#without making the composition look too cluttered or whatever

[remynisce]

Been working on characters recently

[wolf-and-bard]

The Geraskier Soccer Parents AU of my dreams (in an early morning strike of weird-brain):

-Geralt knows he isn't the best dad ever. He tries so goddamn hard, but his job is demanding and consumes so much time and even with Ciri being seven already, he still has essentially no clue what he's doing. He sometimes falls into bed, half-dead, and she is the one to give him a good-night kiss. He sometimes forgets she prefers cheese and puts ham on her sandwiches. He is sometimes too happy to have her sleep over at her friends rather than invite them to their house. He doesn't read her all the children's classics, doesn't go trick-or-treating with her, doesn't even pretend Santa Claus is a thing. He isn't the best dad ever. He tries.

-There is one thing he never, ever fails to do and that is take Ciri to soccer practice. Ciri picks up and drops hobbies, interests, even tastes by the week, still unsure what she wants to pursue, but soccer isn't only her favourite pastime, it's theirs. Practice is twice a week and they have a ritual for it. Geralt picks her up from school and drives her there, she tells him about what the dumb boys in her class said, how her art project is going etc. Geralt is there throughout practice, tucked in between Foltest - a guy who is constantly worried for his daughter Adda to get hurt and also very much anxious for her to do well - and Tissaia - a woman who has not one, but three girls in Ciri's age group and several more in others, and knits like a magician - and watches. He takes notes, silently cheers for Ciri.

-After their games and while Ciri changes, Geralt chats with her coach Vesemir - who used to be Geralt's coach, but now prefers to train the girls' teams - about the progress of the team, upcoming tournaments etc. Sometimes when Vesemir is indisposed, Geralt even leads the practice. When Ciri is all done, Tissaia usually has another hat or mitten finished and Geralt and her drive with their girls to whatever food place the girls are in the mood for. They have an early dinner in which Tissaia lectures the girls on their form and in which Ciri is sometimes allowed to sit on Geralt's lap - but only if Fringilla or Yen don't tease hear about it - but in which she definitely gets to steal his milkshake (Geralt hates milkshakes). Geralt only praises her when they're back in the car and Ciri tells him he's too much of a softie with her and should be more like Tissaia. Should maybe marry Tissaia. They both laugh because that is never going to happen.

-Life is good that way. It's not perfect, it's not without bumps, certainly not without tears and scrapes, but whatever the job, whatever injury Geralt carries with him, however long he has to drive, he never, never ever misses soccer practice.

-The season's just kicked off in the year of Ciri's eighth birthday when Geralt and her arrive early on the field to find the stands empty save for a girl in the most ridiculously colorful excercise clothes and blond hair that is braided intricately around her head. With her is a man, maybe five years Geralt's junior. Ciri bolts towards them with a bright grin and Geralt is hesitant to follow. He knows neither the girl nor the man, but from what he can gather she wants to join the team which is just what they need as they're one girl short this season. "Hi, I'm Ciri, I adore your braids." Geralt holds back on the eye-roll. It's nice Ciri can make friends this easily, but his house already is a shrine for role-playing and board games, dolls and random DVDs and another friend means more things Ciri will want to try out. "Thank you," the girl replies and tilts her head to better show them off. "My uncle Jaskier braided them for me, I'm sure he can do yours too." Both girls look up expectantly at the man and Geralt only really notices him then. He is averagely built with bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile. His floral print shirt has three open buttons and his pants barely reach his ankles. He has the look of a flippant music teacher or a hipster coffeeshop owner. His eyes meets Geralt's and, wait, did he just wink? "I'd love to, dear," he says in a smooth voice that absolutely does not go straight to Geralt's guts. Geralt turns on the spot and decides to pressure check the balls, but he can hear the others giggling as Jaskier braids Ciri's hair. "I'm Priscilla by the way. What's up with your dad?" - "Oh, don't mind him, he's bad with meeting new people." - "Very intense." That's Jaskier. Oh, Geralt will show him intense.

-Ciri invites them to their after-practice dinner. Geralt wants to begrudge her that, but she and Priscilla have latched onto each other in record speed and Jaskier actually fights Tissaia on some of her more strict stances and he braids Yen's and Sabrina's hair too, only Fringilla doesn't want him to touch hers which he respects. Geralt and Tissaia glance at each other. Come to a silent agreement. They may not befriend Jaskier, but he's sunny and so good with the girls and they can use someone like him among their ranks, someone who doesn't have Calanthe's tendency for swear words or Crach's tendency to break out beer in the middle of practice or even Nenneke's tendency to relate everything to the workings of god.

-Jaskier is as faithful as Geralt, perhaps the only one who shows up every time without fail. Shani's parents only drop her off and Crach switches between  Cerys' and Hjalmar's practices and Tissaia sometimes texts Geralt to pick up her girls. Jaskier is there, every time, earlier than any of the others. He chats with Vesemir about his day-to-day, brings home-baked cookies for everyone, he cheers and whoops and tries very hard to understand soccer even though it's evident he doesn't. Geralt never wonders why it's him and not Priscilla's parents that come, it's none of his business. He begins to tolerate Jaskier, but he knows that is where he has to draw the line. He has his hands full with Ciri and his job and his brothers too. He can't afford friendships that extend beyond the field.

-Jaskier doesn't let him off though. He always takes the spot next to Geralt (technically an improvement over Foltest's sweaty visage) and prattles on and on, at least until the game begins. When it does, Jaskier divides his attention between the girls and the stack of paper on his lap which he annotates during practice. It's often either sheet music or the illegible scrawl of pre-teens or wonkily drawn instruments. Jaskier already told him, but from that too it is obvious that Geralt's hunch was right, he is a music teacher. Geralt finds his eyes darting to Jaskier's long fingers, nimble and calloused from the various string instruments he plays. Finds himself glancing at where Jaskier's tongue peeks out in concentration. He listens to the man's ramblings and hums his replies and comes to dislike the days when Vesemir isn't there and he has to focus all his attention on giving the girls a good practice. Not that he doesn't want to, it's just that having Jaskier at his back unnerves him.

-(Jaskier for his part doesn’t care at all about soccer, but he cares about Priscilla so he convinced her parents to let him take her; after that, she said it would be fine if he dropped her off and picked her up again, but Jaskier pretends he is super invested in the sport and the team and he is, but mostly he’s invested in charming Geralt)

-After an entire season of mutual pining and obliviousness, Tissaia decides she's had enough and rallies the other parents. She has Foltest organize a big party at his country house, has Nenneke promise to look after the girls (the woman doesn't drink) and has Crach whip out the finest spirits he has in storage. Calanthe makes a phenomenal playlist and it's Tissaia's job to get Geralt to the party (Jaskier's not a problem) and dress up nicely. Only Aridea, Renfri's stepmother, refuses to pitch in, but she's been a bitch anyway.

-When Geralt picks up Jaskier at his downtown flat he has to grip the wheel of his rover hard in order not to short-circuit. Jaskier has done something to his hair that Geralt can't name but that makes him go woozy inside. He wears a plain shirt that compliments his eyes and hugs his body just right and he looks high on life with color in his cheeks and the most dazzling smile. He's gorgeous. "Darling, don't you look dashing," Jaskier says excitedly and props his feet up on the dashboard, only after kissing Geralt on the cheek. Which is not fair. "Likewise," Geralt mutters, then blushes furiously. He didn't want that to come out, oh no. Jaskier either didn't hear or acts like it and they drive in silence to Foltest's country house. Well, aside from the songs Jaskier hums under his breath, some new composition no doubt.

-At first, Geralt thinks it's a nice enough party for someone who doesn't like parties. Foltest's grilling burgers, they all have cocktails, the music is mellow. Not that that stops Jaskier from swirling an already quite drunk Calanthe over the terrace in dazzling moves. Geralt wants to be swirled like that. "You really have it bad, don't you?" Crach comments when he notices Geralt staring. Geralt downs his beer (he's no cocktail drinker) and tries pointedly not to stare at how Jaskier's swinging his ass around.

-The buzz makes it easier and he relieves Foltest at the barbecue for a bit. But then Jaskier walks up to him, a little short on breath and grinning his most flirtatious little grin. It gives him fucking dimples. Sigh. "Hey you big strong man," Jaskier says. He smells like pineapple and coconut, but isn't even a little drunk. "Jask," he says, pointedly flipping a burger. "Foltest says he has an old karaoke machine in the shed, but it's too heavy for me. Help me?" - "...fine." Geralt gestures for Foltest to keep up with the meat and he and Jaskier make their way along a garden path that winds through thickets and by a small pond. The shed is painted blue and white and Geralt and Jaskier find it very much cluttered, but not dirty which is nice. Geralt only understands it's a trap when it's already sprung on them. The tiny click of the look is almost inaudible over Jaskier's anxious commentary of their search for the machine. There is only one small window and no light Geralt can see. Fuck.

-"Ehm, Jaskier?" he reaches out and gently touches Jaskier's shoulder which has the other man yelp and jump. Which doesn't bode well for what Geralt has to tell him. "I think we're trapped." The effect is immediate. Jaskier goes rigid, his breath catches. Is he afraid? Claustrophobic perhaps? Shit, so he can't be in on the joke. "Jask?" - "Geralt. I know we aren't the closest, but I need you to hold me right now." And he launches himself at Geralt. Maybe he is in on the joke? No, he's trembling too hard for that. Geralt catches him and does as asked. "I am absolutely going to die," Jaskier whines into Geralt's neck and Geralt can't help a small chuckle as he rubs Jaskier's back soothingly. This is... surprisingly nice for a trap. Also likely Tissaia's doing. Geralt has a rare idea. "What if I distract you until someone finds us?" he murmurs against Jaskier's hair and Jaskier draws back a little. In the half-dark his eyes glisten, widen when they meet Geralt's. "You would?" - "Close your eyes, Jaskier." Geralt feels a surge of daring, perhaps granted by the intimacy and seclusion of the situation. He catches Jaskier's lips with his own. When they part, Jaskier grins, shaking from something other than fear. "I thought you didn’t much like me," he whispers. "I thought I got on your nerves." - "Idiot." They kiss again and, faintly, Geralt can hear someone cheer from outside.

[obae-me]

A Taste of His Own Medicine- Satan

While it was well known among the household that the second and fourth among the brothers were ill, Lucifer banned you from contact with Satan. Mammon was now well on the mend thanks to your efforts, so you figured you would help the eldest out with Satan. Lucifer was constantly busy, not to mention the fact that his knowledgeable younger brother was expending all his strength in keeping his brothers away. It seemed like the logical choice, and rarely did Lucifer prevent you from keeping an eye on his brothers. So why now of all times?

“He’s being...unreasonable,” was Lucifer’s answer. Out of all the possible reasons, this seemed among the most pathetic. You supposed it was better than his typical “because I said so” response.

“If I remember correctly, you were also pretty unreasonable,” you stated, a smirk curling across your lips. He just scowled, glaring you up and down. He leaned back in his cushy seat in his study, placing his much too expensive pen down by the pile of work he needed to finish by tonight.

“And if I remember correctly, we agreed it would not be discussed again.” His sharp expression softened just a touch, a light shade of pink gracing his cheeks as he recalled how you took care of him in his weakened state. He brushed staggering hairs away from his forehead and sighed, folding his arms in front of his chest. “His body and mind have been weakened, therefore he has no control over his anger. He is wrath, and I shudder to think what may befall you should you try to talk to him right now.” He looked deep into your eyes, taking note of your unwavering stance and stern composition. “And yet I suspect you’re going to go see him anyway.”

He had that right. So with a look equal parts exhaustion and worry, Lucifer lifted the magical lock placed on Satan’s room, ensuring that, at the very least, Beel would be just outside should anything happen.

You took a deep breath, clutching to your chest some medicine and a hardcover book from the human world containing old fables. You knocked on the door, loudly stating your presence before entering Satan’s room. You were pleased to find that so far you were unharmed, which was admittedly a great first step.

However, you quickly found yourself awash in a sea of books. Normally, Satan had his room as neatly organized as a professional library, everything had a place, except now, it looked like a bomb had gone off. Books and scrolls were haphazardly stacked, covering the floor, basically everywhere. You couldn’t even see his bed, it was hidden somewhere in this labyrinth of tomes.

You held your breath, you didn’t even dare breathe for fear everything around you would come tumbling down. The last thing you wanted was to be crushed to death, and if the books didn’t kill you, you had a wary feeling Satan might. So you carefully weaved your way through slender passageways in the piles before you found, what you assumed, was Satan’s bed.

The reason you could only ‘assume’ is because at this juncture in time it hardly looked like a bed at all. Just a quick glance and it would’ve matched any other mess in this room. It was camouflaged with more books, torn pages, binders, etc. you had a passing thought about checking if there were any shows about demon hoarders down here.

You could see a jagged green-tipped tail dangling from beneath the bed-pile. It twitched and flicked, sending some novels skidding across the floor. You inhaled deep through your nose.

“Satan? It’s me.”

Satan’s tail whipped across the space between you and the bed, striking at one of the impossibly high stacks of books, sending it teetering and tottering threateningly before crashing down. If you hadn’t taken a few steps back, you would’ve been under that pile. You huffed to yourself. You wanted to help him and this was how he was treating you?

“Satan, please.” A book whizzed past your head and you winced, feeling a little paper cut start to sting on your cheek. The air in the room was hot. You knew these were demons. You knew they were capable of destroying you in seconds, but that didn’t stop your stubborn nature from feeling absolutely offended. And so, as if you had a death wish, you scolded him.

“Satan!” You strutted over, throwing the covers back and sending even more clutter to the floor, but at least you could look at him. But a part of you wished you couldn’t.

He looked absolutely feral. His hair was messy and untamed. His teeth were bared as his mouth formed a menacing scowl. His eyes were glowing an unnatural green, reminding you of shows where beasts eyes shone in the shadows. You could hear a deep rumble emanate from his chest, and it wasn’t till he pressed himself against the back wall, knees close to his chest that you put your fear beside yourself.

Yes, at first glance you may have been entirely convinced he was going to tear your throat out, but then you ran your gaze over him a few times. His face was covered in patches of deep red. He was only wearing a green long-sleeved shirt and stripped boxers. There was a sheet of paper skewered onto one of his horns, and he now was curled up protectively against the wall in a little ball.

“Get out,” he demanded. It would’ve maybe been threatening sounding if his lungs didn’t sound as if he swallowed a squeaky toy. He was wheezing, fingertips shaking, and his tail protectively curling up against his legs, the tip of it quivering.

To be honest you wouldn’t leave this room right now for all the Grimm in the Devildom. “I’ll leave after I’m done helping you out a bit,” you assured him, but he didn’t want that answer.

“Get out!” He clutched another book in his hand and chucked it in your direction with a shout, this time missing you by a mile. You blinked. Was he...having a tantrum?

You had to stifle your smile with a little cough. “Satan, throwing stuff at me isn’t going to make me leave any faster, so cooperate and I’ll be out of here as soon as possible.” He had no retort or nearby ammo left so he tucked his face into his knees and let you get to work. It would take you hours to clean the room, but you did what you could for the moment, tidying up the chaos surrounding his bed. How he would’ve slept with that mess on him was beyond your understanding. Or maybe that was one of the reasons why he was being so cranky.

You shook off his blankets, puffed up his pillow, and then took a hesitant look at the medicine you’d put on his nightstand. Lucifer had told you where to get it, it was a powerful medication that tasted as bad as the one taking it felt. It was also administered as a liquid, because for all their power, they hadn’t made pills a normal thing yet. You had no idea how you were going to get Satan to take it.

Maybe being sweet first. “Satan,” you cooed, sitting yourself beside him on the bed while he remained curled up in a tight angry ball. “I have some medicin-“

“No.”

That didn’t work. Maybe begging? “Satan, please, please, please, pleaaaaase take-“

“Bite me.”

You scoffed aloud. He was absolutely, without a doubt, being bratty and rude. You took a moment to recall how you convinced Lucifer and Mammon. Lucifer was only won over when you stood your ground and told him what to do for a change, challenging his pride. Mammon, you gave him exactly what he wanted to hear. With wrath...did you?

“Satan, I swear to God above and Diavolo below, if you don’t quit moping around and refusing to take care of yourself, I’m going to shove this entire freaking thing down your throat till it’s the only thing you can taste for decades!” You raised your voice, shouting at him with a fury in your chest you’d never used before, ever. Especially not against Satan. You didn’t want to die that badly. But you were alive, and instead of smoke coming out of his ears, Satan looked up at you from behind messy bangs. He looked shocked beyond belief, his mouth slightly ajar. He uncurled himself from his position and sat up slowly, his head looking down.

“Tch.” He puffed air through his teeth, giving in finally. It was like you had won the lottery. You hummed to yourself in success taking the cap off the bottle and pouring in the medicine. It smelt awful, and you felt for him, but if it was going to make him feel better, he needed it. You held it up to his lips. He growled in frustration but then parted his mouth to let you pour in the foul mixture.

He looked like he was going to be sick. He slumped his posture and began to release shuddering coughs. You instinctively put a hand on his back and rubbed up and down. Once he was done with the episode, he sat back up, swaying in his seat back and forth until you held onto him, gently bringing him back down onto his pillow. You moved the hair out of his eyes and sighed in relief. Thanks to whatever magic Devildom medicine had, his redness had already gone drastically down, and he looked fairly calm for now.

His eyelids couldn’t tell if they wanted to be open or shut, like he was struggling to fight sleep. You got up off his bed and pulled the covers tighter around him, urging him to go to bed. You told him you’d finally leave him alone, and picked up the book you had forgotten you’d brought with you. He grabbed your wrist before you could even attempt to leave, he sleepily read the cover before letting his hand drop back onto the mattress.

“I bought that...for you,” he mumbled. With a grin, you nodded. He had bought it for you during the adventure to London. It was filled with old fairytales and fables, the authentic gruesome kind, not the kind human kids grew up on, which Satan had labeled as ‘disgusting dull-headed drabble’.

“I brought it here for you, but you need sleep, besides you have plenty of other books here…” your voice trailed off as you reached for the horn that still had the paper stuck to it. You yanked it free with a light chuckle.

“Will you…” Satan started, gripping at his own sheets so tight you thought he would rip holes in them. “Read...to me?” Your heart soared so fast you almost went lightheaded. You sat back down on his bed, fussing over him just a bit more to fix his messy hair. He groaned as you did but let you do it anyway.

“Of course, I’ll read for you whenever, Satan.” You flipped the book open to the first page, reading about terribly sad events with a terribly soft voice. Every so often he’d correct you if you fumbled on a word, but eventually he went to sleep. You could see his eyeballs moving frantically under his eyelids as he slept. He’d say some incomprehensible word in his sleep while his fingers twitched in random increments.

You used the stray paper that had been on his head as a bookmark, placing it back on his nightstand for later. “I guess they all get to live happy ever after this time,” you whispered to him in his unconscious state before you pressed the back of your hand against his cheek and wished him sweet dreams.

[ummaannex]

Interview: At Three A.M Something Just Goes “Ping!” and Other Experiences of Making With the Body as Material

Photograph: Mari Katayama

The full-length windows in the Stenn Gallery usually allow you to see everything from the outside. Passersby can gaze through the wall to ceiling windows and observe most of what’s inside. Featured artist Mari Katayama’s exhibit, however, creates walls out of most of these windows, and allows only glimpses of her exhibit to be discerned. I sat down with Katayama and UMMA’s Curator of Asian Art Natsu Oyobe. 

