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softersinned-arc · 2 years ago

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some notes on vampire astoria (condensed from several older posts & edited for consistency and clarity)—

ON EDUCATION & CAREER

she spends a lot of time as a student. a lot of time. she was brought up with a humanist education, raised by humanists, raised to be a humanist. she is at her happiest listening to lectures and taking notes, or debating in a classroom. she studies informally pretty much from day one, but she becomes a university student as soon as she’s legally allowed: 1869 in cambridge, though she doesn’t get a formal degree; 1920 in oxford; back to cambridge when women are granted degrees; over and over again, traveling wherever she can.

she ends up with several degrees, as a result. the bachelor’s degrees are too many to count. in order, her postgraduate work is in: history (phd, twice, first in medieval europe, and second in ancient rome); political science (phd, three times, first in england, and second in the united states, and then again in england); english literature (phd, focusing on victorian literature); art history (master’s, focusing on renaissance italian art); italian literature (phd, focusing on medieval literature); and folklore (phd, focusing on the vampire). she’s a student as often and as many times as she can be.

she keeps an extensive library. on the side, she publishes novels, one or two per generation, under different pen names and aliases.

her public persona in the modern era is as astoria montclair, art collector and gallerist. it’s a good way to be seen making money, and she has pretty significant control over how she’s perceived in a public setting. she usually stays in one place, and one identity, for twenty to thirty years; she can pass from anywhere from twenty to fifty, depending on how she styles her hair and does her makeup. her public persona always involves her marriage to baldwin.

her human covers tend to involve the arts—currently it’s owning and curating art galleries in several major cities (new york, venice, london, and tokyo, probably among others). previously, she worked with museums. before that, she managed theaters. for a brief period in the 80s she was a studio drummer for a number of punk bands. she doesn’t sing publicly, ever, but she has a nice voice. she keeps up to date on pop culture when she can. she has strong opinions on most television shows. for the record, she was a margaery girl, and was heartbroken when she died. she was pretty firmly team sansa after that.

ON PERSONALITY

she is utterly ruthless. it’s not that she’s cruel—and, in fact, she has little interest in cruelty for cruelty’s sake—it’s simply that she sees herself and the world around her with an unwavering pragmatism. it doesn’t matter if she kills humans unless it brings suspicion to her; she has no qualms about feeding on humans; she is a vampire, and vampires are a different, and objectively stronger and hardier, species. she’s not looking to kill or rule all humans, and she understands that, practically speaking, vampires are at a disadvantage if only because of the numbers, but she’s not about to pretend like she feels guilt over hunting as an apex predator would. she enjoys the hunt.

ON PHYSICALITY & ABILITY

when astoria is newly turned she has to relearn her own strength and it takes her weeks. she is small and she is not very physically strong before she’s turned; she has a high pain tolerance and she’s very quick, but she’s not particularly strong. the strength she develops is disturbing and it’s difficult. how many things does she break because she underestimates that new strength? how many doors does she tear off their hinges? how many railings does she bend? how much does she crush in her hands? worse than that, how many times does she break her own bones, forgetting that she has this new power she really cannot control? when she tries to break free from her chains, how many times does she break her arms? her wrists? and with her new awareness of sensations, the new intensity of what she feels both emotionally and physically, how horrible is that pain? she has to learn to walk again, to stand again, because every time she tries for those first weeks, she does damage to herself somehow. her rebirth is agonizing and this second infancy is just as bad.

because she has to get her tattoos redone with some regularity, usually every few years, she usually schedules a couple of days where she books two artists to tattoo her at the same time. this started in the 60s and has continued since. the baldwin tattoos are touched up every year so she’s never without them.

before being turned, she’s 5′3″. after, she’s 5′5″. she doesn’t grow much otherwise, though her hips and shoulders do widen a bit. she’s best described as having a dancer’s build: lean, long legs and arms, a long neck. throughout the centuries she tends to put this to use by learning to dance. it doesn’t lend itself as well to combat—she relies on speed and size for that, and while it helps her in hunting, it doesn’t help her much in a fight with another vampire, if she doesn’t have a weapon. she always does, though, and prefers to have a blade in each hand.

SCARS

a small scar on her right palm from a childhood habit of digging her fingernails into her skin when she was nervous.

little bitty wear n tear scars on her hands from working magic as a teenager. nothing too exciting—a little burn scar here, a scar from a broken bottle there.

scarring around her wrists where she was shackled. two on each wrist, probably about a quarter of an inch thick, one closer to her hand and one farther, where the manacles would rub her skin raw over the nine years she was tortured (eight as a vampire).

similar scarring around her ankles, though not quite so thick.

a decently-sized scar on her back, just below her right kidney, from where she was stabbed, more than once, during the same period, as part of evander’s experimentation;a very thin scar across her throat, also from evander during that period; several long and deep scars in her right calf, caused by evander’s daughter tearing at her leg during a fight.

one more spectacular stab wound, through her left shoulder, from elyssa in the moments before astoria subdued and killed her.

and a few smaller stab wounds, obtained throughout the years, none of them particularly noteworthy in her eyes or really all that visible unless you’re studying her.

two bite scars from baldwin: one over her heart vein, and the other on the left side of her neck.

ON GOD & MAGIC

she is just trying to heal this open bleeding wound in her psyche after being torn away from her magic. and i love the implications of that when she doesn’t know how to get water to the right temperature without magic and so she takes either scalding or cold baths for the longest time because she can’t manage the right combination of hot and cold. in a d&d setting, if she can’t cross holy ground, would divine healing cause damage rather than fix it? who is she when she no longer has a weapon to rely on (her magic) and instead has to rely on herself (when she has, kind of by accident, become a weapon)?

ON NAMES

astoria grim, first and foremost. this is the name she’s born to, and this is the name that means the most to her, for a long, long time. it’s the name she used as a witch, before being turned.

cassandra carminati. after leo finds her, astoria agrees that she needs to take on a new identity, and she becomes cassandra carminati—leonardo's wife, as far as human society is concerned. this is the name by which she’s recorded in bath’s marriage records in the mid-late sixteenth century.

after this, she goes by astoria grim again, for quite some time. she figures that she’s well-hidden enough that it’s not likely that anyone will find her if they’re looking, and besides, who’d look for a thirty-year-old woman when the astoria grim who should be alive would be in her seventies?

then, briefly, she becomes ileana blackwood. she’s been found, and by her cousins’ direct descendants, and this poses a threat to her survival, so she fakes her death and takes her grandmother’s name, and the surname of a young man she knew and had a brief affair with during her time in the english court.

when she and baldwin are reunited and mate, she takes the name astoria de clermont. any name or variation she uses after that features his surname. in modern settings, she is known as astoria montclair.

#i. all you have is your fire and the place you need to reach. ( character development )

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sexypinkon · 2 years ago

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S E X Y P I N K

Flora Fantastic: Eco-Critical Contemporary Botanical Art

Curated by Corina Apostol and Tashima Thomas

If in New York,Visit Apex Art Gallery!

This exhibition brings together artists from post-colonial contexts who are looking critically at the colonial past and deconstructing history through the lens of the botanical.

