#Art Net Magazine

[panelswithoutpeople]

Eerie Magazine No. 58: The Pepper Lake Monster

by Berni Wrightson

[dailyrothko]

No, the Popularity of Abstract Art is Not the Result of a CIA PsyOp

If you are unlucky enough to move around the internet these days and talk about art, you’ll find that many “First commenters” will hit you with what they see as some hard truth about your taste in art. Comments usually start with how modern art is “money laundering” always comically misunderstanding what that means. What they are saying is that, of course, rich people use investments as tax shelters and things like expensive antiques and art appraised at high prices to increase their net worth. Oh my god, I’ve been red-pilled. The rich getting richer? I have never heard of such a thing.

What is conveniently left out of this type of comment is that the same valuation and financial shenanigans occur with baseball cards, wine, vacation homes, guitars, and dozens of other things. It does indeed happen with art, but even the kind that the most conservative internet curator can appreciate. After all, Rembrandts are worth money too, you just don’t see many because he’s not making any more of them. The only appropriate response to these people who are, almost inevitably themselves, the worst artists you have ever seen, is silence. It would cruel to ask about their own art because there’s a danger they might actually enjoy such a truly novel experience.

When you are done shaking your head that you just subjected yourself to an argument about the venality of poor artists plotting to make their work valuable after they died, you can certainly then enjoy the accompanying felicity of the revelation they have saved to knock you off your feet: “Abstract art is a CIA PsyOp”

Here one must get ready either to type a lot or to simply say “Except factually” and go along your merry, abstract-art-loving way. But what are the facts? Unsurprisingly with things involving US government covert operations, the facts are not so clear.

Like everything on the internet, you are unlikely to find factual roots to the arguments about government conspiracies and modern art. The mere idea of it is enough to bring blossom for the “I’m not a sheep” crowd, some of whom believe that a gold toilet owning former president is a morally good, honest hard-working man of the people.

The roots of this contention come from a 1973 article in Artforum magazine, where art critic Max Kozloff wrote about post-war American painting in the context of the Cold War, centering around Irving Sandler’s book, The Triumph of American Painting (1970). Kozloff takes on more than just abstract expressionism in his article but condemns the “Self-congratulatory mood”of Sandler’s book and goes on to suggest the rise of abstract expressionism was a “Benevolent form of propaganda”. Kozoloff treads a difficult line here, asserting that abstraction was genuinely important to American art but that its luminaries, “have acquired their present blue-chip status partly through elements in their work that affirm our most recognizable norms and mores.”

While there were rumblings of agreements around Kozloff’s article of broad concerns, it did not give birth to an actual conspiracy theory at the time. The real public apprehension of this idea seems to mostly come from articles written by historian Frances Stonor Saunders in support of her book, “The Cultural Cold War: The CIA and the World of Arts and Letters” (New York, New Press, 2000). (I have not read this 525 page book, only excerpts).

The gist of Ms. Saunders argument is a tantalizing, but mostly unsupported, labyrinthine maze of back door funding and novelistic cloak and dagger deals. According to Saunders, the Congress for Cultural Freedom (CCF), an anti-communist cultural organization founded in 1950, was behind the promotion of Abstract art as part of their effort to be opinion makers in the war against communism. In 1966 it was revealed that the CCF was funded by the CIA. Saunders says that the CCF financed a litany of art exhibitions including “The New American Painting” which toured Europe in the late 1950s. Some of this is true, but it’s difficult, if not impossible, to know the specifics.

Noted expert in abstract-expressionism, David Anfam said CIA presence was real. It was “a well-documented fact” that the CIA co-opted Abstract Expressionism in their propaganda war against Russia. “Even The New American Painting [exhibition] had some CIA funding behind it,” he says. But the reasons for this are not quite what the abstract art detractors might be looking for. After all, the CCF also funded the travel expenses for the Boston Symphony Orchestra and promoted Fodor’s travel guides. More than trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes, it was meant to showcase the freedom artists in the US. enjoyed. Or as Anfam goes on to say, “It’s a very shrewd and cynical strategy, because it showed that you could do whatever you liked in America.”

For what it’s worth, Saunders’s book was eviscerated in the Summer 2000 issue of Art Forum at the time of its publication. Robert Simon wrote:

“Saunders draws extensively on primary and secondary sources, focusing on the convoluted money trail as it twists through dummy corporations, front men, anonymous donors, and phony fund-raising events aimed at filling the CCF’s coffers. She makes lengthy forays into such topics as McCarthyism, the formation and operation of the CIA, the propaganda work of the Hollywood film industry, and New York cultural politics—from Partisan Review to MoMA to Abstract Expressionism. Yet what seems strangely absent from Saunders’s panoramic history, as if it were a minor detail or something too obvious to require discussion, is the cultural object itself: The complex specifics of the texts, exhibitions, intellectual gatherings, paintings, and performances of the culture war are largely left out of the story.”

Another problem with the book seems to be that Saunders is an historian but not an art historian. For me, I sensed an overtone of superiority in the tale she’s spinning and most assuredly from those that repeat its conclusion. The thinly veiled message of some is that if it were “Real art” it would not have had be part of this government subterfuge. The reality is very different. For one thing, most of us know it is simply not true that you can make people devoted to a type of art for 100 years that they would sensibly hate otherwise. Another issue is that it’s quite obvious none of the artists actually knew about any government interference if there was any. Pollock, Rothko, Gottlieb and Newmann were all either communists or anarchists. Hardly the group one would recruit the help the US government free the world of communism. Additionally, this narrow cold war timeline ignores a huge amount of abstract art that Jackson Pollock haters also revile and consider part of the same hijacking of high (Frankly, Greek, Roman, or Renaissance) culture. If you look at the highly abstract signature work of Piet Mondrian and observe the dates they were painted, you’ll see 1908, 1914, 1916. This is some of the art denigrated as a CIA PsyOP, 35 years before the CIA even thought about it. Modern art didn’t come from nowhere as many would have you believe to discredit its rise. There was Surrealism, Dada, Bauhaus, Russian futurism and a host of other movements that fueled it.

Generally, people like to argue. On the internet, “I don’t like this” is a weak statement that always must be replaced by “This is garbage” or my favorite, “This is fake.”

It’s hardly surprising that the more conservative factions of our society look for any government involvement in our lives to explain why things are not exactly as they wish them to be, given the (highly ironic) conservative government-blaming that blew up after Reagan. In addition, modern fascists have always had a love affair with the classical fantasy of Greece and Rome. Both Mussolini and Hitler used Greece and Rome as “Distant models” to address their uncertain national identity. The Nazis confiscated more than 5,000 works in German museums, presenting 650 of them in the Entartete Kunst (Degenerate Art, 1937) show to demonstrate the perverted nature of modern art. It featured artists including Marc Chagall, Max Ernst, Wassily Kandinsky, and Paul Klee, among others. The fear of art was real. It was the fear of ideas.

To a lot of people on the internet just the mentioning a “CIA program” is enough to get the cogs turning, but as with many things, the reality of CIA programs and government plots is often less than evidence of well planned coup.

The CIA reportedly spent 20 millions dollars on Operation Acoustic Kitty which intended to use cats to spy on the Kremlin and Soviet embassies. Microphones were planted on cats and plans were set in motion to get the cats to surreptitiously record important conversations. However, the CIA soon discovered that they were cats and not agreeable to any kind of regulation of their behavior.

As part of Operation Mongoose the CIA planned to undermine Castro's public image by putting thallium salts in his shoes, which would cause his beard to fall out, while he was on a trip outside Cuba. He was expected to leave his shoes outside his hotel room to be polished, at which point the salts would be administered. The plan was abandoned because Castro canceled the trip.

