty lucky it didn’t maul you any deeper. You might have got gutted,” Mabel said a bit too eagerly.

“What, this?” She raised and lowered her bandaged arm with a weak splash. “This was nothing glamorous. I fell through a bush.”

“Oh.” Mabel visibly deflated, then perked up again almost as swiftly. “Well, I’m sure you were super brave to be out there in the first place. Manly Dan is bound to appreciate it. A big macho guy like that could do with accepting a friendly helping hand from time to time.”

“Maybe.” Pacifica picked up the amulet, then let it droop back down. Her mission in hunting the beast wasn’t entirely about soothing Corduroy’s ego. She wasn’t about to broach the subject in its entirety.

“I dated a Corduroy once.” Mabel tapped her chin in remembrance. Pacifica expected more of a reaction from Zera, since she was married to Mabel, but it garnered only a quick sidewards glance. They must be comfortable talking about past relationships, she surmised.

“Which one,” Pacifica asked, now she knew the topic wasn’t taboo. “Kevin or Gus?”

“You know, I'm not actually sure I remember.”

This cracked Pacifica up, and for the first time that day she started laughing out loud. The giggles she found herself overcome by were infectious, making Mabel join in as well.

“He was very shy. I don’t think he’d so much as talked to a girl beside his sister before. Boy, you shoulda seen the way his dick shrivelled up at the sight of my hoo-ha.”

Pacifica screwed up her face. “Mabel, you’re oversharing.” Her friend blushed and sank a little way so only her nose and eyes were visible above the water.

“My bad,” she gargled. “I’m still in girl talk mode I guess.”

“My fault,” Zera said, hand on heart.

Pacifica looked at the woman, her eyes crossing and uncrossing. Her brain must have been too distracted to focus as she noticed for the first time that Zera was in her human guise rather than displaying her true alien nature. “Hey, you’re wearing your perception filter,” she stated. Briefly her eyes unblurred and she saw Zera’s aquamarine scales in place of brown skin. Underneath the illusion she had all the bearing of a great white.

Zera scratched at her earlobe and the grey triangular earring that generated the effect. “Oh, yeah, sometimes May and I like to switch things up. Explore alternatives.” The alien woman bit her lip, unsure how far to go, but Mabel handily put her foot in it.

“It’s healthy to explore the bounds of our relationship. It’s really fun. Sometimes I even put the filter on and Zera sees me as an alien!”

“What does a S’aren version of Mabel Pines look like?” Pacifica asked Zera in a hushed whisper out of the side of her mouth.

“Like a perch and a halberd had a baby,” the alien replied, and Pacifica couldn’t be sure if her tone was derogatory or affectionate.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Pacifica said matter-of-factly, not wanting to get too deep into the details of her friend’s freaky sex life. “With the amount of different species Mabel’s courted of course you’d be into trying new things.”

“Yeah, you would not believe how easy it is to spice up your love life with a bit of magic. Who knew this town was the perfect place to find aphrodisiacs.”

“Mabel?” Pacifica interrupted.

“Yeah?”

“Too much info.”

“Oops, sorry again.”

Pacifica smiled, finding Mabel’s forgetfulness amusing for once. After the day she’d had she needed a bit of levity. “On the other hand, you managed to keep this little venture quiet.” She gestured back towards the house. It was a quaint two-storey cottage, built out of wooden planks with a sloping roof. A chimney poked out, giving the air of a secluded forest retreat. “You two are living out the ideal cottagecore lesbian experience. When did you move in?”

Mabel bore a sheepish grin, and her cheeks were a deeper red than any awkward conversation about her private life could bring out. “Last Tuesday.” As far as Pacifica had known Mabel and Zera had spent the weeks since New Year’s bouncing between various motels while arranging the move to Gravity Falls. She had no idea they were so far along in their plans. “I wanted to get the place nice and ready then bam- have a party or something. It was gonna be a huge surprise.”

“First you didn’t tell us about your wedding, now this. Secrets secrets.” She shook her head teasingly. “I guess it can still be a surprise for Mace and the kids. We can do a picnic or something, when it’s warmer. I'm sure you can come up with a classically ‘you’ way of revealing it.”

This raised Mabel’s mood and her blush started to fade. She whispered a thank you, glad to have the burden of lying, even over something so minor, out of the way. “How are you two and the kids anyway? We didn’t have much of a chance to catch up earlier.”

“Oh, the kids are…” She came up short, suddenly aware that this was something she didn’t want to discuss in depth. “...fine.” She searched for a way to deflect the topic. “What about you guys? Ever thought about kids?”

From their vacant glances the couple didn’t seem to have given it much thought. Zera shrugged. “We haven’t talked about it much.”

“Maybe someday,” Mabel added, “but not right now. It’d be so exciting, but there’s a lot going on, settling in, getting used to living together.”

“It can be shackling,” Pacifica said offhand in such a way to not raise further attention.

Mabel tapped her chin. “Though we have been thinking about opening things up a bit in another way.” Her eyebrows wiggled and her fingers tickled Zera’s shoulder. “You know, get someone else in on the dynamic. I don’t suppose… you know anyone, Paz?”

Pacifica blinked, then diplomatically said, “There are many things I’d do for you, Mabel, but I’m not helping you find a third.”

“And I thought you humans were meant to be open about your sexualities,” Zera said, though Pacifica could tell she was joking.

“Didn’t you two just get married three months ago?” Pacifica asked, slightly uneasy with the line of questioning.

“Yeah!” Mabel said as if not even conceiving of that being a problem.