Kristaps Ancāns looks at the artificiality of domestic interiors decorated with indigenous plants removed from their native contexts, creating a sense of control over nature.

Scherezade Garcia addresses colonial encounters in the Americas, gesturing towards nature reclamation of her lands.

Joiri Minaya reveals interconnectedness between the natural environment and commercial enterprises.

Virginia Wagner unearths how botanical knowledge is historically translated.

Tamika Galanis investigates how botanicals became agents of health and resistance. A collaborative botanical timeline positions plants as protagonists in colonial history, capable of draining life out of the body or restoring well-being.

During a time when we have found ways to classify and clone plants we have discovered in the world, we have also systematically erased them from native contexts.

Flora Fantastic begins a conversation about embodiment, inhabitation, belonging and dwelling.

#sexypink/Scherezade Garcia #sexypink/Flora Fantastic #sexypink/painting #sexypink/Group shows #Kristaps Ancans #Scherezade Garcia #Joiri Minaya #Virginia Wagner #Tamika Galanis #Flora Fantastic #Apex Art Gallery New York

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yardsards · 3 years ago

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thinking about how many times infinity train has had themes of staying for someone you love

when tulip's number finally reaches 0, she stays on the train, which she has been trying to get off of for MONTHS, because she can't leave atticus behind until she finds a cure for him. they were gonna go their separate ways soon, so she has nothing to gain from staying to help him, but she loved him and he needed her, so she refused to take her exit

jesse goes back to the train for lake because he loves them. much like with atticus, lake was in danger. though we saw that she could handle herself, jesse was still worried about her being chased by the flecs. but more than that, he just didn't want to be separated from them.

then, in contrast to this, there's the apex. in her own messed up way, grace cares about,maybe even loves, all the child passengers she comes across. she mourns when she "loses" jesse. but the way she loves is a strict opposite to the two previous examples. instead of it being her making the choice to stay with them, she forces them to stay with her, not caring if they want to go back home or if it's simply not good for them to stay

and then there's simon. simon "loves" grace but above all he just doesn't want her to leave him. he forces her to stay. he won't even let her change her mind because he fears she'll abandon him, either by abandoning their old ideals or by getting her number to 0 and physically leaving him

and then ryan and min-gi flip THAT on its head because. min-gi has abandonment issues not unlike simon, but he handles them in a healthier, non-abusive manner. he gets upset at ryan for leaving him- both in the gallery car when he's in danger and needs help (even though ryan wasn't trying to abandon him in the car and refused to take his exit while min-gi was in danger) but also BEFORE the train when ryan left him to go travel. but even though he is hurt and gets mad at ryan, we never see any indication that he would FORCE ryan to stay

and they there's the mirrored theme of *following* people when they go

(tulip and atticus not exactly applicable here bc again, they mutually agreed to go their separate ways)

lake WANTED to follow jesse home. jesse was perfectly glad to leave until he realized lake COULDN'T follow him so he came back and stuck with them til they COULD

simon follows grace into her descent, follows her as the leader of the apex. but he refuses to follow her when she changes her mind. and she WANTS him to follow her. gives him the chance to change with her. but simon digs his heels in harder. he resents her for leaving him but HE'S responsible for the growing distance between them because he won't go with her

and then ryan. ryan *goes* a lot but never really intends to *leave*. he expects min-gi to follow him when he goes. and when min doesn't follow him, whether on stage or to new york, ryan feels abandoned. at the art gallery car, he realizes min CAN'T follow him off the train, so he refuses to go. and then he realizes that min never MEANT to abandon him, he just COULDN'T follow. there were no physical barriers like on the train, but min was just not mentally able to follow ryan on stage or to new york yet. ryan realizes min's loyalty when the tables are turned and min gets the chance to leave him and go home but instead chooses to stay.

(tangentially, i wonder how hard it is to refuse to go through your exit once it appears. tulip, ryan, and min-gi appear to be able to refuse it just fine. but the apex (though perhaps blinded by bias) make it sound like people get forcibly pulled through their exits once the numbers hit zero. and kez makes it sound like jeremy got pulled away before he even got a chance to say goodbye. does the door exert a physical pull on people or is the siren call of home just that strong?)

#infinity train #tulip olsen #jesse cosay #lake #grace monroe #simon laurent #ryan akagi #min gi park #eliot posts #intr #long post #siddnote in case this wasn't obvious: love also means platonic love here #jesse and lake + grace and simon + ryanand min-gi are all ambiguously romantic #but tulip and atticus are obviously 100% platonic #average passenger flirts with 0 animals.#ryan georg who lives in a cave and flirts with over 8000 talking cats a year is an outlier adn should not be counted #... remember when some ppl didnt know spiders georg was a meme and thought it was an actual fact? wild #sidenote i realized i used she/they pronouns for lake unconsciously. they just have those vibes i guess.

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artist-dekooning · 3 years ago

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Two Women's Torsos, Willem de Kooning, 1952, Art Institute of Chicago: Prints and Drawings

A pioneer of Abstract Expressionism, Willem de Kooning experimented with the human form throughout his career, which reached its apex in the early 1950s with his celebrated Woman series. Two Women’s Torsos was created during an intense campaign in which the artist focused on drawings related to his Woman paintings, which were exhibited together with this and other drawings at the Sidney Janis Gallery, New York, in 1953. De Kooning’s drawings are admired for their number and variety as well as for the artist’s expressive technique, exemplified here by his gestural use of pastel in concert with charcoal. This drawing’s velvety texture and almost violently animated surface are characteristic of the approximately one hundred sheets that remain from his intense work on the woman theme in 1952 and 1953. Also typical of de Kooning’s art is the way in which Two Women’s Torsos references aspects of related paintings but stands alone as an independent work. As the artist tried to jettison traditional modes of composition, he used drawing as a primary vehicle for the sequential development of his most important early body of work. John H. Wrenn Memorial Collection Size: 479 × 610 mm Medium: Pastel and charcoal on ivory wove paper

https://www.artic.edu/artworks/83889/

#museumarchive #artinstituteofchicago #willemdekooning

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laetro · 4 years ago

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David Edward Byrd: Inspiring “Wowie-Zowie” for Over 50 Years

With a career that spans over half a decade during the art, music and technological revolution, David Edward Byrd has developed iconic posters and illustrations associated with the best of the rock and theatre era.

David has been creating posters since his days at The Fillmore East in NYC where he created the famed 1968 Jimi Hendrix poster now in the collection of MOMA, NYC. As well, he created the poster for The Rolling Stones 1969 Tour, TOMMY by The Who, The Grateful Dead, & the legendary 1969 Woodstock Poster. He quickly moved on to Broadway, where he created images for Follies, Godspell, Jesus Christ Superstar, Hot L Baltimore, The Magic Show, & Little Shop of Horrors amongst many others. He was Sr. Illustrator at Warner Bros. Consumer Products for 12 years where he worked on everything from Bugs Bunny to Harry Potter. He has had Retrospective Shows in Los Angeles, New York & Seattle. He now lives in the Silver Lake area of Los Angeles with his husband of 39 years, Jolino Beserra, a renowned Mosaic Artist.