Regardless of your feelings on this subject or how much you believe abstract art benefited from government dollars, Saunders herself quotes in her book a CIA officer apparently involved in these “Long leash” influence operations. He says, “We wanted to unite all the people who were writers, who were musicians, who were artists, to demonstrate that the West and the United States was devoted to freedom of expression and to intellectual achievement, without any rigid barriers as to what you must write, and what you must say, and what you must do.” Hardly the Illuminati plot we were promised.

In 2016, Irving Sandler, author of the book that started Kozloff tirading in 1973, told Alastair Sooke of The Daily Telegraph, “There was absolutely no involvement of any government agency. I haven’t seen a single fact that indicates there was this kind of collusion. Surely, by now, something – anything – would have emerged. And isn’t it interesting that the federal government at the time considered Abstract Expressionism a Communist plot to undermine American society?”

This blog post contains information and quotes sourced from The Piper Played to Us All: Orchestrating the Cultural Cold War in the USA, Europe, and Latin America, Russell H. Bartley International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society, Vol. 14, No. 3 (Spring, 2001), pp. 571-619 (49 pages) https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20161004-was-modern-art-a-weapon-of-the-cia https://brill.com/view/journals/fasc/8/2/article-p127_127.xml?language=en https://www.guggenheim-bilbao.eus/en/learn/schools/teachers-guides/the-dark-side-of-classicism https://www.artforum.com/features/american-painting-during-the-cold-war-212902/ https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/modern-art-was-cia-weapon-1578808.html https://www.artforum.com/columns/frances-stonor-saunders-162391/ https://www.artforum.com/features/abstract-expressionism-weapon-of-the-cold-war-214234/ Mark Rothko and the Development of American Modernism 1938-1948 Jonathan Harris, Oxford Art Journal, Vol. 11, No. 1 (1988), pp. 40-50 (11 pages)

[kiemiu]

𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝓞: 𝓝𝐞𝐰 𝓕𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

pairing kang sae-byeok x fem!reader | wc: 1.8k

summary -> the kids being preoccupied left you room to become friendly with the newcomer, kang cheol before his sister makes an appearance for a quick visit. warnings -> injuries (?)

( beneath the quiet masterlist )

12:33PM

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 gave you more time to spend with the kids while your mother was out running errands. You never had a full grasp on what she did on those errands, always returning with more junk than she had left with, always leaving the bulk of it all in the trunk of her car for you to carry in. Even at such a young age you could feel your bones aching and your back practically begging for a break as you carried in pile after pile of magazines. Never knowing what she did with them, or why she had so many, but also never being curious enough to ask.

A huff of exhaustion yet relief left you after plopping the last stack of magazines in front of her door, twisting and turning parts of your body to release any tension before you went back to supervising the kids. Turning your head in a slow circle until your eyes landing on the halfway open door to the art room. The top of a head picking in and out of the crack, scattered papers with markers all over the floor. It didn't take you long to realize it was Cheol. After breakfast and a short lesson, he asked to retire to his room because he wasn't feeling the best, not in need of a nurse or tea that you offered but just wanting to sleep.

You knew how hard of an adjustment it must've been for him to be dropped off in the middle of his adolescents. So many questions could be going through his head, mainly wondering why? And as you think back to his older sister you can't help but wonder what type of hardship they might've been through at such a young age.

The bleak weariness that overtook their forms showed that the past hadn't been kind to them, and even in the safety net of an orphanage they still kept their walls up high. Being self-preserved and reluctant to bond to those around, as if at any moment the world around them would start to crumble, and their efforts to build anything other than a simple acquaintanceship would be futile when it's all said and done.

Without a second thought you made your way over to him, giving the crowded play room a mere glance to make sure the kids were behaving appropriately before making your way inside the art room.

A few gentle knocks were placed on the door before you slowly made your way in, even with the intention of being subtle, you still managed to frighten him, his body jumping before he backed into the leg of a table. A junction of apologies leaving your lips as you slowly made your way towards, your hands held out as you approached as if he was an injured animal.

"I just wanted to see what you were up to." you quietly whisper, bending down far enough to pick up a piece of a paper he colored on. His once rigid form slowly relaxed, scooting himself closer and closer to you when he realized you didn't pose a threat.

The picture messily drawn showing three people in front of a house standing and holding hands with big smiles. "Who's this supposed to be?" You asked, turning the page toward him, having the smallest hint of who it might be.

"Me, my sister, and my mom." he clarified, beginning to draw on another piece of paper, his eyes never leaving the page even as he dropped a marker to pick up another one. You didn't want to press the issue, thinking of all of the possible outcomes that could've led him to end up here, instead settling for a hum of approval and a meek "You draw very well."

A small smile creeped on his face at your compliment, the rapidly moving hand that sketched across the paper halting as he slowly looked up at you. "You wan' me to draw you?" his head slightly tilting to the side, his doe eyes gleaming with something adventurous.

You reciprocated his smile, before nodding, offering to draw him as well, leaving your mother to supervise the other group of rowdy children on her lonesome, you were sure she could handle herself.

As you drew each other on the floor of the art room, you exchanged your likes and dislikes, foods you hated and adored, and your all time favorite tv shows. Small laughs being exchanged between you two, while a light weight lifted off of your shoulders to see him fully relax into the atmosphere. His posture eased and his babbling nonstop, cutting himself off between sentences to tell another story than the other one he told, which was something you also did when you got too excited.

Just as he was in the middle of telling a story, two short and rapid knocks broke through the tranquil bubble created between you two. Looking over your shoulder, your eyes slightly widening at the sight of his sister, standing placid, her face wearing the same exhausted yet impassive expression she wore last time.

Cheol gasped before lifting himself off of the floor and running towards her, his arms locking around her waist as one of her hands rested on the top of his head, messily combing her fingers through his flat locks. "We were just talking about you, noona!" he exclaimed, his toothy grin looking up at her as he rested his chin on her lower abdomen, arms still locked tightly around her waist.

A flash of confusion crossed her face, her eyebrow lifting up only for a split second before returning to her regular stony composition. "You were?" she asked, the tilt of her head similar to the way Cheol had completed the action earlier. Although different in looks you could tell they were related by the allusive mannerisms, even the way they talked occasionally reminding you of the other.

You lifted yourself off of the floor, dusting the sides and back of your pants off before slowly making your way over. "He was just telling me a story on how you taught him how to ride a bike." you clarified for him. A grin creeping on your face as you recalled him telling you she wasn't the best teacher at the time, the longest she'd been on a bike no longer than 10 seconds as she always ended up losing her balance.

Sae-byeok's gaze fell from yours to her little brothers, a ghost of a smile tugging on her lips for a split second before disappearing as her head turned over to the ruckus of the playroom next door.

You didn't mean to stare, but your eyes couldn't help but lock onto the visible scar on her neck, something you hadn't noticed the first time you saw her. Your head tilting the slightest to gaze at it. It was a faded pinkish color, a whisper of a tragedy etched into her skin for life, just barely being covered by the stray hairs falling from her pulled back low ponytail.

It felt as if you were underwater, falling into a trance of your eyes trailing the visible parts of her body to see any other unmarked scars that you had missed at first glance. Her hands barely concealed yet the scratches and traces of dried blood on the knuckles shined a brighter light on who she was. Her fingers long, slender, and littered in bruises, making you wonder what she could've done to sustain such injuries.