Well, if it works for them, Pacifica thought with a shrug. Eager to move on, she said, “Back to your house, it looks pleasant at least. You’ve chosen a nice spot, and the design is inviting. I’d know. Though I will say your choice in decorations are a little… eclectic.”

Pacifica pointed to the roof, which was strewn with flashing coloured lights. There was even a cardboard sleigh pulled by straw reindeer. When Mabel went all out with decorating, she went all out. “I think you forgot the fact that Christmas was nearly a month ago.”

“Well, we moved in after Christmas ended, so we missed our chance to decorate. I had to make up for that devastating loss. In this house the decorations stay up ‘til February! That’s a Mabel promise!” She nodded vigorously, while Zera did the same with less energy. “Though the lights do keep attracting giant moths and Peek-a-blights. This town is great, but the locals can be annoying. I’ll have to create another unicorn shield when I have the time.“

“So you finally decided to settle in one spot,” Pacifica said with some respect. For some years now Mabel had been an itinerant, wandering not only this country, but all over the world. Even getting hitched hadn’t tied her down.

“My New Year’s Resolution was to make roots for myself. You know what my life’s been like.” Pacifica nodded. She was all too aware of Mabel’s ‘career’ in protesting corporations and the government. Taking a break from all that would probably do her some good. “I wanna help out with my protest groups, but made a promise to myself and to Zera to stick it out in one place for a year, maybe two, to see how it goes.”

“The great agitator, May Pines, finally calling it quits?”

“Not entirely. I’ve been running communication lines for contacts all up the West Coast. I’ve got invaluable tactical knowledge.”

“Let me guess: you know a guy who knows a guy, and your job is introducing other guys to those guys.”

“Got it in one, Paz.” She winked and pointed finger guns in Pacifica’s direction. “It’s not as satisfying as chucking a brick at a cop’s head, but it is probably more practical in the long run.”

Pacifica shook her head “I don’t get it. You're saving little ducklings crossing the street one minute and trying to tear down society the next.”

“Two sides of the same coin, sister. Can’t make a better world without a dash of compassion and a pinch of action.”

Something about the way Mabel talked about this stuff always confused Pacifica. On the one hand was the Mabel she’d known since childhood, happy-go-lucky and carefree, and on the other was some kind of tactical planner aiming to overthrow the government. It jarred, even as she was somewhat sympathetic to her aims.

Beneath all the sunshine and rainbows and smiles was a girl who wasn’t afraid to pack a mean punch. She probably got it from her conman of an uncle. Mabel had always been attracted to shady people. When Pacifica found out that her first serious boyfriend, an emo teenager, turned out to be a stack of gnomes out to woo her, suddenly everything about Mabel’s love life made perfect sense. Zera was no different, with her history scamming people beyond the stars. Pacifica wondered if she ever looked up at the night sky on nights like tonight and felt a pang of longing for where she’d grown up. Did Zera have the same conflicted emotions that she did towards a home that she both adored and reviled?

Pacifica didn’t know the answer. She did know that Zera and Mabel seemed happy together in married bliss, so she wasn’t about to judge them too harshly. She gave a single chuckle and ran her hand through a stream of bubbles. She enjoyed the sensation as it lightly massaged her tired joints. “Not bad for a day that started with a funeral,” she said idly to herself.

“That’s why we’re out here,” Mabel said, turning glum. “I got all depressed and miserable during the memorial earlier. Then we went and got ice cream for lunch and I felt way better!”

“Hooray for you,” Pacifica muttered under her breath.

“Plus we get to see the light show.”

Though the stars still illuminated the canopy above, Pacifica couldn’t see even a glimmer of a meteor trail. The girls had been unlucky tonight, missing the apogee of the cosmic event. As she watched the lights twinkle through the atmosphere, she felt a sudden twinge of guilt. Mentioning the funeral had been a mistake. It reminded her that somewhere up there, out in the vast omniversal web of time and space, Wendy had given her life to save this world.

“How do you do it, Mabel? How do you mourn someone you never truly knew when they were alive?”

“Say what now, Pacifica?” Mabel was caught off guard by this line of questioning.

“How do you deal with the fact those days are gone and you can never get them back no matter how hard you try? I missed my chance to understand her.”

“Are you talking about Wendy?” Zera asked, her first contribution to proceedings in a while. “I didn’t know her much either. Like, half an hour at best. Nor Eli,” she added for Mabel’s benefit. “It was a busy day.”

She stretched a hand over to Mabel, who planted a kiss on her knuckles. Mabel straightened her back. “Hey, we don’t need to get all mopey about that. Not when we’ve got a Turbo Deluxe, top of the range Minerva Spa 5000! With all the extra features!” She cranked a dial on the edge of the tub, sending out a forceful jet of bubbles right beneath where Pacifica was sitting. The water churned and swirled, forming a miniature whirlpool in the centre. “It’s got multicoloured mood lighting, directional controls on all of the vents, plus a complimentary seating deck and chairs, vibrating seat functions, a mini-fridge accessory…”

Listening to Mabel rattle off endless pointless facts about bubble flow and seating optimisation, Pacifica found herself entering an almost trance-like reverie. The comfortable warmth of the water made her muscles slacken and her mind spin in circles.

“I wish I cared as much as you,” she blurted out, cutting off Mabel in mid-flow.

“It’s never too late to get into hot tubs in a big way!”

“No, not about that.” Pacifica’s voice cut through the air. She’d had to raise her voice to be heard over the churning water. Mabel sat there opposite, slightly stunned. When she spoke again it was hoarsely. “I wish I could care as much as you can about anything. You always have so much passion for life. There are times I feel like I can barely match it. Mason has it too, the way he obsesses over his journals and investigating mysteries. I like doing a lot of things - I don’t know if I actually love any of them.”