As we spoke, and Natsu Oyobe generously translated, a group of students formed outside, admiring what they could see of Katayama’s featured works through the front window. They were catching glimpses of what looks like a hammock filled with pillows. Had the students ventured in, they could’ve seen photos that range from frothy to surreal. In one, Katayama stands on a bridge, her own subject, sporting what looks like a long second limb that runs from her shoulder to the asphalt. Another photo looks like she has sprouted several limbs...until you see the seams on each extra arm.

Photograph: Mari Katayama

Due to trials tibial hemimelia, Katayama had part of each of her legs removed at the age of nine. She was also born with two fingers on her left hand. She often uses her body as the subject for her art. Katayama’s sewing and photography skills combined create photographs characterized by “soft sculptures” of hand-sewn pseudo-limbs. Her more recent photos, which are also featured in the Stern Gallery, are more abstract. Going into the interview, I was interested in investigating this difference. 

Sam: I love everything that you’ve done here, the combination of photos and sculpture work. You talk a lot about the concept of self image, especially surrounding the issue of disability. What got you to the point that you felt so comfortable sharing your experiences in your art and outside of it?

Oyobe: (translating for Katayama): It’s a very complex process to get to exposing her body this way. 

She treats her body as material, so she has a certain distance already. 

When other people look at this work, and notice her body, she realizes oh, I have this body, so really for her, her body is like one of the materials.

There are two episodes [that got her to this point]. One episode was when she was growing up, still a little child, she looked at herself as the same as everyone until she looked in the mirror and [remembered] she has a different kind of body. That’s when she started thinking of body image. So she tried to behave the same as everyone else. Although she wears prosthetics, she tried to walk like other people, or she tried to hide her left hand with just two fingers so no one could see. As she began to be in the larger world outside of home or school, there are things she couldn’t really do [the same way as] “normal” people. If there is a 14-story high building, she can’t go up the stairs, she might fall, just a little bump, you know. 

Then she realizes that she’s different, and that her body is different. But she also feels that where she stands as a person in society, that she’s disabled, just like being a mother, or anything else.

Photograph: Mari Katayama

Sam: So speaking on your art, especially the photos where you get really up close to elements of your body like your back, considering what your previous works look like, what made you choose this new perspective?

Oyobe: These are earlier works. [Oyobe gestures to the first wall.] She posed her body as material, and arranged it in a different way, trying to be as straight as possible with her body. When she was working this way with a little bit of distance, she didn't think her body was very interesting. At the same time, she thought her body was convenient. Because she doesn’t have legs, she can [put herself] inside these soft sculptures that she makes that she can wear. If you have two legs and you're standing, there is already a weight there, so you can’t really play with that. But with her body, she can play around.

Works featured in UMMA’s Stenn Gallery. Come check it out for a close look! Photographs: Mari Katayama

Oyobe: She took these pictures after she gave birth to her daughter. She was surprised [at her daughter’s behavior about her legs]. She seemed to think, “these are my dad’s feet,” but also “those are my mom’s feet.” That was a very fresh surprise. [Mari] didn’t think that way, because she thought her feet were not normal. But for her daughter, she recognizes them as legs. Because of that discovery through her daughter’s eyes, she looked closely at her own body in a very different way. 

Sam: I want to talk a little bit about your older works as well, especially your sewing projects. Most of your materials are created by hand. It takes such a long time to create something--you can spend hours on [a project] and it will be really small. I wanted to know if the process is difficult for you, if it’s soothing or calming. Do you like that it takes such a long time to create the things that you put in your photos?

Oyobe: There are two reasons that she took on sewing as part of her artwork. When she was growing up, both her mother and her grandmother sewed clothes. Before she started even drawing, she started sewing. She never went to school for it, but because she grew up in that  environment, it’s really soothing for her. 

She thinks that with needle, thread, and fabric, you can do anything. 

It’s the most powerful tool that she has. For example, if you use glue to put fabric together, it takes time, you have to wait. With needle and thread you can put fabrics together very easily, and if you stuff them with cotton, you can make a sculpture very easily too. The only weak point is that fabrics can burn, catch fire, and also that they're not good with water.

Sam: So don’t spill tea on it, and don’t put a candle near it.

Photograph: Matri Katayama

Sam: I’d like to ask about the arrangements of your pieces, because you make all these [sewing projects], and then you place them very carefully. Many of your images, especially your older pieces, seem to have a “more is more” mentality. At the same time, your scenes don't feel very cluttered or chaotic, because everything is so carefully chosen. How do you choose what goes into your photos, and what goes out?

“She has no plan, nothing!”

Oyobe:  [Mari] doesn't believe in any spiritual process. When she begins taking photos, something comes to her mind in that moment. [The first part of] her process is to create these soft sculptures. Sometimes when she has a hard time and no inspiration comes around, she just keeps sewing straight lines. Then she goes to sleep, and at three am something just goes ping! and she seizes the moment, she just starts making art. These 3 dimensional objects come first. Once they're there, she starts placing them, composing them in a different way. Usually she grows the composition to fit them. [As for the photography process], with a digital camera you can check the placement. So she tries taking different poses, and then she changes [them].

Sam: It sounds like a pretty complicated process--you spend a lot of time preparing and during the moment you just think, let’s do whatever we want.

Works featured in UMMA’s Stenn Gallery. Come check it out for a close look! Photographs: Mari Katayama

Sam: My final question is about your sculpture. This is the first thing I noticed when I came in, and it's a lot different from your earlier works. Could you explain this piece a little bit, maybe your motivations, what it means to you?

Oyobe: So this was created when she took those photos [the outdoor scenes], and it was just a net, without the stockings. When she created this piece and this net, it was on an island. There was a garbage disposal [on the island] where they burned all this garbage in a nearby facility. There was this issue of pollution in the water because of that. So she was thinking that [in theory] these nets would remove all the debris out of the water. It’s true that they are not tight nets--you can't really catch anything in them. 

Using these nets and trying to remove the garbage, that kind of action isn't really meaningful. She really thinks that is true to Japanese culture: trying to fake it, as if doing something [meaningful].

Sam: So more of a ritual than trying to [take action].

Oyobe: Then she returned to her hometown. In her hometown there's this river with a coppermine upstream. When she first visited the area of the copper mine, before she got pregnant, she felt so close to that pollution issue. You can't really solve these environmental issues, so she’s not sure what to do with that. The title for this piece is “living well is the best revenge”. 

Sam: I love that!

Oyobe: In this work, these cushions relate to the lives of people, and these hanging objects in the stockings refer to people’s consumption. This is the first time she showed this piece after she gave birth and she created these pieces.  With her daughter's birth, she feels more close to everyday life. When she first created this piece, she felt distant, but [after the birth of her daughter] now she feels much closer. 

Works featured in UMMA’s Stenn Gallery. Come check it out for a close look! Photographs: Mari Katayama

You can see Mari Katayama’s exhibit in UMMA’s Stenn Gallery until January 26, 2020. You can also listen to the full interview below.

Interview by: Sam Dunlap

Edited by: Madison Murdoch

[emperorsfoot]

In this chapter, the colonizers think unseasoned chicken has too much flavor. 

...and some other stuff happens. 

...

The office walls were bare. Lord Hode could say what he wanted about other species and hanging useless pictures on their walls. But Zero-Zero-Three preferred to work without the distraction, and since Lord Hode had abandoned him on this Host forsaken rock, the recently demoted Captain felt he was entitled to ignore his Lord's opinion on the matter. So, the abstract paintings came down. The blood-soaked carpet was ripped up and replaced with dull gray floor-panels.

Zero-Zero-Three took over rule, as he was commanded. Set his forces to rooting out and destroying the last remnants of the native's rebellion, and re-solidifying Imperial Horde control of not just the planet but the system.

The short lived native revolution and subsequent Imperial backlash and takeover had left a large percentage of the population's young parentless. Unlike Horde clones, these naturally hatched creatures (or naturally born, in all honesty Zero-Zero-Three was unclear on how non-cloned beings did things) did not possess either the physical ability or the mental capacity to care for themselves. Some could not even walk on their own or feed themselves yet. Apparently, those were things that came with time out of the –uh, egg. Without adults to care for them, the care for these orphans –orphans being a new word Zero-Zero-Three learned, meaning an offspring without living parents- the care for these orphans fell to the ruling body. Fell on the Empire. Fell on Zero-Zero-Three as the Imperial Territory Captain ruling the planet in Horde Prime's name.

Massaging the side of his head, Zero-Zero-Three suppressed the urge to groan. Why couldn't all beings just hatch from tanks? Artificially grown. At a physical age resembling adulthood. With the knowledge and understanding they would need to be self-sufficient already programed into them. Why did other beings have to be so… primitive?

No clone trooper could be expected to care for these orphans. But without care they would most certainly succumb and expire. That would not do, since the Empire relied on the populations of conquered worlds for labor to support their clone armies. The job of child care would have to be delegated to their own people. But to prevent another generation of rebels to be raised, Zero-Zero-Three had to offer incentives to those who remained loyal to the Horde Empire.

All the property of the rebels was seized by the Empire. Dwellings of appropriate size were repurposed to house hatchlings orphaned by the battle –or just orphaned in general. Why limit it only to the offspring of dead rebels. All hatchlings had the potential to grow up into useful adult units that could support the Empire. Adult natives who worked to care for these parentless hatchlings were given room and board in the dwelling with them, plus double rations. If they already had homes of their own, or families of their own and still took care of the Empire's orphans, then their whole family was given double rations.

Since Lord Hode had said that their culture placed importance on children and the family unit, Zero-Zero-Three felt it necessary to make a show of offering relief to those with offspring and families.

Hode often liked to repeat that if one understood a species, one could control a species. Zero-Zero-Three wasn't sure if he believed that entirely. But, he did have to admit that local aliens –across multiple worlds, over average- were less discontent, and less likely to revolt when the occupying Territory Captain made concessions in favor of local interests. Here, local interests were children and families. So, Zero-Zero-Three implemented policies that would ease the hardships of children and families.

He must have been doing something right. Because by the time the planet completed a single rotation around its sun, the previous uprising was a thing of the past. If it was spoken of, it was along the lines of 'hey, remember that thing that happened?' 'Yeah… but it's better now.' With no mention of recent decent.

Zero-Zero-Three walked down the main street that lead out from the capitol building. The same street that, one planetary year ago, had run green with native blood, was now clean and almost sparkling. Paved with a composite stone made from local aggregate minerals. It was overall a muted and neutral gray color. But when the sun hit it just so, tiny flecks of the aggregate in it reflected the light and shone with multiple colors. Like the facets of a prism, or ombre tones of a pearl. It was actually quite pretty. (Not that Zero-Zero-Three would ever admit out loud that he found the literal ground beneath his feet pretty.) Hode would have liked it. He would have made some comment about the aliens choosing to use a sparkly mineral for utilitarian purposes like paving was 'whimsical' –whatever that meant.

It wasn't just the literal street itself that was brighter.

The buildings that lined the way –most of which were businesses- were open, full, and thriving. Nearest the capital building were stores for convince. Which sold an eclectic collection of bottled water, speeder fuel, domestic coolant, adhesive bandages, poor quality chargers for mobile communicators, lighters, and any manner of other items one might need in a pinch. Then there were the eateries. Local restaurants and cafes that served local foods. Overall, the Horde did not eat local foods no matter what planet they were on. Overall, most clones preferred the bland and flavorless ration bars that were provided for them. Alien cuisine held too much flavor and was overpowering to the clone pallet.

"Captain, hey, Captain, you gotta try this!" But every now and again, one clone trooper would diverge from his brothers and develop a taste for local fair.

Looking across the plaza, Zero-Zero-Three saw the brother that was trying to flag him down. Sitting in the outdoor seating area of a café was a clone trooper like himself. Identical in face and pigmentation. But wearing the zero-suit of a wing-pilot. Ugh. Wing-pilots. Zero-Zero-Three would be lying if he did not admit that he was not fond of them. Those that piloted the batwing-class fighters did not comport themselves with dignity and restraint as befitted the clones of the Emperor of the Known Universe. Wing-pilots, were energetic, flippant, liberal, and impulsive. It was rumored that they got different programming and conditioning in the tanks, and that was why their behavior was so… abrasive to other more conventional clones.

Suppressing the urge to groan, Zero-Zero-Three crossed the street to silence the brother that was trying so animatedly to make a scene.

"Be silent!" He snarled. "And behave yourself as if you were made from the most perfect being in the universe."

"Right." Nodded the wing-pilot as if he'd merely forgotten that he was supposed to be a tall scary soldier within a military engine for Imperial colonization and control. He cleared his throat, then in a more controlled tone began again. "Captain Zero-Zero-Three, the locals of this café have made a dish especially for us. You must try it. It's very good! They call it 'unseasoned fowl'."

Zero-Zero-Three peered down at the all white-meat cut of bird on his brother's plate. Unprocessed meats did not appeal to him. He turned his eyes back to his brother. "Eating local cooking is the fastest way to get yourself poisoned." He informed the clone. "See that your batwing is serviced and your bunk is in order before you die."

Zero-Zero-Three continued walking.

After the restaurants and the cafes, were the most useless of businesses: the curios and keepsake shops. Places that sold tiny statuettes, and globes filled with fluid with flecks of glitter that swirled around when you shook them, unnecessary clothing articles, or accessories, highly edited photos. Junk. Stores that sold junk. Clutter.

But then Zero-Zero-Three paused in front of the window of one shot that proudly claimed to sell 'classic art', as opposed to 'contemporary art' –the distinction was something Hode went out of his way to explain to Zero-Zero-Three. 'Contemporary art' was relevant to the time in which it was made. 'Contemporary art' for this planet, in this time, usually featured muted colors, simplified lines, and the winged emblem of the occupying Horde Empire somewhere within the piece. But 'classic art' for this planet was brighter, more vibrant. Featuring almost all the colors of the spectrum and depicting subjects of whimsy and frivolity. One in particular caught Zero-Zero-Three's attention.

In the shop window was displayed a painting of one of the alien natives, sitting in a sunny meadow, with some kind of string instrument laying across their four legs. Zero-Zero-Three did not care for the image as a whole. Not really. He had no love for the cultural clutter that was art. But the string instrument featured in the image reminded him of his Lord. Since Hode had chosen to reminisce about their first meeting before he left Zero-Zero-Three on this world, the younger clone had often recalled that same meeting often since his Lord left.

A mission briefing. The first mission briefing Zero-Zero-Three attended since being promoted to a sub-Commander, and an unorthodox briefing as far as he could tell.

Lord Hode gathered all his Force Captains and their sub-Commanders into the Gallery Deck of the Vinyl Hood, and after explaining that their targets were Randor and his brother –who's name escaped Zero-Zero-Three now- they were deposed princes from an already conquered world, and had turned rebel leaders. Hode insisted on playing a song from that very same already conquered world. That was when Zero-Zero-Three asked the relevance, the question that drew him to his Lord's attention. No other clone would have ever dared question a cabinet Lord, no matter how irrelevant they thought his eccentricities were.

'An insight into the enemy mind.' Hode had answered simply. Even back then, he tried to encourage those who served under him to study and understand the races they conquered and ruled. 'If you understand a species, you can control them.'

Zero-Zero-Three had no idea where Hode learned to play an instrument. He found it hard to imagine some terrified native of some conquered world calming down enough to teach a cabinet Lord to pluck the strings in any order that might produce a tune.

The Host knew the Horde did not have musical instruments! The Horde did not compose music, or sing songs. The Horde had no need for such things.

Looking at the painting in the window and remembering that unorthodox mission briefing, Zero-Zero-Three could even almost recall the lyrics to that strange alien song. '…Wielding blades of steel and light, the purest spirit, sealed inside…'

Acting on impulse and surprising himself as much as the shop owner, Zero-Zero-Three pushed the door open and stepped inside. A tiny little bell over the door tinkling to announce him. The poor shop owner looked like they might faint when they saw it was a Horde officer that had just entered. They probably thought they were about to be raided.

"That. In the window." Zero-Zero-Three pointed at the canvas stretched over a wooden frame before the alien could speak.

The shop owner blinked their ocular organs at him, waiting for the Territory Captain to finish his statement. When he didn't, the alien –speaking in heavily accented and broken Imperial Basic- offered, "Would Sir like the painting?"

Then Zero-Zero-Three realized he wasn't actually sure what he wanted. He certainly didn't want it for himself. He had no use for 'art'.

"I could make it a gift for Sir." The alien clarified that they had no illusions about charging a payment from a Horde soldier.

A gift, yes. Not for himself, he had no use for the art. But for Lord Hode. Zero-Zero-Three would never be so weak as to beg his Lord to come back and take him away from this place. To take him back into space. By his Lord's side. Where he belonged. But a gift of art –which Lord Hode was fond of- would at least remind the older clone that Zero-Zero-Three still existed. That he did as ordered. That he did not complain. That he was a good servant. Then, maybe, after being reminded of that, Hode might return to this world, collect Zero-Zero-Three, and take him away from this place.

"Yes." Nodded Zero-Zero-Three, arms folding behind his back in a rest. "I will take it."

…

But Zero-Zero-Three did not hear back from Hode after he sent the gift to his Lord. Not even a short message wave over the extranet to thank Zero-Zero-Three for the gift. Of course, cabinet Lords did not need to thank those beneath them for paying tribute. But Hode usually tended to make an effort to acknowledge the efforts of those below him. He said he received a high quality performance from subordinates that felt recognized. So it was odd to Zero-Zero-Three that he never even received a message from his Lord confirming that he even got it.

Such an occurrence was so out of character for the older clone, that Zero-Zero-Three hunted down his logistics officer to make sure it was even sent in the first place.

The logistics officer looked downright insulted that his Territory Captain thought he was so incompetent as to march down to his office and demand a follow-up report. "Yes, Captain, I sent the package to Lord Hode aboard the Vinyl Hood." He insisted. "I can't presume to know why the Lord hasn't responded to you yet. I'm sure he's very busy. He is a Lord after all."

Maybe you're just not as important to him as you thought you were.

"Where is the Vinyl Hood now?" Zero-Zero-Three asked instead. Maybe with the ship were within a hundred lightyears or less, he could just call Lord Hode directly over the com-set and ask if he received the painting and if he liked it.

The logistics officer huffed. Actually huffed. As if following the order of his Territory Captain and commanding officer were a great inconvenience for him. As if Zero-Zero-Three were being absurd and the logistics officer was only humoring him because he was the other clone's commanding officer.

He punched the request into his terminal, then paused. Confused by what it told him. "Huh. That's odd."

"What is? What's odd?" Demanded Zero-Zero-Three.

"It says here the Vinyl Hood's been decommissioned." He explained.

"That can't be right." Zero-Zero-Three insisted. "The Vinyl Hood is the flagship of a cabinet Lord. They don't just decommission those out of the black on a whim."

The only time in his own living memory that Zero-Zero-Three could recall a cabinet Lord's flagship being decommissioned was after that cabinet Lord had died.

Remembering that, a horrifying thought occurred to Zero-Zero-Three. Lord Hode was very old. The oldest clone he knew of. He had never known a Horde clone to die of 'old age' before. Almost all clones were killed. 'Natural causes' was not a thing within the Horde military machine. But if anyone was going to die of 'natural causes' it would be the oldest one.