The way her hands consciously slipped deeper inside the sleeves of her jacket to conceal her hands didn't go unnoticed, and as if you were pulled from the suffocating waves of the ocean, you heard Sae-Byeok's voice come into view.

"Why aren't you playing with the other kids?" she asked, your eyes catching hers for a second before they diverted to Cheol who was still gripped onto her tightly. He hummed in response, not wanting to tell his sister that he was afraid.

Afraid of what the other kids would think about him, how they would treat him if he spoke too much, and if they'd see him differently if he was truly himself.

"Um, I just wanted to color." he murmured, his eyes avoiding his sisters, his hands resorting to latching onto her wrists, swinging them back and forth to keep himself occupied from having to meet her gaze, knowing that she can read him like a book.

You saw Sae-byeok tense, her face cringing at the sudden pressure around her wrists, but quickly masking it with a frown. Her mouth opened to question him but was abruptly interrupted by Cheol. "Oh, Miss Kim, Can I show noona what we were drawing together?" He suddenly asked, his head turning towards you, a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

You nodded, your eyes abashedly meeting Sae-Byeok's for a split second. "Of course, and if you want you can color with your noona in the visitor area." you offered, already gathering the sheets of paper off of the floor and bending down to throw markers back into their bin.

You smiled as he quickly nodded his head up and down, quickly scattering down to the floor to help you clean the mess you made together. "Will you join us?" Cheol suddenly asked after gathering the multitude of supplies, holding the bin of coloring items with both of his hands, occasionally using his knee to keep it from slipping.

You opened your mouth to answer but was soon interrupted by the yell of your mother calling your name. A small sorrowful smile making its way onto your face, "I don't think I'll be able to..maybe some other time, yeah?" you query, holding the now neat stack of papers close to your chest.

Cheol nodded, his smile still never slipping as he made his way back over to Sae-Byeok.

You held the papers out for her to take, not wanting to pile too much onto Cheol, only then being close enough to realize the noticeable height difference, she practically towered over you, her head having to slightly tilt down if she wanted to maintain eye contact.

Her eyes stayed trained on yours, eyelids fluttering at the smallest graze of her fingertips against yours as she took the drawings away from you. A mumble of what you assume to be a 'Thanks' was heard as she turned her back towards you, her and Cheol treading down the hall to the visitors area to continue coloring together, faint murmurs of Cheol's voice being heard as he told Sae-Byeok how good of an artist you were when you were merely average at best.

As they turned the corner you couldn't help but feel your heart skip a beat at Sae-Byeok's departing glance at you over her shoulder, her eyes flickering towards yours like a magnet before she disappeared into the halls of the orphanage. She evidently wasn't one for words, speaking her own secret language with her eyes, you just had to figure out what she meant.

Where did you come from Kang Sae-Byeok?

' 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ' 📷 : @miabcuzz @twicesuuui @kissyslut @kritkalhit @st4rcs @dumbbellxo @theforestchoseme3 @wlvlurvsfimmia @genshinenjoyer @theweirdanimation @ch-3-rry @nenukkjhj @giaqnn @crack240 @pookalicious-hq @laurenkenss @sheinhamood @pooksterrr @bbynai @diorzs @beaaluv @colorfulkittenperfection @yourl0caltrash @kidicaruslover911 @sherryuki-callmeyuki @i0nic02 @knfthxv @mina-has-been-here

[callyourose]

match point, chapter one.

↳ masterlist

⸺ In which Art and Patrick find themselves intertwined with the relationship of tennis superstar Tashi Duncan and her best friend, Lennon Caddel.

LENNON CADDEL WASN'T SCARED OF TASHI DUNCAN. I mean, she was her best friend. Sure, Tashi was rude to some, intimidating to most. But Lennon might have been the only tennis player at the US Open that year who wasn't scared of her. She had learned that following her best friend around like a lost puppy was the best tactic, and she had gotten pretty good at it. She loved Tashi, adored her. No matter how good of a tennis player Lennon was, sometimes even better than the superstar herself, she would blush and smile and shy away from any praise from her. Tashi was the one that everyone noticed. The way she dominated the tennis court, even in a duos match. The way she swung her braid over her shoulder post win, while her opponent was throwing a temper tantrum just across the net. Everyone was enthralled by her. And Lennon understood it because she was too.

   "I'm just asking," Patrick said in between sips of Coke, standing in front of a poster of the stars of the evening, "If you had to pick, Lennon or Tashi?"

Art just shook his head. He and his best friend had been having this conversation for the better part of the day, beginning as soon as the girls finished their duos match. "I already told you dude," smacking Patrick on the back of the head, "I can't pick. I won't."

"Ever the feminist, Donaldson," the brunette replied turning his back to the posters and his friend. "It doesn't matter to me anyway. I'd let either of them fuck me with a racket."

Art tilted his head and raised his eyebrow, turning his neck to look at the boy next to him. A remark was on the tip of his tongue but he didn't get to start it before he was smacked on the shoulder and urged to look in the direction Patrick was pointing. 

He turned his body fully, scanning the lawn to find what Patrick was so urgent he see. There, standing around a table, was the duo of the hour. Lennon and Tashi were only about 20 feet away from them. They were huddled together, whispering and glancing at... them? Art caught Lennon's gaze and Patrick caught Tashi's and the two girls looked away quickly, giggling to each other. Tashi pinched the outside of Lennon's arm, causing the girl to yell out an "Ow!" and laugh. 

"Dude..." Art started, but Patrick was already in route. He was halfway to the girls before Art even had time to think.

Jogging to catch up, he was right by Patrick's side when he started with a "Hi."

The two girls froze before slowly turning around, Lennon's face was red and Tashi was biting back a laugh. "Hi," Tashi echoed.

There was a beat of awkward silence before Art jutted his hand out in Lennon's direction. "Art Donaldson," he introduced himself to Lennon before offering his hand to Tashi. Patrick followed suite with the introductions causing Tashi and Lennon to glance at each other and smile. 

"We know who you are," the taller girl responded before bumping her best friend's shoulder.

"Oh yeah, we know all about Mr. Fire and Ice," Lennon winked and Art and Patrick were convinced they were going to faint right there. Tashi Duncan and Lennon Caddel were not only talking to them, but they knew them? This is what their dreams were made of. 

"Uh..." Patrick started, unsure of how to respond before Art jumped in.

"You guys were fucking incredible today. Truly."

The girls bid their thanks and echoed their praises. The two best duos in junior tennis, magazines would call them. 

It wasn't long before Lennon and Tashi's parents had to steal them away. Photos with their trophies and kissing each others cheeks were in order. Patrick and Art hung back, gazing at them in awe. Each boy had subconsciously chosen a girl that they had their heart set on, even if it wasn't obvious yet. You could see it in the way their stare lingered on one girl before moving onto the other. You could almost feel it in the air.

Patrick and Art lingered at the party for longer than they intended to. They wanted the opportunity to talk to the girls again; get one more glance at the expanse of Tashi's legs in her dress and the batting of Lennon's eyelashes. They were about to give up, but almost as if they read their minds, Lennon and Tashi descended the stairs and into the area where the boys were sitting. Patrick called them over, the duo whipping their heads in their direction before sharing a smile and heading over. 

"You guys are still here?" Lennon asked, leaning into Tashi's side. 

"Uh, yeah! Great party," Art responded. He was leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He might as well have had hearts in his eyes. 

The girls shared a glance, and echoed their thanks. Both Art and Patrick were practically drooling in their presence. It was cute to Lennon, cute and embarrassing to Tashi. She was used to this.

