#some kind of hazy masterpiece pulled from the depths

[kedreeva]

I found the Sentinel AU very inspiring, so I decided to draw you something to show my appreciation

That's about the point that I remembered I don't actually draw and in fact rarely doodle. Here is my possessed doodle anyway

I'm going to write a second chapter now

[josy72]

Adèle Haenel ✨ Noémie Merlant ✨

‘Portrait of a Lady on Fire’ Review: This Is Céline Sciamma’s Masterpiece

Portrait Of A Lady On Fire

Céline Sciamma’s Portrait of a Lady on Fire will probably draw comparison to two recent films, Lucrecia Martel’s Zama and Luca Guadagnino’s Call Me by Your Name, for completely different reasons. As a deliberately unhurried, gorgeously shot, eerily still, nearly flawless period piece with a heavy beach presence, it brings Zama to mind. And as a totally engrossing, heartbreaking, and transitory queer romance, it’s hard not to think about Call Me by Your Name. However, as is the case with both films mentioned and any great film in their company, Portrait is a wholly unique treasure all its own.

It traces the romantic encounter of two women on an island off the French coast of Brittany, one an angry daughter trapped in a remote manor, soon to be married and shipped off to a Milanese man she’s never met, and the other a painter. In defiance of the nuptial arrangement, Héloïse (Adèle Haenel) refuses to have her wedding portrait painted. Marianne (Noémie Merlant), the painter, is hired by The Countess (Valeria Golino) to pose as an outing companion to Héloïse, the daughter, while secretly painting her portrait. Marianne is expected to mentally soak up Héloïse’s features during their walks along the towering cliffs and rocky beaches below in order to paint her when they’re not together.

However, much to The Countess’s surprise, Héloïse takes fondly to Marianne and the two develop a formal, understated friendship. They start spending more time together and, in the process, reach new depths of understanding with one another, though still in a muted sense. Soon, Marianne finishes the portrait. She feels compelled to show Héloïse and tell her the truth. The Countess allows it, recognizing the bond that’s formed quickly between the two. Héloïse isn’t too upset about it, but she and The Countess both think the painting is subpar, inaccurate, and ultimately dissatisfying. Trusting Marianne as she does, Héloïse submits to posing if The Countess will allow Marianne another chance. The Countess commissions the second round and goes into the city, leaving the two women and Sophie (Luàna Bajrami), the estate maid, alone for five days to wrap up the portrait.

For this first hour or so, the film moves along at a snail’s pace, inching ever closer to the sensual tension that brews beneath the surface with stark tonal precision. Every small, quiet, seemingly trivial moment works wonders, drawing you deeper into the swelling ambiance of forbidden love. You feel it bubbling up in the tacit moments between Marianne and Héloïse. They fixate their unblinking eyes on each other with unremittent desire, emit stolid nervous ticks, and speak only in quick bursts of conversation, as if expressing too much would expose the vulnerability they crave from one another.

Merlant and Haenel’s performances are remarkable. It’s difficult to imagine the film, so reliant on discrete expression and hidden movement, working with any other actresses. Both have incredibly robust visages, as strong as they are passionate—sharp jaw lines, high cheekbones, velvet lips, regal noses, piercing eyes, bushy dark brows. They both have a thick and luscious head of hair that’s usually pulled back into a neat bun or braid, an outward symbol of the inner restraint that cages them both romantically and culturally (as women in a staunchly patriarchal world). They wear period-appropriate dresses of solid colors, Marianne’s a rich russet and Héloïse a shadowy blue-grey, except when she’s posing, in which case she wears the plainest, most majestic emerald dress you’ve laid eyes on. The dresses are cut low at the collar to reveal smooth, elegant necks which lead down to sharply accentuated collar bones, every aspect of their appearance causing the other to ooze unspoken envy.

Sciamma wields their appearances brilliantly with an abundance of close-ups on face and body. Their faces communicate the mental and emotional gravity at stake and the relational evolution that accompanies it, while the bodies communicate a visceral yearning for intimacy, a carnal longing for love. It doesn’t matter how pronounced or still their movements are, Sciamma makes you feel everything they feel like you’re in a waking dream. When Marianne is frozen with a brush in her hand, her eyes darting back and forth between Héloïse and the canvas, the atmosphere is dense with ardor. And when Héloïse sprints fervently toward the edge of a cliff, a spliff of adrenaline and empathy invades your lungs and rushes through your veins. The mood is palpable every step of the way.

