#whats up with dutch artists singing in dutch and having awful times

[vogelmeister]

oh its OVER for the dutch

[dvarapala]

origins + family.

full name:  udyati kavya rao.

date of birth: may 16.

age: 20 ( verse dependent ).

social class:  lower middle.

parents: ankita rao & dad, unknown.

siblings:  none.

physical + appearance.

height:  5′6″.

weight:  60 kgs | 132 lbs.

distinguishing features:  scar on / over her left eyebrow; scar, a few cm on the right from her bellybutton.

hair color:  black.

eye color: dark brown.

what do they consider their best feature?: it’s a toss up between her hands and her smile.

style of dress/typical outfit(s):  because her body isn’t good at regulating it’s own temperature, udyati often wears layers and hoodies. a lot of dip dye colors. she also likes quotes and such on her shirts, galaxy themed clothes and alien iconography. 

jewelry? tattoos? piercings?: two earrings; one on each ear, one nose ring and two regular rings, capable of turning into different indian weaponry and back. some days she wears only one necklace; other times, it’s multiple and sometimes she wears none.

do they work out/exercise?:  yes, udyati has been trained in the art of kalari and she keeps up with it as much and as often as she can.

belief +  intellect.

level of self esteem:  in terms of school based intelligence and being book smart, her self esteem is lower than you’d think. when it comes to her knowledge of the preternatural, physicality and kalari, however, her self esteem is pretty high. generally, it used to be lower than it is in regards of her being kalindi’s puppet for years, but it’s steadily growing, day by day

known languages: hindi, english, dutch and bhūtabhāṣa, the language of the dead, which is spoken in and around the jyotisha system. she’s also been trying to teach herself dutch sign language.

gifts/talents: she can carry a tune but doesn’t sing in front of people, just in the shower. she’s done theatre and spoken word. she writes. udyati would say that she’s also good at throwing knives and kalari, though she’s been trained in those areas. also, she likes to think that listening to people and their stories is also a talent she has.

how do they deal with stress?  exercise, talking to her friends, talking a walk, writing, watching shows or movies, sleeping.

what do they do when upset?  see the above.

believe in happy endings:  yes. although there is a caveat and that is that 1) she herself probably won’t get one and 2) often, you have to fight for yours.

how do they feel about asking for help?  depends on why she’s asking help or for what. generally, she can do it. only when it comes to school work will she be a little more stubborn (than usual).

optimist or pessimist:  optimist.

extrovert or introvert:  ambivert.

leader or follower:  follower though will lead if absolutely necessary.

makes decisions based mostly on emotions, or on logic?: emotions.

spontaneous or planner: both, it depends on the context and what’s happening.

thinker or doer: both, definitely, though she leans towards being a doer.

organized or messy: organized.

worrier or carefree:  worrier.

artistic?: she does not draw herself but she does enjoy art and art galleries and museums.

mathematical?:  no. not at all. udyati has dyscalculia. she is the complete opposite of mathematical. she envies the people who are and is also in awe of them.

sex + intimacy.

current marital/relationship/sexual status:  single ( rp dependent ).

sexual orientation (is it something they question or a secret):  pansexual, she doesn’t question it, nor is it a secret. she came out to her mom after she took her to a queer poetry read during pride month.

views on sex (one night stands, promiscuity, etc):  so long as both parties are of age and consenting and so long as there is open and honest communication and it makes them feel good, then that’s okay and it’s nobody’s business but theirs. she can’t stand people who judge other people for sleeping with a lot of people or judging people for doing the complete opposite. udyati herself has gone a lot further in rps (though this is rp dependent/verse dependent) than she has in the book but generally, she sees sex as something positive.

ever been in love?:  yes.

do they fall in love easily?:  yes.

do they desire marriage and/or children in their future? udyati can’t really see herself get married or get kids. she’s essentially immortal. whether her aging is slowed or has stopped completely is yet to be determined but it’s pretty obvious she’s going to outlive everyone she ever loved. it grieves her, sometimes.

thoughts on public displays of affection?:  she likes it though will become flustered. despite this, she will reciprocate. 

how do they show affection/love to their partner?:  words of affirmation and giving gifts.

relationships.

social habits (popular, loner, some close friends, makes friends and then quickly drops them):  udyati has close friends, but that’s about it. she was never popular. she never wanted to be as in her eyes, she’d need a lot of energy she didn’t have to maintain that.

how do they treat others (politely, rudely, keep at distance, etc)?:  politely. her mom would have her head if she didn’t.

argue or avoid conflict?:  udyati used to avoid conflicts and nowadays tries to talk them out but every so often, if it’s something she’s truly passionate about, she’ll argue.

secrets.

dreams: she wants her mom to be happy and healthy. she wants her friends to be happy and healthy. she wants to graduate and get her diploma and degree. she wants to find balance between the human aspects of her life and the alien aspects of her life. but what she wants most is the one thing she probably can’t have: to make up for all the hurt and pain and death she caused while she was kalindi’s puppet.

greatest fears:  never being forgiven for what she did while she was kalindi’s puppet; losing her loved ones (due to old age and death or otherwise); ending up entirely alone in a great big multiverse.

biggest regret:  allowing herself to become kalindi’s puppet. this is not at all what happened, but this is how she has spun it within her own mind: if she’d been stronger, better, somehow, then none of that would have happened.

what he/she/they most wants to change about his/her/their current life?:  udyati wants to find balance between the human and alien aspects of her life.

likes + dislikes.

hobbies: reading, writing, training, sleeping, watching shows and movies, listening to music, hanging out with her friends.

indoors or outdoors?: both.

favorite color: sunset orange.

favorite smell:  petrichor.

favorite and least favorite food: sweet food is her favorite food. bitter food is her least favorite food.

coffee or tea?: both.

favorite type of weather:  sunny. udyati is a summer person. she does not do well with colder weather at all.

favorite form of entertainment:  at the moment, it’s audiobooks and music.

how do they feel about traveling?: he’s not a big fan, mostly because he’s usually travelling alone for work and it’s usually by car. while he does enjoy exploring new places and new cities, he would find it more enjoyable if he had someone to share in the adventure.

what sort of gifts do they like? things she can use, like knives or books. but she would also cherish getting concert tickets because it means she and the gift giver are going to do something together and that’s very fun.

drugs + alcohol.

thoughts on drugs and alcohol:  udyati doesn’t do drugs but she does occasionally like to partake in drinking. but only the sweet stuff. and only up to, like, two glasses. three, max. she prefers to keep a clear head. just in case.

do they smoke? If so, do they want to quit?  udyati does not smoke because xiomara has three quarters of a lung and asthma. aside from that, xiomara has just stopped her asthma medication after twenty years. so she wants to make that transition as easy on her best friend as she can.

have they ever tried other drugs (which, what happened, consequences):  no.

do they have any addictions?:  not that she knows of.

other details.

most important/defining event in life to date: being turned into kalindi’s puppet and breaking free from that. getting together with daisuke in book canon. 

daily routine:  wake up, get ready, go to school, go home, do assignments, hang out with her friends, lather, rinse, repeat. though, she gets called away for off planet duties a lot afterwards so she mostly does her assignment in the evening / in the night. and, no, udyati does not get enough sleep. not nearly enough. 

typical saturday night:  if she’s not catching up on assignments, or off planet, she’s hanging out with her mom, or with her friends. she tries to make as much time for both of them as she can. when she’s with her friends, they go to downtown katendam and just hang out at the skate park. sometimes they go to the movies. sometimes they sit on the sidewalk and watch people.

what is home like (messy, neat, sparse):  small and neat. but not too neat. it’s a house that’s lived in. a houe that’s loved. or so udyati keeps insisting.

pets?: if not, do they want any?:  udyati would love a pet but her mom is very allergic so no pets for her.

can they hold their breath for a long time?:  she can hold her breath for a regular amount of time.

do they know how to swim?  yeah. udyati loves being in the water. it’s a miracle she hasn’t grown gills yet.

can they cook (if so, how well and do they enjoy it)?: yes, she’s taught herself and she’s good at it. she likes it well enough but she’d just as easily get take out if her mom works late.

tagged  by :    @khozmoh <3 tagging :   you <3​

[biffhofosho]

NO WAY!! I can't believe your bias is Hyungwon also. I feel like I never meet other monbebe who are in his lane :( Fun fact, I actually couldn't pick a bias for such a long time because of how much I love all of them. One day, however, I was showing my friend one of their music videos and they asked me who my bias was. I balked at first but ultimately I had to admit I always felt so validated, appreciated, and moved by what wonnie had to say.

His songs made me feel something, unlike other artists(not compared to the other members lol). He has such a way with words and as an avid reader, I fell in love with how he wrote. His personality played a huge role in my trip also haha. I feel so safe when I listen to him sing or read stories about him. His disposition was similar to mine, I am an INTJ, and his fearless nature helped me gain confidence in myself.

ALSO, I am in awe that Wonho was your semi-first bias of MX, considering he was the one who got me into them. I saw a TikTok of him dancing and I was immediately absorbed by his energetic yet smooth style. After that, I searched them up and fell in love lol.

Although Hyungwon holds my heart, I must say Kihyun bias wrecks me so hard all the time, which isn't helpful when MX are my ults.

Anyway, enough about me, who's your bias wrecker? I feel like you are possibly a Honey mbb lol. You give off such a comforting and kind energy, yet an intelligent and analytical one at the same time. Getting to know you has already been such fun, I can't wait to develop our friendship further! Speaking of which, how should I call you? I figured since you call me Santa lol you deserve a nickname also haha(I hope that didn't come off the wrong way!)

xox mbb Secret Santa

p.s. remember to drink lots of water and eat well!! much love :)

Sorry for taking a while to respond! Weekends are busy because I do many things with my husband and kiddo, and I wanted to give you a nice, long response for your very nice, long ask. <3

You can call me Dutch or Biff on here or any kind of silly pet name you want--I'm only picky about food haha. (My real name is reserved for DMs where MX can never find me embarrassing myself lol.)

Oh, it's so true, isn't it! Where is the Hyungwon praise, people?!? At least that means it's less we have to share of him haha. :D Stil, Hyungwon (and all seven boys) deserves all the love and best things in the world. I feel like he's really only become truly comfortable in his idoldom since Wonho left, as it was pretty easy to take introvert shelter in Wonho's tremendous wingspan heh heh.

Yes, Hyungwon is as unintentionally funny as he is intentionally funny. Since Inssaoppa, too, he's really been flexing his quick wit and wordplay, and I'm here for all of it. I love that he's been given more and more creative freedom, too. He's an INFP like me, and if we can't create, we wither and die.

Almost all of my all-time fave MX tracks are written by Wonnie, particularly "Mercy" (though I hadn't realized he'd written that song until long after it had been my favorite). I remember the first time I played the No Limit album in my headphones. I had intended to fall asleep listening, but the second "Mercy" hit, an entire universe opened behind my eyes. I cried into my sheets lol. That song rattled my bones. Needless to say, it's my favorite from their whole discography, and I started an entire novel around it. So, yeah, there's that.

I'm not sure if I have a clear bias wrecker since they've all wrecked each other for me for years lol. If I go by non-Hyungwon fics I've written, my favorites tend to be Kihyun's. If I go by the numbers of photos I've saved per member, Minhyuk's and Wonho's are a dead-heat in terms of how many photos I've saved. And aren't we all Honeybebes at heart? ;) I feel the same intense compulsion to put Jooheon's head in my lap and stroke his hair that every single member of MX does. *sighs* He must me adored and babied at all costs. :D

Oh man, I've got you fooled haha. But thank you for saying such nice things about me. If I give off a 1/16th of the warmth Jooheon does, that's the highest compliment I can think of (behind you saying I write like Hyungwon *continues to sob for all eternity*).

I feel like we were matched so well for Secret Santa omfg! Your energy is just my flavor, dear Santa. <3 Thank you for being so chatty with me. Is very, very lovely. :D Can't wait to chat more!

[arts-dance]

Stranger than paradise

Naughty shepherds, lifelike angels, a mysterious vase of flowers ... there's nothing conventional about the Portinari Altarpiece Christmas is a time for nativity scenes, and this is the story of one of the greatest ever painted. But what Christmas tale would be complete without suicide, attempted suicide and madness?

The monks tried everything to soothe the famous artist who had come to live among them as a lay brother. Hugo van der Goes retired to the Red Cloister, an Augustinian monastery near Brussels, in 1475. He spent the rest of his life there, praying, painting and suffering. He was treated as a special case; he was allowed to paint, even to travel. But, according to the chronicler Gaspar Ofhuis, nothing calmed him. Van der Goes descended into deep melancholia and tried to kill himself. The monks attributed his death in 1482 to the curse of melancholy.

In the 19th century, Van der Goes had a gothic appeal for Romantic students of art. In Emile Wauters's 1872 painting The Madness of Hugo van der Goes, choirboys sing to him, while the abbot, conducting, watches the nervous, darting expression on the artist's face and the ceaseless motion of his hands. "I myself have become especially haggard of late, almost like Hugo van der Goes in the famous painting by Emile Wauters," wrote Vincent van Gogh to his brother Theo from Arles in 1888. "Except that, having had all my beard carefully shaved off, I'm as much the very placid abbot in that picture."

Van Gogh was kidding himself. Later that year he would tell Theo that obsessive painting had left him "reduced once more to the deranged state of Hugo van der Goes in the painting by Emile Wauters", and on Christmas Eve 1888 he acted threateningly towards his friend Paul Gauguin, cut off part of his own ear, and presented it to a prostitute. Van Gogh spent Christmas in hospital. His Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear, in London's Courtauld Gallery, was painted on his return in January 1889.