"Don't you guys have a final in the morning? That you should be... I don't know. Resting for? " She asked, trying to have a real conversation. She was tired of the praises for the day. 

"I mean, yeah," The boys looked at each other and shrugged. "But we pretty much know how it's gonna go." 

Lennon and Tashi shared a look. It was getting late and even if Art and Patrick weren't going to rest, they were. 

"We should probably-"

"You should come by," Patrick interrupted. 

Tashi bit back a laugh. "Come by where?"

Patrick and Art scrambled to their feet. "Our hotel, he means. I, we, would love to talk about tennis with you guys. And Stanford. And..." Art glances them up and down, "Whatever else you want to talk about."

Tashi glances at her friend, who's already looking at her. There's a silent plea in her eyes, one only her best friend would be able to pick up on. 

But Tashi grabs Lennon's hand and begins to pull her away with her. "Goodnight," she winks. Lennon waves them goodbye and turns in the direction Tashi is pulling her. The boys can hear them bickering quietly as they leave.

"Was that a yes?" Patrick asks.

Art keeps his back turned to him, his gaze still following the girls as they leave. "It wasn't a no."

[green-with-envy-phandom-event]

The Final Scores are in!

(lines by @ovytia-art, @jamiethebeeart, @maebird-melody, @hannahmanderr, @dashing-through-ecto, @minnowmarsh, @dashing-through-ecto)

Congratulations Red Team for filling some very big shoes and taking home the gold!

We did it, Guys~! Green With Envy 2024 is now officially over! Thank you so much to everyone who participated!

@echo-does-art, @half-deadmagicperson, @goodfish-bowl, @ectoblastfromthepast, @furiarossa, @fuyuthefoxwriter, @brothebro, amazing work!

You managed to submit 219 colors in one month!

Pre-Bonus Points Scores

Red - 1832 Blue - 1409 Yellow - 1524 Brown - 703 Green - 109 Purple - 307 Pink - 304

Orange - 347 Black - 297 White - 191

Post-Bonus Points Scores

Red - 2507 Blue - 1920 Yellow - 2145 Brown - 830 Green - 154 Purple - 444 Pink - 434 Orange - 457 Black - 387 White - 256

--------

If anyone wants to color line art from the 2024 event, these lines are now open for anyone to color, just make sure to read the notes the line artists left you and credit them when you post a color! Last year's (2023's) stuff can also be found here.

MVP’s for Bonus Points Across All Teams Under the Cut!

The top 3 bonus point earners overall were:

@jamiethebeeart from yellow team with 230 points

@ecto-stone from blue team with 194 points

@half-deadmagicperson from red team with 164 points

Here's how well colorists scored with the Mods for slower, but more detailed colors! Each color of this type that we could spot earned that participant 5 additional points!

These people all did Palette Challenges, earning them 3 additional points per entry!

@lavendarlily x9, @craftybookworms x6, and @half-deadmagicperson x1

These people colored in bulk, with every 25 pieces netting them an additional 10 points!

@nanaarchy x2, @fuyuthefoxwriter x2, @half-deadmagicperson x2, @reading-wanderer x2, @jamiethebeeart x2, @balshumetsbaragouin x1, @echo-does-art x1, @furiarossa x1, @ecto-stone x1, @marzfartz x1, @moonfoxgazer x1, @audaciousanonj x1, and @sherry-a-h x1

These 11 people successfully poached points!

Yellow Team @reading-wanderer got x4, @moonfoxgazer got x2, and @marzfartz got x2 For a total of 8 Poaches and 160 points Red Team @half-deadmagicperson got x3, @goodfish-bowl got x1, @echo-does-art got x1, and @brothebro got x1 For a total of 6 Poaches and 120 points Blue Team @ecto-stone got x2, and @sherry-a-h got x1 For a total of 3 Poaches and 60 points Brown Team @audaciousanonj got x1 For 20 points Orange Team @craftybookworms got x1 For 20 points

These people had some extra creative colors, which each earned 5 additional points!

@lavendarlily for their animated lightning @craftybookworms for their creative use of the empty countertop @minnowmarsh for their 3D papercraft @raaorqtpbpdy for spending a very long time adding in sheen effects and using multiple types of coloring tools @raaorqtpbpdy for their elaborate mixed media background with the main art as a 3d floating element @echo-does-art drew and colored all the additional knives @brothebro for their creative punchline to the meme @ecto-stone for trying the hidden transparency trick for first time @ecto-stone for another transparency trick @ecto-stone for this lovely gif worm @moonfoxgazer for the outrageously cursed and elaborate OC Slackjaw born of Susi's lines @moonfoxgazer for their creative punchline to the meme @furiarossa for the above and beyond body and fur texture added to Susi's lines, paired with an amazing background @furiarossa for coloring the lines to look like a statue, and adding a ficlet inspired by the color @ventisettestars for this time intensive Hades coloring style @dreamwraith's VERY time-intensive traditional oil painting @marzfartz for their traditional watercolor with a really nice background @marzfartz for another lovely watercolor @ectoblastfromthepast for their super nice digital piece that took them 3 days of intense focus @summerssixecho for their scanned magazine digital collage @jamiethebeeart for this stunning digital piece that has such a lovely added background @jamiethebeeart for adding basically a whole story to the background of their color @jamiethebeeart for adding a background that just really fit the vibes of the line art perfectly @jamiethebeeart for their portal accident animation @pokerust for their papercraft @goodfish-bowl for their amazing paint pour background @sherry-a-h for their diamond painted furby

Thanks so much everyone for all your hard work to make this such a successful event and we hope to see you again next year~!

Looking for the 2024 Masterpost? Looking for links to last year's stuff? 2023 Free-To-Color Line Art 2023 Event Decal 2023 Masterpost

[magdalence]

A MYTH OF DEVOTION CHAPTER THREE.

by @magdalence & @divineidolatry

SEE MASTERLIST FOR TAGS + NOTES

pairing: sylus/mc | reader

rating: explicit (18+)

chapter word count: 5,243

“A complete and full resonance link comes at a steep price. Are you willing to pay it? Do you understand how much it will demand of you? How close you will have to get to me? I see how you look at me like I’m a nightmarish monster.” Sylus smirks, leaning in close enough that you can smell his perfume. Leather, metal, and gunpowder. At least, you think some of it is perfume and not just your attempt at his life.

You agree to try your best to resonate fully with Sylus. He agrees to let you go when you do. Both of you get more than you bargained for.

he preparations for the party are rigorous, every detail planned and gathered, no blank space left for anyone else to fill in beyond what Sylus has in mind.

Of course, you aren’t privy to most of it, but you feel it webbing out around you, a net that ensnares you into his intricate plotting. He keeps you in the dark when it suits him, which is far too much for your liking. At times, you catch glimpses of what webs he spin as personnel arrive and are quickly whisked past you. You follow, curious and irritated at being left out, and watch from the corner of the pared-down dark office as he has his measurements taken.

You settle in an old armchair, pulling your legs up underneath you.

“The way you are following me around,” he says, pulling up his sweater as the tailor takes out the measuring tape, “it’s almost like you can’t stand to be apart from me.”

“Don't think so highly of yourself,” you say. In the dim light, at least he can’t see you blush.

“Then have you come to discuss the kiss?”

He has tried to approach the topic several times in the days since, and each time you have shot him a withering glare that never fails to make him smile. As if it is all just a joke to him, a funny anecdote of his latest acquisition to fill the quiet rooms of the sprawling mansion. You sometimes wander from one end of the house to the other, wondering if he will ever turn you into a piece of art, kept amongst the others gathering dust. But the way his eyes burn when he looks at you, you think…

You don’t know what to think anymore.