He looked back at the logistics officer. "Does it give a reason?"

"No, Captain." The other answered. "I don't have the appropriate clearance for that. And it's not pertinent to my duties."

"Let me see." Zero-Zero-Three pushed the other officer out of the way and keyed his own clearance and access codes into the terminal. Apparently, as a Territory Captain and former-Force Captain working under the direct command of a cabinet Lord, he still did not have the appropriate clearance either. Zero-Zero-Three growled in the back of his throat, baring his teeth at the screen. How dare it deny him.

Next to him, the logistics officer seemed unconcerned. He sipped a mug of caff –an alien beverage from another world that was strong and unpleasant in flavor, but high in caffeine. "Are you done, Captain? Because I would very much like to get back to work now."

Zero-Zero-Three snarled at him too, but said nothing. Storming away, he returned to his own duties as ruling Imperial agent of the system. He had other things to concern him besides what may or may not have happened to the Lord who abandoned him here –even if his Lord's fate was very concerning.

As he watched the Territory Captain stomp away, the logistics officer just continued to sip his caff.

…

Responsibilities as a Territory Captain kept Zero-Zero-Three busy. While the decommissioning of the Vinyl Hood did concern him greatly, he could not afford spend too much time thinking on it. He didn't have the appropriate clearance to inquire about it, so there was no point in trying. All he'd succeed in doing would be to irritate his Lord –assuming Hode was even still alive to annoy. Zero-Zero-Three didn't know, and that was also a concern he tried not to spend too much time thinking on.

Then a memo crossed his desk informing the Territory Captain –him- that the Velvet Glove, the Emperor's flagship was enroute to the system and due to arrive at the planet within the week.

Zero-Zero-Three almost fainted when he read that –and it had nothing to do with his defects.

The Velvet Glove! The Emperor's flagship! Was Horde Prime coming? He rarely entrusted his personal ship and pride of the Horde space fleet to anyone else. Horde Prime, the Emperor of the Known Universe was coming to his system, to his planet.

In a bit of a panic, Zero-Zero-Three opened up a conference call between all the pertinent departments. Himself, his chief security officer, the wing squadron leader, communications secretary, and the asshat from logistics (whom slurped at a mug of caff loudly through out the whole video conference).

'Within the week' meant 'less than a week'. Horde Prime did not give them much time to prepare, arrange accommodations appropriate for the Emperor of the Known Universe, organize a suitable welcoming with all the necessary displays of loyalty and reverence. As Lord Hode taught him all those years ago, that's all it was. A show. A show of loyalty. A show of power. Zero-Zero-Three didn't need to be shown how powerful his Big Brother was. But he desperately wanted his Brother to know how much he revered and adored his Emperor and genetic template.

All Horde clones revered Horde Prime. He was their creator. The Horde did not have gods, but Horde Prime was definitely 'god-like' to them.

Standing on the covered platform of the spacedock, Zero-Zero-Three felt a lump of nervousness form in his throat.

The last report, from when the ships came out of hyperspace, was that it was not just the Velvet Glove and its escorts. It was the Velvet Glove, the Linen Cloak, the Lycra Pant, and the Leather Vest. Three of the four cabinet Lords' flagships. All but the Vinyl Hood, which Zero-Zero-Three already knew was decommissioned.

Why would the Emperor and his whole cabinet –minus Hode- come to this little world he'd been marooned on? This little world who's only trait of value was that it was an almost equal distance between Capitol Core and Old Revenan.

Zero-Zero-Three stood nervously at parade rest. He was all the more aware of how tight the high collar of his uniform was. He wanted to reach up a talon to unclasp one of the fasteners and allow himself some breathing room, but he the highest ranking officer on the planet, it was his duty to greet the Emperor's party. He was about to meet the Emperor of the Known Universe, actually meet him, not just glimpse a triangle of fabric from his cape from across the room. Zero-Zero-Three was going to see him. He did not want to look disheveled in the presence of his Emperor. His Brother. The Brother of all.

The capitol ships remained in orbit over the planet. Horde Prime and his cabinet came down in shuttles. Three shuttles and one batwing painted a non-standard shade of red –that one would be Lord Hordwing, it was said he was a Wing Captain before being elevated to cabinet Lord and refused to let other brothers pilot for him.

Lord Red Hord's shuttle landed first.

But the hatch did not even open until Emperor Prime landed and exited his.

Only then did Lord Red Hord and Lord Hordren disembark from their own crafts and join their Emperor on the platform.

Sinking down to one knee, eyes on the floor, the flat palm of his right hand going over his heart, Zero-Zero-Three executed the bow he spent less than a week practicing. Every clone was programed with knowledge of the correct etiquette for meeting their Emperor and Brother. But none of them ever felt the need to practice said etiquette. There was over three billion of them, and only one Horde Prime. Most clones went their whole lives and never met their Brother.

Zero-Zero-Three kept his eyes focused on the ground between them, waiting for the order to rise. Just within the peripheral of his vision were the steel-toes of Prime's boots, and the faintest whispering of the hem of a green cape. It was about as much of the Emperor as the clone got to see back in the Grand Throne Room aboard the Velvet Glove so many years ago.

"You are the Territory Captain in charge of this world." Prime announced. It was not a question. Horde Prime probably had legions of aids to brief him on what Captains were in charge of what planets or troops. The Emperor knew his rank, his serial number, who assigned him his post, and how long he'd been installed on this world.

"Captain Zero-Zero-Three, Your Grace." He answered without lifting his eyes.

"A First Row." Prime commented.

A clone hatched from one of the tanks in the first row of a hundred. There were fifty crèches in total on Capital Core, each crèche held nine-hundred tanks, all divided into nine long rows of one hundred each. The clones in the first one hundred tanks were the first to be hatched in any crèche. There was also a saying about First Rows. 'First out of the tank, first to die'. There was no formally compiled evidence to show whether this was true or not. All clone troopers had high mortality rates. Soldiers tended to die frequently. That was why the cloning factory produced so many. To keep up with turn-over.

The planet he was stationed on had completed one of its local years. However, planetary years were based on planetary rotations around their local sun(s). Standard Imperial Years were measured off a different system and tended to be longer than the average planetary year. Zero-Zero-Three answered in Imperial Years.

"I am eleven SIY." He still kept his eyes down. The Emperor had no given him leave to rise yet.

"A long lifespan." Did Prime sound impressed? Zero-Zero-Three hoped his Emperor was Impressed. Most clones did not make it past their eight SIY.

"That's what I've been told, Your Grace." Zero-Zero-Three didn't know what else he was supposed to say to a statement like that. When he learned of his condition and the handicaps that came with it, he didn't expect to live much longer beyond that. Now, here he was, meeting the Emperor.

Did Hode know this would happen? 'Preform your duties here well, and you just might find yourself elevated above a Force Captain.' Was that what was happening here? Lord Hode was gone and Prime needed a new clone to fill his cabinet. But… if that were true, then Lord Hode was…

Zero-Zero-Three felt his heart hammer against his ribcage, and it had nothing to do with his defects.

"Rise, Little Brother." Commanded Prime.

He called him 'Little Brother'. Zero-Zero-Three was not prepared to the fuzzy, light-headed feeling when the Emperor of the Know Universe –whom was Brother to all- called him 'Little Brother'. He was almost… giddy? Was giddiness a feeling Horde clones could experience? If so, that's what Zero-Zero-Three felt. Horde Prime called him 'Little Brother'!

He kept his eyes down as he rose from his bow. Trailing up the Emperor's body. Steel-toed boots that melted seamlessly into metal greaves. Utilitarian combat tights, nothing fancy or pretentious Horde Prime was a warrior first and a ruler second. One arm hung casually at his side, the other hand rested casually on his hip. Both covered in light plate armor going all the way down to the tips of his talons. It gave the illusion that his arms and hands were made of steel and not flesh. A chest that was lightly armored, the breastplate emblazoned with the red-winged emblem of the Horde Empire. A cape of bright green falling from the armor of his shoulders. Hesitantly, Zero-Zero-Three raised his eyes up to look at the Emperor's face.

He was expecting to see his own face looking back at him. After all, he had the same face as all his other brothers. They were all clones of the same man. This man. Their face was his face.

Prime was taller than Zero-Zero-Three. Taller than all his clones. They were all the same height. But Prime stood almost a head above Zero-Zero-Three. His face was older than he expected too. As old as Hode looked, in fact. With more lines under his eyes, and coming down from his bottom lip, creases on his forehead and over his ears. And scars! Zero-Zero-Three never imagined his genetic template having scars. He never thought anything in the universe could harm his Brother. He was a perfect being! How could he have been injured to have scars?

One long diagonal gash starting from just above his ear on the left side, and cutting down across his face to end at his chin on the right. The scar looked old. Rough skin knitted together unevenly, and darkened with age.

Zero-Zero-Three didn't realize he was staring until Prime spoke again.

"Show me this planet you've been holding for me." He commanded.

"Yes, Your Grace." Zero-Zero-Three preformed an overly theatrical about-face and was about to lead his Emperor off of the spacedock platform.

But before he could take even one step, Red Hord mentioned, "Hordwing is still flying around."

Freezing in his step, Zero-Zero-Three experienced a brief moment of panic. Did he just offend his Emperor and the cabinet by forgetting and excluding Lord Hordwing? Turning his head, the clone looked past the Emperor and Lords to see if Hordwing's red-painted batwing was coming in to dock.

Hordwing appeared to be doing loops and barrel-rolls over the city.

Horde Prime did not even look back to see what his third cabinet Lord was doing in his personal, one-man, fighter. "Leave him be. He will tire himself out, and be presentable by dinner." To Zero-Zero-Three he said, "Lead the way, Captain."

In a bit of a daze, the clone turned back around and began leading the Imperial party without actually knowing where they were going or what he should show them. Zero-Zero-Three wasn't expecting to have to make any decisions during this visit. He was expecting the Emperor or the cabinet to give him his orders. They were his superiors. What did he know about what they wanted?

He decided to begin by showing them the space port. It was the only redeeming thing about this planet.

Trade.

It was equal distances between Capital Core and Old Revenan. Right in the center of the Empire. Center of the Empire, and center of trade. Everything passed through here. Synthetic embryotic fluid for cloning, coaxium, taydenite, and spice. Raw materials like iron, carbon, the steel that was made from them, copper, silver, gold. Clean water. Unprocessed food resources like wheat, barley, rice, quinoa, corn, and the ration bars that were made from them. Also textiles like silks, wool, linen, velvet, vinyl, leather, and lycra. Tiles, and bricks, and glass. Cement, plasters, industrial space adhesives, epoxies.

The spaceport was booming with activity.

Hundreds of different ship designs, crewed by thousands of different kinds of aliens. Loading, unloading, haggling with yet other aliens. A busy center of commerce, teeming with activity.

Prime's expression remained impassive as Zero-Zero-Three pointed out the security check points he added. He was a little reluctant to point out the other non-military changes he'd made, such as a care center specifically for the offspring of those that worked at the docks. Since the native culture placed a high importance on their offspring, they could work for the Empire, and work calmly and more efficiently knowing their children were nearby. Also scheduling breaks and mealtimes, as well as setting caps for how long work shifts could be. Lord Hode tried to teach him that not all races had the stamina that was engineered into Horde clones. Other races needed to pace themselves. Other races needed breaks. Other races needed to stop and sleep after so much activity. (It was a lesson Zero-Zero-Three was beginning to understand himself, as his defects required him to rest more often and consume more calories than his brothers to keep up his energy.)

But then Prime directly asked Zero-Zero-Three how he managed to, not only recover after the revolt, but actually improve on the numbers from the previous Territory Captain prior to said revolt. So, Zero-Zero-Three told him. Showed his the child-care center, the breakroom, the workers only lounge, the barracks for those that did not have pre-existing homes to go back to after shifts. All the while, Prime's face remained an impassive mask. Impossible to read. Not even the curtesy of ear movements to clue the nervous Captain in on his Emperor's thoughts.

From behind Prime, Lord Hordren asked how Zero-Zero-Three could trust the natives to work the shipping yards with so many freedoms so soon after a rebellion had just been squelched. All the changes he implemented looked an awful lot like privileges given to worlds and peoples that remained loyal. What had these creatures done to earn such difference?

Zero-Zero-Three paused, feeling nervous again with all three pairs of eyes on him now. Not just Lord Hordren, but Lord Red Hord and the Emperor himself. A cabinet Lord had asked him a question. He shouldn't hesitate too long in answering.

"Incentive." He blurted out. Then quickly scrambled to give a more eloquent and detailed explanation. "I was not originally a Territory Captain. Before this, I was a Force Captain. I commanded Your Grace's military and kept peace in the Empire. I have put down more rebellions than I can count-" Zero-Zero-Three knew the exact number of rebellions he'd put down since becoming a Force Captain "-and one consistent theme between them all seemed to be that the rebels felt they had more incentive to resist than to accept Imperial rule. Giving them more incentive to remain obedient reduces the chances of rebellion."

Red Hord tapped his chin in thought. He used to be a Force Captain before he was a cabinet Lord. Zero-Zero-Three knew that because he knew Red Hord before he was 'Lord Red Hord'. Back when the other clone was just Captain Four-Zero-Eight. He wondered what opinion another Force Captain might have.

But then Red Hord glanced to Prime, looking to the Emperor for the final word. Hordren was also looking to Prime, and Zero-Zero-Three wondered if they knew something of their Brother's thoughts already. They were cabinet Lords. They were closest to the Emperor. If anyone could guess what Prime was thinking, it would be them.

Zero-Zero-Three felt his ears droop when it occurred to him that Prime might disapprove of how lenient he was with this world. Should he have been stricter? Impose an earlier curfew. Have more frequent sweeps of the city. More surveillance and security at the ports and docks. Did Prime think Zero-Zero-Three was irresponsible and negligent. Or worse, lazy. A failure. Useless.

Zero-Zero-Three did not know how to hold a planet.

There was an uncomfortably long pause in which no one said anything and everyone was looking at Prime.

Finally, the Emperor turned, almost as if he'd lost interest in the space port and the shipping docks. "Be carful, Captain, a being might not have the 'incentive' to remain obedient to you if they get the chance to experience something… else."

Red Hord and Hordren looked momentarily tense.

Zero-Zero-Three blinked, confused. Prime placed so much weight on 'someone else', he wondered if there was another meaning in that statement that he was just too ignorant or too much of a 'slow learner' to understand. His ears drooped just a fraction before he caught the action and consciously forced the muscles in his ears to stand up.

"We'll have to wait to see the long-term results of these policies of yours." Emerald green cape swirling around his ankles, Prime moved to the corridors that would eventually take them out of the shipping dock complex. "I am board of menial laborers. Show me your administrative bases."

So, Zero-Zero-Three took the Imperial party to the capitol building. He drove the landspeeder (that was adapted for urban use) himself.

Hordwing's custom red batwing dove low and zoomed over the streets and between buildings multiple times as they drove. The first couple of times this happened it startled Zero-Zero-Three enough that he thought he might have to take evasive action to protect the Emperor.

But Prime and the rest of the cabinet seemed unaffected. After the third time –when Zero-Zero-Three was just starting to acclimate to the distraction- Red Hord slouched in his seat, massaging the side of his head, and muttered, "By the Host, 'Wing, haven't you calmed down yet?"

For half a moment, Zero-Zero-Three was about to ask what it was that Lord Hordwing might need to calm down from. But reminded himself that Hordwing was a cabinet Lord and it was not any of his business. Then he remembered that the Lord used to be a Wing Captain before he was elevated to the cabinet. Wing-pilots were just… that way.

For the rest of the drive, Zero-Zero-Three tried to ignore the bright red batwing that seemed determined to panic every single being within the city –native, visiting alien, and clone trooper alike.

Overall, Zero-Zero-Three's administrative and clerical practices were not all that different from any other Territory Captain's. All clones were programmed the same in the tank. They all thought, more-or-less, the same, and all organized things more-or-less the same. Horde Prime lost interest in touring the capitol building even quicker than he grew board of the spaceport and shipping docks.

There was one gratifying moment, however, as the party was passing the work station of that asshat logistics officer who slurped his caff loudly. He was sucking on his mug of caff, making those obnoxiously loud sipping sounds, when he noticed the Emperor just walked by him and he spilled his mug of –hot- caff all over his lap. Hearing him holler in pain made Zero-Zero-Three the happiest he'd been all week.

Prime's unreadable stone expression did not change. By the end of the tour, Zero-Zero-Three didn't know if he'd done well in his position, or disappointed his Emperor in all categories.

"I see you've kept the government up to standards." Was all the Emperor said, and the clone decided to take that as a complement. At least, he did not disappoint. He was 'up to standards'. "You may show me to what passes for comfortable quarters on this world then return to your duties. But I expect you to join us for dinner, Captain."

"Your Grace?" Zero-Zero-Three had to make sure he heard that right. Horde Prime, the Emperor of the Known Universe, and Brother to all, had invited him to share a meal? He felt slightly light headed again and had no idea if it was from his defects or not.

"Do not make me repeat myself, Captain, I am not an indulgent man." Prime informed him.

"No, of course not, Your Grace!" Zero-Zero-Three quickly shut up and showed Prime to the rooms he'd had furnished as private living quarters for the Emperor.

The communique only said the Emperor was coming. It did not mention that three of four cabinet Lords would all be in attendance, and so Zero-Zero-Three hadn't prepared anything for them. Once Prime was settled, enjoying the privacy of his rooms, the clone rushed to get three other rooms cleaned, furnished, and ready for Hordren, Hordwing, and Red Hord.

It was a whirlwind of barking orders, motion, carted furniture, flying linens, and many varied alien expletives that Zero-Zero-Three had never heard before. He warned each and every being that used such vulgar language –both alien and clone trooper alike- that such profanity would not be tolerated while the Emperor was in residence. This was the only warning. Make sure everyone else knew to comport themselves with dignity and respect. If he had to repeat himself, there would be no other warnings, Zero-Zero-Three would start taking tongues.

Everything was finally ready by the time Hordwing's batwing finally landed in the courtyard outside the capitol building. One pronged wing of the fighter almost decapitating the fountain statue that Lord Hode had made Zero-Zero-Three study when he first arrived on this world.

He rushed down to greet the cabinet Lord properly.

Red Hord was already down there by the time Zero-Zero-Three came running up.

He stopped short. It looked like the two were talking and Zero-Zero-Three did not want to interrupt what might be an important –if informal- discussion between two cabinet members.

Still snippets of the conversation couldn't help but drift to his ears. All Horde clones had excellent hearing. The pointed shape and long length of their ears didn't miss much.

"…I do my best thinking in a cockpit." Lord Hordwing seemed to be explaining. "I was thinking about what the Old Ghoul was saying before-"

He cut himself off abruptly, noticing Zero-Zero-Three there.

"Do you have something to do, trooper?" Hordwing snapped.

Coming up to the pair properly, Zero-Zero-Three gave the two Lords the exact same bow he always gave to his own Lord. Bending at the waist to the appropriate depth. Holding it for the appropriate length. Then straitening. "Lord, Hordwing, I am Captain Zero-Zero-Three, the Territory Captain in charge of this world."

"Hode's favorite." Hordwing looked him up and down.