The sound and color alone achieve astounding singularity. Sciamma uses textural sound to score the film, from the smooth scratch of a paintbrush on canvas to the crunch of stiff dresses in silent rooms to the hushed smack of readied lips to the roar of the waves to the creaks and groans of the human body to the crackle of a fire. Likewise, she accentuates color to create an unparalleled tone. The baby blue walls in the house, the varied vibrance of the dresses, the true blackness of night around a bonfire, the golden skin of the women in a warm yellow hue. Even on the beach, the colors are stunningly pronounced—khaki sands, cerulean skies, and an ocean made up of at least ten shades of hazy greens and blues. The cinematography is magnificent, too, as DP Claire Mathon never lets up in her pursuit of exquisite shot composition. Keep your eyes peeled for the nude pipe-smoking shot in front of the fire, the whack-a-mole shot in grassy dunes, the bird’s eye procedure shot with a baby, the armpit-confused-as-ass-hole shot (you certainly won’t miss this one), and the opening canvas and paint shot.

Sciamma’s screenwriting and direction deserve the credit from which every other aspect flows. Her characterization of Héloïse as the titular subject of the film is a magnificent example. She constantly adds little things to her story that make a world of difference in how we understand Héloïse as opposed to leaving her to the trappings of archetypal Hollywood damsels. She’s built as an exiled, angry, yet open woman, but through paint, she’s portrayed as a headless woman in an old failed portrait attempt, and, most noticeably, a calm woman on fire in another. Adding more layers, Sciamma depicts her as a recurring ghost, a masked escapist, a common philosopher, and a sweet, gentle soul.

She is the enigma Marianne unravels throughout the film, at first bitter and lonely, but eventually, undone by the lawlessness of love, soft and kind. Even in her allowance to run out the doors unattended, she recognizes the loneliness that accompanies freedom, what she sarcastically calls the “charms of exile.” Marianne, on the other hand, is quiet and observant, like us. Her spectatorial and inquisitive nature is the lens through which we come to know the depths of Héloïse beyond what imagery can convey.

They share keen debates on art philosophy, rules, ideals, presence, sincerity, truth, loneliness, love, memory, and music, the latter three forming the holy trinity of the film’s thematic core. Lines like “Do all lovers feel like they’re inventing something?” are whispered softly in the dead of night and tiptoe into your psyche where you ask yourself the same question. Others like “Don’t regret, remember,” possess the film like an impassioned forlorn spirit and give way to poetic conversations about what it means to choose memory over love, and the romantic (or professional) agency of a woman.

But perhaps the most noteworthy aspect of Sciamma’s fourth film, among everything already mentioned, is the scant but titanic use of music. If it weren’t for every little phenomenal detail of the film, it would be worth watching for the two music scenes alone. If anyone is quick to dismiss the lack of score, they merely don’t understand the power of music as Sciamma intends to use it. The explosive, emotionally-packed moments—one with instrumentation and no voice and the other inversed—are utterly unforgettable. They’ll occupy your thoughts, your dreams, your fantasies, and, ultimately, the mass cultural lexicon of film history’s greatest moments.

Portrait begins as a still, stoic friendship and blossoms into a tender, compassionate romance, even a gushing romance at times. However, be warned that this is a poet’s romance, not a lover’s, as the film recognizes through some meta-commentary. And there’s a major difference between the two.

[jugheadonmymind-blog]

Strokes Like Speech - Jughead x Artist!Reader

This was requested so here you go! Hope you enjoy! :)

Your eyes flit up to Jughead, who’s seated a few tables away from you at Pop’s. You take in the tousled black hair that escapes his grey beanie, roving your eyes over his face and torso before looking back down at the sketchbook in your hands. You start to map out his features, hoping that you’ll be able to do him justice, humming to yourself quietly. You carry on in this manner for a few minutes, your pencil moving across the page with practiced ease, at least, until you look up and see Jughead looking straight at you. His frown deepens as he narrows his eyes, and you drop your gaze back to your sketchbook on the table.

Hearing him slam his laptop shut and slide out of the booth, you keep your head down and your eyes lowered, covering your sketchbook with your arms as you hear his footsteps nearing you. He clears his throat loudly and you’re forced to look up, meeting his expressionless eyes.

“Were you drawing me?” he asks, gesturing to the sketchbook.

“Er, yes,” you admit, “I was,”

He holds his hand out, clearly asking for the sketch, but you’re reluctant to give it to him. Would he be offended? Jughead Jones. Less than a friend, more than an acquaintance; someone you nodded at in the corridor and spoke to sometimes in class, but not someone you sat with during lunch or walked home with. He looks at you expectantly and you relinquish it to him, looking away and biting your cheek nervously as he inspects your incomplete drawing.

“Not bad,” he mutters, and your eyes snap to him.

He takes a seat opposite you, fingers on the corner of the page, ready to flip it.

“Can I have a look at the rest?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” you nod, your pulse beginning to race.

You watch him as he goes through your sketchbook, loving the way his expressions change with each piece, wishing you could capture it all. Like the way his lips would quirk up sometimes, or his eyes would widen before narrowing, or how expressive his eyebrows can be. It amazes you, how people would just disregard him and go straight for other guys, because if they actually took the time to look at him they’d realise that he’s actually rather attractive, in an understated sort of way. You saw him smile once; it was in class and you had muttered a witty retort under your breath at the teacher and he had heard you, snorting in amusement before breaking out in a smile, and ever since then you’re eyes couldn’t help but seek him out, wanting more.