The image that Van Gogh most often referred to when he wanted to discuss, at a remove, art and madness was that of Van der Goes. In his letters, he harps on about Wauters's painting - the first mention is just a year after the painting was executed - and, over the years, his allusions to the picture become more confessional.

Van Gogh and Van der Goes were similar, not just in their mental fragility, but in the intensity of their art. The reason Van der Goes was treated with such respect by the monks, that royalty visited him in his seclusion, that he is remembered as one of the greatest artists of the 15th century, is because he painted one of the most universal and glorious of nativity scenes. Except there is something almost too energetic and abundant about the Portinari Altarpiece. Advertisement

It is a stranger in paradise, or at least, an outsider in the Uffizi. Van der Goes's masterpiece has been in Florence since 1483, when a boat brought it up the Arno after a hard journey from Flanders. It was commissioned by Tommaso Portinari, the Medici bank's representative in Bruges, for the church in the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova, back home in Florence. It was a way for Tommaso, so far away on business, to remind people not just of his existence, but of his civic loyalty.

The triptych consists of a large central panel with two wings. At the centre is a nativity scene intensely poised between joy and gravity, stillness and horror. Mary, in dark blue, prays to the newborn child on the ground. Joseph, to the left, is old, sombre, joining her in prayer. The shepherds seem almost to be leaping forward, their figures are so robust and elated as they squat and pray; they are very different in mood from the stately angels, whose faces are long and grave as they kneel and float all around. The setting is in the ruins of King David's palace - there is no glass in the gothic windows - where animals are stabled. They join in, too, expressing meditative devotion.

On the left-hand panel, the kneeling, plain-robed Tommaso Portinari and his little sons Antonio and Pigello participate in adoring Christ; St Thomas and St Anthony Abbot stand over them. On the right-hand panel, Tommaso's wife Maria Maddalena Baroncelli Portinari and their daughter Margherita pray with St Mary Magdalene and St Margaret.

The bare details are traditional - but there is nothing conventional about the ways in which Van der Goes brings this painting to stormy life. For a start, while the rich donor and his family are praying neatly, the shepherds are smiling, gesticulating, leaning forward to get a better look. They resemble slightly indisciplined actors in a nativity play staged by peasants. Van der Goes explicitly alludes to popular religious theatre; the whole composition of the central scene is theatrical.

In radical contrast, the angels are uncanny creatures. They have flattened, elongated, very serious faces; they are wise angels rather than happy ones. But most of all, they are real. The fusion of their coloured wings and almost drably humanoid bodies is so matter of fact, so convincing. Van der Goes can see them. He makes this emphatic by including, in the foreground, two vases of flowers, painted with the meticulous naturalism for which Dutch painters were to be revered centuries later. The detail of petals, leaves, ceramic and transparent glass placed at the centre of the painting, in front of Mary and between the angels, implies something about observation and fact: it implies that Van der Goes can "see" this vision just as surely as he can see those flowers.

This is a painting dense with personality and originality. Today's accounts of Renaissance art tend to put huge emphasis on patrons, on religious and communal commissioning. But a stunning new book, Gothic and Renaissance Altarpieces, in which the Portinari is reproduced, reveals that religious art was a territory of frenzied individualism. Altarpieces let the artist go crazy: Bosch painted The Garden of Earthly Delights as an altar triptych; similarly extreme are Grünewald's Isenheim Altarpiece and Bouts's wings from a Last Judgment altarpiece.

Big, folding, multi-layered, multi-scened altarpieces are some of the most ambitious paintings that exist, and they offered immense scope for bizarre invention, to delight and awe the illiterate churchgoer. The shepherds in Van der Goes's altarpiece represent the humble people to themselves.

Van der Goes is mysteriously fervent. His painting wants to say everything. In the background, the rest of the story is played out with magical concision. Mary and Joseph make their way through rocky hills to Bethlehem; the shepherds are visited by the angel; the Magi journey out of the east.

It is the northern, winter landscape that sets the emotional tone of the entire painting. The trees are bare and black against a sky whose chill brings a cold blast of winter to Bethlehem. What it tells you, unmistakably, is that the religious vision of Van der Goes is hard won; it is fraught with fear and the knowledge of death. That is why the angels are so serious; this newborn baby is death-bound. The warm little theatre of the nativity is surrounded by winter; mortal ravens perch on the trees.

In the Red Cloister, in Wauters's painting, they try to comfort him. The choir sing heartily. The abbot looks on caringly. But Hugo van der Goes is inconsolable.

· Gothic and Renaissance Altarpieces by Caterina Limentani Virdis and Mari Pietrogiovanna is published by Thames and Hudson, priced £65.

https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2002/dec/23/art.artsfeatures

[deans-mind-palace]

Nähkästchenplauderei

For those who didn’t know, that’s German. Normally it would be “aus dem Nähkästchen plaudern” which literally translates to “to talk out of the sewing box”. It’s a common phrase in Germany. Means something like “to spill some beans” or “to catch up on all the gossip”or “to share private information”.

Reason why I’m telling you this?

It’s me, Elena. This is a new part of my blog now. I want to involve all of you more in my daily writing and and the related funny stories, problems or ideas and inspirations. Maybe that’s interesting for you. Maybe it’s just a therapeutic exercise for me, when I’m (not) in the mood to write. Not sure yet. xD

I’ll call it “Nähkästchenplauderei” because I talk about me and writing fanfic but not really about their content. I’ll give you some insider stories about the fanfics I wrote/will write. Funny things. What happened to me during writing it, what gave me inspiration and how I do my research or what is important to me about a certain story and why I’m writing it. The daily life (cough *and struggle* cough) of a writer. If you’re not interested in these pieces of information, then you’ll see just the heading and you’ll know ‘Aaaah, that’s not a story I can read so that’s not interesting for me’. So it’s easier for you to skip. But I thought this could be interesting for you. I want to get to know you more and you can always laugh with me or smack your forehead because of my craziness. This could be fun and I am encouraging you to discuss themes or to tell me your opinion or own experiences. Of course, I hope that many of you take part. ❤️

I’ll tag you all only in this part, afterwards you can tell me, if you want to be notified. If you don’t drop a comment, I’ll automatically take you off my taglist for “Nähkästchenplauderei”. I don’t know how many parts this will have. I’ll write one every time I’m in the mood for it.

*oOo*

Nähkästchenplauderei - A blog about my blog. 

A new passion - Or the story of me buying a guitar on Amazon at 1am

I always do a lot of research for my stories. I know some authors hate it, but I love doing research. It’s like playing detective and investigating while educating myself further. I always do Pinterest boards (I can share them with you, if you want) for my series because looking at the pictures and the links inspires me during writing. The ‘Simple Man Series’ is Set in an alternative universe where Jensen is a Country singer. I had no idea about country music, to be honest. I got all my knowledge about it from watching ‘Walk the line’ but that’s it. Obviously, I needed to do research! I created a Spotify playlist for the series (which I will link as soon as it’s uploaded).

When I wrote Suspirium or collected pictures for my Pinterest boards I always listened to it. Somehow I fell in love with this kind of music. I never played an instrument because I didn’t have the patience. I played to flute in fifth grade, because it was part of the Music class. We even got grades for playing it. Let me tell you, it was a disaster! Always got Ds. Although I got an A one time. Every time I practiced the flute, my dog started to howl. You see, it really was  awful. I believe that’s why I lost the interest in playing an instrument. I still went to the choir, though, because I loved singing (still do). I always said, if I had the patience I’d love to learn the piano or the guitar, because these are basic instruments and you can play everything on them.

Guess what? I sat there and was writing Suspirium when an idea started to from in my head. There are dozens of Corona online lessons for the guitar, beginner models of guitars aren’t that expensive and you can still sell them or use them as decoration. Normally, I overthink everything. I need ages to make an decision, normally weeks or months till I lost the interest. So I did my research. Which model? Acoustic, western or concert? Which size? Guitar scale? How do I identify a quality product? Best YouTube channels? Best apps?

Found a black one and I immediately fell in love with it. And guess what? It’ll arrive by tomorrow afternoon! :D I really did it and I’m a bit proud of myself for not overthinking it! I’m looking forward to learning every song of artists I love. Adele, Pink, Ed Sheeran, Sam Smith, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Linkin Park, Train, Oasis, James Arthur, Tom Walker, Lewis Capaldi, James Blunt, Bruno Mars, Coldplay, Shawn Mendes, John Legend, Common Linnets, Lumineers and thousands more. Of course, some of my new Country faves, too. 

My first song will either be ‘Simple Man’ because the story was inspired by it and it was the first song that I’ve heard Jensen sing or ‘Hey there Delilah’ because I love that one right now. It’s my current catchy tune.

These will be followed by ‘The One that got away’ by Pink and ‘Bonfire heart’ by James Blunt. If these four aren’t too difficult, of course... I’ll keep you updated. :D

*oOo*

The story behind Suspirium - Or as I like to call it, the story of reviving a more than dead language.

I have that idea since I’ve started this blog some time ago. I wasn’t sure if I should make it a Dean, Sam or Cas story, so I brought my arguments up and you could decide which professor you want, remember? As soon as you chose Sam, I knew that he would be a Latin Prof. That’s based on the canon in the series and my preferences. Sam is the best in Latin in the entire series. And I am able to read, translate AND EVEN SPEAK Latin, so it’s something I can relate to. A great subject, although I know that the opinions on Latin are different. 

I can speak five languages (German - my mother tongue, English, Spanish, Dutch and Latin, I’d like to learn French soon) and I personally think Latin’s a beautiful language. Of course, it doesn’t sound as beautiful and elegant as French (although French has its origin in Latin). But a language is a lot more than the emphasis. In one of the first chaps of Suspirium Sam and Reader discuss the beauty of Latin.

“Latin is the language of law, architecture and engineering, the military, science, philosophy, religion and - of particular interest here - the language of a flourishing literature which for centuries served as a model for all Western literature. The Latin of literature speaks of love and war in hundreds of masterpieces, reflects on the body and soul, develops theories about the meaning of life and the tasks of man, about the fate of the soul and the nature of matter, sings of the beauty of nature, the meaning of friendship, the pain of losing all that is dear to one; and it criticizes depravity, ponders death, the arbitrariness of power, violence and cruelty. It creates inner images, puts emotions into words, formulates ideas about the world and social life. Latin is the language of the relationship between the one and everything.” Suspirium, Chapter 3

Roman poets are more than two millennia dead, BUT the themes they wrote about (Love, pain, friendship and braveness, also sex...) are still actual in our society. They stood the test of time. A language where no ‘thank you’ exists, just a ‘to be thankful’. This language is mysterious, its culture unbelievable nowadays. It’s like an enigma that wants to be solved - or not, depends on you and if you learn your vocabulary. Trust me, I had to learn that the hard way in seventh grade. ;) 

Sam is basically my old Latin teacher. He uses the same methods and tells the same things. He makes jokes, adds additional information and makes his students question the meaning behind the poems and stories.  Sometimes I even used words my teacher said to us. I looked up some of my Latin notes and use that for the lectures. It’s a lot of fun and that’s where I get my inspiration from. A big thank you to my teacher. This story would not work out without him always encouraging me and explaining everything to me, even if he had to do it three times. Gratiam habeo, magister. :D

Questions for you, only if you want to:

 Do you play an instrument? Which or would you like to play one?

What’ your favourite genre and who’s your favourite artist and which song?

How many languages do you speak? Which? Which would you like to speak (in addition)? 

Wanna tell me your name and origin? 

-> Next post will probably be about how I make my covers, choose GIFs, find inspiration on Pinterest and Spotify and my first friendship ever on Tumblr some years ago. And how I got in touch with SPN.

Tags beneath cut:

@ashthefirefox @rintheemolion @fortheentries @vexhye @traceyaudette @vicariouslythruspn @crazybutconfidentaf @zizzlekwum @outofnowhere82 @myopiamystical @vicmc624 @imaginationisgrowth @seven-seas-of-fuck-you @shypickleghostsuitcase @intoomuchfandoms @angeltardisbow @ayamenimthiriel @still-a-demon-very-ineffable-de @mimzy1994 @everyobsession9023 @tokiohearts483 @butterscotchseventeen @aberrant-annie @autumn-blessings @aberrant-annie @lust-for-pan @screechingartisancashbailiff @readsreblogsfics @akshi8278 @hobby27 @thewintersoldierswife @squirrelnotsam @transparentfestivaltiger

[nerianasims]

Billboard #1s 1970

Under the cut.

B. J. Thomas – “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head” -- January 3, 1970

Everything's going wrong, but he's not gonna cry or complain, because he knows things will turn good before long. Meh. I dunno, it's a bouncy song, sung well, but I've never liked the whole smile your way through everything awful ethos, and I really fucking hate it right now. See: Pandemic, and Trump's response to it. And so a song I was fine with last year now infuriates me.

The Jackson 5 – “I Want You Back” -- January 31, 1970

I'm skipping every Jackson 5 song. Little kids singing love songs for money and fame is bad enough, and I never liked any of these songs for that reason. But add in the baggage of what Michael Jackson did later, and how much did that have to do with him being forced into this position when he was a little kid, and I'm done. Let a child psychologist handle this. I'm not equipped.

Shocking Blue – “Venus” -- February 7, 1970

It's supposed to be "The goddess on the mountaintop," as anyone who heard the later Bananarama cover a whole bunch knows. But Mariska Veres is Dutch, and she sings "godness on the mountaintop" instead. Also Venus was technically on a mountaintop I guess, but I associate her more with a giant clamshell in the sea. I'm nitpicking. The song's got a great groove and Veres' voice is perfect for it. It's good.