Zero-Zero-Three felt a little shock run through him as being called Hode's 'favorite'. That couldn't have been true. If he really was his Lord's favorite, why had he left him here? Why hadn't he kept his by his side? And where was Lord Hode anyway? No one had yet offered an explanation for his absence. Which left Zero-Zero-Three's mind to wander, and his mind could wander to some bleak places.

Whatever Hordwing saw from his once-over examination, he did not seem impressed. "This is the one? He doesn't look dangerous."

Resisting the urge to fidget like a newly hatched clone, Zero-Zero-Three felt insulted. He was a soldier made from the template of the most powerful being in the universe. Trained in combat and military craft since before he could form conscious thought. He was a machine for conquest through violence. He was dangerous. He was exactly as dangerous as any of his brothers. Exactly as dangerous as Hordwing was.

Hordwing offered him a second glance. "You're thinner than the average trooper. Did you used to be a pilot before the Old Ghoul banished you here?"

Over average, batwing pilots tended to be a bit leaner and less muscular than the average clone trooper. Their gods did not make the same demands on their bodies, and so they received different physical training. Now Zero-Zero-Three looked Hordwing over.

He was wearing the zero-suit of a pilot, all black with the winged emblem of the Horde emblazoned on the chest. But, like all officers of consequence, he had augmented the look to suit his own tastes. The red wind raising up to the shoulders and turning into stripes that traveled all the way down the arms to the tips of the fingers of his gloves. Hordwing was slight of build compared to Red Hord. He kept up his pilot's physique even as a cabinet Lord. But he was still thicker and more muscles than Zero-Zero-Three.

Perhaps Hode was right. Perhaps he should alter his uniform and armor to conceal his falling body mass.

"I am unaccustomed to the duties of a Territory Captain." He answered honestly. He did not know how to hold a planet. "I find that I sometimes forget my standard ration intake while trying to complete them."

"So, you're thoughtless and irresponsible." Concluded the Lord.

This time Zero-Zero-Three definitely, definitely was insulted.

Hordwing grabbed Red Hord by the arm and brushed past the other clone. "Prime will be expecting up for dinner and he'll want me showered and dressed."

Glancing back at Zero-Zero-Three, Red Hord offered him an almost sympathetic smile. "Our Brother does not eat ration bars. You might want to prepare your stomach for unprocessed foods."

…

Zero-Zero-Three was glad for the warning.

He had no idea how one 'prepared their stomach' to eat food it was unaccustomed to, but at least he wasn't surprised when an alien server –not one of his own, a servant from the Velvet Glove- placed a cut of unseasoned poultry and steamed green vegetables in front of him.

Looking up at those seated around the table, Zero-Zero-Three felt so out of place. The Emperor of the Known Universe seated at the head of the table. Lord Hordren, administrator of the Fourth Division seated at his right hand. Next to Hordren was Hordwing, administrator of the First Division. Then Red Hord, administrator of the Second Division. The most powerful beings in the universe (minus Hode, whom no one had yet said why he was absent) seated at one table together. What was a humble Captain like Zero-Zero-Three doing here?

No one started eating until Horde Prime took his first bite, and it was noted that Prime's meat was dripping with sauce and seasoned with herbs. He, it seemed, was not overpowered by flavor in his food. But then, he was a perfect being. Perhaps perfect beings were just unbothered in general.

The cabinet Lords all nibbled at their own plates and –to spite the lack of seasoning- did not appear to be enjoying their meals as much as Prime was enjoying his.

Was Prime enjoying his? His expression remained neutral. Unreadable. Passive. Almost apathetic. As if he didn't even care that his kitchen staff that he brought with him off his ship went out of their way to tailor the plates of the Emperor and each of his Lords, and his guest to their pallets.

Cutting himself a conservatively sized bite, Zero-Zero-Three brought the meat to his mouth and chewed on it slowly. The texture was not unpleasant. The flesh was tender, but juicy. Cooked enough to be done all the way through, but not overcooked so as to be dry. It was very well prepared. That was not the problem. The problem was the flavor. Too much flavor. Even unseasoned, the meat of the bird had a taste all its own that was much, much stronger than what Zero-Zero-Three was used to. Than the negative-flavor of the ration bars issued by the Horde military commissary. Zero-Zero-Three was not used to it, and he quickly decided that he did not like it. He wondered if it would insult Prime if he didn't eat the rest of it. One bite was more than enough for him.

"How does it compare?" Asked Prime from over his own plate.

"It is not what I'm used to." Zero-Zero-Three answered honestly.

The Emperor seemed unsurprised. The vast majority of his clones preferred the processed rations he manufactured for them over real cooking made from fresh ingredients.

"And being a Territory Captain instead of a Force Captain, how does that compare?" Prime continued.

Zero-Zero-Three frowned, not sure what kind of answer his Emperor wanted. "It is very different." He finally decided was both true, but also a neutral enough answer to not offend anyone at the table. "Half as active and half as exciting than being a Force Captain, but somehow twice as stressful."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Prime's mouth cracked into a facsimile of a smile. Not quite a true-smile, but something adjacent to one. It was the first actual expression he'd seen the Emperor make. Setting his form down, he rapped his steel-tipped talons on the tablecloth. "That's a clever way to describe it. I did not know you were clever, Captain."

Zero-Zero-Three flushed. Ears darkening a deeper shade of blue, face feeling warm. The Emperor of the Known Universe, his genetic template, his Brother thought he was clever.

"What you have done on this world and with the shipping docks was also quite clever." Prime continued. "Appealing to local values to keep them in line. It's something Hode would have done." It was the first time anyone had mentioned Lord Hode by name since the party arrived, and Zero-Zero-Three couldn't help but notice that it was said in past tense. "I wonder, are you actually clever, or are you just copying his strategies?"

"Your Grace?" He asked, unsure how to answer that question.

"I remember you." Horde Prime informed him. "You jumped to defend Hode at Horrin's trial. You insulted your Lord in front of his Emperor by presuming he needed defending. Yet, Hode still favored you for many years. Why?"

"Well, I-" Zero-Zero-Three had no idea. He had no idea why Hode seemed to show a special interest in him over his other Force Captains, and he had no idea when Prime wanted from this line of questions. It was almost like her were… looking for something. But Zero-Zero-Three couldn't imagine what. He was just a clone, as unremarkable as any of his brothers. Unless… unless Prime somehow had heard about his defects and had come to investigate the flaw himself. To keep the cloning factory and crèches from repeating the same mistake. Zero-Zero-Three swallowed a lump of nerves. "I always thought it was because I was good at my job."

"No other reason?" Prime pressed.

The three cabinet Lords all sat, straight backed in their chairs. Almost tense. Nervous.

Prime was definitely fishing for something.

"I don't know!" Zero-Zero-Three blurted out. All of his insecurities and resentment of being left behind on this world bubbling to the surface and trembling out as a quiver in his voice. "I don't know why Hode left me here. I was a good soldier, and I was a good officer. I took my orders, I fulfilled my missions, I brought back victory. I served the Empire. I was ready to die for the Empire. But then he left me here. Dumped me far away from him without an explanation."

Leaning back in his chair, Prime steepled his fingers and regarded Zero-zero-Three from across the table. "Hode did not confide in you."

Blinking, the clone realized how ridiculous he must have sounded. Lord Hode was a member of the Emperor's cabinet. Why would he share the inner workings of his mind, his deeper thoughts, or motivations with a Force Captain that could die on any mission. Or worse, he captured and interrogated.

Lowering his eyes, Zero-Zero-Three muttered, "Lord Hode kept his own mind, Your Grace."

"You don't know about Hode." Continued Prime.

With his eyes down, Zero-Zero-Three couldn't see it, but the three cabinet Lords all exchanged glances.

"No, Your Grace, I guess I don't." Admitted Zero-Zero-Three. "I don't even know why he's not here with you right now, when the other Lords are."

This time, Zero-Zero-Three was looking up and did see the glances the three Lords gave each other. But he had no idea what they might mean. Just something significant.

"Lord Hode is dead." Emperor Prime informed flatly, without fanfare. Not an announcement, just a statement of fact. "He was the oldest clone to live on record and he expired from age. His cabinet seat is empty, and I am without someone to oversee the Third Division."

Mouth hanging open, staring at Horde Prime, Zero-Zero-Three just gaped.

"Zero-Zero-Three, Force Captain and Territory Captain, will you serve me as faithfully and diligently as you served your Lord?"

It was all Zero-Zero-Three could do to stammer out gibberish. The moment was so surreal. In the space of a heart beat he'd learned that Lord Hode was dead, then was being offered his late Lord's seat on the cabinet. This had to be a dream. This could not be real. Between his cloning defects and the dangerous life of a Horde soldier, Zero-Zero-Three never believed he might live long enough to even fantasize about a cabinet seat.

"Do not make me repeat the question." Prime warned. "Perhaps you are not as clever as I originally thought."

"Yes!" He finally got out. "I mean. I will serve you even more diligently, Your Grace." He offered a salute. "It would be my privilege."

As he said it, Zero-Zero-Three couldn't help but remember what Hode told him at their parting. 'Preform your duties here well, and you just might find yourself elevated above a Force Captain.' The only rank above Force Captain was cabinet Lord. He knew. Somehow, and Zero-Zero-Three had no idea how, but Hode knew this would happen.

[thedogsled]

All about that base.

Hi there! So recently I’ve been working on putting a lot more effort into my backgrounds in order to make my pictures better tell the story of whatever gorgeous fanfic I’m working with. This one is from @mistresspandora ‘s Destiel Reverse Bang story Daylight Gold.  It’s actually great fun because I get to play with all these fun new tools, parts of Clip Studio Paint (formerly Manga Studio) which I hadn’t really used before. Just one month ago I was messing around painstakingly drawing three hundred trees on a hill. No more! I’ve discovered brushes and now there’s no going back.

“Brushes, you say? I have brushes. Why do they make backgrounds more fun?” Well for me it’s like this: backgrounds used to be excruciating because I’m drawing the characters, so drawing one leaf at a time that nobody’s going to pay much attention to always seemed to feel like a waste of time. There is, of course, 100% room for meticulous gorgeous foregrounds complete with individual leaves, but using brushes you can get a similar effect without spending forever on it. The background above took three hours, and compared to how long it would have taken me, I’d say it was pretty quick! Brushes give you that flexibility and speed, which means more art and more complexity without sinking massive amounts of time into it.

Follow the cut below, and I’ll walk you through the process of building this background and show you the secrets of a few other recent projects I’ve worked on.

So the first thing I do when I’m planning a picture is think about lighting and composition. I might find an image which suits the picture perfectly, like the one above, or create a mood board with fractures of pictures I want to use. These often feature clouds or forests or mountains, people’s clothing, individual trees, and most frequently the back of people’s heads. When lighting is involved, particularly when it’s distorted such as through blinds or clouds, I concentrate on finding just a few references which show me how the light works. This man cycling down a street at sundown gave me the glow I really wanted and showed me how the visible would be obscured by the brightness of the light in the background, something I really wanted in the final image. I’ve superimposed the original over the final image here--see how the people I put in the street are standing on the original road surface?

So at this point I strip off all the image and go right into the background. I had some pictures of clouds to work from, and a variety of different ‘cloud’ brushes which I used to create the different densities here. This is actually five different layers on the base yellow color. Using a watercolor brush I painted burnt umbre on the left and then on another layer the white sunlight on the right. This isn’t the only layer of sunlight I’ve used, since I wanted to show it as shining down on Dean in the final image. The clouds are a single white/grey layer with two more layers of large accents and highlights/lowlights. 

Here’s the image without the white/grey layer in the background so you can see how the clouds are constructed. I didn’t worry too much about how authentic they were given I expected them to be mostly obscured by the time I was done. This lack of worry about being exact or precise lets me move faster, and working on layers means I can remove things from the image which don’t work; the more the better!

I’ve removed the clouds so as to keep from cluttering the image. The road surface is two layers; the solid milk chocolate brown with the dark smudges is airbrushed on the bottom, and then I’ve used the same tool to paint the markings on the road. You can see how carelessly I’ve used color here, and again that’s because these layers are right at the bottom, and as we build texture up the simplicity vanishes.

So here’s my next brush tool at work. There’s three different kinds of brush leaves here, again applied quickly and effortlessly, with a variety of soft colors which will help the deep contrast of the leaves appear to have light shining through them. This is what makes trees appear lighter in places--you’re not just seeing through the gaps of the tree, but through the leaves themselves. As you can see I’ve put another layer on here with the first sunbeam passing through it. It’s not the only one, but having these semi transparent layers lets you create light which is brightened by layers of light underneath. Imagine a stage where two spotlights intercept each other--the place where the light crosses is brighter than the beam itself.

Here’s some more greenery. Using leaf brushes I’ve built up the levels here, starting with the smaller ones right at the back and working forward and larger to match the perspective. The leaves here took twenty/thirty minutes. Imagine if you were putting on all those leaves one at a time! It’s simple but it’s effective, and that’s what we need. Also take note of the layer of light colored leaves I’ve put over the bottom layers to show the way the light swallows up the foreground objects.

As well as putting in the tree trunks (you’ll note some of them are behind the foliage and some in front of it, building foliage on multiple layers will let you do this), I’ve put the clouds back in so you can see the way that we’ve really started to build this image up. The light looks like it’s falling on the road, and the compostion is really starting to come into its own. Time to build a steeple!

In this story Dean and Cas barricade themselves inside a church, so it made sense when adding some interest to this image to add a church steeple. I started with a simple dark brown outline, filled it in and added some highlights where the light would catch the brickwork.

Here’s three more layers, one behind the others to show the bell and the inside of the tower, making it 3D, and two of the outside, one giving it light down one side, and another drawing the shadow lines on the brickwork. It was more than enough so I left it at that. Finally all we needed to do was add some people, and Clip Studio comes with its own crowd brush which you can adjust to make your people whatever size you like. Super useful!

After putting in the figures, I added some last minute foreground light to this image, just to make everything glow. Believe it or not the people took longer than the background! So here you go--all done!

Here’s some more of my recent backgrounds, you can find the finished pieces here and here. These are all created with the same general idea - reference material, background, lighting, layers, textures and brushes.

If you enjoyed this post please reblog it, support me by ko-fi or redbubble or just let me know! I would be more than happy to make more posts like this in the future if it’s of interest to anyone, exploring the backgrounds of different pieces, or showing you how to use Clip Studio’s 3D poser, texture effects or anything else you're interested in!

[bakurapika]

i don't want to reblog and actually @ any of the art in particular, but finding bad-/comic-art seems to have whole genres of types of "bad art (i don't know if it sounds bitchier with or without the quotes so i added one quote. you're welcome for the confusion)

this is a blog post in the traditional opining-for-no-reason sense so this is under a readmore

i know it's a bad trend in general to have women all be sexualized without the men getting the same treatment, but we don't get context, so like

genre 1: normal sexy women. im including stuff that is stylized in a way that emphasizes curves/bust/butt but (butt lol) is emphasizing things that look good. by which i mean, it has a clear line of action, you can tell what's going on, but the proportions are intentionally weird or it's apparently chilly out today. like ngl i'm kind of into this look. reminds me of some early-to-mid-00's cartoons. (plus, in that example, the guys are getting the same goofy expressions and poses)

genre 2: abnormal sexy women. this is the michaelangelo approach if, instead of grapefruit, he stuck beach balls on the boobs and butt. it's not a character choice for a woman to be a Sexy Woman - it is the default design, and any angle which does not have boobs and/or butt must be corrected. this is where you get those weird spine issues and strange torso twists and "this body looks normal except her boobs are in antigravity" where the net effect is not sexiness but uncanniness.

i don't think that ONLY the boob/butt thing will put the art into this category though. counter-example, this is boob/butt but (butt) it gives an exaggerated fluidity to the motion imo. it doesn't feel like we're looking at a woman with weird anatomy, but like we're seeing her torso and then seeing her run. the hands being distorted make it feel more like a smear to me. contrast this one, where you can't tell at first if we're even looking at her back or her front. i'm not sure if they drew the hands wrong or maybe this was a crunch time problem or if it was intentional. it's not more anatomically "wrong" but it's confusing instead of conveying its movement in a glance

or this cover where it seems to be a normal, referenced portrait, but with her boobs appearing massive, because the rest of the torso is a little foreshortened but her Boobs Cannot Be Small. the boobs take up the whole thing, they interrupt any sense of movement, and are given as much importance as her face. in fact you wind up with stiffer poses a lot of the time because you're restricted to pin-up appropriate movement.

genre 3: inexperienced or done quickly. things get wonky and off-model in ways that aren't on purpose, and there seems to be no one in the editing process who was willing or able to correct it. im also lumping some stylization in here that doesn't seem intentional, like this one, where the anime-eyes are going against the mood that seems to be otherwise conveyed.

im also lumping in "you can see what they're going for but they couldn't find a reference image" which seems like it might create some of the weird anatomy. like they had to look up a face and a body and it looks badly photoshopped. or like this one i almost think they did some inks on the wrong layer and accidentally colored over it?? children seem to get this issue a lot too, although granted, even baby jesus has that issue for centuries so it might be an age-old problem

genre 4: stylized so much it is hard to see what's going on. this one is even more subjective than the rest, and all art is subjective so whatever. but when the poses get funky or the design is complicated, then you need to really compensate with line weight and careful color choice and composition or else it looks cluttered and weird. at least that's how i would approach that problem but i don't art much. spider-man seems to deal with this the most that i'm seeing so far, although you could probably put the liefeld offenders in here too

genre 5: silly. the art might not even be bad but the expression or pose is silly

genre 6: too detailed in the wrong spots. man muscles. also otherwise non-sexy women who get their nipples shaded in situations that it doesn't make sense, or where other similar shapes aren't detailed. or the faces are lined a lot to make it intense but wind up making the whole thing really dark and hard to parse. (don't @ me about yugioh.......)

genre 7: racist. might be the colorist or the pencils/inks or all. even those that aren't intentionally offensive seem to just not know what non-white people look like

i think the reason im writing all this (and not tagging anyone obv) is because there's not really a point to saying YOUR ART IS BAD AND YOU SHOULD FEEL BAD for many of these, esp the off-model ones. i guess im overanalyzing because i want to learn from it?? and maybe articulate to myself why "haha girl sexy" and "oh no boobs too big" get such different emotional reactions from me, and why i don't need to feel bad for thinking girl sexy, and it does not mean i am perpetuating bad boobs. dont accuse me of perpetuating bad boobs :(

[jemimaboultonmessagesmultiverse]

29/09

Today we furthered our knowledge of techniques used in photoshop by looking at Peter Bankov’s work and implemented elements of his style into our own working by merging layers and using brush tools. I decided to work on my postcard based around brain implants getting hacked as I had a lot of work from other lessons that fit that theme.

Peter Bankov

Peter Bankov is graphic designer and poster artist who sets himself the task of making a new poster everyday. His work commonly includes an off white background and a thresholded image with a bright colour in the the background of it, with some hand written type. The way in which his letters are very varied in size and font reminds me in some ways of a ransom note as they are usually cut from magazines and therefore have very varied type. 

He is commissioned for many event as the work he creates is very eyecatching due to the unique compositions and and contrast between bold colours and black and white. The piece below is a good example of this contrast as it has a very bright neon green featuring inside a piece which is black and white throughout the rest of it.