Mabel waved a dismissive hand “Ah, We all get a little down at this time of the month.” She winked exaggeratedly.

Pacifica blinked in response. “N- No, Mabel- I’m not on my period.”

“Phew, that’s good. Me neither!”

Slightly baffled, Pacifica tried to steer the conversation back on track. “It’s not seasonal, I just… maybe I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

“That’s the thing with bleeding and cramps, yeah?” Zera asked. She leant towards Pacifica as if in explanation. “My body cycle is pretty different to a human’s.”

Pacifica glanced from Zera to Mabel and back, her mind uncomfortably racing with thoughts of alien anatomy. “Are you two even… compatible?” She tapped the ends of her fingers together while stifling a blush.

Mabel suddenly looked down at her with a serious expression. “What, you want to know if we were planning to spend all night scissoring til we pass out?”

“Ew, Mabel! That’s the grossest thing you’ve said all night.” She blushed uncomfortably and covered her face with a hand, leading Mabel to burst into giggles. “Don’t you have any kind of filter before you speak?” she shouted.

“Well sure. It was just funny to make you squirm.” Mabel splashed a handful of water in Pacifica’s direction, mindful to miss on purpose so as not to agitate her arm. “Come on, hot-tub time is the best for letting out all that kind of personal biz. We could play Truth or Dare or Don’t!”

Pacifica leant her head back so far she hit the edge of the hot-tub. “I hate that game. It’s nothing but pointless challenges or over-sharing things I’d rather keep to myself, and it fundamentally doesn’t work if anyone can opt out whenever they like! The last time we played it we were 17 for crying out loud!”

“I’ll take that as a ‘Don’t’, then,” Zera said.

“Oh, very droll.”

Mabel, fiddling with the dial to try to reduce the noise of the bubbles, spoke up. “You did indirectly end up dating my brother because of that game though. It made you so mad you stormed off and had that ‘quiet moment’ together where you ‘talked things out’.” Mabel made air quotes with her fingers. “Maybe we could talk things out now? If there’s something bugging you.”

“It’s nothing, I’m perfectly fine,” she lied, sinking into the water to try and hide her expression.

“Come on Paz. Five minutes ago you were getting all existential on us, with all the missed chances and mourning junk. Is this about Wendy? Or yourself?” Holding up her palms, Mabel stood up out of the water. “Look, you don’t have to say anything you don’t want to, but this is an accepting space where no-one will judge you.”

“I might judge you a little,” Zera said with a sly grin. Mabel kicked water in her face and shot her a dirty look. That only made Zera’s shark-like expression widen.

“The point is,” Mabel continued, “that we might be able to help. We won’t know how to do that unless you spill some beans.” She looked around for a can of beans to knock over but was disappointed.

Pacifica floated indecisively, face half in and half out of the water. “It’s… kind of a lot.” Mabel remained smiling, inviting her to speak her truth. “I…” After everything she’d been through today, what was one more risky step? “It’s the pregnancy,” she bluntly stated, and before either of the others could do anything but pull confused looks she carried on. “Yeah, I gave birth six months ago, I get it. But damnit, I still don’t feel normal again. I’m stuck with a body I can’t stand the sight of even though I’m fully aware it’s average at worst, and a baby I’m shackled to for the rest of my life.”

Mabel tried to interject but Pacifica wasn’t done. “It’s not a fairytale motherhood. It’s vomit, and shit, and crying, and staying awake all night terrified something might happen and regretting it and not regretting it… it’s too much.” She clasped a hand over her eyes and ran it through her hair. She breathed in and out. “I can handle Merrise. She’s mature enough to take care of herself most of the time. Just when I’m warming to one kid - bam! I get saddled with another of the little bastards.”

“Hey, don’t be like that,” Mabel reprimanded, more disappointed than angry. “You’re supposed to love Wendy. You always said she was such a blessing.”

“I know, and I do. That’s the problem. She’s the most important thing in my life and yet I’m repulsed by the thought of having to care for her and the way I’ve reacted. Look at me!” She angrily thrust herself towards Zera and Mabel, who tried to avoid staring. “I don’t know what you see but I see a freak. It’s not rational, it’s not pleasant, and it sure as fuck isn’t the way I want to feel about my appearance. I can’t help it. I’m… damaged goods.” She wrapped her arms around herself in as tight an embrace as she could manage.

There was a moment of silence, where the only sound was the humming of the hot tub. “Uh, maybe I should go inside?” Zera motioned to get out of the water but Mabel shot her down with a look and pulled her back.

Mabel spent a few seconds wringing her hands, then scooched around the edge of the hot tub, slowly moving to sit beside Pacifica. She reached to put an arm around her shoulders but held back when Pacifica flinched. A second later she tried again and held her friend in a light hug. They rocked together gently from side to side. “Oh Pacifica, baby. You don’t have to face it alone. Have you told-“

“Mason? Not yet, not ever if I can help it. It’s not like he doesn’t help out with the kids, he’s been a great father. But it’s not the same. He treats me like a goddess most of the time. The last thing I want is to be put on a pedestal.”

Zera mouthed something to Mabel, who similarly fired back, darting her eyes over to Pacifica to make her point. With a sigh Zera stayed where she was, grudgingly accepting whatever her wife had signalled. Mabel slowly stroked Pacifica’s hair.

“Your folks are back in the Cube again,” Mabel said.

Pacifica shot up straight and shifted a little away from Mabel. “So, so what? Why should I care?”