Sly & The Family Stone – “Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)” -- February 14, 1970

I always thought this chorus was "Thank you for lettin' me be myself again." I'm not sure what the actual spelling is trying to communicate. I only just learned what the song is actually about: How the pop music industry sucks. I think. The only totally clear line is "Dyin' young is hard to take, sellin' out is harder." So maybe the spelling is a sarcastic jab at how no one is letting him be himself. But with the funk dancing beat, and the only lines that sound clear not actually being what they sound like, it's still not more than a really great party song.

Simon & Garfunkel – “Bridge Over Troubled Water” -- February 28, 1970

If I were a music critic, I'd get in trouble for this one. Bridge Over Troubled Water bores me to tears. It makes me feel like I'm stuck in glue. Aretha Franklin's rendition is significantly better, but I still don't like it. It's a nice sentiment and all, but I'll take the Four Tops for the same idea done far better, thanks.

The Beatles – “Let It Be” -- April 11, 1970

I hate toxic positivity. However, I very much like calming down and detaching from things you cannot control. The latter is what this song is about. It's about "Mother Mary," which obviously sounds like Jesus' mom, but it's actually about Paul's mom, who died when Paul was 14. When he was going through a tough time as an adult, he had a dream that she came to him and told him "let it be." John Lennon, being a dick as he so often was, didn't like the song, and called in Phil Spector to put massive layers of production in it. Later, Paul released "Let It Be... Naked," which was his original vision for the song. It's far better.

The Jackson 5 – “ABC” -- April 25, 1970

Pass.

The Guess Who – “American Woman” -- May 9, 1970

This song pisses me off. Obviously it's an entire song insulting American women, and as an American woman, I am not pleased, not that The Guess Who would care. And of course it's metaphorical, but why the fuck are American women the ones getting blamed for war machines? Because women are blamed for everything, that's why. Oh and also the song is incredibly repetitive, so even if it were a song about how great American women are, I would not like it.

Ray Stevens – “Everything Is Beautiful” -- May 30, 1970

There's a mob of small children, hide! That is my reaction to the beginning of this song. Past that -- okay, yes, everyone is beautiful in their own way. This song isn't though. It's the gloopiest of Christian "rock" before that was even a thing. It makes me shudder.

The Beatles – “The Long And Winding Road” -- June 13, 1970

Phil Spector splooges all over another Paul McCartney song. I never cared much for this song before I heard the "Naked" version, which gives me chills. How could anyone not open their door to this? But when it comes to the official single version, I'd tell him to take another trip around the block while I thought about it.

The Jackson 5 – “The Love You Save” -- June 27, 1970

Pass.

Three Dog Night – “Mama Told Me (Not To Come)” -- July 11, 1970

The lyrics are about how scary parties are. Which, um, yeah. Especially that cigarette part; I've always been drastically allergic to cigarettes, so that my parents had regular parties when I was a kid was really bad. I'm glad that people were going outside to smoke by the time I was in college. But the song. It's a party song in which the narrator hates parties. Pretty fun.

The Carpenters – “(They Long To Be) Close To You” -- July 25, 1970

Karen Carpenter's voice and singing ability were astounding. It's one of the great tragedies of music that she didn't get better songs. I do like this one, though. Yes, it's ridiculously sweet. But it has a beat and forward motion -- it's slow, but not turgid. The piano is nice. And, of course, there's Karen Carpenter's gorgeous voice, the most important thing about the song by far.

Bread – “Make It With You” -- August 22, 1970

Bread is wonderful. I love bread. But not the musical group Bread, which is like stale Wonder Bread rather than a delicious foodstuff. 70s easy listening managed to make sex sound boring. This song is one of the worst in that regard. If sex were like it seems to be in this song, I'd rather scrub grout.

Edwin Starr – “War” -- August 29, 1970

"War/ I despise/ It means destruction to innocent lives." Exactly. To say I love this song doesn't quite cover it. The song is the absolute truth, that's all.

Diana Ross – “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” -- September 19, 1970

The narrator's been dumped but whenever her ex needs her, she'll get to him any way she can. This version takes too long to get started, and then Ross speaks the verses instead of singing them. I don't like it at all. Give me Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell's version instead, which also sounds like the narrators have a much more equal relationship.

Neil Diamond – “Cracklin’ Rosie” -- October 10, 1970

The song sounds like it's about a sex worker. It's not. It's about cheap wine. Also it's Neil Diamond. It's not boring, and I don't hate it, but I can't say I like it either. It's just sort of there.

The Jackson 5 – “I’ll Be There” -- October 17, 1970

*shudder* Pass.

The Partridge Family – “I Think I Love You” -- November 21, 1970

It starts in a minor key, waking up and suddenly realizing "I think I love you." But the narrator isn't quite ready to accept it. It's about a first love, and about how confusing the feeling is. Also there's a harpsichord. At the end, the narrator is asking if you think you love him too. I like it.

Smokey Robinson And The Miracles – “The Tears Of A Clown” -- December 12, 1970

He's pretending to be happy in public, but he doesn't want the woman who left him to think he's anything but miserable after she left him for some reason he doesn't know. He name-checks Pagliacci. Great Motown song. (The B-side of the single was "I Second That Emotion," which I like even better.)

George Harrison – “My Sweet Lord" -- December 26, 1970

Oh, George. I actually like his solo career better than that of any of the other Beatles, but his first big smash is not good. First, the melody is plagiarized from The Chiffon's "He's So Fine." Not inspired by or similar to or any of the other bullshit musical artists are getting sued over these days. It's a straight-up rip. George said he did it accidentally, and that absolutely can happen, but in this case I'm doubtful. The Beatles covered a whole lot of girl group songs at the beginning of their run. George knew girl groups. Second, he slowed down the melody, and so it is too slow, especially if you already know "He's So Fine." Third, it's about wanting to "know" some non-denominational New Agey all religions are really one religion type "Lord." That's a philosophy that I find confused at best. Very bad.

BEST OF 1970: "War"   WORST OF 1970: "My Sweet Lord"

[galadrieljones]

That he may hold me by the hand: chapter 8

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Albert Mason  

Rating: Mature (Adult Themes and Situations, Violence, and Sexual Content)

Summary: After saving Albert from stumbling off a cliff in the Heartlands, Arthur invites him to Valentine for a drink. What ensues after that is a quiet love story, in which both men find themselves completely undone.

Masterpost | AO3 | Epigraph

Chapter 8: St. Denis was never enough.

“Goddam cemeteries,” said Arthur. He was loading his volcanic. It was early night, and they were creeping through the mausoleums. It had become imperative for them to play errand boys, running out grave robbers in their final push to bring Jack back. It was by far the most ridiculous bullshit with which they had ever been tasked. There was a dog barking somewhere amongst the tombstones, and they kept finding vagrants crouching here and there as if the dead could somehow keep them warm. It all made Arthur feel sick in his bones. “This place is hellish.”

“I appreciate you being here,” said John. He seemed nervous, but not by ghosts nor vagrants. He was terrified about Jack. “Seriously.”

“Of course I’m here,” said Arthur. "Don't be a moron."

“Braithwaite Manor weren’t no picnic. I still smell like smoke.”

Arthur lit a cigarette. He was smoking it and feeling dry in his throat and in his eyes. He was tired. He hadn’t slept properly in two days. “Ain’t sure what you expected.”

“Dutch is losing his mind, Arthur,” said John. “Don’t you think? I ain’t too keen on what I see.”

"I don't see much of anything no more."

“I ain’t sure how much of it I see neither. Seems an awful waste. Of a life? All this time, and running? I don’t even know what he’s talking about half the time.”

“You really ought to leave,” said Arthur, looking around. There was a sad dove singing somewhere nearby. It was creepy. Arthur swore under his breath.

“Leave and go where?” said John. He stopped, like he had got confused by his location.

“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “Anywhere. We get Jack back, and then I reckon you ought to wrangle him, Abigail, and leave. Ain't no reason to stick around no more if you don't follow.”

"What about loyalty?" John said.

Arthur said nothing of it at first. In his mind, he had traveled far from the notion of loyalty. His loyalties had changed. He didn't know what the goddam word meant anymore. "Be loyal to what matters," he said, pulling words out of his ass. But they sounded true.

John seemed pensive on this. He had stopped cold and Arthur along with him. They were officially lost, but neither of them seemed to care, or even notice. “Interesting,” said John. "Real interesting. What about you then?"

“What about me.”

“You and Albert.”

Arthur looked at him, taken off guard. John was unwavering in his resolve, gazing through the fog. “Come on,” said Arthur, ignoring the question. “Let’s get a move on.”

“You can tell me the truth,” said John, following behind. “I ain’t—I would never judge you, Arthur. Not for that.”

“For what?”

“For loving a man. It ain’t like that. And hey, maybe I’m wrong? But I’m just calling it like I see it.”

“You ain’t wrong,” said Arthur. He had the cigarette crammed between his lips. He’d started to get freaked out by the atmosphere of the cemetery, so he holstered his volcanic and opted instead for his repeater. He looked back at John who was earnest and reminding him of a dog who had wandered into a field of corn. He looked so young, thought Arthur. He looked as young as he had the day Arthur took him out that noose in Chicago. Arthur remembered how he’d had ligature bruises on his neck as if he had been dragged for a mile, and when they got him back to their camp in Putnam all the way over on the Illinois River, he did not speak for two days. It still broke Arthur up inside, to think of it.

“Arthur?”

"It’s just—” He shook his head out, to get brave. “You ain’t wrong. Okay?”

John nodded. He didn’t push nor prod. He just said, “Okay.” He seemed satisfied. “I think the place we’re looking for is just ahead.”

“Thank Jesus.”

They finished the job upright and got out clean inside twenty minutes. As they rode home, John struggled with Jack, who seemed enamored of the brief, fancy life he had lived while sequestered at Mr. Angelo Bronte’s. He talked in ecstatic, shiny terms, which intimidated John at first. Arthur mostly found it amusing, though he understood. He was relieved to have Jack back. He was relieved. He had known all along how bad it could have gone, and he had to close his eyes to shake the old fear from his heart.

It wasn’t long before they were back at Shady Belle, and the gang was celebrating Jack’s heroic rescue along with the false comeuppance of all those who had wronged them. Arthur smoked idly and stood off grooming his horse so as to avoid Dutch and even more so Hosea who was sick and getting sicker and whose love he knew to be true but constantly misguided by his thirst for the life. Arthur had never felt any such lust for anything and standing now, in the swamps of southern Lemoyne, he felt farther away from his own life and his own love than he ever had. It took him a great deal of will to finally enter their camp that night. A big haunted house in a big haunted country.

It had been four days, and Albert, in a fit of boredom and cabin fever, rode his horse out of the city and to a safe camping spot, north of Rhodes near Dewberry Creek. It had been so long since he’d slept outdoors that he was beginning to wonder if any of it had ever happened. The creek was an Arcadian dream, full of Whitetail, fox, rabbits. Scarce boar. He tracked a twelve-point buck for a while and took its picture, felt free and alone and calm. He built a fire and his tent, fished a fish in the creek, cleaned and cooked it up for his dinner in the manner taught to him by Arthur. He poured a glass of bourbon whiskey and ate as the sun went down behind the tangled tree line, feeling proud.

Before he had left St. Denis, Albert stopped at the post office where there was waiting for him a letter from his mother. He had been looking forward to her correspondence for a couple weeks now. Before he went to sleep that night, he leaned against a fallen tree trunk, sipping more of the whiskey, and he read that letter by the light of the fire. His mother’s letters were long, requiring time and commitment. They often read like opinion editorials full of immaculate grammar and journalistic observations upon her own life and his and the lives of those she deemed worthy of conversation in the high society of Philadelphia. She was a good writer, educated at Vassar College prior to marrying Albert’s father, the son of a prominent businessman from New York. She was into her mid-fifties now, living in Philadelphia, and she had been alone for many years. He worried about her, sometimes. She had always seemed a tough cookie, but knowing Arthur had tough him well that a strong armor is worth little more than the human sadness it protects.

In his last letter, Albert had told his mother of Arthur—not in a bid for her approval. He just wanted her to know.  The letter he received in return now was several pages long and full of life, but it did not mention Arthur until the very end. He smoked several cigarettes as he read, and by the time he got to the final paragraph, he was happily drunk and sat up off the fallen tree, leaning closer to the fire, for what he read would serve to change his life—

Well, dear Al, we are nearing the end of this most current exchange, and in the spirit of your previous letter, I would like to close things with a quaint proposition for you. You remember my brother, your Uncle Matthew, who recently purchased a large stake of land out on the central coast of California? Well, Matthew has taken a wife, and together they have purchased a home in San Francisco. In the wake of things, he has offered the ranch to me, free and clear. I have taken him up on his offer, of course, and plan to leave in three weeks time. As you well know, I have been aching for departure to the west for many years, and as a result will be closing up the Philadelphia estate indefinitely.

The property in California is comprised of 200 acres of terrain with water, plus a wide stable and two free-standing homes. It also holds a significant quarters for farmhands and stable boys and finds its end on a cliff that drops off into the wide, blue Pacific. I have seen photographs, and it is quite beautiful. Obviously, it is far too much for me to occupy by myself, however, and what I mean to propose is that, should you and your Arthur find yourselves in need of a home once your stretch in St. Denis comes to a close, you should pack your bags and get on a train to Monterey. Technically it is in a little place called Carmel-by-the-Sea, but you catch my meaning. I hope you’ll come. I am certain you would discover a wealth of inspiration for your work out west, Al. And Arthur as well, for I know how you mentioned he is an artist.