I really like how he doesn’t make all the type flow across the page from left to right and he puts it up and down, almost weaving the words together to fill the page and make the audience really engage with the work as they have to put a small amount of effort into reading what is being communicated.

The handwritten type is also a feature I enjoy as it is used alongside computer made type and therefore there are many textures within this work which works to connect the audience with the piece as it feels less robotic and stiff and more real and human. The minimal colour palette and use of a technique similar to thresholding is something I will use in my own work as I think it can make a piece overall more cohesive if I don’t use too huge of a variety of colours and instead opt for a smaller more carefully chosen palette.

This piece is different to the previous one in the way it uses 2 colours and contains some white type. The two colours chosen are blue and pink, with blue being the colour in the foreground and pink being used behind and around the blue to accent it. As some of the blue is very dark Bankov has chosen to use white text to display the message clearly which is something I could consider in my own work to make sure the type is always readable.

Some extremely small type is also used down the left side of this piece and I could do this in my own work using extracts from the articles to further send the message from the article to the audience and add additional context to the piece which previously may not have been obvious.

Looking at Bankov’s work has also made me consider how I use the space on my page, as his pieces manage to be very filled with different elements but not cluttered, which is a balance I find very difficult to find. From his work I believe that the simple background allows him to fill the canvas which lots of things without there being too much going on. The background will at most contain a grey shape or some lines which gives the foreground the freedom to be whatever Bankov decides without having to worry about colours or space.

Another technique Bankov uses a lot in his work which I like a lot is gradients from one colour to another. I am not going to use these in my own work as they are difficult to make look good, but Bankov does it well and makes them work in a very striking way within his work.

I really like the minimalistic nature of this last piece, using only primary colours and much less type than in the other piece by him that I’ve looked at. I usually avoid using the primary colours but by seeing Bankov do it in a captivating way has made me possible want to do this in the future. I think the reason the primary colour work better together than in my attempts is because of the shade of blue used, as it is very much on the teal side of blue and therefore the colours have an effect similar to that seen in popart.

My Work

Before starting my piece for today I scanned in the pieces I have done in the previous lesson so I could use them in this lesson. Once I had scanned them in using the image capture app, I adjusted the levels to make the colours more vibrant and and the black and white contrast more.

I then selected areas from these which I wanted to use for this piece. The article it is based on is the one concerning social media implants in the brain as I had lots of work related to this topic. I took the phone in the brain part of the blue and orange collage and then the words “hacked” and “cyborg” from the type I made last lesson. To get the areas I wanted I used the polygonal lasso and cut them out before creating layers via cut.

Once I had the layer I would select colour range to remove the white from the background of the “hacked” so I could layer it with the other elements I cut out. I then dragged these layers to my blank postcard sized photoshop window which I had already opened.

I wanted to arrange these differently so that the words weren’t all going into one direction in a similar way to Peter Bankov.

To arrange the words in this way I selected the layer with the “hacked” typography and rotated it to go horizontally across the page to create variety in how the type flows. I also wanted to change the size of the type so I used the scale transformation to make it smaller so not all the words were the same size. I like how this beginning looked and I think it was a decent start but it didn’t have enough colour so I added some more elements. 

Once I was happy with the placement of those 3 pieces I cut out the woman from my “cyborg” collage and used the threshold effect on her to make her entirely in black and white. I then duplicated her to create a balance of both the top and the bottom of the canvas.

After duplicating her I used the colour range technique to yet again get rid of the background behind the image on the bottom so I could add colour behind her in a similar way to which Bankov does in his work. I think this was very successful in adding a pop of colour to the piece which was overall very muted beforehand.

To add the colour I used the polygonal lasso tool to draw around the shape of the woman and then filled the shape in with colour using the paint bucket tool. I then merged the 2 layers so the woman and the colour behind her became one layer and therefore would be moved or layered on top of as if they are the same layer.

Even after adding this bright green I didn’t feel as though the page had enough interest in it so I added some type in a font I downloaded last time I was working on photoshop and alternated the text between green and black to create some colour at the top of the page. I chose the words “human + robot” to communicate the message of the merging of humans and technology which was being discussed in this article.

I then added some more text on the left hand side of the page as I felt there was a big empty space. The words are an extract from the article and they are on a smaller scale than the rest of the type in a similar way to which Bankov would add extra information to his posters.

I also made the background a slightly off white colour using the paint bucket tool and I added some lines of green in the background using the background, inspired by many of the shapes seen in Bankov’s work, especially his works containing gradients.

I am pleased with the finished outcome although I do believe it looks rather jumbled. I really like the textures created by the scanned in work and how it contrast with the type which has come straight from the computer. I also like how the green looks and I believe it fits with the message of the postcard as green and black are colours commonly used in technological and sci fi media.

To amend my problems with this piece I would this about my use of space and how to make all the different elements of this piece look good together without looking overwhelming. Maybe I could remove some elements or make them smaller to fix this.

[tipsycad147]

Beginning Witchcraft: A Free 30-Day Crash Course

Are you intrigued by the idea of exploring witchcraft?

With countless books, websites, forums, traditions, holidays, and new vocabulary to learn about, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed.

The guide below sets simple, realistic goals that will start you down the path to a more magical spiritual life.

The ideas below are completely free, easy and perfect for beginning witchcraft as a practice in your life.

Day 1:  Set a clear goal.

What do you hope to learn by beginning witchcraft as a practice?

Would you like to know more about herbs and how to use them?

Are you interested in researching your folkloric heritage?

Maybe you want to explore a more natural lifestyle in our fast-paced, throwaway consumer culture?

Spirituality tends to be serendipitous.  You’ll likely learn a few things you didn’t expect to.  But knowing what you want out of your practice goes a long way to getting it.

Once you decide where your focus will be, you can customise these exercises to suit your aspirations.

Day 2:  Nip stereotypes in the bud.

Before you get too far down the road of the Craft, take a moment to consider what your preconceptions are.

Open a notepad on your desk top.  (Or, for those of you who still remember how to write with a pen, open an actual notepad).

Write down what comes to mind when you think of the word “witch.”:

Then, check out some common myths about witchcraft and see if any appeared on your list.

Day 3:  Notice the moon.

Is it waxing?  Waning?  Full?  Totally black?

Research the current moon phase and its meaning.

Or don’t.  Just take a moment to look up in the sky tonight and be inspired by this beautiful cosmic body.

Day 4:  Head to the library.

Your local library likely keeps books on the subject of magic and witchcraft.

If not, try looking at books with peripheral relevance, like books about classical mythology, herbalism and dream interpretation.

Pick one, and plan to read it by its due date.

Or, if you like to sit at home and curl up with your Amazon account, check out these beginner-friendly suggestions.

Day 5:  Plan a morning ritual.

Start your day on a positive note by planning a simple morning ritual.

Design it according to your preferences and what you have on hand.

Here are some clever ideas for a spiritual wake up call.

Day 6:  Learn the Wheel of the Year.

Not all witches observe the Wheel of the Year.

But it’s so frequently referenced in witch circles. blogs, books and websites that it’s worth it to know it even if you don’t plan to celebrate it.

It takes 20 minutes to memorise the holidays and dates.  Of course, learning their meanings goes much deeper, but the basic facts are enough to start with.

Day 7:  Work with colour magic.

You need not begin your experiments with spell craft using elaborate techniques and tools.

For example, try choosing a shirt to wear in a colour that corresponds to your intentions.

For common colour correspondences and other ideas about colour magic, go here.

Day 8:  Set up an altar.

Clear a small space on your dress or a bookshelf.

Or, if you want to keep it discreet, have some fun with your discretion.  One of my favourite ideas:  DIY your own secret book safe.

Choose items with meaning to you to include on your altar.  Stones or natural items found on nature walks, mementos or family heirlooms, and photographs of your ancestors all make nice additions.

Day 9:  Explore the Elements.

What Element correspondences to your birth sign?

Do something simple to get in touch with your dominant element.  Here are some ideas to get you started:

Fire Sign

Earth Sign

Water Sign

Air Sign

Day 10:  Give divination a try.

If you happen to own runes or a tarot deck, great.  Bust those bad boys out and draw for yourself.

But if not, you need not run out and buy anything.  Divination tools are, in many ways, best found in nature any way.

Here’s one that’s free and only requires you to step outside your front door:

Cloud Scrying for Beginners.

Day 11:  Research an herb you’re not familiar with.

It doesn’t have to be a super esoteric herb.

Even if you know the culinary uses of basil, try looking into its metaphysical properties.  Then, come up with some creative ways to employ it in your practice.

Day 12:  Go on a scavenger hunt in own your house.

While many new to the Craft think they need to spend a lot of money on ritual gear, this usually ends in disappointment and frustration.

I am a big proponent of starting with what you have.

Lots of everyday items may be used in magic.  Look for these common household items used in witchcraft.

Day 13:  Get kitchen witchin’.

The kitchen is the cauldron of the home and very often the jackpot of a magical household.

Start with the herbs and spices.

Choose a kitchen witch spell to try or come up with your own.

Make cooking a sensual experience.  Listen for the crackle of water on perfectly heated oil.  Inhale fragrant fresh herbs.  Enjoy the sensation of oil between your fingers or the feeling of soft dough as you knead it on the countertop.

Day 14:  Take a nature walk.

Unless there’s an active heat adviser or a hurricane, do this no matter the weather conditions.

If it’s freezing, bundle up and bring some hot cocoa.  If it’s raining and hot, consider leaving the umbrella behind and get wet on purpose.

We live so much of our lives in climate-controlled structures without so much as a potted plant.  Getting in touch with nature sometimes means experiencing discomfort.

Notice that when you endure this discomfort, you come home feeling refreshed, awake, and alive.

And if it’s nice, take your time and try some these ideas to make your nature walk more magical than mundane.

Day 15:  Reflect on what you learned so far.

You’re halfway there!  If you dedicated yourself to this 30-day exercise, you likely learned some things you didn’t know before and have a better grasp on where you want to go.

Take a look at the goal you set at the beginning of the month.  How much closer do you feel to achieving it?

Day 16:  Explore your heritage.

Your ancestors practised witchcraft, whether you know it or not.  If you reach back far enough in time, no matter where your bloodlines originate, someone, somewhere used something that anthropologists classify as folk magic.

Curious?  Do some digging!  If you already know where you came from, start there.  If not, call up your oldest living relatives and ask them where their people came from.  Old people love to talk about their family history.  Take advantage of this!

Day 17:  Assess your relationship with the Earth.

How much time do you spend in nature?  How much of that time is interrupted by your screens?

Are you conscientious about things like land conservation and recycling?

If you’ve never thought about these things, don’t feel bad.  Our culture doesn’t do a very good job of instilling a respect for the natural world.

Don’t know where to start?  Check out 10 Ways to Live Closer to the Earth for some easy suggestions.

Day 18:  Go on a witchy field trip.

You pick the destination.  Here are some suggestions:

-Visit an occult shop.

-Attend a Unitarian Universalist church (where witches are generally welcome)

-Find a quiet stretch of parkland to meditate.

-Go to a museum that features exhibits on local folklore and history.

Day 19:  Purge.

Go through your closets, drawers and dusty shelves.  Clear out cluttered corners where the energy is stale.

Give everything a clean sweep.

Make a pile of things to drop off at goodwill.

Then, open the windows, boil a pot of water on the stove with a cleansing herb or two.  Use whatever you have available (see Day 13).  Try one of the following:

-Lemon, orange or lime peel

-rosemary

-garden sage

-a few drops of essential oil

-pine needles

Let the water soft boil for an hour.

Enjoy the raised vibrations of your happier home!

Day 20:  Meditate before bed.

Start with 5 minutes, and then work up to 10 or 20 gradually. Trying to clear your mind completely as a beginner really frustrates all even people with years of meditation practice.   I find that in the beginning, guided meditation helps a lot.

My favourite is this one by Kelly Howell (you need headphones for best results).

Day 21:  Try something seasonal.

Preferably, an authentic local experience.

Gather wildflowers or evergreens by the roadside.  Bake something using seasonal ingredients.  Visit a local farm and ask about what’s growing there.

Get back in touch with the natural world.  Check in with it just like you’d check in with any other category of current events.

Day 22:  Explore sun magic.

While there seems to be an abundance of emphasis on the moon in modern spell work, the sun is also useful!

Read about the creative ways to use the sun in witchcraft.

Either watch the sunrise or the sunset today.  Notice that taking the time to observe its majesty lifts your mood and clears your mind.

Day 23:  Check the news.

No, not the mainstream political pundit talking heads on CNN.

Look into some alternative publications that feature news about witches.

The Wild Hunt has an excellent reputation for professional journalism.

Day 24:  Plan out your next full moon.

Go look up the next date of the the full moon.

Make some solid plans to celebrate it.

Check out 25 Ways to Celebrate the Full Moon for some creative suggestions.

Day 25:  Try chanting.

There’s a reason nearly every folk culture in the world uses some form of chanting in spiritual practice.

Look up some chants.  Find sources you can actually listen to.  Try one that’s appropriate.

Or, just choose a word or phrase that you find empowering.  Find a quiet space and repeat it over and over.

This is a powerful way to still the mind and focus your intentions.

Day 26:  Start a dream journal.

Access your deepest thoughts, fears and desires by beginning a dream journal.

Your dream journal need not be fancy.  A simple composition book works.  You can usually pick one up for less than a dollar.

However, I recommend keeping it low-tech and avoiding writing down your dreams in digital format.

Dreams are best recording at the very first moment of waking, and screens tend to disrupt your natural sleeping/waking process.

For more on working with dreams, check out Dream Work for Beginners.

Day 27:  Decide on some personal ethics.

Your morals and boundaries are personal.

No one gets to decide for you what is okay and not okay.

Before you go further, decide what your limitations are and promise to respect them.

For example, if negative spells make you uncomfortable, don’t do them.

Never feel pressured to engage in any spiritual practice that runs contrary to your beliefs.  Anyone who refuses to respect your space doesn’t deserve a place in it.  Period.

That goes both ways.  Respect the right of others to decide what’s okay for them and what’s not okay.  Never rope someone into a ritual who expresses reservations or hesitation.

Day 28: Take a cleansing bath for the soul.

Or shower.  I know bathtubs aren’t a thing everywhere.  Either way, do something to make it special.

Light candles, play soft music, make your own sugar scrub.  Be creative.  Think outside the box.

You can even use colour magic by dying your own bathwater.

If you prefer, keep it basic and try using self-massage techniques.   Or simply visualise negative energy draining with the water at the end.

Day 29:  Write your own spell.

It’s time to start putting what you learned to use.

Try not to be intimidated by spell writing.  Don’t get caught up in the “right way” to do things.

Use your intuition to choose ingredients, timing and other elements that support your goal.

For a basic framework, check out How to Write Your Own Spell.

Day 30:  Try levitation.

Just kidding.  You can’t levitate.

Well, you can, but only in a zero-gravity situation.  So unless you happen to have access to an electrostatic vacuum chamber, you’re stuck with the current conditions of unaltered gravitational pull.

Hopefully, your journey over this 30 days has dispelled some of the more ridiculous misconceptions and gave you a realistic glimpse into the world of witchcraft.

But really, it’s only the jumping off point.

You’re launched.  Get flying.

https://moodymoons.com/2018/12/26/beginning-witchcraft-a-free-30-day-crash-course/?subscribe=success#blog_subscription-3

[intergalactic-romantic]

not even that anon but very mature response to criticism. this is why no one takes your bland childrens scribbles seriously. you sound insecure

and yet here we are, with me posting all of my drawings online, and yet you’re here, posting ANON… and I’M the one sounds insecure? lol okay. 

the last anon wasn’t criticism, it was someone saying how they didn’t like fantasy co-existing with space, or whatever it was… like as though fantasy + space blew their mind and it’s this thing which has never been done before in the world ever, or shouldn’t be done (maybe in art rulez 101) or whatever.. they had some rules for me, when it was some random with a preference who actually expected me to change just because they didn’t like it. i make what i do because i like it, not because someone told me to. 

also: if artists listened to the criticism of everyone with an opinion on it, it would stop being their own. i think that anon said something about meaning getting lost because i draw whatever i want? well i think losing your personal freedom to others opinion is a pretty big loss. 

btw, i know my own faults and flaws probably better than anyone else. i suck at anatomy, i actually love cluttered composition, and there are fuck tons of errors and things that i just plain messed up in my artwork. the childlike nature of it is purposeful. i’m not trying to be some perfect artist, i’m literally JUST enjoying myself, which seems to be working because i’ve noticed improvements since i started drawing without giving a fuck.. (drawing whilst giving lots of fucks DID NOT work out for me, lol. i would just see that i drew something badly, get upset, throw the drawing away, and not want to draw). 

i’m literally just a large child who has spent enough time on earth to learn how to make something look like a mermaid, or a tree, or a whatever. i love drawing all this stuff so much and i love freedom when it comes to my drawings. to some extent, that’s kind of the whole point. besides that, i think people who go around randomly telling artists what they think they should be doing with their artwork under the guise of “criticism” or whatever, are just really entitled. that, or maybe bored trolls, lol. 

and people not taking my drawings seriously? um well i kind of feel like you (and this other anon (who you aren’t even)) are actually taking it TOO seriously.. they’re children’s scribbles, remember? ;) 

loosen up and draw yourself a unicorn lizard or something, pal. x

[lastbluetardis]

Perfect Match (20/22)

This was inspired by this post about soulmates, and after @quite-right-too requested someone write it. I am going to try and write a little bit of this every week and track them through childhood and into teenage years and eventual adulthood.

Thank you very much to @chocolatequeennk​​ for listening to me pitch ideas and for offering her opinions and ideas.

Ten x Rose, Soulmates AU

Chapter Rating: Explicit (one scene about half way in)

James grew up hearing the legends of soulmates. How two—or three or four or however many—people could find each other by writing messages to each other on their skin, and he spent much of his time imagining himself with a soulmate, someone who would be his perfect match.

AO3 | TSP | FF

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22

James’s panting breath tickled against her neck, sending delicious shivers down her spine. Rose could feel his heartbeat thumping against her back, spooned as they were, and she wriggled closer to his warmth, feeling pleasantly drowsy with the sudden rush of endorphins brought on by their lazy morning lovemaking.

Now that they’d finally leapt over that last hurdle of intimacy, they couldn’t seem to get enough of each other.

“I don’t know how I’ll ever let you leave our bed,” Rose murmured, grimacing slightly when she felt him slip out of her. “I love making love with you.”

James hummed happily and brushed his lips across shoulder.

“So do I.” He continued planting soft kisses to whatever patch of skin he could reach until a low gurgling noise soon interrupted them.

“And as much as I’d love to stay in bed with you all day,” James lamented, “I’m starved.”

Rose giggled and kicked her legs free of their blankets before standing on slightly unsteady legs.

“Right, I’m going to shower,” she said, and she suppressed a shudder of desire when she saw how dark his eyes had gotten as they trailed across her naked body. “Oi. Quit ogling. Food. Breakfast. Go make.”

James growled and bounced out of bed after her, and pulled her tight along the length of his body. Rose was pleasantly surprised when she felt him twitching in renewed interest against her hip. Insatiable.

“Food can wait,” he mumbled, crashing his lips to hers in a heated kiss, so very different from the ones he’d woken her up with. “Got a nice, new, big shower. We ought to test it out together, don’t you think?”

“Nutter,” Rose said fondly, gasping when he bit down on the sensitive skin at the join of her neck and shoulder.