“You’re staring again,” he states, and you snap out of your stupor, blushing furiously.

“Sorry,” you laugh sheepishly, “I just like watching you,”

His eyebrows shoot up, clearly surprised by your words.

“I mean, you’re nice to draw,” you try to correct, “You have a nice… face,”

“I have a…nice face…” he repeats slowly, trying to wrap his head around what you just said, “That’s the first I’ve heard of it,”

“I’ll stop if it bothers you, I —”

“It’s fine,” he interrupts, handing your book back to you, “I want to see it finished,”

Jughead was flattered, flattered but wary. He barely knew you. Up until this moment, you were just one of the nicer people in class who smiled at him and occasionally had casual conversations with. It almost felt too… intimate, you drawing him. Observing him closely, scrutining his features, studying the curve of his shoulders or the angle of his jaw, but he was intrigued. He wanted to see it completed.

“Really?” you whisper, incredulous, “You’ll have to keep relatively still, you know,”

“You can pay me my modelling fees by buying me a milkshake,” he smirks.

You raise your hand to flag a waitress but he hastily pulls it down, a smile playing on his lips.

“I was just kidding,”

You laugh, reaching for your pencil, getting ready to resume your sketch. Jughead remains surprisingly still for a few minutes, his eyes making a deliberate effort to avoid yours, but you purse your lips in displeasure. Something’s not right. He looks too stiff, too fake, not like the Jughead you were drawing minutes ago.

“Jughead, you’re too… It’s too…” you gesture vaguely with your hands.

He arches an eyebrow at you, “I’m just doing what you told me to do,”

“Hm,” you ponder, “Maybe if you just go back to doing what you were doing before?”

“You mean writing my novel?” he frowns.

“Yes!” you exclaim a little too enthusiastically, “That would be great,”

Jughead pulls out his laptop, setting it down on the table before him, and types. He doesn’t miss the little satisfied smile that crosses your face before you go back to sketching. He tries his best to ignore your eyes on him, but it gets more difficult with each passing minute, and before long, despite attempting to fight it, a grin begins to grow on his face.

“What’s up?” you chuckle, pencilling in his eyes.

“Nothing, this is just… weird,”

“Yeah,” you agree absentmindedly, focused on your work, “It kind of is, but we were created to look at one another, weren’t we?”

“Do you do this often?” he questions, “Draw people from afar?”

“Only those who attract me,” you mutter while struggling with his chin, not quite aware of the words that just passed your lips, and his grin widens.

A comfortable silence settles between the both of you, the only sound being the tapping of Jughead’s fingers on his keyboard and your quiet, melodious humming.

“I love your hair,” you murmur some time later, fully immersed in your work, words unconsciously spilling from your lips.

His eyes snap to you, feebly attempting to stop the corners of his lips from lifting.

“Hm, yes,” you nod lightly, “Just like that. Just like the first time,”

He frowns a little. Just like the first time? What do you mean? Were you referring to his smile? Jughead tries to think back to the first time he smiled at you, sorting through hazy memories, and he’s not sure but he thinks, he thinks, it might have been that time in class when you said something he never thought he’d hear you say that was surprisingly cleverly funny. It was that day when he started to pay you a bit more attention, his interests piqued, deciding there was more depth to you than you let on. His jaw slackens a little in disbelief, wondering if you’ve been watching him since then.

Just as he hits a small writer’s block bump, he hears you shift uncomfortably in your seat as you set your pencil down.

“Its… Done,” you beam gently, “It’s not that great but—”

He holds hand out, effectively silencing you.

It’s not any sort of impressive masterpiece but Jughead is still impressed nonetheless. In your sketch, he’s typing away on his laptop, a pleased smile evident on his face. It’s simplistic enough but your skill is evident in the soft pencil lines, and somehow you’ve managed to capture him.

“Can I keep this?” he blurts out.

You falter for a few moments, not expecting that response from him.

“Uh…”

“Or at least a photo of it?”

“Yeah sure,” your smile widens, “Of course,”

He pulls his phone out, snapping a quick photo of it before regarding you.

“You know,” he begins, looking straight into your eyes, “I’m here almost everyday after school,”

You tilt your head curiously. Is he really implying what you think he’s implying?

“And the seat opposite me is almost always empty,” he continues, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

You chuckle, “And what do you want for payment?”

He pauses for a moment, pondering over you question, wondering if you were being serious or not. He smirks at you, mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Your conversation,”

The ‘We were created to look at one another, weren’t we’ is a quote from Edgar Degas.

And the title is actually from a quote from Van Gogh, ‘ The emotions are sometimes so strong that I work without knowing it. The strokes come like speech’