Please be in touch, hastily, as if the two of you plan on coming to stay, I will need to ready the property. I like to be prepared! Good luck with your opening, and remember how I love you. Give Arthur my warm regards. I do hope to meet him soon. You sound happy.

Your Loving Mother,

Cynthia

Much later, with the night winding down, Arthur stood chain-smoking on the swamp as a thunderstorm now raged over the horizon of the Lanahechee. With the adrenaline wore off, his body felt beat as he looked at the dark water ahead of him. It seemed endless and humid. Behind him there was the party, still going on and on as ticker tape. Javier played the guitar while Karen sang with Miss Grimshaw and they drank whiskey by the fire.

The colors of the world in which Arthur lived were changing, all around him. He felt sour and uncomfortable there, held up inside and anxious to unleash himself from the life to which he had been yoked for so long. Having forged a life of his own, separate from the interests of the gang, this was now all that Arthur could think about. He knew that it was selfish but he could not remember any other time in his life in which had allowed himself to entertain his own needs long enough to even register what selfishness felt like. He was bored and agitated as he looked out at the swampy river’s edge.

Mary Beth came down at some point and stood beside him, a welcome surprise. She had a pale scarf tied around her hair as if to protect from the occasional blowing rain. Arthur gave her a cigarette, lit it for her off the burning end of his own. Together they stood, looking at the lightning for a while, and smoking like old times.

“You did good, Arthur,” she said after some time. She glanced at him from behind the scarf like she was hiding part of herself. Thunder went off in the distance and shook the land. “Getting Jack back. It was a real good thing you did for John.”

“I know,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I’m supposed to tell you that Dutch wants to talk to you.” She said it half-heartedly. She did not even look at him.

Arthur said nothing.

“Anyway, John’s inside,” Mary Beth went on, smoking. “He’s with Abbie and Jack. Things seem good between them, for once.”

“I’m glad.”

“Arthur?” said Mary Beth.

He looked at her, sensing the curiosity and the concern on the edge of her voice. She wore it so often with him. They had been friends a long time. “What is it?” he said.

“I’m gonna ask you something,” she said, watching the water, “and you don’t have to answer. I won’t mind. I promise. But if you do answer, please tell me the truth. Don’t spare my feelings.”

“Go ahead, Mary Beth.”

Out on the edge of the horizon, lightning threaded the sky. The storm was moving fast. It was headed to sea.

“Mr. Mason,” she said, looking at her hands, “do you love him?”

He smoked. He finished his cigarette, tossed it to the earth and put it out with the heel of his boot. He nodded, gripping his belt, glancing to her and her freckled cheeks. “Yes,” he said.

Her breath did not catch, and she did not hesitate. She simply nodded, took a drag, and blew the smoke out in the air. “Okay,” she said.

“Mary Beth,” said Arthur.

“It’s okay,” she said. She smiled at him, through a fierce façade, as if she were trying desperately not to cry. “Please don’t apologize. I’m glad you found somebody, Arthur. Somebody decent. I surely am, as I want you to be happy. You deserve love.” She put the hair behind her ears and looked at her cigarette. “I never held no expectations for us. I know it sometimes seemed that way but I swear.”

“I know,” he said, studying her. “I know.”

“We’re friends. Ain’t we?”

“Always.”

“Good,” she said, like she was relieved. “You know I used to be filled with all these fantasies, especially when I first joined up with you boys. Knights in armor, all that. They saved my mind for many years. You always fit that bill.”

“I ain’t no knight, Mary Beth.”

“You are to me,” she said. “And I ain’t forgotten.”

“I will always protect you,” said Arthur. “Any way I can. And I am thankful for you. Taking care of me after all that nasty business, in ways that no one else would. For listening to me. You will find love, Mary Beth. If that is what you desire. I know it.”

“Thanks, Arthur.”

“You’re welcome.”

They smoked. The sky churned. “I been saving up, you know,” said Mary Beth, finishing her cigarette, throwing it into the water. She adjusted the scarf in her hair. “I got more than $800.”

“Saving up for what?” said Arthur.

“For leaving the gang,” she said, like a revelation. “It won’t be long now. I been reading a lot, about the Midwest. There are places up there I could live forever, on a much longer dime. I could get a room, with a desk. Maybe even a cabin. A place to write all these stories I been cooking up in my mind. I don’t doubt they’re terrible, but still. They’re mine. I want to make something, Arthur. I can’t do that here. Try as I been, it’s too much running, too much uncertainty.”

“I get that,” said Arthur. “And I think that’s a fine plan.”

“You should go, too,” she said, growing wistful, like she had stars in her eyes. “With Albert. He loves you. He has money. He can take you away from here. From all this. You should let him, Arthur.”

Arthur looked at her, and then he glanced back to the party where he could not see nor hear nothing but debauchery. It was a mixture of those he loved and those he no longer understood, and he knew that in time, all would draw to a close, and it would make no difference. None at all. The hour was growing late now. The night was long. He did not go to see Dutch. He breathed.

The next morning when Albert returned from his camping trip on Dewberry Creek, he opened the door to his apartment and found Arthur inside, waiting. He had been sitting on the sofa, sketching furiously, and when Albert came in, he looked up, relieved, stood and closed his journal.

“Where you been?” he said.

“Arthur,” said Albert, happily surprised. He set down his valise and his tripod, and he removed his hat. “How did you get in here?”

“I uh—I picked the lock,” said Arthur. “Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," said Albert.

"I got here late last night. You wasn't here."

“I went for a ride,” said Albert. “Don't worry. Did you find Jack? Is he okay?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “He’s back with his family now. Thank you for asking.”

“Of course,” said Albert. “I’m relieved. It seemed so serious.”

They stood across the room from one another now, as if yet too hesitant to cross. Both of them looked at their shoes for a moment, very still in this liminal space.

At some point, Albert finally came over, and both of them sat down on the couch. Albert reached for Arthur’s hand and held it steadfastly. They looked at each other. Arthur studied Albert’s face closely and said, “So, you went for a ride, huh? You look a little windswept.”

“Yes,” said Albert. “I went out camping, just one night. Over on Dewberry Creek.”

“Dewberry Creek?” said Arthur. “That’s pretty country over there. Bold move, Mr. Mason."

“Well, we are untamed," he said, smiling to himself. "I got some wonderful shots of a twelve-point buck. I caught a fish as well.”

“You did?”

“I did.”

“Very good."

“Thank you,” said Albert. He blushed. “I got a letter from my mother yesterday.”

“That sounds nice,” said Arthur. He ran his thumb across Albert's knuckles. His whole body calm, safe. His heart was quiet. “What did she have to say?”

“A lot, actually,” said Albert.

“Oh yeah?”

The morning sun was pouring in through the windows, soaking the room and making it warm. There were some loud and joyful noises then, coming in through the wide open French doors from the bustling street outside. It sounded like a bunch of kids, getting loose, playing tag, being free.

[salamandrinanana]

Rock’n’popmuseum Gronau

As I mentioned maybe two months ago or something I was planning to visit this place and I finally did so yesterday.

First of all: My number one reason for visiting was a Neubauten drumkit they supposedly had. I couldn’t find it anywhere, so that was a shame. But they did have some other nice things.

This post was not supposed to become a complete description of my visit. It did. Mostly at 2am. Here we go...

After buying tickets a staff member gives you a standard looking audio guide (headphones + a phone in a case allowing you to only adjust the volume), explains how the thing works (it’s definitely not a normal audio guide even though it looks like one!) and opens the door to a room with some screens, showing an introduction to the museum by Udo Lindenberg, a German musician born in Gronau. After the video, the madness begins.

There’s one sort of main hall with the permanent exhibition. When you stand in front of the first glass case, music suddenly starts playing on the headphones. The audio guide works in a bit of a unique way; the music it plays depends on where you are standing and matches the exhibits. But one little step can change it, so you have to be careful when you’re listening to something. Very odd at first, but I slowly got used to it.

Every 20 minutes the lights in the main hall suddenly go out, there’s a loud static noise (that managed to scare me every single time) and then a video plays on screens high up near the ceiling showing some clips of a random popular artist doing a concert. The sound is incredibly loud, making it feel like you’re suddenly being dropped in the middle of a crowd at a concert in a stadium or something. While I love concerts, this was too loud even for my standards.

Now onto the actual exhibition. One thing you come across quite quickly is a little section on punk.

Behind this thing there’s stuff like a pair of shoes worn by Johnny Rotten, letters from the time and posters. And the best part is the video you can see in the background. It includes footage that’s also in B-movie: Lust & Sound in West-Berlin and some flashes from the Halber Mensch film.

When you continue onwards you quickly find lots of different styles of music; there’s Hip hop, Nina Hagen and hippies. Around a corner is a video on the increasing use of special effects on stage, next to it you can find Rammstein, Udo Lindenberg, Doe Maar and god knows what else.

Hidden behind another corner a couple of interactive bits are mixed in; a microphone you can put a bunch of effects on, a mixing desk and a guitar with some effect pedals.

After Michael Jackson, Madonna, David Bowie and some others I suddenly found myself happily dancing to Autobahn, not caring about other people because there was no one else around to judge me anyway. Except my mother. She did the exact same thing.

The actual items in the glass case are only some LP sleeves, which does feel a little bit disappointing; Most of the museum is like that.

Next to Kraftwerk is Düsseldorf, with a video and a Toten Hosen guitar that I thought looked rather spectacular.

When I suddenly couldn’t hear Autobahn anymore and heard a German voice talking about how some awful modern artists have used a bit of Trans Europe Express in their shitty hip hop songs (apologies to anyone crazy enough to read this who actually likes hip hop...) a little bit further along there was Manchester and a video about the Ha��ienda that caught my attention.

Opposite is a bit on Neue Deutsche Welle, including Nena and Trio. With Da Da Da blasting over the headphones, I danced.

Next to NDW is a little section on Berlin, and the most beautiful sound in the world: a live version of Neubauten’s Sabrina. Dancing turned into a dramatic lip sync session. Lots of time was spent in that corner, fighting with the audio guide because there was also some other song it insisted on playing there, with Sabrina getting cut off a couple of times. But I wanted to hear it again!

There’s a video showing an empty Tresor club (no sound) and a sign that tries to explain what Neubauten did in one paragraph under the SO36 logo.

Then there’s some awful Dutch music, some more videos including one about Rockpalast and one with Gudrun Gut about starting a record label.

And suddenly, there’s a sign pointing you towards the exit. Wait, what? Was that everything? No, but there isn’t a whole lot more to see.

When you go upstairs, there’s a sort of balcony bit overlooking the main hall. There’s a few more bits and pieces, instruments and costumes in glass cases. There’s a door leading to a room where they do the temporary exhibitions. Nothing happening there that day, they were still in the process of taking down some of the pictures of the last exhibition in there.

When you go down to the basement there’s a bar and a stage. They occasionally do concerts there. At the end of a corridor is a room where you can do karaoke and make a video out of it in front of a green screen. You can dress up with wigs and jackets and you can pick up a guitar if you want to. For €9,90 you get a USB stick with the video on it. (You can even do more than one video, as long as nobody else decides to walk in.) It’s incredibly fun, but it did lead to a painful conclusion. I can’t sing. Neither can my mother.

Also in the basement is the Can studio. You can walk around freely in there, but I did feel a little bit uncomfortable because of the two staff members sitting there at a table, chatting, phones in hand and not even saying hello. I had no idea if you were allowed to touch anything or take photos. And I was too afraid to ask. Every staff member that day spoke only German, which I can understand somewhat but not speak. I took about 20 photos and then chickened out, already embarrassed by the karaoke session. I’ll send all the photos to you sometime today, @kunstmull.

According to the internet, you can actually rent the studio.

Overall the museum makes for a fun experience, but there weren’t all that many actual objects to see. Some sections only had videos or photographs.

I do think I’ll go back some day, but I’ll wait for an interesting temporary exhibition.

[pressedonjess]

act 1 scene 1

In small towns you should be mindful of what you could become known for. If you want to become known for anything at all, that is. It’ll definitely happen if you want it to. It’ll probably happen if you don’t. Did you slip in the rain one time while running for the bus? Congrats, now every time you go outside in the rain, someone is going to yell ‘Watch your step!’ or ‘Hey, be careful now!’ with that annoyingly cheerful smile, maybe the odd finger gun. Of course, small townsfolk can have a selective memory when it comes to what they know about you, or at least what they’ll shout at you in the street. Have a month’s-long torrid affair with the neighbor’s husband, completely wreck two families and end up living in the one motel in town for weeks? They’ll all remember, but the judgemental looks will stop after a year or so has gone by. God forbid you ever fall flat on your ass in public though.

Jesse Preston was a torrid love affair and a slapstick public fall wrapped into one.

Or at least she felt that way. Ever since sophomore year before her first day at a new school, where the kids her age had grown up with one another since pre-k. Penelope Preston had sat her daughter down that Sunday night before school, told her

‘Everyone’s gonna be watching. Doesn’t matter whether you stick with the crowd or cartwheel down the hall. They’re gonna see you either way. But you get to choose what they see.’

Penny Preston was cheesy as hell, but she’d never been one of those stage moms you see on Toddlers and Tiaras or whatever. Penny always encouraged her children to be themselves and to be loud about it. Both of her kids were super queer to some degree, and she had provided them with an environment where there hadn’t been a need for a nerve-wracking ‘coming out’ event. They just were. Mika Preston blamed the regular viewings of Rent for their gayness.