“Your nutter,” he said distractedly as he continued to scrape his teeth against her skin. “Another first for us to tick off the list: showering together.”

oOoOo

Over the next few weeks, when James and Rose weren’t exploring their newfound intimacy, they were continuing to shop for various accessories to make their flat homier. They found curtains and decorations and smaller shelving units to help de-clutter the rooms in the flat, and with every passing day, it became more and more like home. And finally, the end of August came, and it was time for school to start.

“Ready for your first day of classes, love?” James asked as he poured them both tea.

“Yep,” she said, but James could hear the nerves in her voice.

“You’ll be brilliant,” James assured, plopping down in his seat. He reached out and covered her foot with his.

“Any last-minute advice?” she asked weakly.

“Be yourself, use office hours,” James said, ticking them off on his fingers. “Oh! Find a buddy or two in all of your classes. Forming a study group will help you all succeed in the class. School is much more fun when you surround yourself with people who are invested in learning, and not in just getting good grades. And honestly, the first few days, you don’t do much.”

Rose nodded and swiped her thumb across the lip of her mug.

A half hour later, she was walking hand in hand with James across campus to her first class of the day, a composition and rhetoric class.

“Don’t be nervous,” he said, squeezing her hand. He brought their hands to his lips and brushed soft kisses across her knuckles. “You’re brilliant. Let’s meet for lunch once you’re done for the day. There’s a little café on the science side of campus. We can make that our lunchtime hangout spot, if you want?”

Rose giggled at James, knowing he was rambling to help calm her worries, and she appreciated that.

Though it turns out, she had no reason to worry. She took a shine to university life, like James knew she would, and quickly made friends with half of her classmates, also like James knew she would. Nobody could meet Rose Tyler and not immediately be smitten, and he was smugly proud that this woman was destined for him, out of everyone else in the universe.

The first half of the semester flew by, and Rose was quite ready for the midterm break. She used the extended weekend to catch up on sleep and a few projects she had been neglecting, and she wished James could have done the same. But because he didn’t take classes, he didn’t follow the same academic calendar she did, and he continued to pull long hours in his lab.

There were often days where the only time Rose saw him was when they were in bed together, and even then, it’s hard to socialize with a sleeping person. He made it a point to keep the weekends lab-free, though, and even if he had work to do, he did it in the flat. Rose was thankful for those hours on the weekends she could spend with him.

One morning in the middle of October, Rose crept down the stairs as quietly as she could. James was still asleep, and after his restlessness last night, she was loath to wake him. He’d come to bed after midnight, and his tossing and turning kept her up for most of the night too.

He’d also awoken her with a strangled sob before he rolled over to cuddle her. She’d thought she was about to cry for him when he buried his face into her neck and held her close as he breathed raggedly against her skin. But when she’d asked if he wanted to talk about it, he sniffled and whispered, “It’s just a dream,” and continued spooning her until he fell back to sleep.

He’d slept more peacefully after that, but Rose was utterly exhausted, despite the late hour of the morning. She knew James had to be even worse off; his sleeping patterns had become wild and unpredictable since school started, and she worried he wasn’t getting enough rest.

Rose yawned widely as she scooped coffee grounds into the coffee maker, then turned around to start on breakfast. She quickly whipped up pancakes, a favorite of James’s when he wasn’t in a good mood, and fried up some eggs to go with it.

Breakfast and coffee were eventually ready, but James was still asleep. She bit her lip and cast a glance up the stairs. Should she wake him? He really ought to eat something. He’d written to her last night that he would be home late, and she should eat without him, and she knew his dinner most likely consisted of a package of crisps left over from his lunch. If that.

Rose sighed heavily. It was killing her to see James working himself ragged, and she felt so helpless. She wanted so badly to go back to that youthful, carefree boy who stayed up late just so he could talk with her for a few minutes longer.

She grabbed a banana and sliced it up, putting most of it on a plate, but arranging some of the pieces into a smiley face onto one of the pancakes. She then rifled through their cabinets until she found a tray, and she loaded it up with food and their coffee before she walked up the stairs.

She heard the toilet flush as she reached for the bedroom door, and she was glad at least that she wasn’t about to wake him. She walked into the room and set their breakfast on the bedside table as she walked into their en suite. James looked a mess. His eyes were bloodshot and had dark bags under them, and his chin was covered in stubble. But he managed a smile for her when he caught sight of her.

“I’ve made us breakfast,” Rose said, reaching for his hand as he picked up his toothbrush. “Come. Have breakfast in bed with me. We’ve not done that in a while.”

“I’m not all that hungry.”

“You have to eat, love,” she reprimanded. “Please? Because I know you probably haven’t had anything more substantial than the dinner we made the night before last.”

His guilty expression did nothing to ease her concerns. She reached out and touched his cheek.

“Please eat with me, love?” she asked.

James sighed and leaned into her hand. He turned his head to press a kiss to her palm and whispered, “Okay.”

They crawled back into bed and settled the platter of food across their laps. James immediately went for the coffee, and sat back against their pillows as he cradled the mug in his hands.

“More than coffee,” Rose chastised gently, nudging a pancake his way. “Look, it’s happy to see you.”

James’s face relaxed into a genuine smile that sent Rose’s heart fluttering in her chest. He scooted closer to her and tucked his arm around her waist as he cut up his pancake, making the perfect bite of banana, pancake, and eggs.

He hummed appreciatively as he chewed and said, “These are great. Thanks, love.”

He scarfed down the smiley pancake with enthusiasm, and continued sipping at his coffee as he picked at the rest of their food. Rose was so pleased when he’d managed to stuff down two pancakes, half of his eggs, and all of the banana, and her eyes prickled that she was excited for such a thing.

“Please promise me you’ll try and take better care of yourself,” Rose asked, resting her head against his shoulder.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re hardly eating,” Rose whispered. She rubbed at her stinging nose as tears filled her eyes. “You’re not sleeping.”

“I’m just busy, love,” James soothed. “You know how hectic school is.”

“I’m really worried about you,” she admitted, looking up at him.

James caught sight of her tears, and his brow furrowed. He kissed her forehead and murmured, “I’m okay, love. Really. This past month has been really busy. Things will slow down once the deadline for this grant passes.”

“Can you promise me you’ll try to look after yourself better?” Rose asked again, cuddling into his side.

“I promise.” He set his empty coffee cup on their tray, and moved the tray to the bedside table to better hold her. “I don’t think I’ve said it, but thank you for taking such good care of me.”

Rose hugged him tight and murmured, “Of course, my James. That’s what you do for someone you love.”

Admittedly, James’s schedule did die down a little after October seventeenth passed, and his grant proposal was submitted. He came home that night looking so relieved, and Rose was overjoyed when he told her he was taking the rest of the week off to recharge before getting back to his lab work.

They took that time to be with each other, and they explored more of the city that was their home. When James woke Rose up early on Saturday morning to tell her he had a great day planned for them, Rose was so happy to see a spark of excitement in his eyes, that she let herself be tugged into their car as he drove an hour south.

He took them to an autumn festival in a tiny town in the country, much to Rose’s delight, and they wandered around pumpkin patches, drank mulled wine, and raced each other through a corn maze. Rose had more fun than she’d had in a while, and it was nice to see James so relaxed and carefree.

“Did you have fun?” he asked as he loaded the pumpkins they’d painted into the boot of the car.

“I did. Thank you for today.” She stretched up and placed a kiss on his pink cheek.

“Sorry I’ve been kind of distant lately,” he said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’m still trying to figure out time management. Always been sort of rubbish at that.”

“I know you’re busy, and working hard. I’ll take any time you can give me.”

He smiled in gratitude, and caught her lips between his.

oOoOo

Rose awoke before James, as was becoming more typical of late. Despite his assurances that his schedule would be less hectic once he submitted his grant proposal, he was still in the same habits as before. He came to bed later and awoke up earlier and holed himself away in their home office on most weekends, and Rose was worried he was running himself into exhaustion.

She sighed and rolled closer to him. She rested her head onto his pillow, so close to his face that she nearly went cross-eyes trying to trace his freckles. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his and lay her palm on his chest.

He sighed in his sleep, and wriggled closer to her. She smiled and kissed his nose, knowing he would soon be waking.

Rose lightly scratched at the hair on his chest, delighting in his deep, rumbling groan. She bit her lip against a grin and let her fingers wander down his chest to the flat planes of his stomach, before she discreetly traced her fingers across the front of his boxers, where he was already half hard.

His sharp inhale of breath told him that he was finally awake, and very aware of her touch. She pressed a quick kiss to his lips before her lips followed the trail her hand had made. She tossed the blankets to his feet as she scraped her teeth across the tips of his hipbones, peaking out as they were from the waistband of his pants.

“Rose,” he groaned as she continued to palm him through is pants.

“Shh, just relax and enjoy.”

She carefully tugged him out of the front slit in his boxers, and licked a slow line from the base of his cock to the tip. His hips jerked up sharply.

“Bloody hell, Rose!”

“Relax and enjoy,” she repeated, draping her arm across his waist to hold him steady.

She stroked him leisurely and pressed gentle kisses to his erection until his muscles unclenched and he relaxed into the mattress.

She laved her tongue across him once again, and he hummed loudly in pleasure, which choked off into a moan when she sucked the tip of him into her mouth. She savored him, and cradled him delicately on her tongue as she slowly took him deeper into her mouth, stopping just before he could bump the back of her throat. She wrung her fingers around the base of him to stroke the part of him she couldn’t reach as she pulled off him, applying light suction as she went.

“Shit, Rose,” he groaned brokenly. His thighs tensed and trembled against his urge to thrust up into her mouth, and he tried to force his muscles to relax, as she’d told him to, so he could enjoy what she was doing.

Rose, meanwhile, saw his aborted attempts to thrust up, and took that as a signal to increase her pace. She focused on the tip of him, and swirled her tongue around him, tasting the tang of the fluid he was leaking.

“Gonna come,” he grunted in warning a few moments later, clenching and unclenching his hands into their sheets.

Rose hummed around him and reached out blindly for his hand. He took it clumsily and lost the battle with his hips. He thrust up once as his fingers tightened around hers. Rose looked up at him, wanting to see him come, loving when she could uninterruptedly watch him.

He sucked in a breath, and Rose drummed her tongue against the head of his cock as her mouth was filled with his release. He arched his back, digging his head into his pillow as he struggled to keep his hips from thrusting further into her mouth as he lost himself to his pleasure. He panted and moaned and whimpered her name as Rose swallowed him down.

His body went limp and boneless, and he was silent save for his ragged breathing. She felt him start to soften in her mouth, and she pulled off of him to crawl up the length of his body.

She settled herself into his awaiting arms, and was rather pleased with his flushed and heaving chest and the relaxed look of pleasure still lingering on his face.

“Happy Birthday, my love,” Rose murmured, pressing a kiss to his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispered hoarsely, hugging her close as he let his fingertips trail down to her knickers.

But to James’s surprise, she snatched his hand away and hugged it to her chest.

“You don’t want me to return the favor?” James asked.

“It’s your birthday,” she said. “Besides, I’m on my period.”

“Again?”

Rose swatted his chest. “Funny thing, it happens every month, love.”

“You didn’t answer my question. If you want, I’ll still reciprocate. Well, perhaps not with my mouth, but I honestly don’t mind with my fingers, and…”

“Thanks,” Rose murmured, happy that he even offered. “But I’m quite all right. Not really in the mood today.”

“All right, if you’re sure,” James murmured, nuzzling into her neck.

“Want your birthday gift now or later?” Rose asked, stroking his hair away from her nose.

“Oh, I thought you’d already given me my present,” James said, and Rose could hear the grin in his voice.

“Consider that part one.” She leaned over and rummaged through her bedside table and grabbed a small package.

James sat up, and Rose followed. He accepted the gift gratefully and started to tug off the wrapping paper, which revealed a small white box. He lifted the lid and his lungs hitched when he saw a familiar pocket watch nestled in the black velvet.

“Rose, is this…?”

“I had it repaired for you,” Rose murmured, watching as James took the pocket watch and turned it around in his fingers.

His thumb brushed across the newly-restored hinge, and he flicked it open to reveal the first watch face, and he flipped it to reveal the second, both in perfect working order.

“I saw it when we were in San Francisco,” Rose said. “I hoped you don’t mind I took it.”

“Not at all,” James murmured. “I just figured Dad had it. Thank you.”

Rose smiled, glad he seemed to like her gift. She pressed a kiss to his knuckles and said, “Right! What does the birthday boy want for breakfast?”

“Pancakes?” he asked eagerly.

Rose rolled her eyes. “You know, I never thought a sweet breakfast food would be at all appetizing until I met you.”

“They are the epitome of breakfast foods, Rose,” he said seriously.

“Maybe across the pond,” Rose scoffed, poking his chest. “All right, pancakes it is. Chocolate chip?”

He grinned and nodded, and he went off to shower as Rose prepared his birthday breakfast.

Rose had just put his plate of food on the dining table, when James walked in holding his phone out in front of him.

“Say hi to Rose!” he said, and he flipped his phone around so Rose could see Robert’s face.

“Hi, Dad!” She skipped up to James’s side so James could speak to his dad too, and so she could get a better look at Robert. But she did a double take when she saw him. They’d only seen him two months ago, when they made dinner for him, Jackie, and Mickey as thanks for helping them move, but in that time, he’d noticeably picked up a bit of weight. His face was round and pink, and though Rose couldn’t see anything past his shoulders, she imagined his gut had expanded too. And he looked absolutely exhausted. Rose wanted to cry when she saw him, and she wanted to hop on a plane to Scotland and take care of him.

“Blimey, Dad, you might want to consider laying off the muffins, eh?”

Rose elbowed him sharply in the gut. “Rude!” she hissed.

Robert chuckled wryly and said, “No, no, he’s right. I have put on a few pounds.”

“Are you all right?” Rose asked softly, scanning her eyes across his face critically.

His smile stiffened, and he said, “Oh, don’t worry about me! This is James’s day!”

“Dad,” Rose chastised softly, and his smile slipped.

Rose felt James stiffen beside her, and she glanced up at him. Worry had his brow pinched in a tight furrow, and the hand holding his phone was starting to shake.

“Dad, what’s wrong?” he asked.

“I thought I’d be doing all right here,” Robert murmured. “You know, at least I’m not five thousand miles away from family. But I still…” He sniffed sharply, and Rose’s heart broke when she saw his shining eyes. “No matter! It’s all an adjustment. Finding the new normal, eh?”

“What have you been doing with yourself, if not working?” James asked.

“Oh, nothing really,” Robert said. “Volunteering at the homeless shelter more. Fixing up a few things ‘round the house. You know. Boring stuff. Gonna look for a job soon. Get something squared away for next semester, hopefully. If not, next year. It’ll be good to keep busy, and I’ve missed teaching.”

“You know,” Rose said carefully, “there are loads of good schools in and around London you could work at.”

“Yeah,” James said, picking up her idea. “You don’t have to stay in Scotland by yourself. Move closer to us. Give us someone to visit now and then who isn’t Rose’s mum.”

Rose stuck her tongue out at him before turning her attentions back to Robert.

“We’d love to see more of you,” Rose said softly. “We miss you.”

Robert was blinking rapidly, and Rose felt her own eyes prickling with tears when she saw his.

“I miss you, too,” he said raggedly, rubbing his hands across his face. “God, this is pathetic, eh? Old man moving closer to his grown son because he’s lonely.”

“It’s not pathetic,” Rose choked out, and she felt James’s hand clench around her own. “And you’re not old. We’re worried about you.”

Robert chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Thanks, darling.”

“Please think about it,” Rose asked.

“I will,” Robert promised, smiling gently. “But enough about me. How are you two?”

oOoOo

“How’s this one look?” Rose asked, dragging him to another tree.

James shrugged, not really looking at it. “A tree’s a tree. Let’s just pick one and leave.”

Rose’s face fell, and James cursed himself. This was their first Christmas together; he ought to be more enthusiastic. Getting a tree was the height of tradition, but he wasn’t feeling all that festive.

“Sorry, love,” he said breezily, pecking a kiss to her forehead. “It’s the cold talking. I’d much rather be at home and in bed with you. That’d get us warm quite quickly, eh?”

He waggled his eyebrows, but Rose didn’t smile at his attempt to make light of the situation.

“I really am sorry,” he whispered. He turned towards the tree and inspected it closely. It was about his height, good shape, but there was a bit of a thin spot in the back. “Nah, this one’s no good.” He looked around the lot, quickly scanning and analyzing their choice of trees. “How about this one?”

Rose let herself be pulled along at a fast jog, and her giggles eased James’s guilt. Even if he wasn’t in the mood, he sure as hell wasn’t spoiling this for Rose. Too much of this year had already been spoiled.

They inspected another four trees, and just when James’s patience was about to run out again, they both decided on a tree.

Getting it home was a laugh, and they were both covered in pine needles and sap by the time it was sitting in its stand in their living room. Boxes of new decorations and some donated ones from Robert were strewn across the floor, and Rose grinned happily at James.

“Y’know, I never had a real tree before,” she said, hugging his arm to his chest.

He frowned and blinked down at her. “No?”

“Nope. Live trees are expensive. And you have to get one every year. Mum wanted to use that money on other things.”

James sighed and tugged his arm away from her chest to wrap it around her shoulders, even more determined to make this Christmas the best bloody Christmas Rose had ever had.

But as the days ticked closer to the twenty-fifth, James’s mood was frostier than even the weather. They weren’t having Christmas at his home in Scotland, for the first time in his memory. And while he was glad he wouldn’t have to face a week in a house full of relatives who would probably all be looking at him and his dad pityingly, he couldn’t help but feel the loss of his most beloved Christmas tradition.

Robert had accepted a job offer from one of Oxford’s satellite universities, and had spent most of December moving to a flat forty miles south of James and Rose’s home. That was where they were going to be having Christmas dinner, with Jackie, Mickey, and Rita-Ann as well.

And meanwhile, James tried to be happy and excited about the holiday season, but found himself falling short on many occasions.

“I’m so sorry,” James whispered miserably on Christmas Eve after Rose brought him a plate of Christmas biscuits she’d made herself when he told her he didn’t feel like baking. “It’s just… All of last year, I was celebrating my lasts with you until we could finally be together and celebrate holidays together. And all the while they were my lasts with my mum as well. And now that we can celebrate our firsts, I’m not in the mood, but I should be, because we can only have one series of firsts, and I’m mucking it all up!”

“You’re not mucking anything up,” Rose assured, wrapping him into a tight hug. “This year has been more difficult than we planned. You’re still grieving and healing, and that’s all right.”

“I am mucking it up,” James mumbled into her shoulder. “I want to be happy with you. I am happy with you!”

“I know you are, love,” Rose whispered, stroking her fingers softly through his hair. “But it’s okay to let yourself be sad, too. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling. I lost my dad, but I don’t remember him. And while I miss him, I don’t have any memories to miss. But you… you had twenty-three years with your mum. That’s not going to go away overnight.”

“I wish I could erase this whole year,” James mused quietly, “and start again. I’ll move out of Boston and come to Scotland, and wait there until your birthday. I shouldn’t’ve gone to stay with my parents! If I’d just come back to the UK, my mum would be here!”

“No, James, don’t do that to yourself,” Rose said, her heart breaking. “Don’t do that. You’ll drive yourself mad.”