‘The Cube’ was their derogatory nickname for the modernist house the Northwest family had moved into after losing the manor. It was blocky and passionless, clad in grey and black that made it look like a concrete brick had been dropped in the middle of town. A high surrounding wall further removed it from the common inhabitants, though it couldn’t live up to the privileged position the family had once commanded. The Northwests now spent their time moving around, living for certain months here and the rest of their time at a beachfront property in Los Angeles. They had never been fond of the town, with its magic always uncomfortably intruding, treating it more as an obligation than a home.

Mabel shrugged. “Just making conversation,” she said half-heartedly, and Pacifica could tell her words had a deeper meaning.

“Don’t gimme that bull. Are you trying to set me off?”

“It might work to redirect your emotions. You can start by analysing how your negative thoughts all feed back to one source.”

“Mabel, I already know my parents were terrible. For crying out loud, they’re corporate ghouls! They basically abused me!”

“I know. But they don’t have anything to do with your life anymore. You don’t have to carry around some bitter hatred for them everywhere you go. You can just… let it go.” Mabel put her hands over her heart. “I’m not saying you have to forgive them, that would be awful of me.”

Pacifica rolled her eyes into the back of her skull. “Oh yeah, cause it’s so easy to come to terms with! It’s alright when you reconcile with your parents. They aren’t fundamentally awful people!” She pressed her fists against her forehead. “Maybe those assholes had a point. The greedy little girl who can’t even be satisfied when everything in her life falls into place. When am I gonna get it through my thick skull that I’m a broken piece of property!” Her hands began to tremble. Her next words were choked out. “Or is even that too grandiose? Why can’t it ever be simple? Can’t I be allowed to feel this way without a sense of entitlement. Or am I a narcissist raised by narcissists?”

“Neither. You’re better than that now though!” Mabel’s voice was insistent, trying to get her to pierce through the haze of doubt. “You’re totally nice.”

“Don’t act like I’ve done a complete 180,” she spat. “I still act all superior to people. You might not see it but there are times when I treat people like dirt.”

“Like how you’re treating yourself, right now?” Pacifica recoiled as if she’d been slapped in the face. She made to give a retort but Mabel shut her up. “They’re still acting through you, your dear old mom and dad. You can’t let them Paz. Imagine how you’d react if, say, your mom insulted me.”

She chuckled weakly. “I’d probably start a shouting match.”

Mabel grinned. “That’s the Pacifica I know. Who don’t take no guff from nobody! Not even her own self-doubt! It’s never stopped you before.” Pacifica stared down through the water at herself, floating in the bubbling pool. “You can’t get trapped inside a bubble. Trust me, I’ve been there. Literally.”

“Ever since I was born I’ve been trapped,” Pacifica replied morosely. She was then hit by a counter wave of emotion, making her feel vain for treating her life in such a way. She tried to push through and verbalise. “My parents moulded me into a perfect little clone to do their bidding. I was smothered in femininity from day one, all those expensive dresses and jackets and boots. All a means to make me constantly doubt my own self-image.”

“But I thought you like wearing pretty outfits?” Mabel was struggling to keep up with all the reversal her friend was laying out.

“I do! But do I like them because of me, or because my parents forced me to like it?”

“Why does it matter? You left them behind a long time ago. They don’t get to ruin your life now they aren’t a part of it.” Mabel hit a fist into the water. “You don’t have to follow what they tried to instil in you. You didn’t when you walked out on them at 17! You didn’t when you got married to someone they’d never choose!”

“I don’t know, Mabel. It’s like I’m in quicksand with no way out. Every time I have a pang of disdain my brain makes me guilty for being so dramatic and it makes me feel even worse. I can’t even be depressed without my privilege mucking it up. I don’t think this is something you can fix with ice cream.”

“Then we’ve gotta start with something we can fix, and work our way out from there.” Mabel held her arms open, inviting her in for a hug. Pacifica wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and let herself be enveloped in a warm embrace. “I know what we can focus on.” Mabel pointed at the bird’s skull. “I get why you’re out here in the middle of the night chasing a rumour. Your family and the Corduroys - there’s bad blood there. I think you wanted to do your part to reach across the aisle, to prove you really aren’t like the Northwests who came before. Like when you pulled that lever at the party all those years ago. No wonder you’re feeling that way, with all the memories of Wendy swarming around. It must be maddening, huh?”

Pacifica broke the hug and stared Mabel in the eye. She often looked down on her friend due to a perception of lower intelligence - another symptom of the huge ego bestowed on her by her privileged upbringing no doubt. While Mabel might not know a lot of technical jargon, she could be skilled and practical, as well as keenly emotionally intelligent. That explained her cavalier attitude to certain topics this evening. She was paving the way, subtly opening up the conversation so as to lead Pacifica into being more comfortable with serious matters. As conversational strategies went it was novel, she could acknowledge that much.

She gave a stuttering laugh. “Alright Mabel. I think I’ve had enough of pouring my heart out to you. I’m ready to try whatever you have on offer.”

“If I might offer a suggestion,” Zera said tentatively, probably afraid of triggering another breakdown from Pacifica. After how she’d acted, Pacifica couldn’t blame her. “If you want to do something practical you could finish tracking down this Unshriven thing. It sounded like something you wanted to follow through to the end. Just a thought.”

“I wish I knew how to. I tried taking a swing at it but when I tried a second time my attack went straight through. Like attacking a cloud of mist. Maybe it’s for the best. I mean, you guys saw those tusks. I would hate to be on the wrong end of them.” Mabel and Zera shared uncomprehending looks, causing Pacifica to frown. “Wait, you guys did see it right? It rubber-banded over your fence right before I fell in your pool.”