Of course, fifteen-year-old Jesse Preston chose to ‘cartwheel’. Terrified though she may have been, Jesse let her blonde curls go as big as they wanted, stole her brother’s star-shaped pink-tinted sunglasses and her mom’s fur lined coat and strutted down the hall to first period on that Monday morning, channelling her inner Penny Lane from Almost Famous and Maureen from Rent rolled into one. Over the months, drama club followed, as did afterschool art class, volleyball, and marching band. The youngest Preston had many items on the list titled: Things to be Thankful to Mom For. Somewhere near the top would be a thank you for not moving with her two queer kids to one of the many small towns that are outrageously homophobic and racist, because Jess sure did exercise her rights as a young queer woman. Or at least she tried to.

From reasonably early on Jesse knew she was pretty in the conventional sense. She had the blonde hair, blue eyes and legs for days going for her. When she hit sixteen and junior year, her new kid in school novelty had long since worn off but the nervous interactions and glances didn’t stop. Only problem was, she didn’t know what to do with it at first. 

She’d always been a smooth talker. Talked her way out of a speeding ticket that one time when her flight touched down late and she didn’t want to miss the town’s new year fireworks display. Schmoozed her way into the leading role of the high school production of The Twelfth Night so she could ‘rehearse’ with the girl playing Olivia. But the moment someone reciprocated – who wasn’t acting opposite her – Jesse Preston the confident wannabe leading lady turned into a blushing stuttering mess. It led to rumors of her liking girls but no one being completely sure, because there’d never been a relationship for the students to see and gayness to quantify. So all the boys bar the extremely confident one or two stayed away, and the girls… everything with the girls happened under bleachers or in dark unused rehearsal rooms.

Ten years later, after burlesque classes, several stage productions under her belt and now a debut album… it was more or less the same deal, only the stakes were different. There had been dates, which sometimes led to making out, one time led to a relationship. Nothing that lasted.

These days Preston had all the outward confidence of a woman who knew what she wanted and was good at getting it. In reality, she was the woman who needed a shot of Dutch courage in most high-stakes social situations, and even before the one thing she was best at and supposed to be most comfortable doing: being on stage. An extrovert bordering on exhibitionist who also happened to have stage fright? Typical.

So Jesse deployed an artistic approach to the armor she wore. An application of richly pigmented pink or red powder along her cheekbones and up toward her temples meant that girls could go ahead and make her blush. The bright colors and statement fashion choices meant that the attention she invited was hers to command. Even in a room full of people, most of which she didn’t know but who knew her Preston could feel the nerves pulling at the base of her spine.

She hadn’t been home for an extended length of time in around a year and a half. She was in the process of making a name for herself, so now that was what the town knew her for. Not little Jesse Preston the new girl, the theater kid, the enthusiastic volleyball player. Now she was a singer. Now there were expectations. All the thirty-somethings in town had heard her voice on Grey’s Anatomy, for shit’s sake. There was no turning back now… but she kind of had.

It was the wedding of some local high school sweethearts. She had been roped in by her friend Benji, one of the groomsmen who’d offered his services as ‘behind the scenes’ wedding photographer and hers as the wedding singer. She’d done her part, finished her set about an hour ago, providing her voice for the first dance. It had been an honour, she supposed. Most people settled for the DJ, they had asked for her to sing ‘their’ song live, the one that meant something to their love and the one they wanted to remember dancing to as a newly married couple for the rest of their lives.

Benji approached her as she leaned back against the bar, almost done with her second cosmopolitan but nowhere near finished her perusal of wedding guests on the dancefloor, or sat at the tables surrounding it.

“Are you gonna?” He reclined on his elbow next to her.

With her finger pressed absently to her chin, Preston angled her head towards him, not peeling her eyes from anything in particular. “Hm? Gonna what?”

Benji stepped in closer to her, she could feel his springy curls push against her cheek as he directed her gaze to where he must have assumed she had been looking already. Following his finger, she immediately found who he meant.

“Subtle.” Preston pushed Benji’s arm back to his side. It was hard to get a good look at the woman from the bar. Every now and again a dancing body would get in the way, or the light would hit her a certain way that would obscure her features. Preston couldn’t tell whether her hair was purple or blue. When the reds of the lights hit her, her hair shone almost metallic grey. It was a wonder Preston hadn’t noticed her first. Alas, Benji had. “Please,” she gestured with her glass, “by all means.”

“Oh, no no, no,” he immediately contradicted her, encouraging her to face him with a tug on her elbow. “Why do you think I called you?”

Preston complied, turning to lean forwards against the bar now, making sure the surface was dry where she folded her arms on the counter. “To hear me sing Sara Bareilles songs?”

“To be my wingman, man,” he corrected. His eyes shifted from Preston to the mystery-colored-hair woman and back. “Reel her in for me.”

Preston scrunched her face in response to the term, “Ew, she’s not a fish,” chancing a look over her shoulder. She couldn’t see what the woman was drinking, or even tell if she was with the people at her table or just occupying a chair. Nevertheless, she waved the bartender down and gestured at her near empty glass for another with a smile.

“Mm,” she conceded around her glass, finishing the last mouthful. “You obviously need the help. As if you don’t owe me enough already, Benjamin.” She smoothed down the fabric of her jumpsuit, making sure the tit-tape was still doing its job in keeping the edges of the low cut ‘V’ in place. The more modest dress she’d donned for the earlier part of the reception had been abandoned the moment she’d finished her set and the party was in full swing. “Alright,” she breathed, “The things I do for you.”

“Wait,” he caught her arm again, reaching up to fix something in her hair. She’d pinned it up since the performance, shoved three of the red roses from the centerpiece of the tables into her hair to make a head wreath. Matched her cheeks. “One of your flowers was coming out. There.”

“Aw,” she patted his cheek, “Might be hope for you yet. I’ll be back,” she gave herself a quick once over in the mirrored back wall of the bar, catching herself between the bottles and glasses. “Get a drink, stay there, look mysterious and aloof, but approachable.”

“You do know aloof literally means unapproachable, right?”

Preston waved him off over her shoulder to begin carefully meandering through the dancefloor towards the woman, expertly keeping her full glass from spilling. Once she was a few paces from her target, Preston glanced about to make sure she wouldn’t be interrupting something already in progress when she made her entrance, but she didn’t much care if she was.

Pulling up an empty chair into the space beside the woman, Preston first sat her glass on the table between them - close enough to the woman that it could be seen as an offering, but still within reach in case she didn’t want it, or in case one of the glasses of varying levels already on the table was hers.

“Hi,” Preston regarded the woman, injecting as much charm into her red-lipped smile as she could muster. Resting her elbow on the table and her chin in the palm of her hand, she inquired “Are you single? Are you single at this wedding? Wow,” She sat up straight, let the hand that was supporting her head fall to the table. “That totally sounded like I’m trying to sell you something. Hi,” she took a breath, offering her hand to the woman as she started over. “I’m Jesse Preston, and this is my attempt to wingman for my friend over at the bar there. I’m usually better at this."

[missblissy]

Title: Homeless at Home Fandom: Red Dead Redemption Genre: fanfiction, chapters, angst Character: Young!Arthur Morgan, Dutch Van Der Linde, Hosea Mathews Chapter: One

Follow me on AO3!! Read it there too!

Description:            He’s never had a home. Not really. Not even back then... with his mother. It was never home even if he wanted it to be. But even now, lost, confused... 15 years old and ready to die, Arthur Morgan finds it hard to stay in this world. How can he be saved, who can help him? Is there any hope anymore?

________________________________________________________________

A groan rolled from his throat as his head pounded loudly. Each throb came from his hopeless heartbeat and filled his head with thoughts he couldn’t seem to keep running from anymore. He was so far gone that he laid his head on the bar, but he knew he needed to drink some more.

He waved an arm and yelled, “Another one!” while slapping some money down onto the bar. Arthur did his best to push himself to sit up straight, it was a lot harder than the last time he did it. Here he had found himself getting horribly drunk in the only saloon of a little town called Appleton. It was located in the armpit of a mountain in a warm valley that made the most of its money off logging and the vast orchards around it.

Arthur’s shaky hand clasped the tall whiskey glass and his stomach churned at the smell wafting into his face. He had to force himself to swallow the vomit that tried to escape. He hadn’t eaten anything yet today except for the alcohol he was drinking now. He hated this. He hated himself but he knew he had to drink more.

I ain’t sleeping in those damn stables again, he told himself. A cold early winter breeze swept in as the saloon doors were opened. Arthur shivered and had to fight from crying out in anger and sadness. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough to survive a night out there. He needed more booze in his blood to keep him warm enough to last the whole night.

As he took a large sloppy gulp of the whiskey, he thought to himself how awful his life was. He just couldn’t stop wallowing in his own self-pity. The poor kid was only 15 years old and he was already a stone cold killer. He felt regret for all the people he’s killed. Just a few days ago he murdered a rancher outside town to steal the money that he was using now. And the horse too. But the horse bucked him just outside of town and fled into the orchards. So now he was stuck here for a bit.

He tried to stay at the hotel but unfortunately, he got into a fight with the owner’s son on his first day in town. He was able to drink all he wanted in the saloon though, and he spent all his money there too. Just like him… Arthur shook his head and pounded his fist in the bar, “I hate that bastard,” He whispered too himself. Thoughts of his father made his emotions jump back and forth between boiling rage and regret and deep depression. He wondered where his father was now, or if he was even alive. It’d been so many years since that drunk outlaw dropped him off, no... got arrested for larceny, in some city and left his own son for dead. Well… Arthur didn’t die. And he certainly wasn’t ever saved.

Thinking about his father got him longing to remember the good times, sadly he didn’t have many of those. The few good times he had were so far behind him and mostly lost in the dreams he had about his mother. He remembered her fondly, that she was kind to him and she loved him more than anything in the world. He wasn’t sure what her voice sounded like anymore, or what it use to smell like when she was cooking breakfast for him. Arthur did remember, however, that she used to sing to him all the time. She made good food, maybe… he wasn’t sure anymore. He was confused about the things she used to do outside of taking care of him, but he knew she did do something. Was is farming? Was it working? Was it making clothes? He couldn’t tell anymore, for all he knew she did all of those.

Arthur felt his heart grow more and more heavy. He was ready to give up his drink and leave to go sleep out in the cold, but a man sat down a few feet from him. He looked like a rat. His nose was short and pointed up, which matched well with his beady little eyes. The stranger looked over at Arthur and smiled.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” He said to the bartender. This made Arthur angry, he didn’t know why… But it made his moody teenage emotions flare up.

“What’s your problem?” Arthur glared at the stranger, his words sounded sloppy and slurred.

The stranger just looked over while lifting his own glass of whiskey once he got it, “What’s your problem?” He drank his liquor then set the glass down like some gentleman with manners, “Aren’t you a little young to be in here?”

“Fuck. You,” Arthur pointed his finger at him. There was no age restriction here. He obviously wasn't a kid. He was tall enough to be a man, but that didn't mean he was one. Arthur was ready to throw himself at this man and beat the shit out of him though if he kept looking at him like that.

The man who just didn’t seem to want to shut up shook his head and clicked his tongue a few times, “You’re an angry little bastard, aren’t ya?”

Oh… he did it now. Arthur slammed his glass down on the bar and got to his feet. Blood rushed to his head and the second he stood up the world started to spin. As he fell he felt something tug at the back of his belt. Arthur hit the ground with a crisp smack and thud on the hardwood floors. He instantly tried to get himself back up, but instead, he rolled over to his back and looked up.

There stood another ugly rat looking man. This one looked a little younger than the first stranger. His face had dark hair all over it with a well-trimmed mustache.

“Watch your self there, son, I think you’ve had a little too much to drink,” His voice sounded like he smoked a pack a day.

Arthur’s blurry vision made it hard to focus on the new man. He was welled dressed and seemed to favor dark colors. Arthur squinted and tried his best to see, it was extremely hard but he did see one thing that didn’t seem right, “That’s my gun…” he whispered.

The man lifted a brow, “What?”

Arthur wobbled to his feet then screamed, “That’s my gun!!” He lunged himself at the man but was too slow. He quickly sidestepped and missed Arthur by a few inches. Arthur could hear him laughing, “This ain’t your gun, boy! Haha! What’s a kid like you need a gun for, hm?”

“It’s mine!” Everyone in the saloon was looking at them know. Arthur got back up to his feet a second time and stumbled in place, “What’s an old fuck like you need it for?”

The first man was behind him, grabbing him by his shoulder and holding him in place. Arthur tried to jerk away but this guy was stronger than he expected, “Calm down, son. You don’t want to cause no problems for this good man who’s been serving you all night,” Said the man. Arthur was confused and looked back at the bartender. He seemed more angry than scared, but he didn’t really care.

“Just give me my gun back. I know you took it, it’s in your hand, bastard…”

The second man shook his head, “I don’t really think you’re in the right state of mind for this. Why don’t we go for a walk?”

What? The man walked past Arthur and the first guy let him go and followed what could only be his friend. Confused, and still unwilling to let his gun go, Arthur followed. He was very drunk, more so than he planned, but he could still think… a little bit. Not really. He was more so on autopilot and his body was too exhausted to put up much of a fight anymore. Honestly… he just wanted to roll into a ditch and die but he couldn’t really do that without his gun.

They stood outside in the cold. He didn’t notice until now but they both had warm jackets on while Arthur barely had rags of clothes to wear. At least he was drunk enough to ignore the chilly winter winds. They stood outside the saloon while the dark haired man lit himself a cigarette.

“What’s your name, kid?” He asked.