“Can’t get any madder,” he muttered to her shirt.

“Don’t play the what-if game,” she said firmly. “The past is the past. We can’t change it, so there is no use in dwelling in it.”

He sighed heavily, and kept his nose buried in her neck, taking comfort in her warmth and scent.

She pressed her lips to the side of his head and cradled his neck, her heart breaking for him. He’d been trying so hard to make this Christmas wonderful for them, but Rose could tell he wasn’t in the Christmas spirit.

“Have you considered seeing someone?” Rose asked quietly.

“Well,” he drawled, and Rose sighed in frustration as he tried to use humor to get himself out of this serious conversation. “I’m kind of already soulmated. Not sure if she’s agreeable to an open relationship.”

“I’m serious, James,” she insisted, pulling back to try and catch his gaze. “You should try speaking to someone about how you’re feeling.”

“I talk to you,” he argued, furrowing his brow.

“But I still don’t think you tell me everything,” Rose said, and she covered his lips with her fingers when he tried to protest. “I really think you should talk to someone. I’m trying my best to help you, but I can only do so much.”

“You’ve been wonderful,” James said softly, pressing a kiss to her fingers. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if this had happened before I met you. I think I would’ve broken the rule and gone to see you, even if you weren’t eighteen.”

Rose sighed. While she usually loved his stubbornness, she was tired of having to fight him on this particular conversation.

“At least keep it in mind?” she asked, reaching up to cradle his cheeks in her palms.

“I promise,” he said, turning his head to press a kiss to her palm. “Now, time for bed, I think. Can’t be here when Santa comes, it’ll ruin the magic.”

Rose rolled her eyes, not entirely convinced that he was taking her and her suggestion seriously, but let herself be tugged to their bedroom.

The next morning found them sitting together in their pjs in front of their Christmas tree, about to exchange gifts.

“You first,” James said eagerly, handing her a heavy box.

Rose delicately set it in her lap—heavy meant expensive or breakable—and she carefully unwrapped her gift.

“Oh, wow!”

Rose finished ripping off the wrapping paper to reveal a box with a picture of a camera on it. She chucked aside the paper and lifted the box, scanning an eager eye over the model and the features of her new camera.

“You like it?” James asked softly.

“Oh, I love it!” Rose exclaimed, still looking at the camera. She had absolutely loved the photography class she had taken, and she had signed up for another one for the spring semester. She was excited to use a camera of her own, rather than loan one out from the school. She set the box down and turned to James. “Thank you.”

She wrapped her hand around his neck and tugged him in for a kiss, hoping he knew how grateful she was for the gift. He hummed into the kiss before breaking it, and resting his forehead against hers.

“Your turn,” she whispered, handing him a thin, square package.

He took it eagerly and ripped it open, revealing a sketchpad. His lungs hitched as he chucked the wrapping paper aside and opened it to the first page.

My James,

This year was harder than we ever predicted, and I am so proud of you, and so glad to call you my soulmate. There is so much beauty in the world, though nothing will ever be more beautiful than my time spent with you.

Always yours,

Rose

James’s hands shook as he flipped through the pages, all of them filled with her drawings, and he was taken aback by how many were of him, or of the past eight months of their lives together. Some of the drawings were quick sketches, others were detailed and fully-colored. But they were all perfect.

“I started making that for you last January,” Rose murmured, crawling to sit beside him. She rested her cheek on his shoulder and watched him skim through the sketchbook.

James felt tears clog his throat as he looked at her drawings, particularly the ones of him. The care and precision in these pictures made it so obvious they were drawn by someone that loved him deeply.

He inhaled raggedly and set the sketchbook aside in favor of pulling her into his lap.

“Thank you,” he croaked, burying his face in her neck as he wrapped his arms tight around her. “Thank you so much, Rose. They’re absolutely beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like them,” she murmured, hugging him close.

“I always love seeing what you’ve drawn,” he whispered, pressing light kisses to her shoulder. “You are the most creative, talented, beautiful…”

He trailed off, hoping she knew how proud and in awe of her he was, and how thankful he was that she was his soulmate.

oOoOo

Rose wandered around the campus with her camera in hand. It had snowed the night before, and everything was covered in glittering white powder, and she used it as an opportunity to play with her new camera, as well as explore areas of the school she didn’t visit as much. She was currently hiking up the steps of one of the theater buildings to get a reprieve from the cold.

She stepped inside, shivering as her nose, cheeks, and ears tingled at the warm air in the building. She carefully tucked her camera into the travel bag and meandered through the halls. Posters advertising the spring play were already up, and she made a mental note of the date, hoping James could find an evening he wasn’t busy to join her at a performance.

She descended a staircase into the basement level, and found an old piano sitting at the end of the hall. It looked worn and rickety, and Rose idly brushed her fingers over the keys, surprised but pleased when the old instrument worked.

She tapped out a small jingle from a television commercial she had stuck in her head, and winced a bit when she heard how out-of-tune the instrument was.

“Do you play?”

Rose jumped at the sound of a low voice. She spun around and saw a man in jeans and a jumper smirking at her.

“S-sorry,” Rose said, her cheeks burning. “I was just wandering around. Am I not allowed to be here?”

The boy shook his head and grinned. “Nah, students are generally allowed anywhere. If a door is unlocked, there’s a good chance it’s open to anyone. I’ve never seen you around here, though. Are you a theater student?”

Rose shook her head. “No. Art.”

“And do you play?” the boy asked, nodding to the piano.

“I did,” Rose said. “Haven’t played all semester. I forgot how much I missed it.”

The boy looked her up and down, and said, “Come with me.”

Rose bit her lip as she hesitated.

“I’m not planning on attacking you or anything,” he said wryly. “But there’s a better piano in the practice room. If you’re interested?”

Rose looked him up and down, before she nodded and followed him.

“I’m Murray, by the way,” he said as he led her down the hall.

“Rose.”

“Hello, Rose. What year are you, if I might ask?”

“It’s my first year,” Rose said. “You?”

“Third,” he replied. “I’m due to graduate this spring. Ah, here we are!”

Murray gestured into the room, where another old piano sat at the front.

“The pianos we use for concerts and such are much grander than these rickety old ones,” he said with a wink.

Rose couldn’t help but snort, and she let herself be led to the instrument. She experimentally pressed on a few keys, and released a breath when she realized it was still perfectly tuned, despite its obvious age and use.

“Feel free to play a bit,” Murray said, tugging out the bench.

Rose raised her eyebrow.

“Okay, what are you playing at?” Rose demanded, crossing her arms across her chest.

He furrowed his brows. “Nothing. You said you liked to play, but haven’t in a while, and this instrument is better than that piece of shite down the hall.”

Rose continued glaring at him, and smirked in triumph when his cheeks turned red.

“I’m actually part of the orchestra group on campus,” he admitted. “The only pianist in the group. Our director is getting worried because so far, we don’t have any underclassmen to replace me. I heard someone playing—quite well, honestly, despite the horrid tuning on that old thing—and well…”

“You decided on an impromptu audition?” Rose teased, relaxing her tense posture as she sat down on the bench. She delicately touched the keys, not playing them, but simply feeling the cool, smooth keys beneath her fingertips. She hadn’t touched a piano since she’d finished school last spring, and she found herself itching to get back into it.

“Go on,” Murray encouraged. “Just a little tune?”

Rose rolled her eyes, and tried to ignore the fact that someone was watching her, as she played a medley of Disney songs she’d had memorized since she was fourteen.

“I’m a bit rusty,” Rose apologized when her fingers fumbled on a few notes.

“Nothing a bit of practice can’t clean off,” Murray said, beaming at her. “That’s lovely. So, might you be interested in joining the orchestra?”

“Dunno,” Rose said honestly. “Never thought about it.”

“Tell you what,” he said. “We practice every Tuesday and Thursday night in this room. Stop by if you’re interested, and you can test the waters and see if you might want to join.”

Rose nodded, and stood from the bench.

“Right,” he said cheerfully. “Well, seeing as I’m full of propositions today, can I take you to lunch some time?”

Rose balked, and crossed her arms across her chest.

“I’m soulmated,” she said coolly. She liked Murray, and she really hoped he was one of those blokes that would be able to accept her unavailability with grace.

“Ah, rotten luck,” he said good-naturedly. “Oh, well. In any case, it was nice to make your acquaintance, Rose! Perhaps I’ll see you this Tuesday? 7pm.”

Rose shrugged, despite the pit of longing in her belly. She followed him out of the room and bade him goodbye as she started walking back home.

She thought about Murray’s invitation all weekend, until finally on Tuesday morning, she told James, “I won’t be home for dinner tonight. I’m considering joining the orchestra, and one of the senior members invited me to practice with the group tonight to test it out.”

“That’s great!” James said enthusiastically. “I think you’ll really like that!”

She did really like it. Playing the piano came back to her quickly, much to her delight, and she was so happy to be playing the instrument once more.

The director of the orchestra was overjoyed to see her, too, and while she wasn’t officially part of the orchestra yet, and wouldn’t be until the next school year, he enthusiastically welcomed Rose to all of their practice sessions so she would be able to hit the ground running.

She felt a little guilty, though, that she was leaving James alone two nights a week, but he vehemently reassured her that he could fend for himself just fine.

And while he missed her very much on the nights she was practicing with the orchestra, James was so pleased she’d found an activity that brought her so much joy. Besides, he told himself, now I won’t have to feel guilty for staying late at the office.

He was working hard on his research, but he’d lost his interest in it almost from the moment he’d started it. And it frustrated him to no end, because he genuinely liked what he was doing, but his increasing levels of apathy were making it hard for him to concentrate.

He scrubbed a weary hand across his face as he flipped back to the beginning of the journal article he was supposed to be reading, cursing himself when he realized he’d zoned out for the third time and hadn’t absorbed any of the information.

“Why don’t you call it a night, James?” his advisor suggested as he walked past James’s office and saw him with his head in his hands. “Lord knows you pull more hours than any of us. Go on. Go home to Rose.”

“She’s at orchestra,” he said distractedly, rubbing his finger into his burning eyes.

“Then go and surprise her with dessert or something for when she gets home,” his supervisor said firmly. “The article will be here for you tomorrow. Go on. You’re one of our best students, James; I don’t want to see you burn out.”

James sighed, and reluctantly tucked the article into his desk drawer.

“Good lad,” his advisor said. “Say hi to Rose. And goodnight, James. See you tomorrow.”

James packed up his things and made the quick walk home.

Their semesters were flying by quickly, with Rose utterly loving school, and James utterly dreading it. It was getting harder for him to get himself into his lab in the mornings, and he hated himself for it. This was what he’d wanted his whole life, and if he wasn’t careful, he could muck up the future of his academic career.

Rose tried to cheer him up as best she could, and she continued urging him to talk to a counselor, but there was only so much she could do when he vehemently denied that he needed help.

“I just need to keep busy!” he insisted.

And as April twenty-fifth—the anniversary of his mother’s death—drew nearer, he was getting more and more manic.

He took that day off, and snapped at Rose to go to her classes when she offered to stay home with him. He wanted to rip his hair out when he saw her jump and blink back tears.

What a fucking mess, he groaned when Rose locked the front door behind her on her way to class.

It was Rose’s long day, too. She would be in photography lab all afternoon, and then she had orchestra practice tonight as well. James desperately wanted to call her and ask her to cancel the rest of her day so he wouldn’t be alone, but he dismissed that idea immediately. No need to ruin her day, too. Especially not after she had offered this morning and he had so vehemently refused.

He instead grabbed his keys and made the drive to his dad’s house, knowing he would probably need the support today, too.

oOoOo

Nineteen perfect roses for my perfect Rose on her nineteenth birthday. A very happy birthday to you, my love, and to many more to come. I love you. James. Rose grinned at the card, and at the vase full of roses sitting at her place on the dining table. “Are you going to keep buying me as many roses as I am years old.”

“Might do,” he teased, pressing an enthusiastic kiss to her lips with an over-the-top sucking noise.

“They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“So, what shall we do today?” he asked eagerly, rubbing his hands together. “Sky’s the limit. Just tell me, and we’ll do it. We could explore the city. Visit a museum. Go on a hike.”

“I think I want to stay in, if that’s all right?” Rose asked.

James wrinkled his nose. “Stay in? That’s boring!”

“It’s what I want to do,” she said firmly. James had been in a mood for about a week now. Well, in more of a mood than normal. She knew the anniversary of his mum’s death had been hard for him; it had been hard for her too. Not only was she still grieving that she would never meet his mother, but she was grieving for him, and how hurt he still was. A quiet day in, just her and him and no schoolwork was what she was desperately craving.

“Fine,” he sighed, and he finished up her birthday breakfast.

However, a quiet day in wasn’t as peaceful as Rose would have wanted. James was restless, and he kept offering to take her out on the town almost every hour. She was about to accept just to get him to stop asking.

Instead, she stayed silent, and tried to relax against him as they started a new Netflix series together.

She was near tears that night when James moaned, once again, that she had picked the most boring things to do on her birthday.

“So hanging out with me is boring, is it?” she finally snapped, upending the basket of clean laundry onto their bed so they could fold it.

“Don’t be stupid,” he scoffed.

“Don’t call me that,” she snarled, clenching her hands into fists. “I wanted a nice, relaxing day with you! I so rarely have those anymore! You’ve been overworking yourself all year!”

“Oh, well I’m sorry that getting a doctorate degree is more work than you thought it would be! I’m sorry my education is getting in the way of the life you envisioned for us!” he spat harshly, strangling the mismatched pair of socks he had in his hands.

“I didn’t mean it like that!” she cried, frustrated to the point of tears. “You’re working yourself too hard, James! And you’re ignoring the fact that you’ve been depressed for the last twelve months!”

“I am not depressed,” James said through clenched teeth, “I’m busy! There’s a difference!”

“Don’t you dare do this! Not again, I’m sick of it! You’re obviously not all right, so stop trying to convince me that you are!” Rose said hotly. “We promised not to lie to each other, James.”

“I’m fine,” he said through clenched teeth, folding a t-shirt with more force than necessary. “Just leave it!”

Rose huffed out a frustrated breath as she shook her head and stalked out of the bedroom.

James squeezed his hands into a tight fist. All he wanted was to let Rose have a happy birthday. It was all mucked up last year, and he’d be damned if it got ruined this year too. But how was he supposed to give her the best birthday he could when she wouldn’t let him do anything?!

Rose came back into their room a few minutes with an empty duffle bag in her hands. James watched with a growing pit in his stomach as she shoved random articles of clothes into the bag.

“Rose, what are you doing?” he asked, his fear and exasperation making the question sound like a demand.

“Packing,” she said shortly.

“I can see that,” he snapped. “Why?”

“I’m so tired, James,” she said wearily, and James’s heart stuttered when he heard her voice crack with tears. “I’m tired of trying to get you to talk to me, to anyone, about your depression. I’m tired of listening to you tell me you’re fine when you’re obviously not. I’m tired of pretending that it doesn’t hurt when you pull away from me, or deny that you need help. I’m just… tired.”

“You’re leaving?” he whispered through the lump in his throat.

“I’m going to visit my mum for a little bit. I mean, it is my birthday.” She chuckled weakly and swiped at her teary eyes. “I think she ought to be part of this day too. And… And I think we need a little time apart. Take a breather. I won’t talk with you when we’re both this angry.”

James’s knees shook and his ears rang as Rose zipped up her bag.

“Rose, please.”

“I want you to really think about the direction you want our relationship to take,” she murmured. “I love you. God, I love you so much, James. But you’re breaking my heart every time you try to convince me and yourself that you’re okay.”

“Please don’t go,” he begged hoarsely. “Please? I’m sorry. I’ll talk to someone, I promise.”

Rose shook her head sadly. “You don’t mean that. And if I stay, we’ll be having the same argument next week. And I can’t do this again.”

“Please,” he choked out.

“It’s just for a little while,” she assured. “We both need time to cool down and think. I love you more than anything. Remember that, my James.”

She leaned up and pressed her lips to his cheek and walked out of their bedroom.

James watched numbly as she walked away from him, and he heard the front door open and close. He peeked through the window and saw her get into a taxi that drove away into the night.

[studiobowesart]

Tools of the Trade and a Quick Tour

-By Paul Bonner

I'll have to base these writings on a couple of assumptions. The first is that it's not very likely that in the near future -or ever - I am going to be conducting brisk and informative tours of my at-home studio. The second assumption, and a possibly even more far fetched one, is that there are actually people out there who would willingly partake in such a bold enterprise. So, throwing caution to the wind, and going along with the second assumption - I will try and give a little tour of the tools of my trade, the place where they gather and the part they play in my actually getting anything done. This little jaunt is only available because not much else is. I am embarked on a couple of creative voyages that forbid me to show anything, and to speak of which, would spell some awful kind of doom. At least for me. So, cup of tea in hand, I make my way down to the cellar where my world sits waiting. Trying to be a little bit chronological, it is my brain that kicks off the process. The same for most of us I suspect. Those flashes of inspiration and tantalising flashes of what might be. So - paper, before they fade. Assuming that I have filled pages of layout pad with scribbles, and progressed on to things that could be called sketches, and then managed to nail the sketches down as something that I would love to paint - it is over to my light table.

It is an ancient, metal monster that bares the brunt of my struggles to make sense of all the scribbles, squiggles and occasional sketches. Once the hard part of defining and drawing the characters is done, I enjoy physically juggling and jigsawing them into place. Suddenly I can see the relationship they have with each other and have a clear mental image of how they will relate to the background. Being the Creator, in my own world, I can toy with my subjects and play with their sizes. The pretty ordinary copy machine that I have is about as hi-tech as I get in my quest for beauty. When dealing with a gaggle of goblins, being quickly able to up and down their individual sizes a few percent to gently push the composition along is invaluable. Not so hi-tech are books. Pride and joy for many of us. And so necessary, for both sparking ideas and checking that a horses' back leg actually looks like you thought it did.

Risky, though, spending too long looking. Too many ideas, and you can visually short circuit, getting lost in a tar-pit of seductive images.Too much relaxed flicking of pages and it,s suddenly lunchtime (no bad thing). It,s best to do short raids. Know what you want. Get in there. And get out again. The final jigsaw of characters is then drawn up onto my water colour paper using the light table again - and then it is left alone to dream of whatever it is that light tables dream of, until it,s services are required again. Stretching the paper requires water from the tap next door - not the neighbours - the room next door. They have big cellars in Denmark. I know there are a lot of assumptions being thrown out here, but I feel relatively safe in assuming that you all know what a tap looks like, so no photo.

However - here is a photo of that little area where, I suspect, like many of us, we spend most of our time - in spite of persistent requests to pay attention to things that need dealing with in the other world outside these walls. Again, like I suspect many of us, my walls and shelves are covered, some might say cluttered, with all sorts of visual stimulus and emotional supplements, to help oil the wheels, and occasionally push the creative juggernaut I,m trying to steer. It,s all stuff I love.Some things go back years, without having lost any of their appeal - visually or emotionally.