ORDER A CUSTOM ILLUSTRATION

Q. Any reason why you chose to illustrate for 60s rock bands in particular?

David Edward Byrd: I was the poster artist for the Fillmore East in NYC from its opening on 8 March 1968 to 27 June 1971 when it closed for good. At this same time, I was also creating posters for the Broadway Theatre (“Follies”, “Godspell”, etc.). As Rock Posters have a much higher profile than Theatre Cards, I chose that area to illustrate. Also, Theatre is about THIS play right NOW, while 60s Rock is about 60s Rock in general.

Q. What kind of changes do you see when you compare the posters that were created in the 60s to the ones that are created today?

David: The rock poster artist EMEK is a great example of the younger generation’s expertise in the art form (see “Coachella”). Whereas, David Singer is an example of the “Old Garde” moving on to create new imagery (see “Moon Alice”). I still create more East Coast imagery, I think . . .

Q. One of your Hendrix posters is ranked among Billboard’s Top 10 Rock Posters of all time. What was your thought process/ inspiration while you created the poster?

David: Before coming to Manhattan in 1967 I had worked as a freelance Architectural Draughtsman, so I was familiar with the tools of that trade, and thus I decided to apply this craft to the 1968 Jimi Hendrix Experience poster. I created Jimi’s & his band-mates hair using a hexagonal grid with small circles on the grid representing cosmogenic pixels that one might perceive after ingesting certain popular chemicals of the time (see “Acid”). Each small circle was drafted with a drop-bow compass on the center point of the hexagonal grid.

A laborious process, but worth the time . . .

Q. The poster you created for the Woodstock Festival was rejected because it was too risque in 1969. Do you think it would have received a different response if it was designed today?

David: Absolutely — an entire sexual revolution has occurred over the last 50+ years. Ironically, the nude female in the center of the poster was copied from the 1847 painting “La Source” by Jean Dominique Ingres, which seemed a perfect symbol for a poster representing “An Aquarian Exposition” (the “Water Bearer”). But the Wallkill City Council thought otherwise (exposed breasts & pudenda a no-no). I had a similar experience with the NY Times treatment of my “Tommy at the Metropolitan Opera” full-page ad in the Sunday Times, which featured a nude Tommy rising into Pinball Heaven — the Times editor chose to paint a crude Black Marker Jockstrap over his very modest genitalia, alas.

Q. What would you describe interacting with so many rock artists like? Any favorites whose company you enjoyed?

David: Manhattan & San Francisco are light-years apart both culturally & artistically. The West Coast artists created Psychedelia and Neo-Nouveau and are due to the many encomiums they have received for this. David Singer and I were friends and we traded posters. David created the most Fillmore West posters (60 total) of any artist on the planet. For me, his posters are the Apex of the West Coast work. Victor Moscoso influenced my design sense with his vibrant close-value posters (see “Sopwith Camel”) and continues to do so today.

Q. Can you describe your experience at Warner Bros. How were those 12 years different from working elsewhere?

In 1991, I took the position of Senior Illustrator at Warner Bros. Creative Services, which I held till 2002 • Besides creating illustrations, backgrounds and style guides for all the Looney Tunes & Hannah-Barbera characters, I got to create commemorative plates for The Franklin Mint, souvenir posters for the Batman series of films, style guides for feature films such as Space Jam, The Wizard of Oz, and television shows such as Friends, The Cartoon Network and Scooby-Doo • My department was responsible for the Bugs Bunny Postage Stamp, the first cartoon character on a U.S. Postage Stamp • I created special signed pieces for The WB Studio Stores Galleries based on The Masterpiece Series style guide art that I painted in 1999 • I also did a great deal of work on the style guides for two of the Harry Potter films: Harry Potter & The Chamber of Secrets and Harry Potter & the Prisoner of Azkaban.

One rarely sees the Graphic Collections of major museums on display, so being part of a museum collection as a poster artist does not put one on the creative map, so to speak. But it is a nice thing to tell one’s sweetheart.

Q. Your work is displayed in 23 museums at the moment, including the Louvre in Paris. Do you find it a rare accomplishment considering you are an illustrator and not a painter?

As I have often said if I had remained a painter I probably would not be in any Museum at all. But this is not for me to know. One rarely sees the Graphic Collections of major museums on display, so being part of a museum collection as a poster artist does not put one on the creative map, so to speak. But it is a nice thing to tell one’s sweetheart . . .

Q. From Fillmore East to Broadway to Warner Bros, how has your style evolved over the years?

My art-chops improved immensely in the last 20 years. I hope it is somewhat evident. My work was hit-or-miss in the beginning but things have gotten better of late.

Q. Can you name some of your favourite posters which you have worked on?

“FOLLIES” 1971

“HENDRIX EXPERIENCE” FE 1968

“BOWIE” Carnegie HALL 1972

“QUEEN” 1st Tour 1974

“PRINCE” DNA 2013

“TOM PETTY” 1980

“NY DECO EXPO” 1974

LED ZEPPELIN FE 1969

Q. What is your process like when coming up with an illustration or a poster?

1.) Collect Reference & inspiration in Folder. 2.) Create rough pencils for scanning. 3.) Collect possible Fonts. 4.) Build rough designs on Mac 5.) Choose 1 main color and build up from that 6.) Proof printing

Q. What software do you use to create your illustrations?

ADOBE SUITE (PhShop; Illustrator; InDesign) + Typestyler

Q. Lastly, what do you always aim to achieve through your illustrations?

Eye-Fun • Immediacy • Gotcha • Who-Is-This-Guy? • Wowie-Zowie

#David Edward Byrd #laetro #illustration #illustrator

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jimabernethy · 7 years ago

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A Tiger Shark at the surface swims very close to me, while trying to catch a fish being reeled in with a fishing rod! Although Tiger sharks are mostly portrayed as man eating monsters in most films, the real truth is they are sentient creatures that enjoy affection and do not pray on humans as a food source! While in the water with them for the last 4 decades, I can tell you that they are mostly slow moving creatures that do not want anything to do with humans as a food source! Yes, I know this species has the 2nd largest number of fatal so called attacks, but they never finish the attack...the victims are not consumed! Our species goes in the water 7 billion times a year, while an average of 75 people are bitten and an average of less than 5 die as a result! Domestic dogs bite 4 to 5 million people in the US yearly, resulting in 16 to 20 deaths!Cows average 20 human deaths in the US yearly! My favorite statistic...1600 people are attacked and bitten every single year in the state of New York by .....People! Another words almost every animal on the planet bites and kills more humans than sharks! Yet they are still mostly portrayed as man eating monsters! So incredibly sad! The truth is...Sharks are one of the few apex predators on the planet that you can swim with every single day all over the world with very tiny chance of a "shark mistake" happening! Join me to see them up close for yourself! Let's all work hard to save these magnificent creatures! @jim_abernethy #savethesharks #ilovesharks #shark #beautiful #sharkexpeditions #teeth #epic #Bethechangetheworldneeds #tigershark #sharks #FinBanNOW #finfree #gorgeous #compassion (at Jim Abernethy's Scuba Adventures & Marine Life Art Gallery)

#compassion #epic #tigershark #finfree #teeth #bethechangetheworldneeds #ilovesharks #savethesharks #gorgeous #finbannow #beautiful #sharkexpeditions #shark #sharks

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porhomme21 · 9 months ago

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Introducing the Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire Droptail: Elegance Redefined

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architectnews · 4 years ago

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LX Pavilion, Bedford NY

LX Pavilion, Bedford Building Development, NY Modern Architecture Photos

LX Pavilion in Bedford NY

Apr 2, 2021

LX Pavilion, Bedford

Design: OLI Architecture

Location: Bedford, NY, USA

On a sloping estate in Bedford, NY, the LX Pavilion stands at the intersection of minimal and cerebral, of material and space: dualities emanating from the Richard Serra sculpture within. Unlike the temporary indoor gallery installation where the London Cross (2014) was first shown, the design team was tasked to create a permanent home for Serra’s sculpture composed of two fifteen-ton weathering-steel plates measuring 40’ long, 7’ tall and 2-1/2” thick.