“We played a game,” you say airily, studying your nails. “It wasn’t a real thing. It was hardly pleasurable.”

“Another time then,” he says easily, putting a pin in the discussion as if he’s waiting for you to change your mind. You won’t. Not with him. No matter what he does.

Not a single muscle moves on the tailor’s face as you and Sylus snap your teeth at each other, and you surmise that he must be cutting her a massive check to cover for privacy. Interesting. Is there no one else in the N109 zone willing to sign a bigger one, just for a glimpse into Sylus’ life? Or does he have a catch on her too sharp to ignore?

It turns your head inside out to consider. Why are people so damn loyal to him? What inspires it? Because all you’ve seen so far is…

You chance a proper glance at him and to your staggering shame, your breath catches for a moment. His shirt pulled up to his breast, the pants sat low on his hips… He looks carved from stone the way his stomach ripples with musculature. It’s obscene.

And he catches you looking.

His laughter is self-satisfied, belly-deep. “You like what you see,” he says. Not a question, but a statement, evidence of your guilt.

“Your looks are wasted on your rotten soul,” you say, brushing your hair down to cover the burning tips of your ears. “Such a shame. Maybe you can model for criminal fashion magazines. I hear they want someone for their next prison break issue.”

A second of shivering silence fills the room, the dry click of his tongue echoing in your ears. “Keep hissing, kitten. Maybe one day you will have to be taught proper manners.”

It is a strange threat, one that winds itself deep inside of you, touching upon a dark and latent twinge that ripples through your chest, down between your legs.

“You sound like you want to put me over your lap and spank me,” you say, the joke dry in your throat, a little choked, a heat coming over you that makes you feel peculiar. Like the temptation to find the exact point where you can pass a fingertip through a candle’s flame and come away unscathed. And then doing it again, a little closer, just to see…

Sylus steps away from the tailor and crosses the room, leaning in over you with his arms caging you in on either side. “What an intriguing thought,” he murmurs, and you can’t bear the heady crushing weight of his gaze on you, focusing on his Adam’s apple instead.

It doesn’t help much, the way it moves as he whispers to you in a voice so full of silk it suffocates you.

“Is that what you want?”

This is what it must feel like to burn.

“Never,” you say.

It’s the truth. Right? You’d never want him to lay a hand on you, to pull down your skirt and run his hand over the curve of your ass until…

“But you are thinking about it now, no?”

Never. Never. You hate him. You have to hate him.

His hot breath tickles your ear, a deep chuckle causing you to bite your tongue.

“You are very easy to read sometimes. I’ll have to remember that.”

You have to keep him at a safe enough distance. Just his physical proximity has that tangled darkness inside you that he so cleverly plucks at roaring up to meet him, eager to snap his fingers off, eager to take and take all that you are owed –

He breaks the spiraling shadows inside you from coalescing as he puts his hands on your shoulders, firm and heavy, and guides you up to stand on the step-stool. “Your turn, dear.”

The tailor takes your measurements, her dry and clinical hands barely touching the air around you as she tightens and loosens the tape. All the while, he watches, his eyes roving over your body as you can feel how he dresses and re-dresses you in his mind, imagining an outfit that will please his aesthetics.

When the tailor steps away, you find yourself in an odd daze, the sensation of the moment flickering warm and lurid underneath your skin. It is not entirely terrible to drift in, but you avoid him best you can, not wanting his presence to sear the images into your mind. Better to put them out. Better to stay away.

-

Sylus orders a dozen dresses and has them brought to you. All of them are deep shades of crimson with detailing in black, and you feel that odd sensation lurking deep inside you again, a turn in your nerves that feels so sharp and strange. It is not helped by how he is dressing you up as his, marking you with a signature color.

You pick through them, settling on one with long sleeves and covered from neckline down to the knees, staring at yourself in the mirror after putting it on. It clings to your skin, and you scratch at the fabric, pausing as it rips, taking in the horror of the noise. Then you return, ripping it further, eyes fluttering shut at the obscene noise of high-quality satin shredded to nothing. Of taking what is his and tearing it to pieces.

“Careless,” he says, and you jump, glaring at him.

“How do you move without making a single noise?”

He steps up to you, clicking his tongue as he touches the jagged fabric you have destroyed. “These dresses are bespoke.” He tugs at the fraying edge, shaking his head. “Such disdain for the work…”

A twinge of guilt blossoms, followed quickly by a white-hot image that flashes through your inner eye, of his hands tearing through the dress, his long fingers hooking into the seams and ripping them open to reveal your naked skin underneath, and you struggle to breathe. The room seems smaller, the ceiling lower.

“None of these suit me,” you say, gesturing at the rack. They’re all beautiful garments, tailored and perfected, but you need air. You need a choice that matters. And you need to carve it out of his offering hands. “Why don’t you take me shopping?”

“That is a security hazard.”

You scratch at the neckline, and it tears further, falling apart in your hands.

He sighs, furrowing his brow. “Fine. I don’t have time to argue with you. Consider yourself lucky. Five minutes, downstairs.”

“Lucky? Do you think I feel lucky being paraded around as yours?”

He waves his hand, sauntering off.

You change back into proper clothes so quickly you are still buttoning up the shirt when you get down to the garage, one of the twins holding open the door to a black car for you. You climb into the backseat and as the door locks behind you, you press up against it, trying to keep as much distance between yourself and Sylus as possible. He doesn’t seem to care, and it’s a dual-edged sensation: you both want him to give you a chance to bite, and you think you should enjoy being ignored by him.

It shouldn’t be this complicated.

As the car glides through the zone, passing through checkpoints, you take note of how the streets change from hollowed-out warehouses to streets glittering with luxury shop windows and people clad in fine designer wear – and armed security guards posted on street corners.

“This place feels so extreme,” you say, looking out the tinted window, seeing the zone pass by in a sepia haze. None of the security guards have any identifiable corporate name on them, just numbers. Everyone in this area looks like they have stepped out of a social media feed, shining and distant.

“That is because it is,” he hums, pocketing the phone. “Truly observant for a Hunter.”

“It seems somehow better and worse than the info packets made it out to be.”

“Because whoever is telling you about N109 doesn’t want you to know,” he says, running a thumb over his left knuckles. “Isn’t it better to think of this place as a lawless, criminal wasteland and not bother with it, to declare it a lost cause, rather than sink money into it? That’s how Linkon City sees it. That is how the outside tells the story of this place.”

“That’s not true,” you say, but what truths do you really know? You never thought you’d see this place just a month ago. You never dared to dream you’d be bound to a criminal like him, much less… It’s too complicated to even touch, the size of it escalating in your head just from brushing against it. What is he to you? Better yet, what are you to him?

He shakes his head, smiling sadly. “You should have stayed in your safe tower. Who knows what will befall you here.”

“Someone like you?”

He laughs. “I am far from the worst that could happen to you here.”

-

Dress after dress, you’ve lost count, each one either vetoed by Sylus or by you. This one’s too modest, this one’s too slutty. One doesn’t match, another one looks like they cut up one of his suits to turn it into a dress. By the time the garments get closer to what you’ll both tolerate, you are exhausted and indignant. It’s hard to relish good fashion when it is tainted by his taste.

“You must dress the part,” he says, shaking his head at a dress you find cute. “And that one is not fitting of an heiress.”

“Do you want me to dress more like your captive? We could add some shackles. Maybe accessorize with bejeweled manacles.” You hold up your wrists, flexing them. “That would be the real part.”