“Why?” Arthur quickly questioned him. This was strange. He’d never met people like them before, “Are you a conman?” Arthur blurted out, “You want my money?” he started to get angry, “Well I don’t have any. You want my clothes? I ain’t got much!” He started yelling and letting his temper get the better of him, “You want my gun? You want to take the only thing I got?” He remembered in the back of his head that he had more than the gun, he had a little bag hidden by the stables. However, he was lying and trying his best to get his gun back right now.

“Calm down, son,” The man raised his hands, “I’m just trying to talk to you. My name is Dutch van der Linde,” Arthur suddenly froze in his spot, “This is my friend,” He gestured to the other man.

“Hosea Mathews,” He gave a single wave of his hand but stayed behind Dutch.

Arthur felt his angry bubbled down a bit, not by a whole lot, but it went down enough for him to stop yelling, “Why are you trying to talk to me. What do you want?”

Arthur knew who this man was. Not personally, but he’s heard the name from lawmen he’s stolen from, and other lawmen he’s be caught by. Dutch van der Linde was an outlaw. Not that much of one, he committed small crimes. Mostly robberies were no one saw him steal anything. He knew about Hosea Mathews too. Dutch’s partner in crime, and extremely good con artist. This man had a lot of friends in a lot of places.

Dutch had finished his cigarette and tossed it into the street, “You gonna tell me your name?”

He hesitated but then he finally said, “Arthur…”

“Got a last name, son?”

“Morgan.”

“Well then hello, Arthur Morgan,” Dutch gave him a slight nod of his head what looked like a genuine smile.

“You still haven’t answered my damn questions.”

Hosea stepped forward slightly, “You look like you need some help. We’ve been watching you since we got here. I’ve never seen a kid getting as drunk as you so late at night,”

“So?” Arthur snapped at him, “My life is none of your business!”

Hosea slightly raised his hands in defense, “I’m not saying it is. You don’t have to say nothing about anything.”

Arthur wasn’t quite sure what to say, “So you stole my gun… To get me to come outside and… talk to me?”

Dutch started to laugh and shook his head, “No. I was trying to steal your gun!” He then tossed it back to Arthur, who barely caught it, “But I didn’t think you’d be such a sad case,” He was still chuckling, “I thought it’d be nice to help an unfortunate little kid. I wish someone helped me when I was your age.”

The pity party caused Arthur to get angry. Again. He simply had no control over his emotional roller coaster ride, “I don’t need your help,”

“You really look like you could use it,” Dutch said, “We got a nice warm cabin just outside of town with food there,”

The sound of a warm room sounded like heaven to Arthur. And food? God that would be even better. He got his gun back, but he didn’t seem to be finding himself willing to go with these guys yet. Or even at all really. He remembered what he told himself every day. I don’t need anyone. And no one needs me.

He pushed past them both and walked into the night, “I don’t need your help,” he said again. He felt like he was ready to collapse and even though he knew who they were, he didn’t trust these outlaws. He was an outlaw himself, he knew what they were like. Outlaws didn’t have morals, they didn’t have lives. They were criminals and they were awful people. Just like him. He left them, not looking back, and stumble to the place he said he wouldn’t good.

The town horse stables smelled awful. It made him puke when he snuck inside and was greeted with a wall of horse manure. He found a place up in the loft of the barn. The hay was warm yet hard and brittle. He found his little bag of things right were he left it. Inside was a photo of his mother and then another one of his dad. And a book he didn’t know how to read. Those were all he had to his name.

The strange night made him feel weird in his own skin, and his heart sank. Maybe he should have taken the offer Dutch gave him? He shook his head and told himself to never depend on anyone. The liquor still in his blood brought the worst out in him. He had to admit he was lonely too. As he fell asleep, the world kept spinning and along with it his thoughts. They spiraled down a slope into a sadness that infected his dreams. That night he dreamed about his mother, and for a bit in his dreams, he happy.

[lottegeevenselectionworks]

THE SAND MACHINE

A worldwide search for singing sand by soundartists Lotte Geeven.

text by Jennifer Gersten, senior editor at Guernica New York

The samples of singing sand that the Amsterdam-based artist Lotte Geeven is soliciting from desert residents around the globe for her latest work, four batches have made it to Geeven’s doorstep without incident. The rest are languishing—at Dutch customs and police stations, a bus station in Brussels, another office in the Western Sahara—or lost. “Roaring sand is not just something you can buy,” Geeven tells me. For this project, she is prepared to be patient. Singing sand, a rare variety of sand that emits a thunderous hum as it slides down certain dunes, is a phenomenon exclusive to the planet’s nooks and crannies: spots in Nevada’s Mojave Desert, Chile’s Copiapo, and Mongolia’s Gobi Desert, among others. For The Sand Machine, Geeven, in collaboration with two French acousticians, will assemble twelve machines to amplify the sounds of twelve types of singing sand, allowing these typically distant musics to resound in public for the first time,.

Anyone may send a sample to the address listed on her website by the September deadline; the artist promises to reimburse the costs of shipping. Resembling a helicopter flying overhead, the sand’s voluminous song maintains an uneasy relationship with its granular source, as though the two had barely met. Each machine, a circular drum a meter-long in diameter, will contain a rotating blade that pushes the sand forward, simulating the environment that permits this peculiar acoustic property. Though the sand has been more difficult to come by than Geeven envisioned, she proceeds unfazed. Exhibited internationally and inhabiting no single medium, Geeven’s work is as taken with process as with execution. Just as important as the final product are the narratives that happen upon her path, like coltish figure skaters. In several projects, including The Sand Machine, she enlists technical expertise to prod the extremities of our planet: The Sound of the Earth is a recording from the deepest hole on Earth, an approximately 5.5-mile-deep pit on the border of the Czech Republic, which Geeven located after extensive collaboration with several scientists.

Born to two artists, Geeven, thirty-eight, grew up walking among her parents’ sculptures and paintings, which struck her as “puzzles to solve.” The eclectic preoccupations spanning her work often resemble thoughtful pranks, disrupting unassuming spaces. Her residencies, including stints in Xiamen, Tblisi, and Kythera, are experiments with surveillance, sound, and botany, among others, poking at the seams in her surroundings. 

Guernica: How did you first become interested in art that engages the natural world?

Lotte Geeven: We live in a systematical world where everything is explained and organized. Beneath this man-made system, there are wild, chaotic forces of nature that choreograph our behavior. While we are inclined to control and explain these forces, I try to see how we can relate to them in a different manner. I find that through art, literature, or poetry we get a deeper, non-intellectual understanding of this unstable world and our place in it. Ahmed Salem Dabah with Morocco sand.

Guernica: What prompted your interest in the desert, and singing sand in particular?

Lotte Geeven: For me, the desert is like an empty sky. It’s a blank canvas, a projection field for your imagination. It’s almost abstract art. The acoustic sand I’m interested in is rare sand that generates a deep hum when it is put in motion, whether by the wind or by your hand. This acoustic sand occurs only in a few remote locations around the world: a hill in the desert of Mongolia and an area in the middle of the Namib Desert, to name a few. Sliding these layers of sand over one other generates vibrations that emit a deep, low rumbling pitch. This principle can be compared to a bow striking a cello string. In volume, this concert of sand can be as loud as the sound of a helicopter flying over your head. The singing sand phenomenon has puzzled people for many centuries, and there are various contradicting scientific theories about what exactly makes the sand sing. One thing is for sure: the size, shape, and surface texture of the grains have to be spot on in order for it to generate sound. The sound of this sand is so rare and so strange. So few people have heard this before. Listening, you have almost the same joy that you had when you were a kid, witnessing things around you for the first time. It surrounds you and gets really deep under your skin. When I heard it, I was very moved.   Guernica: Many of your projects involve interacting with earth objects in an unexpected fashion, whether by listening to sand or viewing mercury up close. What sorts of insights become possible as a result of displacing typical sensory relationships with the world?  

Lotte Geeven: My works consist of minimal gestures that allow space for reinterpretation. Many of my works—The River, in which I have a river speak through the mouths of hundreds of poets; The Sound of the Earth, in which you listen to the earth roar; 127109 & 129110, in which the sea choreographs an encounter between two objects—explore the interaction between nature and humanity in simple terms. Such works allow the viewer to perceive the forces of the natural world as something unknown that is nevertheless part of us.

Guernica: How did you become invested in obtaining sonic representations of earth materials?

Lotte Geeven: The surfaces of our everyday lives are flooded with images that don’t enter our deeper consciousness. But sound sometimes can wedge its way deeper into the brain and move you. I have always been fascinated by how a natural sound is able to transport us to an atmospheric mental space disconnected from logic or reason. Whenever such a sound has a debatable or mysterious origin, like those sounds produced by the singing sand, the vivid friction between reason and fiction comes into play. The sounds emitted by the deserts are perfect examples of something that can trigger the process of story making. It is so strange and impressive that everywhere around the world, many stories arise from sand or a hole in the earth; trying to give meaning to the unknown. How we attribute personal and cultural meaning to these natural happenings speaks to the way we relate to the abstract unknown.

Imagine that you and I were standing in the middle of the desert right now, and all of a sudden the wind rose, making the whole desert-scape around us hum like a gigantic brass band. We would be in total awe. We would tell that story, and it would make its way into local culture because of its extraordinary nature. The sand is thus like a myth: it is polished, eroded, and carried from one generation to the other like whispers. What I have noticed from collecting singing sand so far is that acoustic landscapes are often personified. In many local stories they become living characters with morality and souls, in the same way that you would bring a dead person to life by talking about them, which I find super fascinating. The Sound of the Earth, a recording of a roaring sound coming from the deepest open hole in the planet, generated a lot of similar reactions. Some people thought it was the sound of hell; others believed they could hear the planet breathe. The Sand Machine is along those lines.

Guernica: How did you decide on the types of sand you wanted to feature in your project?

Lotte Geeven: I started out by making a series of machines with rotating blades to be filled with acoustic sand from all over the world. Two French scientists designed a lab setup that became a blueprint for The Sand Machine. To fill these machines—or sound instruments, if you wish—I went looking for the sand that creates different tones in different places. Like a detective, I started tracking people down who lived close to the locations using Google Maps. I reached out to them via Twitter, Facebook, email, and phone and asked if they would be willing to send me some sand. To be honest, I felt a bit like a stalker scrolling their Facebook pages and looking for phone numbers. This became an extensive search. Day by day, my artwork became infused with mythical and hilarious stories about the origin of the sounds. At that point the project took a turn, and I decided to also collect the unfolding narratives told to me by the sand collectors. In the end these stories will become part of the work in the form of an additional film. The machines are being named after the people that collected the sand. Guernica: What sorts of sand samples have you received from volunteers thus far? What do you know about their provenance?

Lotte Geeven: A few batches have arrived so far—they sound amazing, like sound portraits of the unknown. Right now there are a few batches on their way, but some are stuck at customs, and one got lost somewhere between Afghanistan and the Netherlands. Trying to get ahold of sand from remote areas actually seems fairly easy on paper, but proves to be extremely complicated in reality. The Dutch police even called me about one batch because they didn’t trust this big bag of sand. Another batch is stuck in a bus office in Brussels. At the moment there are four more people who will collect some of the sand for this project soon. Fingers crossed.  These difficulties are noteworthy because we live in a time where we could easily order a camera from China or a book from Australia, and within a week or two these objects from the other end of the world have been delivered to our doorsteps. But roaring sand is not just something you can buy—it’s proved to be a rare resource that feels like it needs to be negotiated. Making this sand travel to me requires lots of resourcefulness, determination, patience, luck, and, most of all, the kindness and goodwill of others. The people I found online were at first very surprised and even excited that I had contacted them about sending me some sand. Immediately afterwards, they’d start telling me incredible tales about these sounds. Najibullah Sedeqe collecting sand in Afghanistan. One of my favorite stories that I’ve collected is from a man named Najibullah, from Afghanistan. He lived close to a singing sand site, and he agreed to my request to go and look for some. About the mountain where the sand was located, the story goes that if you take something from the mountain, it will be returned to the mountain while you are asleep. That’s exactly what happened. He took a huge bag of sand and sent it through customs, and it got lost. In the end, actually sending the sand has proven to be a step too far for most people, which I can totally understand. About one out of every thirty people has been so incredibly generous and kind to ship the sand to the Netherlands. They include Rizwan, a limousine driver in Oman who likes to smoke his after-work-cigarette in the singing sand dunes, and Melanie, a lady living on the loneliest highway in the world in Nevada, went into the desert and collected sand for my project.

Guernica: Have you collected any sand samples yourself?

Lotte Geeven: I tried collecting acoustic sand too, which resulted in a rather unexpected adventure. I traveled to the Negev desert in Israel after hearing that there was a spot where the sand was supposed to sing. After a long journey, the doors of our bus opened, and I walked out into the desert. I heard a sound, looked to the left, and froze. I was facing a dozen tanks and armed soldiers. The hill of sand was apparently located close to the entrance of a military base, and the guys were completely puzzled by this foreign stranger approaching them with an empty bag and a camera.  At that point a missile exploded one kilometer away from us. This hill was located in the middle of a firing zone close to Gaza, and I was told that the whole mountain was full of unexploded devices and that I wouldn’t be able to get closer. I sat down with the guys and we drank a Coke on the military base. They told me that in the winters, when the wind blows, they can  hear the mountain sing.

Guernica: Your previous project, which entailed recording the sounds of the lowest places on earth, also involved long-term collaborations with physicists, seismologists, and engineers, among other members of the scientific community. What influence has working with science had on how you think about your art?