Balanced on its edge, the lower steel plate runs diagonally between two corners of the room, while its counterpart, perched atop with a point load at midpoint and running perpendicular to it, is held in place by the specially constructed hydrated-lime wall partition resisting only the plate’s rail loads. The lower plate defines a plane that bisects the pavilion into two galleries, bringing an immediate awareness to the presence of the unseen side.

Due to the mass and finish of the weathering-steel plates, the design mandated a carefully choreographed sequential dance between professional riggers and contractors to install the plates and the interior partitions during temperate weather to address temperature and RH control prior to commissioning the remotely located MEP system connected underground. Once complete, the pavilion interior spatially, figuratively and contractually became Serra’s “art piece.”

On the exterior, a charred Accoya timber rainscreen wraps the façade shrouding the north facing skylights distributing soft indirect lighting into the gallery. In contrast to the preserved dark mill-scale of the steel plates, the façade was designed to naturally patina over time.

The artist, Richard Serra, who spent half a century experimenting with unconventional, industrial materials of rubber, neon and lead before his large-scale installations in steel, considers space to be his “primary material.” In some sense, it was scale and the reduction of his art to the most elemental of materials and form that gave rise to his prominence. His art gives intimate access to the emotional and existential appeal of time, timelessness and body.

In the same ethos, the LX Pavilion was designed not only as a container of Serra’s London Cross (2014) but an integral component of the artistic experience. From the careful siting of the pavilion twenty degrees east of True-North minimizing any untoward shadows through the carefully sculpted sawtooth skylight, to the charred wood rainscreen veiling in anticipating the spatial/temporal tension within, to the specially hydrated-lime walls eliminating construction joints while resisting the movement and rail load of the plates; the pavilion is complex with deceivingly simple results.

Unlike many of Serra’s outdoor sculptures that measure time through slow material transformation, the charred Accoya rainscreen transforms with time while protecting the weathering-steel plates within. Conversely the gallery interior delineates time and space through the precariously balanced latent tension, marking its temporality in anticipation of the piece’s eventual demise, providing the visitor a quiet sanctuary where time and space merge.

LX Pavilion in Bedford, NY – Building Information

Project location: Bedford, NY Project type: Private Completion date: 2019 Size: Exterior: 36′-7 5/8″ x 36′-7 5/8″ x 22′(H); Interior: 28′-5 1/8″ x 28′-5 1/8″ x 17′-6″(H). Client: Confidential Cost: Confidential

Project credits Design: OLI Architecture Hiroshi Okamoto – Partner in Charge Dongshin Lee – Project Architect

Carpenter Norris Consulting – Day Lighting Consultant David Norris

David Kufferman PE Structural Engineers – Skylight engineer David Kufferman

LERA Consulting Structural Engineers – Structural Engineering Elias Matar – Partner in Charge Sami Matar – Project Manager

Dagher Engineering – MEP Engineer Elias Dagher – Partner in Charge Daniel Nielson – Project Manager

Kellard Sessions Consulting – Geo-Technical

APEX Projects, LLC – General Contractor

Photography: Albert Cheung FRAME Studio

LX Pavilion, Bedford NY images / information received 020421

Location: Bedford, NY, USA

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digital-arts-etc · 4 years ago

Photo

The Kiss, 1907 by Gustav Klimt

Courtesy of www.Gustav-Klimt.com

The Kiss is Klimt's most popular work and visitors flock annually to see it in Vienna's Austrian Gallery. At a remarkable 72in x 72in (180cm x 180cm), its powerful presence resounds from the wall as the life-size figures, wrapped in gold, embrace.

In 1903, Klimt traveled twice to Ravenna, where he saw the mosaics of San Vitale, whose Byzantine influence was apparent in the paintings of what would become known as his "Golden Period". The use of gold harked back to Klimt's own past, to the metal work of his father and younger brother Ernst, who had both died a decade earlier. Klimt's interest in the Byzantine period also symbolized a move towards greater stability, through static, inorganic forms; suggesting a search for refuge after the artist's exploration of the instinctual powers of archaic Greece. The Kiss representing the apex of his "Golden Period," this concludes similar thematic studies during his career, such as The Beethoven Frieze, and The Tree of Life. Each work aids final comprehension of the allegory, which represents the mystical union of spiritual and erotic love and the merging of the individual with the eternal cosmos.

Both figures are fully realized and symbolically blended as they face the golden abyss of perfection. The dominant male force is signified by the powerful coat of masculine black and gray blocks, softened by the feminine organic scrolling, reminiscent of "Tree of Life." In comparison, female energy is shown as spinning circles of bright floral motifs and upward-flowing wavy lines. From these vestments of artistic creation golden rain blesses the fertile earth, similar to the descending roses in "The Beethoven Frieze". The triangular fronds also recall water imagery from paintings such as Water Serpents. Here, Klimt's loosening of naturalism, in favor of a personal symbolic language suggesting the workings of unconscious mind, in particular its erotic urge, reached a climax. Through two figures, depicted not naked, but draped in densely patterned cloths, Klimt succeeded in evoking a moment of intense sensual pleasure, within a sharply stylized and flattened composition.

Musuem Photo of The Kiss by Gustav Klimt

Records reveal that Klimt was a thickset and brooding man, usually photographed wearing his painter's smock, who never married and led an openly bohemian lifestyle. If Klimt preferred to allow his paintings to speak for him, then the message that The Kiss gave was extremely evocative - hinting, through their elaborate surfaces, at the workings of an enigmatic subconscious. It is no coincidence that Klimt's work is often linked to that of his Viennese compatriot, and near-contemporary, Sigmund Freud. When Klimt died in 1918, at the premature age of 55, several unfinished works of a strikingly sexual nature were found in his studio, as if revealing the erotic undercurrent latent beneath much of his earlier work.

"The Kiss" is Klimt's artistic response to the Byzantine mosaics at Ravenna, Italy, which so profoundly affected him. When re-assessing The Kiss for Klimt's 150th birthday, journalist Adrian Brijbassi wrote, "The Kiss by Gustav Klimt surpasses expectations," unlike that tiny and underwhelming Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci. After throwing shade on the more famous painting, Brijbassi explained, "[The Kiss] does what a great piece of art is supposed to do: Hold your gaze, make you admire its aesthetic qualities while trying to discern what's beyond its superficial aspects."