He scoffs, slumping back in the chair. “If you wish to see it as such, who am I to correct your opinion.”

You march back into the changing room, pulling the heavy drapery curtain closed with a frustrated groan. Shimmying out of the dress you look at the rest the staff wheeled in – before they served Sylus champagne and quietly withdrew. Stopping for a moment, you perk your ears, listening, and then grit your teeth. No one has come in since you two arrived. How rich is he that he can command the entire store emptied out of other customers? Too rich for the good of his own damn ego, you decide, discarding yet another dress onto the reject rack.

Your skin goosebumps in the cool air, and you take a precious moment to sigh, rubbing at your face.

At first, he remained courteous, letting you dress yourself, but as dresses grew more intricate you found yourself needing his hands as he helped you into them. It’s professional, mostly, or so you like to think. It definitely hasn’t prickled your skin the way he runs his hands across the dresses under the guise of ensuring they fall correctly. It definitely hasn’t made you feel insane with the strange push-pull inside your chest.

And it means he has seen you stripped down to your underwear a few too many times. More times than you’d like to acknowledge because you caught the way his gaze lingers in the mirror. And once, you caught yourself pressing your thighs together, much to your own embarrassment.

“Well?” comes his taunting voice from the other side of the curtain, and you breathe in hard through your nose, reaching for the final dress.

“Did no one ever teach you patience?”

“You are one to speak.”

It’s a dress you would never go for yourself, not something that would normally catch your eye, but it slips onto your body and changes the very air around you. Even though you have a shadow of sweat lining your upper lip, and your hair is in disarray, and nothing about your body looks good in the mirrors – it transforms you. You can’t quite do up the back yourself and give up trying, pulling back the curtain.

“Some help?”

He takes his time emptying the glass before he gets up, and you shift on your feet, feeling him drink in the sight of you too. There is a ravenous hunger to his eyes, and you turn your back to him so you don’t have to meet it directly.

His fingers find the buttons at your lower back, the tips skimming across your skin. His touch feels electric, and you hold your breath, hoping to lessen the risk of direct contact. The dress tightens, and you straighten up, pulling your shoulders down, and look at yourself in the mirror.

It’s beautiful. You feel it change the way you view yourself, despite the static hair floating around your face and the flush to your face from changing over and over – this is the one.

“This one,” you say, certain.

“Very well,” he says, plucking out the hair clip. “Let me see it with your hair down.”

You wrinkle your nose, shaking it away from your face. “No, it’s better up.”

He makes an exasperated noise, gathering your hair into a loose twist in one hand and pulling it up. You watch in the mirror as his expression shifts, as if he is finally seeing the vision you have in mind. It’s a small victory, you being right and him having to bend to it, and you think you will savor it for days, if not weeks, if not for however long you will rot chained to him.

He looks at you in the mirror, his free hand coming up to splay across your neck. “But this is far too empty.”

You swallow, his hand pressing down just enough that it unbalances you.

“Matching, or complementary?” he asks, more to himself than a question you should answer, his eyes drifting over you. He inhales, exhales, and smiles. “You are wearing that perfume again.”

There are times when it seems like you can catch a glimpse of his mind opening up and filing away details about you, like a perfect archive he keeps of every piece of information he wants to have. As if some part of him is actually enjoying learning about you, studying you… For what purpose?

“What do you want from me?” you whisper, unable to look away from his long fingers brushing against your collarbones.

“You offered full resonance.” His hand drifts away, and you bite back the traitorous desire to ask for it to stay, to have his touch linger. “Nothing more. But certainly nothing less.”

He gives you one final look in the mirror, but his eyes are closed off, the distance between you two edging itself in again.

What you wouldn’t give to be able to crack him open at a heart’s whim.

-

The days accumulate at his home, counting down to the party. You wake up each day looking at the dress hung up on closet door, touching the sleeves before you do anything else. It’s gorgeous, eye-wateringly expensive, and it hangs ahead of you heralding some obscured doom.

In your head, the party grows and grows, not without an ominous aura.

Certainly, parts of that due to how you are made to play the part of his – well, what are you meant to be to him, his plaything? Lover? Ditzy heiress willing to throw everything away for a bad boy? It’s tragically stereotypical, and yet whatever he wants the elite of the N109 zone to think, that is who you must be. The scrutiny you’re under as he shapes you into the perfect image… It’s peculiar and not entirely unwelcome, the way he is aiming you towards a distant target, even if it is one you cannot see just yet.

As you leave to find a way to fill another empty day, music drifts down the corridor, and you follow it, too curious to resist. So little changes in his house, and anything that is different immediately curls its fingers around your eager heart, luring you to explore.

Of course, he knows how to exploit this. Part of you even expected it, that part of you that rebels against yourself, that wants him to ensnare you in his life. How you try to mire yourself in hatred and how he slips right past it anyway because this sliver of you wants him to... Horrific.

The music leads you to a big room, feeling empty with all the furniture pushed up against the walls, and there’s just him and his off-beat humming intertwining with the music. He’s adjusting a record player, fine-tuning the volume settings, and you consider turning around to leave. You hesitate for a split second too long though, eyes drawn to his back because you can see the outline of his muscles underneath the shirt, and he knows instantly.

“There you are,” he says over his shoulder. “You are overdue for dance practice.”

He uses his Evol to shut the doors behind you and the shadow tendrils push against your lower back, urging you into the middle of the floor. Your feet are so soft against the hard wood, wearing only socks and barely making a single noise – compared to how his dress shoes fill the room as he comes up to you.

“Is this really necessary?” you ask, scowling.

“You came here posing as an heiress, so that is the persona you must live up to.” He rolls up his sleeves neatly. “Expensive taste, expensive schooling–”

“And terrible taste in men if I am with you.” You cross your arms over your chest, knowing that your resistance is a nuisance, even for yourself – but you have so precious little else to leverage against him, and you want to make each day he spends with you feel like a punishment.

Of course, he takes it all with such ease.

“I have more money than the other eligible bachelors there,” he says, unbothered. “Just play that angle if anyone asks. Who would fault you for being practical?”

“If that is all I care about as this heiress, I’d want to be someone else too.”

He looks at you with exasperated affection, holding out his hand. You throw him a pointed glare, but still, you take it.

“If we had more time, I’d teach you several dances in vogue. Alas, we must opt for simplicity. I trust you have a basic understanding of the waltz?”

You blink up at him and he makes a noise tonguing on frustration. He pulls you closer and rests a hand on your back, and that intense current ripples outwards from his touch, an electric sensation that renders you momentarily breathless.

“Just… Follow my lead. I’ll see what I can do.”

You aren’t awful, but you certainly aren’t great. He is so much taller and bigger than you, and you resist the rhythm he attempts so sternly to make you follow.

“At least try,” he says, amused disappointment dripping from his lips, pressing you closer to himself. You can feel how he breathes, how his heart is practically racing, thundering loud against you, and you wriggle out to step back, biting your tongue to stay focused.

“What is your game here?”

“Are you inquiring about today or long-term?” he asks, leading you across the floor. He’s got a way with words and another with his body, and the moments where you let go and just follow... It’s not too bad.

It might even be a little thrilling.

“Long-term is blatantly obvious. As for the party...”

“You want to spoil the surprise of it. That, I can’t do. There is value in your ignorance. If you play up the ingénue side of yourself, you might even be of use.”

“I don't like the way you keep me in the dark.”

“The shadows have inherent value. You should try to embrace that.”

You roll your eyes, eliciting a deep laugh from him.

“Your stubbornness, however, has less value.”