Lotte Geeven: The way I work is like how scientists work. They set some parameters and make something happen. They drop a ball and then they witness. Similarly, I cannot control the outcome of the artwork—it is choreographed by forces beyond. When I look for answers to simple questions I pursue in my work—like, what is the sound of the earth?—I always stumble upon scientists at some point. Collaborating with them isn’t always easy. Art and science are two different ball games. But in the end these projects are often as interesting for me as an artist as they are for the scientists. In these collaborations there is space for doubt and the unknown. My work is political in the softest sense of the word—I evoke space for doubt, for new thought and interpretation of the world around us. These qualities are very human and essential. Hard science has no place for this. It looks for answers and I don’t. Guernica: Oftentimes your work takes the form of a variety of disruption, in which you induce an event within an unexpected landscape. Who do you perceive to be your audience in these “disruptive” projects? Is it you, observing the results of your manipulations? Or the people engaging with the work?

Lotte Geeven: I have a problem with the word “audience.” It places the artwork on a stage somehow, and creates a huge distance between the art and the people engaged with it. I don’t like my art to be high-end stuff that nobody gets; I want to make things that touch people. The art starts when it begins to engage the other, and we become both audience and curator.

[artstartart]

Erik’s Picks - January 2020 (Parts 1 and 2)

Our Picks From The January Collection (Part 1)

Humor us with a quick thought experiment.

Where do you think Google looks to hire from when they’re trying to find the next great minds in computer science? Or how about Tesla when they need a new batch of brilliant and youthful mechanical engineers?

If you guessed from universities across the nation, you're correct. Universities cultivate the next generation of great minds, but while there are professional outlets for business and engineering, what happens to the raw creative talent that is developed in art schools?

The honest truth is that this talent largely never sees the light of day as students graduate and have difficulty translating their skills to the market. At ArtStartArt, we strive to bring this creative talent to light and provide our audience the opportunity to access it in an unprecedented manner.

The work in our January Collection is a great representation of this talent, and it goes so deep this month that we need to break this email into two parts. Read on below for our first batch of picks this month, and as always, thank you for the support.

Erik & Alok | ArtStartArt Co-Founders

Andri Kidd is a recent graduate of the prestigious School of the Art Institute of Chicago and an ASA Select artist. There are only a few artists we've run across as an undergraduate that have such a strong sense of the type of art they want to create, and Andri is one of those artists. Andri claims to "love the playful, the wholesome, and the unapologetic," and when we look at Andri's art and descriptions on the site, we are quickly transported into a whimsical headspace. At $180, this small painting on wood panel is of immense value.

Nathan Sing is a native Texan and an ASA Select artist. As an undergrad, Nathan exhibited with us at East Austin Studio Tour and his work was purchased by a prominent collector here in Austin. Nathan's work leverages iconic landscape scenes and modernizes them in a way that doesn't feel forced. Nathan makes the type of art that is guaranteed to make a statement and start a conversation regardless of where it is placed and at 3 feet by 4 feet, this succulent-themed painting has universal appeal.

Rachel Parnell is a recent graduate from UT Austin and an ASA Select artist. We haven't seen Rachel's work since 2017, when ArtStartArt was just a pilot at 3 local schools and not a national marketplace. Even at that time, Rachel sold almost all the work from her senior portfolio that she listed on the site and we're beyond excited to be able to showcase her work again. In this latest body of work, Rachel continues her tradition of storytelling through layering; the covering, uncovering, scratching, and drawing on top of previous layers in order to arrive at a final composition. All of Rachel's work is large scale, ready to hang, and a couple of her listings this month even include an artist frame in the price.

Katerina Vasquez is an undergraduate artist showcasing work for the first time on the platform. This figure study is deftly created and is a harbinger of success for Katerina if she keeps up this trajectory. If you don't already own a figurative work, we challenge you to take the leap in 2020 (consider it a resolution) and this piece is a great place to start.

Lizeth Terrazas is a recent graduate from UT Austin and an ASA Select artist. You know, sometimes our audience dings us for featuring too much figurative work, but to be honest we can't help ourselves. Artists at this stage make so much good figurative work that we'd be remiss not to showcase it. Lizeth's work fits in that vein and this intaglio titled "Cuerpos Bailando" would look stunning matted and framed. Heck, at $125, if someone doesn't grab this piece we may have to ourselves.

Yiming Sun is an undergraduate artist showcasing work for the first time on the platform. We're addicted to this painting and it’s the one this month we can’t take our minds off of.  From the otherworldly color palette, to the rendering of the skin, to the divine tiling in the foreground and background, this is a masterpiece without question. Yiming has the rare talent and vision to follow in the footsteps of the greats artists she references as influences and this is a rare opportunity to own something of this caliber before is it inaccessible for most of us.

Our Picks From The January Collection (Part 2)

You know, everyone collects art for different reasons. Some collect art to support artists or their local community, some collect as an investment, and others collect to beautify their spaces.

When you're in the early stages of collecting (as most folks are), you've got a ton of wall space for new work, but once you get the bug, and have been collecting for several years you start to run out of space.  At an art fair recently we meet some serious collectors who described this exact situation to us, and it turns out there's a few terms when you've got a collections that's outgrown your walls: Leaners and Cullers.

Leaners refers to the fact that your walls are so filled that a good portion of your art is leaning against a wall and is not hung.

Cullers refers to the fact that you have so much art that you've been forced to reduce your collection at one point or another.

You may not have any Leaners or Cullers yet, but our January Collection, only available for two more weeks on the site, is chock-full of great art to fill your walls. If you're already a serious collector, well then, what's another Leaner?  

Below is part two of our picks this month and I hope you enjoy adding to your collection!

Erik | ArtStartArt Co-Founder

Dario Buchelli is an MFA student at Texas Christian University. Dario recently exhibited a painting with us at East Austin Studio Tour and his current body of work is our favorite yet. Dario's work "involves appropriation of images of other artist’s works as they are found in the internet" and these pieces in particular are inspired by 17th century Dutch landscape painters. I can't speak highly enough of these sublime and uniquely modern paintings and this is another piece this month that I am scheming to add to my personal collection if it's not acquired in the next couple of weeks.  This series of paintings by Dario also happen to be some of the most exceptional values on ASA this month.  It's hard to articulate how rare it is to have an original painting, of this caliber and uniqueness, by an MFA artist, of this size, available for around $500.  If you like this piece, you'll regret not getting it now, trust me.

Josh Barish is an undergrad at Massachusetts College of Art and Design. For a couple months Josh only submitted a single piece to the site each month (even though we urged him to submit more as his talent was immediately obvious to us). However, now that some of his work has sold, he's listed a handful of gems for January, and this painting, Inside Us, takes our breath away. In some ways, this painting looks like it could have been plucked from the wall of a Byzantine monument.  It has that timeless symbology and impact, and the glow of the red and gold radiate a powerful mystery.  We're in awe of how simple and impactful this stunning composition is, and if you're drawn to it - wait until you see in person.

Alexander Lozano is a Texas-based sculptor and an ASA Select artist. Over the years, we've visited dozens of studio arts facilities in person and the scale and quality of the facilities at the UT Arlington Studio Art Center are some of the best we've ever seen.  As a product of the UT Arlington glass program, Alexander had access to exceptional facilities that have allowed him to excel at his craft, and as a result he's created truly exceptional glass pieces.  If you've never owned a piece of hand blown glass, then you should know it is entirely different from any other glass vessel you have seen or touched.  The weight will surprise you and the feel is buttery.  The way the milky glass flows in this form and mirrors the wavy edge and sculpted base are just a couple of details that transcend this form into the finest of art.  Also, this piece is wonderfully large.  You could put fruit in it as a center piece, or leave it empty and elevated on a shelf.  Whatever you do with it, you'll find yourself coveting it - I guarantee it.

Nickolas Holden is a Texas-based photographer and an ASA Select artist. This mystifying and perhaps ominous image was produced by a 4x5 large format camera (an incredibly high fidelity way to produce images that many of the world's greats use today) and is printed at a very large scale. When framed, this piece can hold its own on almost any sized wall.  I can tell you as someone who spent 4 years in school studying and practicing photography that Nickolas has the eye and intuition of a true photographer. He's drawn to scenes and people that seem to hold the beauty and enigma of the natural world, and then he's able to capture them with his camera in a way that lets us sense them too.  His work is of the kind that I urge people to own, because when framed and hung, these photographs create the transformative experience in a person that opens a new way of seeing in the world.

Miranda Terry is a recent graduate from Texas State University and an ASA Select artist. We've watched Miranda's work evolve over her last 2 years of college and now post-graduation and it's been entirely fulling to watch her development as an artist (just take a look at all her previous sold work on her profile). I actually met Miranda in person a couple of years back after one of her early sales (when I did a little of the packaging couriering myself), and I knew then she embodied the type of artist we wanted to support.  Motivated, sharp, visionary and uniquely talented, Miranda is a creator I deeply admire.  This new body of works on paper are flat out spectacular.  The absolute sophistication (and playfulness) in color and composition complimented by the natural deckled edge and slightly irregular paper shape make these pieces crave-able.  I feel strongly someone should purchase more than one and display them individually framed as a collection, and by golly at this price there isn't a good reason not to.  Also, did I mentioned Miranda and her colleague Onix (also a Select artist) were recently commissioned to paint a mural at Texas State University?  They are going places.

Zachary Brock is an undergrad photographer at Trinity University. We've featured Zach on numerous occasions and it's because he keeps producing work that moves us to the core. This modern interpretation of Michelangelo's fresco is wonderfully fresh and a bit surreal. This is one of those photographs that tens of thousands of people over the years may have tried to make and only a couple get it right.  Zach did. The subtle bow of the figures arm and the clarity of focus in the folds of the hand. The divine distance between the branch and the finger and the small bud that's perhaps taking life at the end of the limb.  The sense that both are stretching towards one another.  These are only a few surface observations of what make this photograph magic and to the owner, more will reveal themselves over time.  Zach's work is destined for a gallery at some point, and we're honored to be able to feature it at this stage in his career.

[r666peach]

Tonight one of my biggest dreams came true: seeing Raki live! Ever since I heard I was allowed to study in Kyoto, I already googled the fastest way to get in Osaka. With a Hankyu railway subway station in front of the building I live in it never takes longer than 45 minutes. Man, I was so nervous I couldn't even follow Maps anymore. It was awful. But finally me and my friends arrived at the venue, but an hour too early, of course. But! It didn't matter, as Raki passed by on the way back from the konbini! No makeup yet, but damn he was hot. And small! Smaller than I thought. Also very thin, but that's pretty usual in the vkei world, I have noticed. Finally I could enter the venue, and Raki's session band was second to perform. He was just perfect, looking like a Hazuki junior and singing just as good as he does. Raki's hair... oh my god, it's just so beautiful. Long, soft... it did make him wipe his hair out of his face the whole time, but that was just cute... Since he doesn't smile widely very often, I was happy I could see it anyways. He looked truly happy on stage. I was so sad it was over, only after four songs... Just a short while later though he came to watch the other bands, and I actually had a good view on him. Didn't see much of that band, haha. Once they were finished though you could actually talk to Raki, but I wasn't too sure what to do since there were already three girls talking to him. After the last band I grabbed my chance to have a small chat with him. He is genuinely kind and interested, which actually surprised me. I gave him a keychain with Dutch wooden shoes and he was really happy with it! He asked me if I lived in Japan, if the shoes were real traditional Dutch shoes, told me he's excited to meet me next time... I'm telling you, it's a real mystery why such a kind and talented young man doesn't have a band of his own. After the live and chat with Raki I went upstairs and outside again, to meet with my waiting friends. While we were making ourselves ready to go he came up as well, waving at me and disappearing in the room that was next to the venue. One of my friends had actually made a drawing of him, just because she was bored at school, but was too shy to give it, so my other friend finally went to look for Raki and gave the drawing. After a very short while though he once again returned to see who the 'mystery artist' was. Really sweet... It was nice to see what a good person Raki is. You often hear these vkei boys are pretty arrogant or even real fuckboys, but Raki not. Raki really appreciates being able to perform even though it's just once in a while. He really appreciates his fans and the presents they give him. I'm proud to be one of his fans❤

[a-coming-of-age-playlist]

3# song - By Ourselves [Ashlee Haze] / Augustine by Blood Orange, Freetown Sound, 2016

INTRO : By Ourselves https://youtu.be/o-dM0j3Qygg

“For Colored Girls (The Missy Elliot Poem)” a brief history of womanhood in hip hop or your favorite could never or for colored girls who don’t need Katy Perry when Missy Elliott is enough 3rd grade. I’m in the hallway, when I’m sure I shouldn’t have been and Cory White comes up to me and asks “Yo! Have you heard that new Missy Elliot track?” I reply “Who is Missy Elliot!?!” at the time my parents only let me listen to the gospel and the smooth jazz station but that day… i went home, ran upstairs to my room and closed the door (a cardinal sin in a black mother’s house) and waited on TRL to come on then it happened. metallics and a black trash bag fill my TV screen and I hear the coolest thing I’d ever heard in 8 years of living *beep beep, who got the keys to my jeep… Vrooooommm!* at that moment I had my life figured out I was going to grow up to be Missy Elliott I spent the next decade of my life recording and rewinding videos to learn dance moved passing that dutch getting my freak on and trying to figure out what the hell she was saying in work it there were so many artists I could have idolized at the time but Missy was the only one who looked like me It is because of Melissa Elliott that I believed that a fat black girl from Chicago could dance until she felt pretty could be sexy and cool could be a woman playing a man’s game and be unapologetically fly if you ask me why representation in the media is important I will show you the tweet of a black teenager asking who this “new” artist is that Katy Perry brought out on stage at the Super Bowl I will show you my velour adidas sweat suit and white fur kangol I begged my parents for I will show you a 26 year old woman who learned to dance until she felt pretty feminism wears a throwback jersey, bamboo earrings, and a face beat for the gods feminism is Da Brat, Missy Elliott, Lil Kim, and Angie Martinez, on the “Not Tonight” track feminism says as a woman in my arena you are not my competition as a woman in my arena your light doesn’t make mine any dimmer Dear Missy, I did not grow up to be you but I did grow up to be me and to be in love with who this woman is to be a woman playing a man’s game and not be apologetic about any of it If you ask me why representation is important I will tell you that on the days I don’t feel pretty I hear the sweet voice of Missy singing to me pop that pop that, jiggle that fat don’t stop, get it til your clothes get wet I will tell you that right now there are a million black girls just waiting to see someone who looks like them

Augustine My father was a young man My mother off the boat My eyes were fresh at twenty-one Bruised but still afloat Our heads have hit the pavement Many times before You stroke his face to soothe him While knowing that there’s more Saint Augustine Late have I loved and chose to see Skin on his skin A warmth that I can feel with him And no one even told me The way that you should feel Tell me did you lose your son? Tell me did you lose your love? Cry and burst my deafness, while Trayvon falls asleep The things that I would do to you The things that I could do to you Saint Augustine Late have I loved and chose to see (what I chose to see, what I chose to see) Skin on his skin A warmth that I can feel with him Nontetha (nontetha) We heard it all from you (we heard it all from you) Nontetha We waited here for you (waited here for you) Nontetha (nontetha) We heard it all from you (we heard it all from you) Nontetha We waited here for you (waited here for you) Nontetha We heard it all from you Nontetha We waited here for you Nontetha Kushé-o aw di bodi Nontetha

[jorgeclardiary]

The form is stone, the dress is rain at AMP Gallery, Provincetown

Connection abounds….