Mabel glanced at the fence and pursed her lips. “Paz, there was nothing there before you blundered in out of nowhere.”

“But then- It must have been this.” She pinched the amulet between two fingers to show it to the couple. The gemstones in the empty eyes sockets once again failed to share any answers. “This was supposed to let me find the Unshriven. Corduroy had said it had special properties. It allowed me to track the creature… but then what? Fat lot of good it does me if I can’t fight it.”

Mabel scratched her chin, unsure of how to help. She was satisfied that her friend had a practical goal to help her overcome, or at least overlook, her issues for now. “If an aggressive killer draugr monkey shits in the woods but there’s no-one around to see it, was it really there?”

“It wasn’t a monkey.”

“Huh?” Mabel felt that Pacifica had taken offence to the wrong part of the statement.

“Monkeys have tails. This was an ape. Maybe that’s the point?”

“You’ve lost me completely now,” Mabel said.

Pacifica ignored her and turned the osprey skull around so the base was facing outwards rather than the top of the head. “It’s a philosophical point. If the Unshriven is a being of higher consciousness then perhaps I’ve not got a clear enough mind. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t hit it more than once? A failure of perception.”

Mabel followed her trail to its conclusion. “So if it’s some kind of 5th dimensional thingy then it sounds like you need some way to operate on the same level.”

Pacifica smiled and let the skull hang loose. “Thanks Mabel, but I doubt you can help. We probably need some kind of dream ritual from the journal.”

“That’s where you’re wrong sister, I’ve got exactly what you need.”

“Unless it’s a magic potion then I doubt it.”

Mabel waggled her eyebrows. “Oh, it’s a potion alright.” Pacifica’s frown at Mabel’s next words was probably visible in the next state over. “Ever heard of a little something called LSD?”

[raisindave]

[Chapter 6] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

You realize your fists were clenched before your mind even had the chance to become conscious. Waking up from rapping at the thin door only feet away from your head made fear and panic surge through your blood. Someone’s here. Someone’s outside the door. Wake up.  

“Grant,” a familiar feminine tone, it’s Laswell. “Get up, we got something.”

For the sterile conditions of an abandoned bunker, it becomes somehow eerier and more unsettling when nobody else is awake. Like the concept of space and time doesn’t exist, where you and Laswell are the only two echoing footsteps on the planet. In the palm of your sweaty hand, you held the CIA booklet you wrote your notes in earlier, dogeared, but the same. 

“That convoy we’re tracking started transmitting a signal. We need to know if there’s anything we can use.” Laswell spoke, pushing the office door open with her forearm, meeting Graves already seated inside. “They’re using some sort of private network to break up their cellular transmissions, but we have a few tricks of our own.”

“The MAC address says that we can be almost certain that this device was in the same location as the stolen weapons, and their zig-zagging movements tell us that they’ve got something to hide.” Graves said, catching your reflection in the thin, wiry glasses on the tip of his nose.

You smooth your hair back, taking in the surroundings. Two laptops and a tablet were connected with heavy wires on the same industrial metal table you spent the previous day at. For all you know, it’s technically the same day.

Graves shifts the laptop to you, a blank text document inviting you to sit and do your fucking job like what he chewed you out for yesterday. In an act of defiance, veiled by due diligence, you decline, sliding crisp white paper across the metal surface.

“I prefer to write it down. More control,” you spoke, not meeting his gaze.

Laswell hummed in approval behind you, detecting movement; you turned to see her wheeling a bulletin board from the corner, flipping it over to reveal the plain green canvas of a chalkboard. She craned her neck to unclasp a small box built into its side, pulling out pale chalk and neatly placing it on the shelf lining the chalkboard. Meanwhile, Graves pulled up live audio on the laptop from a feed pulsating lines of waveform visualization. Static, thumps, and clicks came from the wiry headphones as you habitually slid them over your ears. 

Steady static and the occasional lurch of feedback crept from the headphones. Seconds turned into minutes as you sat, quite literally on the edge of your seat. Expecting something, anything, eventually. The absence of stimulation makes your fingers restless, as excess energy translates into your knee bouncing. Only the unpredictable click of interference in the background alerted you that you weren’t just listening to an empty transmission. 

A calm Russian conversation suddenly interrupted the silence, commanding your body to shift into a more attentive position. The change in your posture must have alerted the others as the sound of rustling fabric shifted behind you. You could practically feel the heat from their bodies as they loomed over you like the angel and devil on your shoulders. 

Conversation between three men, two Russian, one speaking Cantonese, your fingers whirling the pen to transcribe the information. Confusion and fatigue swept over you as your eyes caught up with the sentences you frantically cited. Their pointless dialogue was about the first Russian guy’s daughter’s birthday.

Minutes passed as the second Russian voice spoke to the Cantonese speaker, patiently and calmly describing in picture-perfect detail the best way to prepare canned Pilaf so it stayed crisp and fragrant. The best rice to use is Rapan, but Osman will also be sufficient. If you can get your hands on some almonds for garnish, it adds a pleasant crunch to the meal. The Cantonese speaker responded in fractured Russian about whether peanuts could be a good substitute. 

This couldn’t be the right transmission. 

Pushing the headphone pad off one of your ears, you turned in your chair to meet the furrowed eyebrows of Laswell and Graves, who had clearly come to the same conclusion. Graves turned curtly, huffing an exhale as he paced away, leaving Laswell holding a stern, void stare into nothingness. Graves’ pacing brought him back around, snatching up the white paper containing your transcriptions, once again urgently flickering his pale eyes over the paper. 