You press your lips together, ignoring the prickle of heat along the back of your neck. Cruelly, he lets you stew in it for a few moments, smiling to himself. Even when he doesn’t speak he is so dreadfully exasperating.

“Indulge me. Tell me about this heiress. I want to hear about your cover story.”

“Well, clearly she has a taste for danger if she’s with you.” Your eyebrow twitches, and it takes you a concerted effort to school your features into placid obedience.

“Daddy’s favorite girl gone bad... You might be able to play that, if you put some effort in.” He tilts his head, looking down at you. “And who is she to me?”

“Your little pet project. Maybe you’re corrupting her towards crime. Teaching her all about how it’s done. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Cooking the books does not appeal to me at all. Try again.”

Tamping down on your frustration, you try to step on his foot and he outmaneuvers you with ease.

“You’re teaching her – me – how to be a murderer,” you say, reaching for acidic and finding poison welling up, drawn out from a deep well of resentment. In the light of this room, you can’t help but feel the sting of a gun in your hands, and it tempts viciousness to be this close to him. “You want to ruin me. You want to defile me. You want to use up everything I have and then let me wash ashore on a lonely beach.”

His expression changes, the carefree teasing drifting away. “Childish. Do better.”

“I’m not going to play devoted wife if that’s what you’re angling for,” you spit just as the music ends.

He drops you like you disgust him, like he can’t wait to get rid of you fast enough, and goes to turn off the music. You clench and unclench your hands, heat coursing through your veins like liquid fire. What is it about him that draws out such sharp parts of you, these parts that you keep tucked away from everyone else.

To injure him… It keeps you safe. And it hurts you too. That’s what feels so wrong about it all, like any cut comes back to your palms.

The music changes. Darker, more intense. It aches in you, evoking a lost image of nights spent in smoky bars, red wine so aged you could taste mossy cellars in each mouthful, him licking drinks off your wrist – your breath catches, jagged, and the image dissolves. Nothing but a daydream. Nothing but an errant thought conjured up from treasonous depths. It can’t have been real…

As you make to leave he catches your wrist and pulls you into his arms again.

“We are not done,” he says, voice low and hard.

His arms cage you into a dance that you don’t know, moving desperately to keep up with his movements. He presses you, pushes you, and you have to take two steps for every stride he does. His grip on you is firm, and distantly, all of this is familiar.

And it is getting harder to even want to stop it. It’s overwhelming, and yet, the more you surrender to it, the better it feels, despite the simmering rage, despite the fury that shocks between your oscillating bodies.

“You joke and joke, but these are serious matters.” His tone is tense. “The other guests won’t give you half the mercy you are getting from me. They will find each hole, each weak spot, and dig through it until they can rip you apart.”

“So I’ll be good bait,” you counter, not wholly believing it yourself. All you need is him to believe you trust yourself, which is easier said than done.

“You’d risk your life for information?” he sneers, a curl of disdain to his lips.

“I’ve risked my life for less.”

The music rises, and the dance, turbulent before, escalates. Your toes are barely touching the ground as he whirls you around.

“For what? People who want nothing but to control you? Harm you? People who are hardly worth all that care you pour into them?” He watches your expression, waiting, and then shakes his head. “You would. So you are a fool.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Don’t I?”

Shadows flare up around him, slithering around him like a dark halo, and you try to break free of his arms, to end this charade of a dance that has morphed into something far more complicated. It treads on a messy unknown between you, one you cannot see the complete outline of.

He presses the dance into overdrive, eyes boring into you. “What do you remember?”

For a moment, you feel the past opening up in you, a mirage of something shimmering beautiful and tender, luscious with touch – and then it’s gone. Just a dream. Nothing more. There is nothing for you to hold on.

Yet your body wants to say: I remember this, I remember that we once danced like this, I remember the sensations from some other time and place, but your body is a rotten liar.

“Nothing!” you shout, breath ragged from the dance, frustration surging through your body, and his face looks like an open wound your words have slashed into him. His shadowy tendrils surround you, press in against your skin, and then disappear, dissolving into thin air as if they were never real either, just like your hollow daydreamed memories.

He lets go of you, but there’s a reluctance to his hands, the way they drift down over your arms, the back of his fingers brushing against yours before he steps away and turns off the music with a heavy finality. The dance practice is over. You haven’t satisfied him, but this is the first time it feels like a stinging failure.

“It would have been better for you not to have come here,” he says finally, voice tired, gaze avoiding you.

“I had to,” you reply, quietly hoping he turns around, looks at you.

He sighs. “So you did.”

-

For days, you rehearse your heiress persona with the twins while pointedly ignoring when they try to talk to you about Sylus.

It’s not a perfect creation, but it is so good she shines bright and clear in your mind. By the time you are preparing for the party, you have almost stopped touching the back of your fingers like Sylus did, trying to evoke the touch until your skin burns from the attempts. You aren’t even quite sure what you are trying to bring back, but you find yourself replaying the dance in your mind every resting moment.

If you didn’t know better, you might say he haunts you.

By the time you slip into the dress and pin up your hair, you barely recognize yourself in the mirror. It’s fascinating how just a dress can change so much, but to your consternation you find yourself agreeing with his dressing room assessment: the neck is too bare. You touch it, mimicking the way he did, riling up the butterflies in your stomach.

“Eager for jewels?” Sylus asks, and you briefly meet his eyes in the mirror before quickly looking back at yourself.

“You wouldn’t want me looking cheap, would you?”

“Never,” he says, stepping up behind you.

It’s hard to tell if he is colder because of what you did or because he is concerned, but before he has a chance to present you with the jewelry in his hands, you burst out: “I’m sorry. For what I said.”

He seems taken aback before quickly piecing his suave mask together again. “Would an heiress apologize like that? It’d be safer for you to play above such small feelings. In this place, there are many monsters and demons lurking, eager to strike. This, at least, will make them think twice before approaching you.”

The necklace he puts around your throat is beautiful: blood-red rubies set in dark metal, striking and bold.

“You want them to think I’m yours,” you say quietly, gingerly touching the lowest ruby where it rests right above your cleavage.

“To mark you as mine in their eyes will keep you safe tonight.” His fingers linger by the clasp even after fastening it, and you want to stay in this moment, to drag out the seconds.

“Ah,” he says, dropping to one knee behind you and feel a flutter of excited terror as he takes out a small pistol and slides his hands up your right thigh. “And for what I can’t protect you from, you should have this to help.”

He secures the gun into your thigh garter, resting his cheek against the thigh high stockings held up by them, and you rest a hand in his hair as he does – ostensibly to support yourself, but it feels so…

“All done,” he says, voice low and warm.

What a sight the two of you make in the mirror. Like a queen and her loyal knight, willing to do anything for her: go to war, die, resurrect himself endlessly for her heart’s whims. He sees it too, staying still, his hand rubbing along the inside of your thigh as you ponder the vision in your reflection.

He turns his mouth to your thigh before he stands back up, and as the two of you head downstairs to the car that will whisk you away to a lethal party, you think he might have pressed a stolen kiss to your thigh, but you can’t be quite sure – except for this: that if you were his queen, you’d like to order him to do it again, and slower.

[mybeingthere]

Once upon a time in 1885, Welsh singer, songwriter, scientist, and philanthropist Margaret Watts Hughes accidentally invented a method of turning her voice into images.