10 Facts You Might not Know about "The Kiss"

1. The post-Victorian society of the early 1900s perceived "The Kiss" as pornographic, even though both figures are fully robed. 2. Despite the public outcry it generated, "The Kiss" sold before the artist had completely finished it. The Belvedere Museum of Vienna, Austria, was the purchaser. 3. The sale price of 25,000 crowns - roughly $240,000 in contemporary U.S. currency - was five times higher than that of than any painting previously sold in Vienna. But that price turned out to be a bargain. Kimt's less renowned (though still quite famous) Adele Bloch-Bauer I sold for $135 million in 2006. The New York Times noted at that time this was "the highest sum ever paid for a painting." 4. The painting is oversized, measuring approximately 6 x 6 feet. 5. The artist and the work are legal tender. In 2003, the Austrian Mint issued a 14-gram, 100-Euro gold coin showing Gustav Klimt's head and on the flip side, an etching of "The Kiss." 6. "The Kiss" is the final painting of Klimt's Gold Period, during which he incorporated gold leaf into his works. This practice reflects the strong influence of the gold-detailed religious art of the Middle Ages as well as the sacred works created by artists of the Byzantine Empire. As a result, some considered such paintings as "The Kiss" to be sacrilegious. 7. The artist created "The Kiss," his most iconic painting, in the aftermath of dismal failure. During the first decade of the 20th century, Klimt completed a series known as the Vienna Ceiling Paintings at the University of Vienna's great hall. Due in large part to the nude figures in this series, the established art community derided them as pornographic. Klimt ultimately called upon the help of a wealthy patron to repay his commission of 30,000 crowns to Vienna's Ministry of Education and took his paintings elsewhere. 8. One factor that distinguishes "The Kiss" from the majority of the artist's works is its inclusion of a man and a woman together. Other paintings that feature both sexes include his Beethoven Frieze from 1901, Fulfillment (The Embrace) from 1905 and Death and Life from 1910. 9. "The Kiss" is a ménage of different schools of art. The gold leaf hearkens back to such Byzantine artworks as the mosaics in the Church of San Vitale. The composition of the work reflects the influence of Japanese prints that was also evident in some earlier Impressionist paintings. The contrasting patterns of the two lovers' cloaks reflects the Arts and Crafts movement of the era and overall, Klimt imbued "The Kiss" with elements of his signature Art Nouveau style. 10. Toward the conclusion of World War II, the University of Vienna Ceiling Paintings were among a number of Klimt's artworks destroyed by retreating German troops. "The Kiss," however remains on exhibit at the Belvedere.

https://www.gustav-klimt.com/The-Kiss.jsp

#The Kiss #Gustav Klimt

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mollymauk-teafleak · 7 years ago

Text

Who wants some romantic Philgeorges, huh?? Been in a real mood for these two boys recently, thanks to my amazing girlfriend’s amazing head canons ( @childofdustandashes) but also thanks to the truly beautiful and inspired art of @lauwurens whose fantastic art motivated me to actually get this down

On Ao3 | My ko-fi

Philip loved to travel, he’d always known that. He loved new places, he loved seeing the stars in slightly different arrangements that he’d ever seen them before, he loved new smells of the air, for the chatter and words around him to be in a different language than what he was used to, to feel that drifting, dreamy buzz of being somewhere completely new, of having somewhere he’d only ever read about in books, theoretical and imaginary, become real. Like he was the one who’d joined it in a looser, sunnier, more colourful half reality, rather than it coming to him.

He loved taking his poetry to places it seemed to have fit more than it ever had back in New York, back where it had felt weak and watery and insincere anywhere outside the pages of his journal. In the places he went these days, the endless summer it felt like they were chasing, Philip found his words growing and spiralling beyond even his control, into something more beautiful than he could have imagined coming from his own hands. Something that felt like it was describing himself.

Philip knew that was thanks to all this, to the travelling around Europe according to their work and their whims, the way his work and he himself had grown and changed. He was so different from the kid who’d grown up surrounded by concrete and noise, now his restless heart felt more soothed and focused, driven towards something rather than rattling around in his ribcage with no direction. Of course, he missed America, he missed New York, he missed his family so desperately sometimes it felt like he was choking on it. But that was just life. That was a price he was okay with paying, something he could deal with in his low moments and keep it there.

It was like his mama said, when Philip had been fretting and dithering over all of this, whether to choose familiarity, even if it was suffocating, or freedom, even if it meant putting a whole ocean between himself and the warm smile of his Pops, the hugs from his mama that always seemed to come at just the right time, the jokes and tackles from his siblings that had pulled him out of every dark mood he’d ever been in.

Eliza had put her hands on either side of his face, that gesture she always did when she meant listen, this is important, she’d kissed his forehead and smiled through her building tears and murmured, “Pip, the world deserves to know you. It deserves to hear you.”

Pip had promised then to make her proud and he felt like he was making a good attempt, thanks to the wavering, shifting path he’d chosen back when he was eighteen, the one that ran across a whole continent.

And, of course, thanks to Georges. Though Pip would never have words for everything the man he loved, the man who’d made him brave, had done for him, no matter how many new places he visited. He was just going to have to rely on the kisses he pressed against his boyfriend’s hairline when he came back from his morning run to wake him up, the way he playfully slipped his hands under the waistband of Georges’ shorts whenever he pressed his front to perfectly match the curve of his back like two carefully moulded puzzle pieces fitting just right, the way he would sing for him on the evenings when he was in the mood, while Georges lazily played guitar, his long fingers dancing and flexing effortlessly to coax almost any song Pip could think of out of the battered aging instrument, their movement and careless, effortless skill until he wanted them inside him so much he couldn’t think and forgot the lyrics he was supposed to be singing.

When even Pip’s vast, almost ethereal command of words failed to describe some things, like the depth and metier of his love for the tall French boy who’d taken his hand and found him a life where he felt more like himself than he ever had, where he liked being himself more than he ever had. Some things would just have to speak for themselves.

As much as he adored travelling, seeing the world with Georges, relying on little more than a handful of shirts and a single pair of jeans, a pocketful of euros, their art and their love, he had to admit to the moments he really, sincerely missed home.

It was strange that now was one of those times however, less than an hour before the opening of his Georges’ first proper art show, something he’d been dreaming of since he’d decided he wanted to make a living as a painter, a whole exhibition right in the heart of one of the most respected art galleries in Paris, a place where he and Pip had been lots of times on dates, where Georges had stroked the marble columns outside the foyer, taken deep lungsful of the clean climate controlled air and promised with starry eyes that one day, a painting with his name would be hanging there. And now there were going to be twenty, in their own room, all his best work, years of studying and late nights squinting in the low light at easels taller than even Georges himself, of picking himself up when things didn’t go right and colours wouldn’t mix and people at parties gave him That Look when he said he wanted to be a professional artist, hanging these for the best of Paris to come and gaze at and see Georges’ brilliance as much as Pip did. Since the morning Georges had got the email, dragged his lover out of the shower to show him, sobbed with happiness in his arms, all of this had felt like some dream, the apex of everything they’d been working towards. Payback for every time the heating had gone out and they hadn’t had the money that week to fix it, every evening eating dry, slightly stale cereal out of the box because Pip’s paycheque for his part time job as a waiter at the café across the street didn’t come in for another week, every winter of pushing their bed (still without a frame after the last one had broken during some…extracurricular activities, Pip was absolutely not having another awkward conversation with the guy at the store asking how the wood had splintered into quite that many pieces) across the room to be closer to the bonfire of their discarded notebook pages and spare posters advertising their shows. All that felt worth it.