“Do you recognize the voices?” Laswell finally interrupted after what seemed like an eternity while the Russians in your headphone pads discussed the perks of cast-iron cookware.

“Negative,” you breathed, exhaustion catching up with you. 

“Is there any indication that there’s a relation?”

“Negative,” you said, watching stubborn frustration wash over Laswell’s face.

Heavy sleepiness smoothed over your nerves, and unused energy and alertness crept out of you. At this point, Graves was already down the hall, still pacing, but now at a distance. 

“I’ll sit and listen, but I’ll call you in if I get something.” Your voice cut into the room, eliciting Laswell’s gaze to finally rise from the void to meet yours. 

It took Laswell time to respond, as if she was running the situation through thousands of simulations in her mind. Conversation within the headphone pad on your ear continued about the benefits of ginger tea before bed. Instead, Laswell turned on her ankles to swing a chair up beside your position at the table, pulling up one of the laptops to begin typing. Laswell’s rhythmic tapping and steady dialogue about bedtime practices whispered to your conscience how warm and cozy your cot must be right now. 

Heavy eyelids obscured your view of the screen. Why is it now that now your body blesses you with the ability to sleep instead of all those sleepless nights thus far? Your workout this morning, or maybe more like yesterday, aches in your bones, becoming acutely aware of every form of stimuli except the one in front of you. Graves enters the room and talks to Laswell as you dedicate your full attention to the broadcast. Begging for anything more useful than cooking advice. 

Unexpectantly, your conscience hooks on the specific phrasing of something said in passing. A single out-of-place sentence that made your shoulders stiffen. The second Russian’s voice shifted away from his casual tone as if reading something. Clicking back a few seconds, you reviewed the sentence in its entirety. There was an intro and closing ‘dear [...]” and “sincerely, [...]”, a queue that made you kick your chair forward to lock into a more attentive position. Laswell’s rhythmic tapping halted. 

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ you transcribed the voices within your headphones, translating the gravelly Russian voice into legible English, ‘the Dumplings are out of the oven, and we’ll be-’ Static interrupted the dialogue, giving you a moment’s grace to catch up with transcription ‘-roads have been smooth. Thank you for your understanding.'

Your breath quickened. Pen scrawling over the paper in steady, controlled motions, contrasted by your wild expression that must have caught Laswell's attention.

“What’cha got.” Laswell scooched her chair in closer, the distant pacing down the hall halting, then picking up pace in your direction. 

Relief and tension danced in your mind, along with a whirlwind of emotions and a sudden awareness of the tightness of your shirt’s collar. Underlining points in jutting pen strokes, you give yourself a moment's pause to gather yourself before explaining your sudden intrigue. Two sets of expectant eyes met yours, pleading. 

“I think I’ve got something, but it’s hard to tell for sure.” You croaked, Laswell attentively jotting down notes on the chalkboard. 

“What, what - what is it,” Graves spoke urgently, impatience radiating from his posture.

“When you’re transmitting sensitive information, you’ll use padding at both the beginning and end of short messages to protect them from crypto-analytical attacks by the enemy.” You spoke, making useless hand motions to emphasize your points, “It essentially works to signify that the important part of the message is between an opening and closing phraseology signifier.” Reciting the textbook definition effortlessly due to hours of relentless study. 

“How can you tell if it’s padding phraseology or civilian conversation?” Laswell asserted, crossing her arms over her tidy blue button-up.

“That’s the thing, you kind of just have to have an ear for it,” your eyes unwavering from the fluctuating soundwaves on the screen, “it’s something that might not entirely make sense within the context of the conversation.”

“What does this mean?” Laswell taps her fingernail on the paper where you underlined, making the metal table rattle. “Could ‘dumplings’ be some sort of co-”

Just then, you clasp your palms over the headphones in an attempt to isolate the sounds coming from the laptop. Apparent urgency in your tone sucked the voices from Laswell’s throat, and silence fell like a heavy blanket. Your dry eyes followed the motion of the soundwaves on the screen, capturing your rapt attention. 

‘I hope all is well. This tool we’ve got will do wonders to help you clear out those pests in our backyard. The red and blue fuckers that keep tossing stuff over the fence. Speaking of which, there’s some hot weather coming tomorrow. Keep an eye on the road conditions.’ A generous pause, with a hint of feedback, followed, ‘... we have the tools . Let’s see if we can bring them home in time for the road trip. Take care now.’

A third Russian voice interjected, static at first, followed by ‘and that the Uniforms are ready… two thirty-five, expect us. Best wishes. ’ The transcription cuts with a click. 

Recognition triggered in your brain, as you identified the familiar voice of Smokey , the chainsmoking trucker from yesterday, speaking with an unknown additional party. His tone was different, more serious and stern. Running your fingers through your scalp, you leaned back in your chair, neurons firing on all cylinders to make sense of the dialogue. A scrawling circle around the name Smokey caught the attention of the shadows behind you, sending them to exchange a flurry of urgent conversation and scrawling on the chalkboard. 

Uniforms? I thought he exclusively transported logs, and why so early? Tools… Tools… The Russian word for tools could be multipurpose. It could mean hammers, lawnmowers, cutlery or… weapons. Ominously nondescript but just vivid enough to trigger alarm bells.

Your scrambling hands copied your thoughts onto the paper, another frantic circle capturing the importance of the use of the Russian word tool . A glance at the digital clock said that it was 01:38, leaving just under an hour for whatever was about to happen. Snapping out of your pensive trance, Laswell and Graves were exchanging words behind you. Cold sweat pooled in your palms, wiping them on the thighs of your cargo pants, dry eyes whirling across your paper. Suddenly, said scrawlings were swiped off the table by Graves’ hand, dragging your attention to focus on the conversation in front of them. 