Last winter, I had presented a performance titled Show and Tell at Gail’s Gene Frankel Theatre fundraiser, which led to Rafael and I engaging in a conversation about symbols—a point of convergence in our work.

For the performance, I had used one of the Magic Mirror notebooks we use for drawing at Joel’s. In this particular one, I had made a series of 33 drawings using Posca markers Bubi gave me. The drawings represent memories of my childhood and metaphysical musings. Some of them nod to Bubi’s Hologram video, in which I play a character called “Lord”.

For Show and Tell, as I flipped through those drawings, I recited the lines of a poem I wrote specifically for the performance, this after singing a few lines from Sara Montiel’s “Maniquí parisien”. Rafael, who had also participated in the Gene Frankel fundraiser by reading a poem, asked me if I would like to do the performance in a show he was organizing in Provincetown.

I told him I would be honored to do so. Rafael explained to me the idea for the show stemmed from conversations he and Hapi Phace had about rocks, and also talked about how Kathleen would use pentagram lines to write series of cryptograms. I remember the first time I had seen Kathleen’s work was at Wild Project in February 2016—I was drawn to her pieces because of her use of symbols and typewriter keys to create iconographs, all of it very dear to me….

The title of the show, “The form is stone/the dress is rain”, is a line from a poem by May Swenson, hailed poet of the 20th century who would write in an iconographic style. Artist friends, poetry, iconography—it all started coming together. Rafael mentioned I could also show a portrait I drew of Gail on New Year’s Day at Joel’s...he was also there that night and remembered it. I loved the idea of showing a drawing from our dear Magic Mirror circle.

I was so thrilled to be in such great company…the show would also include works by Kathleen White, Robert Appleton, Dietmar Busse, Elisabeth Kley, Hapi Phace, Rafael Sánchez, Gail Thacker and Conrad Ventur…all artists whom I admire tremendously. I was also elated to be in a show that would also be Hapi’s first gallery exhibition since 1986, when he exhibited at Edgar Oliver’s Pompeii Gallery in the East Village. What a thrill to get to know him better, really a full circle of dreams coming true as when I first moved to New York in 1987, my favorite thing in the world was the Whispers drag nights at the Pyramid, where I was especially fond of Hapi’s freewheeling, perfectly-cadenced and dazzlingly imaginative MCing.

A couple of weeks before the show, Scooter had sent me a photo of a pair of Dutch klomps he had painted, and I thought I would give him the ones Mom and Dad bought during a trip to Volendam, Holland, in 1978. He mentioned I should give them a coat of gesso, which my roommate Michael prepared and strained for me and I then applied lovingly to the shoes. Rafael stopped by the ranch and saw how the shoes looked—to me, they are like bisque porcelain—and mentioned we should take them to the show. Every time I saw how they now looked, I was in awe of the sense of something so familiar being transformed into an archetype. The unfinished piece was suddenly finished.

So there they were…the klomps, the drawing of Gail, the performance notebook hanging on the wall from a dowel—across from one of Kathleen’s late notebooks 2012-2013—all the objects coming together, morphing into something new.

Dietmar and I, on the suggestion of Gene Fedorko, made arrangements to stay overnight with Ms. Meade, who was most kind and welcomed us in her guest apartment. Later on, we found out while visiting that the converted garage we stayed in was used by Yves Klein as a studio! We had bought tickets to go to Boston on the Megabus to then connect with the ferry to Provincetown, but on our travel day, which was the day of the opening, September 22, hurricane José was whirling in the Atlantic near the area and so we knew beforehand we would have to take a bus provided by the Bay State Cruise Company.

We got to the Megabus terminal at 7:15 a.m., grabbed a bite at a deli and got on the bus. The bus got delayed and we got to Boston at 1:18 instead of 12:30. So, we missed our bus connection and stopped at the South Street Diner and had shrimp and chips.

An Uber took us to the ferry terminal, and we had to wait an hour for the next bus out, which was at 5 p.m. We waited at a Dunkin Donuts as the vernal equinox happened, to the tune of songs by Katy Perry and Selena Gómez being piped in. Dietmar did some drawings while I did some writing.

Back on the bus, we knew we were going to arrive close to 9…the climate was windy, gray and blustery…and the clock ticked on. We called Miss Meade and told her our whereabouts; she offered to pick us up at the ferry terminal. I was also in touch with Rafael to let him know where we were on the road, people were at the opening waiting for the performance. Something inside of me told me we would get there in the nick of time.

As we passed Shrewsbury, I started getting ready for the performance. To me, it had already started right there, on the bus. We got to the terminal and looked for Miss Meade, who dropped us off at the entrance of the AMP Gallery at 8:50—the opening would be over at 9. Dietmar and I walked in; I greeted Rafael and he almost jumped out of the sofa. We had been talking on the phone, braving an intermittent phone signal to figure out an ETA.

I said hello to Hapi, Tony Stinkmetal and Bobby Miller and checked in with gallerist Debbie Nadolney. She mentioned Louis, a benefactor who had arrived from Amherst, was going to take us out to dinner at The Muse and the reservation was about to run out.

I put my bag down and got ready. Rafael introduced me and I grabbed the notebook from the wall and did the performance; Bobby videoed.

Much excitement abounded after the suspense of the performance to arrive, I caught my breath and we all headed on to The Muse. Tony was commenting how he had found the performance inspirational; I was so grateful for this. It was a dreamlike meal.

After dinner, Dietmar went with Bobby in his car to be dropped off at Miss Meade’s. Hapi and Tony called it a night and Rafael and I walked around Commercial Street for a while, reeling with happiness. We went to listen to Scream Along with Billy at the amazing basement Grotta Bar doing an astounding concert of Brian Eno covers. We stopped in front of a store called Kmoe and took a selfie; the store was full of amazing industrial lamps and we took more photos. We stood in the parking lot and called Gail, who was in Grand Central Terminal back in New York…hearts jumping with joy.

We stood by the water near the parking lot and listened to the wind and saw the distant lights of nearby towns through the fog.

Rafael drove me back to Miss Meade’s and I lay down to sleep. The next day Bobby would take our portraits! Hooray! (Dietmar took my photo next to Klumpen and in front of Rafael’s The Story of the 1st Painting (part one, number one) at the gallery. I was wearing a Jim Teeny Shadow-Camo shirt, Wrangler jeans, and Ferragamo boat shoes.)

As Rafael put it later on Facebook, it was a magical night:

Thank you, the universe, the artists, everyone that helped make this a reality and all who supported our efforts. We set up and opened through the horizontal rain of tropical storm José. The opening settled upon a perfectly misty, New England fog. Meanwhile, ferries were suspended for two days due to the choppy waters as the provided shuttle bus lumbered up the cape with Dietmar and Jorge Clar just in time for Jorge to inaugurate the show with his stunning visual poem! It was amazing. And if that wasn't enough, an unassuming patron arrived miraculously out of the foggy night to toast us and take us all out to dinner by the sea. The following day renowned photographer Bobby Miller further inaugurated the event with beautiful studio portraits of the artists that were able to attend; Hapi, Tony, Dietmar and of course Jorge marking the proceedings with a truly regal quality. Sun came on Sunday in time for a swim in the ocean, my first and probably last for the year. I feel humbled and blessed. I've not posted anything here since leaving NYC last week. Happy Fall everyone, Cape Cod is extraordinary this time of year. Exhibition continues through October 15.

[butimnotacriticthough]

Who Dat Wednesday [Guest Post]: Shoutout to the Lovers of "Grown Man Rap"

O. Gerard Droze is the Co-Founder and Director of The Board of Directors, LLC and The Makings of a Man Foundation; organizations that focus on teaching young men foundational character principles. He’s also the co-author of two books: The Makings of a Man and The Makings of a Dream. When he’s not helping raise the next generation of men, he’s drinking coffee and listening to hip hop. He lives in Columbia, South Carolina with his wife and two sons.

Follow his infrequently updated blog at ogerarddroze.wordpress.com. Follow him on Twitter at @VerbalCryogenic.

I couldn’t tell you where words and music fall on the hierarchy of things I love, but I’m sure they’re in the top 10. My love of music, specifically hip hop, probably originated in the First Grade around the same time I became fascinated with words. Hearing the density of words packed into a song and spoken to an infectious rhythm has always intrigued me. My love of rap music and words naturally lead me to gravitate towards the more lyrical emcees.

I could run down a list of at least 50 rappers off the top of my head who demonstrate lyrical dexterity and charisma, but there’s only a select few who have the power to draw an almost personal connection to me. Honestly, only one comes to mind and that’s Phonte Coleman. Better known as just Phonte, 1/3 of the rap group Little brother, ½ of the R&B duo The Foreign Exchange.

 I was put on to Little Brother back in 2003 by my friend Marcus. Long before file sharing and streaming, he sent me their entire debut album “The Listening” as attachments over the span of 3 emails. The Listening was a boom bap masterpiece. Dropping during a time when I was still in “Hip Hop Purist” mode (read: arrogant music snob no one wants to hang around), I was all in. The sounds, the words, the nostalgia reminiscent of a time before shiny suits and 80’s pop samples, the chemistry between producer 9th Wonder and emcees Rapper Big Pooh and Phonte all intrigued me. Even the name of the group was a nod to the artists I grew up on; respect to those who came before them as their big brothers.

 Rap groups today are a foreign concept, but in situations where there’s a rapping duo one usually stands out to you more than the other. That’s not any disrespect to the other rapper in the group, but it happens all the time. With Little Brother, it was Phonte who caught my ear.

No, he DEMANDED my ear.

I knew from the first listen that Phonte’s raps were what I would sound like if I could rap. (I cannot. At ALL! Slant rhymes escape me.) Honest to a fault, vulnerable, cocky, yet humble, Phonte is me in an alternate universe. I mean, they guy could make you bob your head to a verse that DOESN’T EVEN RHYME! I’ll never forget the first time I listened to “Whatever You Say” and hearing him reveal that open secret at the end of his first verse. A perfect demonstration of rhythm, cadence, and inflection being the icing on top of his masterful grasp of vocal expression.

An English major from North Carolina Central University, Phonte can manipulate the language like none other. It seems like every song I hear from him causes me to look up the definition of a new word and incorporate it into my daily conversation. I mean, why else would I use the word “undulating” in a sentence? Listening to a Phonte verse is entertaining, challenging, and awe inspiring all at once. And it’s not just me who finds him inspiring. Chances are your favorite rapper finds inspiration in him as well.

While most rappers shy away from the less than glamorous parts of their life, Phonte has no problem being vulnerable in his records. Whether it’s talking about the effect of growing up without his father, or standing his ground with his mother, he approaches each topic with brutal honesty and candor unseen in rap, much less any form of music. With that honesty, its’ no surprise self-deprecating humor comes with it. You won’t find any other rapper that opens themselves up, warts and all, and is still as lyrically nice as Phonte.

But like so many great rappers before him (Lauryn Hill, Andre 3000, Cee-Lo), Phonte has shifted from rapping to primarily singing. While his debut album with Dutch producer Nicolay as The Foreign Exchange saw him spitting the vulnerable yet cocky, lyrically dense bars I came to love from him, the subsequent albums focused more on his singing than rapping. We did get a full solo album from him in 2011, but his rapping releases seem to be few and far between here lately. And that’s ok. I’ll take his quality over the quantity of other rappers output any day.

As I’ve gotten older, my musical tastes have become more diverse. No longer a “Hip Hop Elitist”, my preferences range from country to trap rap. But I constantly find myself coming back to rest in the comfort of the “grown man rap” Phonte has been spitting since he was a young man. To me, his realness and relatability, combined with his mastery of the King’s English, puts him on a level that not many other rappers can reach. No matter the situation, I know he has something to say that perfectly aligns with how I feel.

And if the music you love can’t serve as surrogate for your feelings, why are you even listening to it?