So why did Pip suddenly feel like he’d sell his right foot to be back at home? What was wrong with him?

For Philip and Georges, home was a tiny apartment sitting rather lopsided on top of a flower shop on the outskirts of Paris, like a rather moth-eaten hat perched rakishly on the bouffant of a debonair old lady. The floorboards and the pipes seemed to get together to form an amateur jazz band after dark, there was a good chance that the oven didn’t even work, given that they never used it; why would they, when there were six amazing restaurants all within walking distance? Their furniture, what little they had, somehow clashed and matched at the same time, a cacophony of different patterns and textures that somehow synthesised into a general oaky red colour that always made Pip feel safe and protected, held. The stairs were uneven and splintered so walking up them drunk (as Pip and Georges often did) was tantamount to doing a particularly dangerous obstacle course with a blindfold on. The paint on the windowsill was so chipped neither of them were really sure what colour they’d been in the first place, the glass in the windows rattled so much when the wind picked up that Philip sometimes jolted awake, still sort of dreaming, scared that the whole place was coming down around them, the wallpaper was some kind of psychedelic repeating pattern that could leave the boys feeling a little seasick sometimes. Especially on the (not so) rare occasions they spent entire weekends smoking joints and eating pastries, playing gentle, lilting music on the frankly insanely huge gramophone Georges had pulled from the antique store nearby, making lazy, greedy, grasping love on every flat surface in the apartment like they were never, ever going to willingly be two separate bodies again.

The place was sparse, wonky, all at odd angles and ill fitting, clashing colours and mismatched fabrics, holes in the flowing lace curtains, mugs that were all nicked and stained with paint from being used by Georges to wash his brushes, ink stains on the desk and puddles of dried wax from Pip’s all nighters working out a particularly knotty poem, piles of laundry still not done, barely lived in and slightly strange, the kind of place you’d immediately guess two starving artists lived in when they weren’t couch surfing across Europe.

But it was home. It was their home, the place they’d built for themselves. It was the smell of lavender and lily pollen and roses drifting up from the flower shop when the day was warm or a new delivery came in, making them both sleepy and feeling like they were lying in a meadow. It was dancing together across the wooden floors in various stages of undress whenever a song they liked came on the gramophone or the tinny, battered radio covered in band stickers that hung off the towel rack. It was their cat, Matisse, waving her black feather duster of a tail under Philip’s nose to get his attention, walking in Georges’ paints and tracking sky blue or yellow ochre paw prints across the apartment, with her one remaining ear and one cloudy, useless eye and funny, lopsided way of walking that meant she fell over every time she sneezed, purring lovingly as she spread-eagled across their laps. It was wearing Georges’ enormous, baggy sweaters that came down around Philip’s knees, it was painting each other’s nails, it was kisses and caresses and falling asleep in each other’s arms and Georges sketching Pip when he had just woken up because that was when he looked most beautiful, it was Pip writing down his most achingly lovely scraps of poetry right after sex, having to use Georges’ back as a rest for his paper. It was saying I love you over and over at every opportunity because it was true and always would be true and that was what kept them going.

It was where Philip wanted to be right now, not here, leaning against the wall in an eerily empty art gallery waiting for the opening party to start, pulling at the slightly too tight collar of his shirt, scuffing his dress shoes against the floor. What was up with him? After waiting so long for this night, what it represented for Georges and his work, why was the part of him he never really felt like he could control being so goddamn difficult?

He sighed a little, hoping the sound echoing through the darkened, empty foyer would give a sense of finality, a bookend to this bad mood. He straightened up and smoothed down his tie, tugging his jacket so it sat more smoothly around his hips, trying in vain to neaten the wild tangle of his hair back into its bun. He was proud of his Georges, this was his big night and he wasn’t about to spend it being sour.

Though he wasn’t the only one acting strange.

Georges was rarely anything but relaxed and calm and placid, one of those people Pip admired for the fact that they always seemed so content, hardly ever getting worked up or bent out of shape or restless the way he did at the slightest little hiccup. Who seemed blessed with this kind of foresight, an unshakeable faith that things were always going to work out fine and, if they weren’t okay right now, they soon would be. It was one part of the many reasons Pip loved his boyfriend; he could sometimes infect him with his easy calmness, putting his hands on either side of his head, his warm brown eyes finding his, pressing their chests together so Pip could feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat, telling him that there was no need to worry, he was his and he loved him, the world was still turning, everything would be okay. Philip’s restless, anxious heart had been looking for that kind of peace for a very long time.

But tonight, ever since they’d left their hotel, Pip was starting to wonder if the two of them hadn’t somehow swapped personalities. His boyfriend had been acting odd all day, bouncing his leg- something he never did- messing with his hair, fidgeting nervously, fretting over every last detail, nearly losing his mind when their taxi was five minutes late despite the fact that they were arriving at the gallery an hour early anyway, given that it was his name on the door and all. And as soon as they’d arrived, he’d shot off into the building with some hurried, obviously thin excuse that he needed to check on a last few things , could mon chou wait here, it’d just take two minutes, he wanted to make sure everything was perfect before he saw it? Apparently forgetting that Philip had been with him just last week arranging the paintings, he’d been the one who suggested that maybe the abstract of the Lafayette family home should go against the back wall, so it was the first thing people saw when they turned the corner and they’d feel immediately transported to the rolling green expanses of Georges’ world, the place he’d grew up, the place the two of them had fallen in love. But apparently he needed two more minutes?

And twenty minutes later, Pip was still waiting, daydreaming about going home and curling up with some of the really good tomato soup the kind old ladies who ran the café across the street made for them, his cat and his boyfriend. Or anywhere, really, as long as he got his Georges back.

Sure, he could understand that he was a little nervous, a lot had been riding on this, a lot proven by what he’d achieved here, though most of it was to Georges himself, imaginary disappointments at the life choices he’d made to wipe away by becoming a recognized artist. Philip and Georges both knew that their parents supported what they did, were endlessly proud of what they created with each other. But the only son of the Marquis de Lafayette had some doubts in his chest that weren’t going to go away as easily as he’d like to believe, not when he got so many daily reminders that he was living a life very, very different from what history and tradition demanded of him. And maybe every step closer he took, every time people could walk in to a gallery like this one and see his work, those voices would get a little quieter.

But surely the nerves had been for before that email arrived congratulating Georges, telling him that one of the best galleries in the community wanted to show his work after he’d sent them his portfolio (after weeks and weeks of Pip gently pressing him, cajoling him, encouraging him). The previews were glowing, the pieces he’d chosen were some of Philip’s favourites, hard work and hard nights were finally paying off. Tonight’s party was just about celebration, reward, taking a breath.