“-I need a percentage, Grant, how sure are you that this is what you say it is?” Graves held your paper to your nose, “This sentence padding, this tool , are these our guys?” 

“Ninety-five percent,” your voice squeaked, folding damp palms over each other. “But we don’t know where, or even a direction, I-”

“We have coordinates for a potential meetup spot we gathered from… an informant,” Graves interjected. The verbiage of ‘informant ’ made your skin crawl, and Laswell’s posture infinitesimally shifted.

“But I’d need to listen again. I need to check fo-” Graves interrupted your speech.

“No time. We have to hightail it out there,” Graves shifted, now clearly speaking to Laswell rather than you, ending his sentence with a curt nod. 

She nodded in response, clicking her pen off and on repeatedly. The energy in the room shifted from an eager and attentive tone to tense and grave. 

“Wake the boys,” Laswell spoke, uncrossing her arms. “Kitted up and moving in fifteen.” 

With that, Graves was out the door, breaking into a hurried jog as soon as he entered the hallway. Laswell scooped the laptop into her arms; frantic, hurried movements with practiced accuracy enraptured your attention. The distant commotion of pounding on doors, paired with Laswell’s urgent movements to unplug and package cables overstimulated your senses. 

“You’re coming too.” Her voice cut through the daze, your eyes snapping to meet hers

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Master List

[seasonedskillet]

14.03.2025

i first started this blog as a way to try and document the different dishes i made, and to jot down recipes that i threw together whenever they ended up being tasty so that i could recreate them in the future. i haven't been very consistent -- with the blog, at least. i love to take photos and write down approximate recipes of the food i make, although the recipes end up scattered in random notebooks, whatsapp messages to my mother, and in my iphone notes app. more recently, i've been following written recipes rather than putting things together based on cravings and inspiration while making grocery lists. i'm proud to be at a point where i feel confident enough in cooking techniques and my own palette to improvise a variety of dishes. but this year, especially this ramadan, i've been enjoying consulting cookbooks and online recipes again. the recipes i've followed most often this month have been the ones mamma wrote down for me for my birthday.

the small, laminated pages resemble flashcards on a key ring. pale blue with colourful text and little illustrations of spices, cutlery, snacks. she took great pride in designing (canva) and printing (her local copyshop) these recipe cards for me herself! my favourite curries, desserts, hedhikaa, and a few odd recipes that she treasures herself make up these recipes, and it has made me so happy to flip through it and hear her familiar voice instructing me from the pages. this month, i've also called up dhondhatha, mamma's oldest sister, to ask for her bajiya recipe. for a while now, i've felt inspired to practice more maldivian cooking. cooks from around the world, but particularly palestinian cooks and bakers, inspire me to learn about and preserve my national cuisine. every day, it feels more urgent, with the rising tide of westernisation on one hand and the literal tides of sea-level rise on the other threatening to wash away our culture. i would love to someday travel from island to island in the maldives, tasting and cooking the dishes unique to each one. every week, there are messages on the family whatsapp about a relative or family friend passing away. cancer and other terminal illnesses seem so pervasive among maldivians. i can't help but feel hyperaware of the loss of the oldest living generation of my people.

anyway, i recently started reading samin nosrat's 'salt, fat, acid, heat' (another birthday gift from mamma). i loved the netflix series when it first came out, and have been wanting to get my hands on the book for a couple of years now. i'm only a dozen or two pages in, but it's already such a wonderful read! starting this book is what made me want to start writing about my relationship to food and cooking myself. i want to use this blog as a space to reflect on the lessons i've learned about food and cooking, the recipes and techniques, the inspiration, travelling, the politics of food... the list goes on! for a start, i would definitely like to dedicate one blog post just to my evolution as a home cook and baker. i feel so lucky to live in a big city, where i can try foods from all over the world just by hopping on a train or bus. more to come!

also, i just realised it's pi day 🥧

[scottelkartwork]

ARTWORK

Paul Gauguin

Te burao (The Hibiscus Tree), 1892

Te raau rabi (The Big Tree), 1891

Chicago Institute of Art

Completed early in Paul Gauguin's first Tahitian sojourn, this landscape shows the artist grappling with representing an unfamiliar environment. Rather than documenting botanical species scientifically, Gauguin focused on the artistic potential of their variegated colors, textures, and forms. The human figure in the distance and the dog roaming through fallen branches activate the landscape and establish a sense of scale.

"Everything in the landscape blinded and dazzled me,"

wrote Paul Gauguin of his first months in Tahiti. Here, he showcased the island's variety of bountiful fruit trees, including a thick-trunked, violet botu at left; spindly mango and coconut trees; and three short banana plants with lush, splayed leaves. In the foreground, a man uses a stick to crack a coconut and a family rests in the grass with a sleeping dog beside them. The painting's coarsely woven canvas, made of a fibrous plant matter (jute), is visible through the paint layer. Cheaper and more readily available than traditional canvas, this support material lends the work a rugged, organic texture.

What I connect with…

I liked these if I blurred my eye's and was viewing from a distance, but they fell apart for me as I got closer. They feel like they are hanging on to representation so fiercely, when their spirit is longing for abstraction. For my current practice where I am abstracting landscapes, these are good case studies for me helping to define my likes and dislikes. Thanks Gauguin.