This huge Conan poster, I pleaded with the staff at Londons Forbidden Planet to give me. They had it folded up under the counter, and were happy to get rid of it - for free! More than 30 years ago. It,s seen a lot of things, in a lots of different places over the years, hanging on different walls! The Siberian tiger is a more recent arrival. Helps remind me that a big part of my own artistic quest is simply trying to make something beautiful. His beauty helps put on hold depressing thoughts about all the crap going on in the world. The sheer aesthetic perfection of a full grown Siberian tiger very quickly puts mankind's stupid and arrogant fumblings on a back-burner - even though, sadly it is those consistent fumblings that threaten such beauty and conspires to make it even more poignant. Don,t get me started……..  Unless you are one of theses digital folks, it's the same stuff  going on in my play area as there is in yours. Pots of brushes. Tubes of paint. And from that tap next door - water.

The paints just live communally in an old box - the warmer colours at one end - the colder ones at the other, though the front lines can get a bit muddled sometimes.

The brushes, of which I have far too many (because you never know - do you?), are sorted vaguely in sizes. They are on constant rotation, as it is quite a job targeting one that will behave and do exactly what I want it to do. At the moment I am stuck in a kind of vicious, hogs-hair no-mans land. The brushes, that through time and use, have evolved into the perfect partner, have recently reached a collective point where they have simply given up. Instead of a willing and eager tool, a rather alarming number of them have seemingly reached a point where they thought it would be better to turn into something that even a dwarf wouldn't use to clean his chimney. So, my entire A-Team of front rank brushes, have opted for career changes, and my all too new recruits are simply not up to the task.

Even the ones on the left had a perfect leaf shape once  - many paintings ago. But they are still more useful than the ones on the right!

So - a lot of time is spent picking upon brush after the other, trying to find one that can be bent to it's masters will. Brush-rage. You heard it here first. Not a nice state of mind when you were enjoying yourself and things were coasting along. I make light of this, but it is a problem. New brushes, in spite of their seductive bodies and fine heads of hair - are rarely up to the job, and I,m not ruthless enough in retiring the old guard, convinced their loyalty will help me though just on more painting. Interestingly enough, the new recruits have forced me to work a lot more broadly in the early stages, getting stuff done quicker, and blocking in larger ares with more confidence. I will, however, be glad when they pass basic training and begin to justify their places in my paint pots.

Perched behind me, we can see some anatomic sculptures. Another invaluable aid to quickly checking that the nuts and bolts are understood in that consistently challenging subject of the human body. The skulls are a camel (I found it in the desert and brought all the way in a suitcase from Dubai when my parents lived there. Bet I couldn't do that these days!),and a female elk - or moose, to our American chums.

Music, of course, being another essential to the creative process - and of course, simply as something to be enjoyed in it,s own right. I won't bore you with what I have - but of course - it is an eclectic collection of breathtakingly good taste. Enough said. The more observant amongst you (and I think I can safely assume that observance is a trait that all of us arty types are somewhat known for), may have spotted the big plastic container under the table. The last 25 litres of 75 litres of cider that is almost ready to bottle. Not strictly anything to do with my daily creative routine. Just needed the radiators warmth back in November when it was fermenting. Having said that, though, it,s very comforting hearing the gentle release of bubbles as the natural sugars turn to alcohol. I find myself digressing.

"Recreational"creativity. Making things for orks to run around in. My excuse is father/son stuff……….

Not much more to see really. Got some drawers full of half baked ideas, finished works and things I should have thrown out years ago.

A big mirror is invaluable for quick poses. Folds in clothing. Taking quick photos for reference, especially hands - that,s why they all look the same in my paintings, and checking my hair. The goblin is optional.

Plants - you have to have plants. Of course you do - and not just for giving you fresh oxygen - though that,s a good reason, especially if you are a brave soul who dabbles in oil paints.

Lastly, moving down to floor level we come to my exercise machine. He's called Baldur, and is the latest, top of the range "get the artist off his bum and out of the door" model. And Baldur is the only one who can watch me paint, talk to myself, sing, play air guitar, and occasionally curse - with out getting bored (as far as I can tell). I guess we all lead very sedentary lives' perched on our gluteus maximus all day, so anything that causes us to move is a good thing - and a Baldur is about as good as it gets.

So, I reckon that,s it really. Just a quick little tour. Nothing earth-shattering. No secret techniques - I,ll try and rustle some up for next time. Hope you enjoyed the little tour. If you did, feel free to leave something in the tip-jar on the way out.

from Muddy Colors http://ift.tt/2pi1b2J

[daisyckinguk]

9 Ways to Make Extra Cash When Money Is Tight

Although I ‘m I’m always looking for fascinating and new ways to make more cash.

1. Give hive to Strangers

I recently learned about a new site called Vayable, which enables people with specialized knowledge and abilities, local information, and time in their hands to produce experiences that other people can purchase. It’s essentially a action and traveling company without the business. Everyone can join the site and put up an encounter. As an example, the Kan Brothers provide motorcycle tours of San Francisco — that include helmet rental, a drink at a nearby hotspot, and a town excursion — for two to four people at $75 per person. In new york, Kim G. is offering a personalized painting lesson for classes of two to six for a flat rate of $300; the experience includes acrylic paints; yarn board and provides; studio area; wine, and cheese, and crackers; and Kim’s undivided attention. Consider this suggestion if you’re considering joining Vayable — navigate the site to see what other men and women in your region are currently offering. You’ve got a better probability of getting booked by creating a unique experience that no one has established.

2. Become a Mystery Shopper

Purchasing gigs have always been evasive — till today. I had to pass a written composition to be approved by Goodwin & Associates Hospitality Services (and you will, also), but I’m enjoying the experience so far. The business maintains a record of accessible stores from which to choose and also allots a dollar amount. I approved for the sum of $ 60 at Heartland Brewery. Between me and my guest, we had to purchase a drink and 1 beer, an appetizer, two entrees, and a dinner. The $60 fee may not seem like much — and it isn’t (you’re not likely to walk off with much money) — but should you get the cheaper menu items and your bill (plus tip) comes from under the allotted commission, you pocket whatever is left over when the firm pays you. Once dining, however, shoppers need to detail the experience and supply a receipt to be able to receive the fee. Unless you’re thrifty like I said, you won’t make much money, but you will receive a free meal.

3. Seek Out Odd Jobs on the Internet

So as Craigslist is around, so also will there be gigs such as walking yard work, home cleaning, babysitting, dogs, and much much more. By all means get in touch in case you have the skills to accomplish those actions. Based on the nature of the task, you can make anywhere from $2 to $60 an hour all money and under the dining table. (See also: The 6 Best Lawn Mowers)

4. Take a Yard or Garage Sale

Each one of us comes with a storage device, attic, basement, or garage piled high with things we desire or want. Why are they hanging around collecting dust or off away? Have a day to clean the clutter out and set them up for sale, whether it’s in the Internet or on your yard. When you have things which you believe are more valuable than that which you will get at a yard sale for them, take them. Pawnshops are amazing for resources, musical instruments, jewelry, and electronics.

5. Turn Your Space to some Microsublet

I’m constantly singing the praises of microsubletting — which is, renting out your spare space to travelers — because, in my opinion, it is the number one way to make a good deal of money with relatively minimal effort. We record our guest bedroom on Airbnb and Roomorama, and we are always booked. In reality, we are booked up daily before January 2012. What this means that travelers are paying us a nightly fee (ours averages $88 each night, but you can set your personal) to remain in our home rather than in a pricey hotel. These travelers need a local experience for a reasonable fee, and that is what we offer them. We also provide coffee service , HD cable TV, a fridge, linens, an immaculately clean home, and much much more.

You’re probably wondering? No (though it will require a certain sort of man to do this), because the guests didn’t come to see me. They’re here to learn more about the city. They come back home after dark and depart early in the morning. All I really do is make sure the home is clean, provide them with welcoming hospitality, and watch my bank account grow.

6. Register for Focus Groups

I’ve participated in a few focus groups through time, and it is an extremely easy way to generate money. Most groups will ask that you fit a specific criteria, depending upon the focus, but they will hand you some ones in yield if you fit the bill. I’ve made anywhere from $50 to $125. That is a payday for offering my opinion. To search for focus teams for which you may qualify, take a look at the aptly named Locate Focus Groups site.

7. Perform to the Streets

In new york, there’s no lack of street performers. Even the mom of Academy Award-nominated celebrity Gabourey Sidibe sets up shop in the subway, singing for money. Somebody is always prepared to fall shift while you may not get enough money to cover the rent. If you do not have anything else to do, then you may also entertain pedestrians.

8. Collect Recyclables for Cash

Each Sunday evening, there’s some other rummaging or some person through the recyclables out the building. They’re there to maintain cans, bottles, and scrap metals until the town can whisk them off. And why not? Based on where you live, you can earn up for turning from materials. This means of earning money has gotten so well known in NYC that there is a recycling station at the end of the cube. Collecting cans isn’t likely to make you wealthy, but it is going to help buy groceries.

9. Sell Your Body to Science

You do not need to sell the entire thing, but specific components of you are very beneficial to the medical community. Sought-after specimens include eggs, hair, plasma, and semen. But before giving away your goods for a profit, you ought to think about the moral and ethical ramifications of a decision. Donated sperm is utilized to fertilize eggs that were . If the possibility of having a biological child in the world you don’t understand about is too much of a weight to endure, do not take action. A lifetime of wondering is not worth the cash you will receive.

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Wise Bread is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate marketing program designed to provide a way for sites to earn marketing fees by linking and advertising to amazon.com.

from network 10 http://www.find-free-money.com/9-ways-to-make-extra-cash-when-money-is-tight/

[muhreblags]

Black Panther Review

Meh, very forgettable. I’ll explain myself, but let me ramble about the MCU first.

     I’m an indie movie fan through and through. I’m a sucker for movies with style and punch. I don’t read/watch/follow Marvel and I don’t follow the MCU. While I do like some Marvel movies (like Guardians of the Galaxy and Deadpool), I’m lazy and don’t have enough brand loyalty to watch all of their movies. In fact, you could say I kind of hate the MCU and any large, multi-movie franchise. As an outsider to the  Marvel universe, they mostly lack style and identity as films and, as of late, are full of fan-bait that are honestly kind of cringey. They look bland, sound bland, and don’t leave much of an impact. However, I believe that these kinds of adaptations should be able to appeal to fans and non-fans alike.

     Black Panther is the culmination of how bland Marvel is. While there are some aspects that work, it doesn’t exceed expectations enough to be memorable. Many problems I have with it are also problems I have with the MCU in general. Spoilers below:

     Like other Marvel movies, the cinematography of Black Panther is serviceable, but lacks style and emotional impact. Each scene is shot in the simplest, blandest way possible: they tell each scene clearly, but without any emotional impact. There are no memorably directed scenes or shots. This is kind of disappointing as visual storytelling can really make or break a movie. For example, I would consider the Neon Demon a much better movie for its great use of color even though it has a very weak plot. 

     In addition, the over-reliance on CG was painful in this movie. The giant war rhinos were so fake that I actually got offended. Like, does Marvel think I’m blind or something?? I have EYES. I can SEE. THOSE ARE THE FAKEST, ASSIEST RHINOS I’VE EVER SEEN. In addition, the last scene where T’Challa’s sitting outside the Panther Cave (or whatever it’s called) with Killmonger had the fakest looking CG backdrop. The ground literally looked painted on. The South Pole in the Last Airbender movie looked better (yes it did, fight me). I’m genuinely shocked that this was a high-budget action movie. The car chase where Black Panther blows up a car looked fake and weightless. There were no stakes in any action scene and they got stupider with each fight. I just want to go up to a Marvel executive and tell them that flashing lights and bright colors DON’T MAKE A GOOD ACTION SCENE. Seriously!! They have enough money to hire a stunt actor and do real shit outside! The Dark Knight had better action scenes! And that had way less money/resources. And was done LITERALLY A DECADE AGO. I really don’t get how people can put up with this bullshit. If you want a good action movie, go watch Jackie Chan, the Raid films, or even House of Flying Daggers. 

     Many scenes are chaotic in composition. As in, there are way too many things, colors, and objects in the scene at one time. I wouldn’t say Black Panther is the worst example of this in the MCU, but a lot of the shots (especially those set in Wakanda) are unfocused and distracting due to the overuse of CG and overabundance of colors and background objects/people. The spirit world scenes would be good if they didn’t have the obnoxious purple sky. Good composition doesn’t mean cool CG, bright colors and cluttered shots. It requires focus in both color and object placement. I wish that more scenes in this movie were simpler and had less objects to distract from the main focus of each shot. Yes, Wakanda’s such a futuristic and vibrant place that simple, clean composition would be hard, but Marvel has the resources to hire a good, creative director of photography who would be able to fix these issues. I know, it sucks that good composition requires hard work and talent :(

     The music was a little better in Black Panther than other MCU movies. I loved its use of traditional African drums and the hip-hop beats. It’s fine, though I honestly don’t remember any track specifically that I really liked. There’s honestly not much to say about this part because I honestly didn’t hate the soundtrack, but it didn’t really stick to me either.

     Black Panther’s plot is the best part about it. While rushed and bland in some parts, I like the overall theme it was trying to get at: that we can’t fight hate with hate. Killmonger is a very sympathetic villain and I can see where he’s coming from. While I obviously don’t agree with him, I like that the movie explains why he wants Wakanda to take over the world. I also like T’Challa’s personal struggle coming to terms with the fact that his father isn’t a perfect man and that Wakanda’s ethnonationalist, isolationist stance is wrong. I just wish that these themes and character arcs weren’t cut short for shitty ass jokes and extra, unnecessary sideplots and villains (looking at you, Klaue). 

     Overall, I found this movie quite bait-y, full of unfunny jokes and pandering. It had a lot of potential, but didn’t quite reach the “good movie” mark. The directing was lackluster (as expected of a Marvel movie), the action scenes were kind of shit, the CG was not impressive, none of the jokes were funny, the music was alright, and the plot was ok. To people who say that “haters” just don’t know how to watch a Marvel movie, or that people like me should just lower their standards for Marvel since we aren’t fans and shit, no and no. Marvel movies are movies first and foremost, and will be judged as such. 

[blurryphantom]

Review: Ex Eye

Here we go with another album review. But this time, with the social commentary! Let’s start off with the now-arbitrarily enforced questions that modern discourse has shoved to the front of the stage with all the intent of a programmed automaton. Sheets of irony ripple down as the curtains rip apart, revealing a howling black void, the string-pullers from the other side yanking hard, themselves stricken with headaches of excruciating quality. All these questions that haplessly fasten the moment of the ‘times’ to the music content, like painting a glass a color. Here’s one: the glass is still see-thru, despite its newfound opacity (due to the rainbow smudges that have bunched up and coalesced, a corporeal thought linked in every atom’s mind, restricting the sight thru, except not.) Why? That’s another one of them questions. Also don’t forget something postmodernist related. All the familiar tunnels leaking out from your wounds. The hole howls despite all of this, inside all of this. Are these questions there at all, except as an expectation to seamlessly fit all the strings together? 

Where’s the argument? That’s what needs to happen: something needs to be said at the core. Otherwise my effort to wrest something from this musical experience will be flouncy at best, ramshackle expungent at middle, and downright offensive to the intellect at worst. So what is the main message we get when we add saxophone to black metal? Twist: you thought I was suffering, writhing in my self-induced pain. But really I’ve been caught in a carousel, and as it spins in wavy grooves around a centric core of strident percussion and scratches from the amplified guitar totem pole. The saxophone’ s deployment leads to stunning chambers of spinning plates, rimming ‘round in gold-plated obsolescence. As the noise from the amps blasts out metallic overstructures, verging in tempo and feel so distinctly, while still keeping its DNA through its sublimated skin-sheddings, the whorl of the sax makes its presence felt, falling on the shore in either controlled recessions or crashing waves. 

The ‘black metal’ tag isn’t wholly inapplicable, just as the association of saxophone with ‘jazz’ isn’t either. But whatever these fully fleshed out and vision-calibrated songs are, they are not in those categories. Categories are like the big megaton cities, and the music eventuated from this meetup of energies takes strands of these cities and heads on out of town, prepared to ride and die in the margins, in the badlands. Noise makes for a nice button/badge that you found in a gas station somewhere along the way, somewhere entirely in passing, experienced entirely in transience, somewhere that was architected on the terrain of the dreaming mind, which is to say, the mind. 

Sure, the sax screams sometimes, amidst the clutter and raining ruin down upon the land, and in the absence of a vocalist, the squalling tone takes on a shade of characterization. Yet, due in part to the overall sonic window effect of listening in real time and thus feeling the subsequent distortion of time, the tone’s role shifts wildly, and its more to do with your subconscious mind as to which role it shall play in the grander drama. The sax has always been a somewhat challenging sound to structurize, and while its alien effects are certainly embraced here, it occasionally shifts into the background to support the other players as well. 

In the opening track, the stage is set for a rollicking drama. Melodic threads pin down a spongy action and rip into a wicked head-nodder of a groove. It’s a pleasant thrill to cope with the wailing sax, sounding played from a deep crevasse somewhere, down in the trenches of undersea ravines.

Each track on the thing feels like a realized composition. The most manic track, “Form Constant; The Grid”, builds to a avalanche of drum strikes, with a dueling guitar vs. dueling saxophone match-up, each soloing their faces off, and then the rocks from the drum avalanche hit the ground and settle into the song’s earlier addictive mid-tempo grove.  

There are also synthesizers, just in case you were wondering how weird this got. “Tten Crowns; The Corrupter”, purportedly a bonus track, dangles polished chains of bleepy noise before kicking off into a scorching tremolo guitar molten meltdown, complete with mathy leads and sax brays, like the band members are leading an army of plastic farm animals into battle in a claymation musical. Things quiet down, and you can almost see the spectacle in front of you, watching the playing out of the critter’s quarrel through the window. There’s a real live guitar freakout that’s not to be missed here as well. 

“Opposition/Perihelion; The Coil” begins with a jittery salvo of amp and drum interplay, before stumbling into a swamp replete with moss and the lingering tails of will-o-the-wisps, leaving forever into their moon particle transit, also known by probably no one else as a lunar wormhole, but staying long enough to give the fen some layers of snow-white texture. As the listener maneuvers through this peat bog, the buzz of mayflies that had been coating the interior of the listener’s eardrums reveals itself to be the sax, but in the listener’s exhaustion, the listener no longer cares what things are called, or what associations attach themselves to things without the permission of those things that the listener doesn’t care what are called. Groovers will have some interest in this track, which settles down from its earlier mania to ride a relatively on-kilter streak into the shadows. 

Accessibility is in short supply here, obviously, but this sort of slab is no longer “experimental”, in the sense of that word as a sub-category of music. The songs here are too sewn together to be merely the results of experiments. This is what happens when the experiment transcends its status as an experiment, and either flips the table over entirely or devours it whole on the spot, smiling through bloody splintered lips. Sometimes tossed-off tracks built from within a fever dream of hysterical thinking can sound charming, like when something you look at makes a muscle in your face move by itself. These however are not tossed-off tracks, they are strokes of volcanic dynamite, wrought in an ornate display of needlepointed interdiction. 

When you see the man behind the curtain for the first time, controlling the events of the stage, it changes everything. And inside of everything is included the moment when everything was changed, and somewhere along the way the reversal reverses, depositing that who sees into the space where they had been the whole time, sitting in a chair. But now there is more to see, more to investigate, more to discover, despite returning to the presumably known place of the past. The debut self-titled album from Ex Eye apparently makes me think about all of this stuff when I listen to it. 

[ooostudio-blog1]

Top Tips From The Experts About Photography

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