Or at least it was supposed to be. Pip frowned as he paced across the foyer, remarking with a creeping shiver how places built specifically to be full of people became such a void as soon as they were empty. How they became filled instead with a sense of mildly nauseating wrongness once they became the total opposite of what they were supposed to be.

A little like a certain artist boyfriend who really needed a drink or to get laid, at least. Well, the latter would have to wait until they got back to the hotel but at least in an hour, there would be expensive wine and champagne to take care of the former. Fancy galas like this did have their perks.

One of those being getting to see Georges dressed up. Pip’s eyes were pulled upwards by the sound of someone else’s boot heels rapping against the tiled floor, echoing and reverberating around the space. Almost immediately, his mouth curved upwards in an appreciative smile, his bad mood recoiled, unable to stand against seeing Georges coming towards him.

Some of his younger sister Ginnie’s fashion sense had rubbed off on Georges over the years, much to her sincere relief (she was still working on Philip, insisting that he was messing up all her pictures of them), he was dressed impeccably, a tight suit inlaid with embroidered flowers, his thin dreadlocks pulled back and tied away from his sharply angled face with a ribbon, looking so effortlessly beautiful, like he wasn’t even aware of the affect he had on Pip. As he strode towards him in the low light, that smile on his face, he conjured up images in Philip’s mind of personifications of the moon, of a flower adorned Hades come for his Persephone, of strength and safety. He noticed he still had that flower in his buttonhole, the one Pip had plucked from a shrub as they’d waited for their taxi and tucked in there, saying that it matched his eyes perfectly earning a smile.

He loved him so much.

“Two minutes, you said,” Pip called, playfully accusatory, what sounded like another hundred Pip’s asking the same teasing question as it echoed through the space between them, “Don’t think you can get away with keeping me waiting just because you look hot.”

“I am very sorry,” Georges answered smoothly, though he was grinning like a cat as his long, purposeful strides closed the gap, his large yet delicate hands came to cup Philip’s face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones where the freckles were densest, “And don’t play. You love it when I keep you waiting.”

Philip reddened considerably, “Not in everyday contexts…”

Georges gave a low chuckle that Pip could feel the vibrations of through his boyfriend’s palms before something flickered behind his eyes, what looked like an errant thought remembered, and the mood he’d been in all night resurfaced, ruining the calm surface of his expression, “I am sorry. I just had to…some things needed…um, the lighting…”

Philip gently placed his palms against Georges’ chest, a simple gesture that brought his nervous chatter to a stop. He raised up on his tiptoes to press a kiss against Georges’ cheek, “It’s okay, don’t worry about it. This is your night, you’re allowed to be a little nervous.”

Georges softened, a little more than he normally would for one of Philip’s usual affectionate gestures that he handed out freely and willingly, looking as if his boyfriend had just given a Shakespearean soliloquy declaring his undying and eternal love rather than just a quick kiss, “Thank you, mon chou. This night is…really important to me.”

Pip smiled crookedly, rapping his fingertips against Georges’ collarbone, “I know, baby, I know. It’s gonna go great, you’ll see, everyone’s going to know just how amazing you are by the end of this. Just like me!”

Georges snorted, rubbing the back of his neck coyly but he stood a little straighter once his lover’s words sank in, “Come on…shameless flatterer…”

“Damn right,” Pip smirked, a classic Hamilton grin on his face until it flowed into something tender, something gentle, “You know whatever happens tonight, I’m stupidly, crazily, insanely proud of you, right?”

Georges’ lower lip wobbled slightly until he had to bite down on it, ever the overemotional Lafayette Philip adored, “I do. I did. But thanks for saying it, all the same.”

“You’re welcome, you big goofball,” Pip giggled, not wanting tonight to get too emotional too fast or they’d both start crying and be worse than useless, “Now come on, am I allowed to see it now?”

“Yeah,” Georges nodded after a deep breath, “Come and see.”

Philip had lost count of the amount of times he’d found himself in a situation just like this. All museums and galleries and such were the same species, he’d realised, with the same feel to them, the same scent, the same aura of calm and itch they sparked in his chest to see everything, know everything, soak in every fact and oddity and date all laid out for him to devour. They all held the same chance to feel so connected, to history, to the rest of the world, to the rest of nature. To come away knowing more than you did when you went in, to feel like you’d grown a little. Philip had always adored that feeling, there was a reason he knew the Natural History Museum over in New York like the back of his hand, had done since he was five, a reason the boys’ first date was to a tiny independent art gallery near the Lafayette house, a reason he and Georges always made a point of finding a museum whatever corner of the continent they found themselves in, walking through it with their hands tightly clasped, taking their time and absorbing everything, learning together. No matter how far they were from their bed, how long it had been since they petted their kitten, since they’d shared a glass of dangerously strong coffee on their balcony, they’d feel like they’d found something familiar, a piece of home. A part of themselves.

Pip smiled and wound his arm around Georges’ waist as they walked through the empty exhibition rooms, dark except for just the lights illuminating each piece, making the modern sculpture pieces look like sacred totems of some beautiful, slightly alien culture, the paintings look like windows to other worlds, the whole place feel so eerily beautiful. They could go to a million different museums and Pip would still want to go to a million more.

He laughed delightedly when they came to the room that had Georges’ generous handful of names etched into the wall, “Look, they managed to fit them all on!”

“Shut up,” Georges smirked, shoving him lightly, “Some of us are cursed with fathers that have a weird obsession with giving everything six names.”

Philip snorted, “Well, forgive me, but I’d rather die than call my boyfriend the same name as my dad’s boss…whose basically my grandpa…”

“You’re forgiven,” he answered quickly, shaking his head, playfully rueful, “Just Georges is fine.”

“As if you could ever be just anything…” Philip laughed as he took his boyfriend’s hands in his own, pulling him past the towering glass doors and into his exhibit, “I mean, look at this!”

Philip had seen these paintings all before, they’d been living in his apartment, taking up floor space, tripping him up on the way back from the bathroom, occupying his boyfriend’s attention at times he would rather have had it all to himself. But there was no denying they were beautiful, he’d thought it then, even with his bruised shins and ego, and it was only more apparent now in the stark, triumphant light of the gallery. He’d seen all these unfamiliar interpretations of familiar places, these collections of shapes and colours that somehow evoked exactly what Pip felt when he ran his fingers through Georges’ hair, these carefully inked landscapes that mimicked perfectly but were somehow even more beautiful than the originals he’d actually stood in amongst, he’d seen them taking shape under Georges’ hands, over long nights and lazy weekends. Each one held not just what paint or chalk or charcoal or printed card was on the canvas, for Philip there were memories lifting each one beyond what was only physically there.