[automatismoateo]

I was made fun of for being an atheist today in class :( via /r/atheism

I was made fun of for being an atheist today in class :( I feel very hurt and upset. I know it’s stupid but I feel like this kind of thing should count as discrimination against religious beliefs, even though I lack them. In a sense they were making fun of me for my lack of religious beliefs. Anyways I was in my forensics science class and my group partners are M and S (which, might I add, weren’t actually helping with the project the whole time and expecting me to do everything.) We had to join groups on Canvas and so I say “Let’s join group 6. Haha, 666. Halloween.” Or something like that, just cracking a harmless joke. Well, they FREAK OUT. Asking me crap like “Whoa, are you a satanist?” And saying “You need to pray! You need to pray!” I’m so flabbergasted I’m just like “Guys…you don’t ACTUALLY believe that stuff, right…?” They say “We’re Christians, we love Jesus, we’re followers of God, etc.” (Did I mention they trash talk everyone all class long and that S is literally gay) So I say something like “Oh, I’m an atheist, I don’t believe it!” (To show I wasn’t trying to conjure the devil or something.) Then I add “I’ve even written 72 pages why, actually.” So then they start asking me all about my book, asking like “Let us read it! I’ll write 72 pages why I’m a believer of Jesus” etc. and I’m basically peer pressured into sharing my document with them. I didn’t want to do it but they kept teasing me about it and I eventually felt too upset to ignore them. So then S literally reads the first page OUT LOUD, making fun of it, even though what I wrote wasn’t weird at all, it’s written in a very statement-factual kind of way. Eventually they get bored and M starts reading it on her own next to me, saying stuff like “I’m gonna read all 72 pages” and “You must really like to write” in a mean tone. What really sealed the deal was how afterwards she turns to me and asks “Do you think humans came from monkeys or that God made them?” With this sarcastic tone, as if implying I was super stupid for believing in evolution. Not only is that not how evolution works, but she said it to make me look dumb without actually offering me a chance to explain myself. After class I felt like crying because of how humiliating it all was. The kids around us were giving each other weird looks and I can only imagine the rumors they’re going to start, calling me a satanist. I just know they’re going to say that cause of the 666 joke I made. Or that I’m a school shooter or something. I just don’t know what to do. I want to talk about it with my teacher or something but I feel like I’d be making a big deal out of nothing. Update: I have thought of a good insult for S though, who is always talking shit, in case he insults me again tomorrow. “Maybe instead of talking so much shit you should suck a dick - oh wait, you already do that, don’t you? Does God know about that?” (Mwahahaha) Submitted October 31, 2023 at 08:35PM by PocketGoblix (From Reddit https://ift.tt/K74ryjQ)

[almond-vivi]

Please don’t buy it yet if you want certain features. I have it and while it is workable. There are things like the lasso tool and transformation tool that are unavailable to use. They are planed for the future tho. Just not sure when it will come. They just barely added double tap on the Apple Pencil to work in dreams like a day or two ago, if I remember right. It does have the viability and can do great and big works. It just kinda hard to work with and it works against you if are really use to how procreate works and want features other animation apps came out with when they first released.

You can’t make custom canvas size and have to change it one the document is already made and it won’t tell you if it too big and allow you to change/adjust the number. It will just choose a number, sometimes at random, to adjust too in the width/height section you tied to change the dimensions of. Their only 5 canvas size setting presets. Cinamatic, 16:9, iPad screen, instagram reels and square aspect ratios. It will sometime let you change the aspect ratio/shape of the canvas but it has been iffy for me sometimes working, Sometime not working.

They also make adjusting the keynotes/frame adjustments weird to change their hold time and the opacity was so hard to find(it unders effects if you already have it and want to change a whole tracks opacity). They don’t even have keyboard shortcuts. Tho this just might be due to the fact they haven’t implemented everything they wanted to yet and are waiting to do that before they add them and readjust the keyboard shorts mutiple time before most of the features they want are added.

Theirs also just various other things that are iffy, don’t work yet/are planned not to work, or are weird to do. You can find this out in the procreate forums and look at the dream specific post. I would honestly recommend maybe waiting at least 1 months or until the start of the next year of 2024 Jan to get it.

Again, the app is workable and can make good projects and some part it is just getting use to a new program. As other works people have made in dreams have shown. It is just not user friendly right now for the majority of people and if you don’t have the patience or time, it just not worth it right now. it is better to wait until more updates have come and quality of life feature and missing features are added.

I say this having preorder it and used it since its since the day of release, and still currently still trying to use it for my animation project for school (and also some other minor works I keep deleting out of frustration).

If their anything you, or anyone else who see this post, want to know that in it or might not be in it and how certain things/features functions before you get it, that would be a make it or break it deal for an animation app, just dm, ask or message me. This goes for anyone interested in the info. I can check it and do test and report back.

I just telling you this since this app has been just so frustrating for me and I had so much hope for it. It will get better and easier to use as time goes by. I just feel it was released too soon and don’t want anyone to give up animation because it unintuitive and hard to use. It why I haven’t gotten refunded it yet since I do think it will get better.

I can at least say that it does work well with audio and making special effects for me so far (it does do this nicely and pretty easily once you get the hang of it).

For anyone curious I use the 12.9 inch M1 iPad Pro (5th gen) with 16gb ram that comes with the 1/2 tb and also baseline iPad Pro 11 inch that was before the M1 iPads. I can’t test it how well it works for any other type or generation of iPads for those who want to know that info.

Post taken from my replies since i realized it might be easier to read in a reblog and adjust and add info for what I wrote to be better understood and give more context.

You know what?

After I finish my Movie Verse Mr. L comic... I think... I think I'll buy Procreate Dreams... and actually... learn to animate???