There was their first night in their own place, in the charcoal sketch of the view from their balcony, when Pip had burst into tears without really knowing why when it first sunk in that he could see the skeletal shadow of the Eiffel Tower from their apartment and Georges had rocked him and kissed the tears from his cheeks, tenderly bemused. There was their first anniversary, when they’d driven out to the countryside, drank and smoked and made out under the stars and Georges had commented warmly that he’d never seen the sky look so beautiful. There was the bouquet of flowers Georges had gone and gotten for Pip the time he was sick, rendered in achingly beautiful pastels. There was their cat, their grumpy and beloved Matisse, immortalised in her favourite place on the back of the sofa. There was the sunlight that came in through their windows at just the right time on just the right day in the spring, there was their relationship, their lives together put together like some wonderful scrapbook.

“It looks pretty good, doesn’t it?” Georges hummed, hopefully, his eyes fixed not on the art but on Philip’s face as he took it all in.

“Pretty good?” Pip yelped in mock indignance, eyes wide and bright with the wonder and excitement Georges found so endearing, whirling out of his grip and around the space, arms out and hair flying, “This is unbelievable! I’m sleeping with the best artist in the frickin’ universe!”

“And I’m sleeping with the biggest idiot!” Georges laughed, going bright red, “Behave!”

“Behave yourself! Wait…” Pip suddenly ground to a halt, almost toppling right over onto his ass as something caught his eye, something that hadn’t been here last week when he and Georges were standing on stepladders and risking their necks, deciding what would go where to give the best impression, “What’s those?”

There were small white cards next to each piece, ones other to the title cards put there by the museum. These were all handwritten, a script Philip knew well and immediately because it was his. When he went closer, feeling Georges’ warm, knowing gaze at his back, he saw that each one was a poem of his, something he’d written, something stolen from his notebook. Most of them, he hadn’t even published yet. And each one perfectly tied to the artwork it, like the emotions Georges said in pictures, he said in metaphors, working together perfectly, on the same wavelength exactly even with two completely different mediums, on the same path, understanding each other even when what was being described was so ethereal.

A lot like Philip and Georges.

He was so lost in wandering around the room, taking in every poem and every piece in tandem, he wasn’t aware of the minutes slipping by until Georges’ hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“Sorry I kept it from you but I though the surprise would be nicer?” he murmured hopefully, “Do you mind? I can take them down before we open if you don’t like it but I thought just for us…”

“Don’t you dare,” Philip breathed, moving in a sudden rush after being paralysed with emotion, throwing his arms around Georges’ neck even when that left him dangling off the floor, “I love it! I can’t believe you did this for me, this was supposed to be…hey!”

He suddenly jerked out of his arms, smacking him on the shoulder, shock and surprise making his limbs a little disconnected from his brain, acting of their own accord or, at least, to the whims of the electricity running through them, “This was supposed to be your night! Your big break! You didn’t have to…you shouldn’t have…”

“Hey, hey,” Georges chuckled, catching his fists, silencing him with a kiss to the forehead, “I wanted to. They asked me to put a little bit about what inspired me with each piece and, well…my answer for each one was the same. You. So, I simplified things.”

Philip flushed, so much so that his multitudes of freckles disappeared in the rosy tide across his face, so shaken that all the great poet could manage was a soft, “Oh. That’s…that’s okay then…”

Georges grinned, suddenly taking a deep breath like a man on the edge of a bungee jump, “Um, the poems aren’t the only new thing I added tonight while you weren’t looking.”

“Huh?” Pip tilted his head like a confused puppy, “You changed something else?”

“For the better,” Georges insisted hurriedly, “Well, I hope…here, just come see it.”

“Oh? Is this what’s been putting ants in your pants all night?” Pip mused as Georges took him to turn the corner of the L shaped gallery room.

“My what now!?” Georges said in alarm, looking down at his trousers.

“Oh, no, it’s an expression,” Pip smiled a little, “Never mind.” They still had their hiccups, with four languages between them.

The tall French boy rolled his eyes, swallowing hard just before he let Pip turn the corner and see whatever it was that had occupied half of his brain function that night, “Just... just look. Tell me what you think.”

Philip had what he thought prepared and packaged and ready to go, something supportive and gushing and glowing, what could Georges possibly have done that he wouldn’t adore? After turning his first exhibition into something joint, a living expression of their love, what could be left?

But once Philip saw exactly what he’d done, the words dissipated when they were halfway out of his mouth as his eyes snapped open and his jaw slackened until it hit his chest. Up on the wall was an enormous painting he’d never seen before, not once, and he remembered every single one of his boyfriend’s paintings, even the ones that got junked. And if he’d seen this one before, he was damn sure he’d remember it.

It was of the two of them, on their backs and gazing at each other, in amongst wildflowers so dense the grass was barely visible, until they looked like they were physically holding them up, weaving into Georges’ hair and around their joined hands, making them dryads, something luminous, something otherworldly. Georges had never painted himself before, recoiled at the idea. But now, Philip couldn’t understand why. It was as if he’d painted not what was in the mirror but who Philip had always seen when he looked at the young man who’d stolen his heart, someone achingly beautiful, strong, wise, someone who looked as if he could hang the sun in the sky. Someone who could take Philip’s hand, tell him he was good and brave and talented and worth the effort and he’d actually believe him. The painted Philip was carefully, lovingly done, though he’d seen himself in his lover’s work more times than he could count, he always looked beautiful when seen through Georges’ eyes.

But seeing the two of them together, looking like they belonged that way, had always belonged that way, Philip just couldn’t breathe.

“Oh…oh god, baby, it’s amazing…” Philip croaked, hating that he couldn’t think of anything more than that though the tears sliding down his face in long diamond tracks across his sunset skin probably took over sufficiently where his brain failed.

“Huh?” Georges made a show of shuffling his fee, looking down, “The painting? I mean, it’s pretty good, I’m proud of it. But what I really wanted your opinion on was the title.”

“The…what…” Pip dragged his sleeve over his streaming eyes, vaguely glad somewhere in the back of his mind that Ginnie wasn’t around to slap him, moving closer to the neatly printed card by the frame, only one this time, no poem…

“Read it out loud?” he heard Georges ask gently.

“Uh, okay? I guess…” Philip frowned in confusion, not entirely sure where he was going with this. Georges always came up with great titles, Pip was the one who sucked at it and had a million poems titled just with numbers.

And then he understood.

“Will You…Will You Marry Me…”

When Philip turned, Georges was down on one knee, ring in hand, tears in his own eyes to match Philip’s. Clearly there was one thing he was willing to spend his family’s money on; the ring was beautiful.

Not a single word passed between the two of them, just a frantic nod, a hug that knocked Georges right off his knees, a kiss that tasted of salt and a future. One with more travelling, more new stars, more nights spend lying on cool grass, the heavy, cream thick scent of joint smoke, their arms around each other, more cities and languages to muddle their way through. More days of taking their home with them wherever they went but always being so relieved when they found themselves back in their leaking, draughty apartment. More nights trading sleep for making love until there were tears in their eyes and the sweetest ache in their muscles. More whispered declarations of love and foreheads resting against each other and hands wandering and mapping and still discovering new things. And so many teasing jabs back and forth, so many breathless, sighing exclamations at the sight of each other, so many murmurs and yelps and laughs and whispers.

But, for now, there were no words.

#philgeorges #starving artist husbands au #fluff #like major fluff you guys #philip hamilton #Georges lafayette #ficlet #proud of this

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