Hughes explained her invention, the eidophone, and her image-making process in an article for Century Magazine in 1891:

"In 1885, while seeking means to indicate readily the intensities of vocal sounds, I first met with these [voice] figures, and, owing to their variety both in form and production, they have since absorbed much of my attention. The apparatus I have employed I call the eidophone. This is very simple. It consists merely of an elastic membrane, such as thoroughly flexible soft sheet-rubber, tightly stretched over the mouth of a receiver of any form, into which receiver the voice is introduced by a wide-mouthed tube of convenient shape. In some cases the receiver may be dispensed with, and the membrane be stretched across the open end of the tube itself.

My first experiments were made with sand, lycopodium powder, or the two substances mixed. I then tried for the production of voice-figures, flooding the disk of the eidophone with a thin layer of liquid ; e.g. water or milk. Upon singing notes of suitable pitch through the tube, not too forcibly, beautiful crispations appear upon the surface of the liquid, which vary with every change of tone. A note sung too forcibly causes the liquid to rise in, a shower of spray, the movements of which are too rapid to be readily followed by the eye. To facilitate observation denser liquids may be used. By using such liquids as colored glycerin particularly beautiful effects may be obtained. Subsequently I found that by employing moistened powder of different consistencies yet another description of figures appears. The earliest result of my experiments in this material shows centers of motion from which radiations diverge."

By varying the sound of her voice and the materials and methods used to capture it, different patterns emerged.

If we dig a bit deeper into the process, we find greater complexity. Sophie B. Herrick did just that in Visible Sound – Comment [Century Magazine 42, 40 (1891)]:

These voice-flowers are not the simple visual forms corresponding with the vibrations of the air set in motion by the voice. The waves generated in the closed bowl of the eidophone are reflected again and again from the sides of the vessel. The volume of air inclosed has its own rate of vibration; the stretched membrane has also its own rate, which in turn is modified by the character and thickness of the paste spread upon it. Added to these are molecular forces of cohesion and adhesion between the particles of paste, and again between the paste and the membrane. The form which grows into shape is the resultant of all these complicated forces, and, in some instances, new elements of change have been added. A glass plate is placed on top of the vibrating membrane and moved over it. We have a new body introduced with its proper rate of vibration, besides a mechanical motion further to complicate the problem.

According to an article in MIT’s The Net Advance of Physics Weblog, Hughes’ “flower-like forms” were rediscovered in the 1960s by Swiss researcher Hans Jenny, who went on to coin the term cymatics to describe acoustic effects of sound wave phenomena. However it appears as if Jenny was only familiar with the black and white reproductions of Hughes works as published in her Century article.

The larger color works were thought to be lost(!) but were found in 2016 by the staff of the Cyfarthfa Castle Museum, located in Merthyr Tydfil, Wales, while digging through their archives. Taken as a whole, Hughes’ work has a foot in two camps —as part of the history and study of the physics of sound, and as part of the history of art. These works were displayed as such during her lifetime.

One can imagine that the Surrealists would have been quite taken with these voice-figures, automatism sans hands, and I find them quite beautiful and striking as works of visual art that do not fit the tidy androcentric narrative of history, art or otherwise (see Hilma af Klint for a similarly jarring example).

[starstruckbyacomet]

There Is No Safe Word (Part 1 of 10)

How the best-selling fantasy author Neil Gaiman hid the darkest parts of himself for decades.

By Lila Shapiro, a features writer for New York Magazine. Jan. 13, 2025

(Source) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Prewarning)

Photo: Guerin Blask/August

This article was featured in One Great Story, New York’s reading recommendation newsletter. Sign up here to get it nightly.

Editor’s note: This story contains content that readers may find disturbing, including graphic allegations of sexual assault & child abuse.

Scarlett Pavlovich was a 22-year-old drama student when she met the performer Amanda Palmer by chance on the streets of Auckland. It was a gray, drizzly afternoon in June 2020, and Palmer, then 44, was walking down the street with the actress Lucy Lawless, one of the most famous people in New Zealand owing to her six-season stint portraying Xena the warrior princess. But Pavlovich noticed only Palmer. She’d watched her TED talk, “The Art of Asking,” and was fascinated by the cult-famous feminist writer and musician — by her unabashed self-assurance.

On the surface, Pavlovich appeared to be self-assured as well. A local girl, she had dropped out of high school at 15 to travel to Europe, Morocco, and the Middle East on the cheap, pausing in Scotland — where Tilda Swinton gave her a scholarship to attend her Steiner school, Drumduan — and London to work in the cabaret scene. Eventually, her visa expired and she ran out of money and so, in 2019, she returned to Auckland, where she enrolled in an acting school and took a job at a perfumery. Pale and dark-haired and waifish, she favored bold colors and outrageous outfits. On the day she met Palmer — on most days then — she’d painted a triangle of translucent silver beneath her lower lashes so it looked as though she’d been crying tears of glitter. It was Pavlovich who approached Palmer on the sidewalk outside the perfumery. She was surprised when Palmer texted her a few days later. “It’s amanda d palmer,” she wrote. “Your new friend.”

Cover of Amanda Palmer's book, The Art of Asking (2014).

Palmer, an obsessive chronicler of her own life in songs, poems, blog posts, and a memoir, got her start as half of the punk cabaret band the Dresden Dolls, but she is perhaps more famous for her ability to attract a tight-knit and devoted following wherever she goes. In 2012, she became the first musician to raise more than $1 million on Kickstarter and later became one of Patreon’s most successful artists. As Palmer explained in her book The Art of Asking — part memoir, part manifesto on the virtues of asking for assistance of various kinds — she had built her entire career on “messy exchanges of goodwill and the swapping of favors.” Out of this mess, she argues, a utopian sort of community formed: “There was no distinction between fans and friends.”

Amanda Palmer on Waiheke Island, New Zealand. Photo: Duncan Innes.

Over the following year and a half, Palmer and Pavlovich occasionally met for a drink or a meal. Palmer offered Pavlovich tickets to her shows and invited her to parties for the Patreon community at her house on nearby Waiheke Island, a lush bohemian retreat with vineyards, golden beaches, and more than 60 helipads to accommodate the billionaires who vacationed there. Sometimes Palmer asked Pavlovich for favors — help running errands or organizing files or looking after her child. Pavlovich was happy to assist. She had a crush on Palmer. She didn’t mind that Palmer only occasionally discussed paying her, even though Pavlovich was always strapped for cash. For Pavlovich, who was estranged from her family and without a safety net, Palmer filled a deeper need. In November 2020, Palmer invited her to hang out at her place for a weekend with a group of local artists. At the gathering, Palmer asked Pavlovich to babysit while she got a massage. Early the next morning, Pavlovich wrote a diary entry about the easy intimacy she’d felt in Palmer’s sun-drenched home, where she’d read to Palmer’s son, who was 5 at the time, their limbs entwined. “The years absent of touch build up like a gray inheritance,” she wrote. “I’m hungry. I am so fucking famished.”

Neil Gaiman and Amanda Palmer. Photo: Dave Benett/WireImage.

On February 1, 2022, Palmer texted Pavlovich and asked if she wanted to spend the weekend babysitting, which would mean bouncing back and forth between her house and her husband’s. Pavlovich had never met Palmer’s husband, from whom she was separated, though of course she knew who he was: Neil Gaiman, the acclaimed British fantasist and author of nearly 50 books, including American Gods and Coraline, and the comic-book series The Sandman, whose work has sold more than 50 million copies worldwide. Gaiman and Palmer had arrived in New Zealand in March 2020, but just weeks later, their nine-year marriage collapsed and Gaiman skipped town, breaking COVID protocols to fly to his home on the Isle of Skye. Now, he’d returned and was living in a house near Palmer’s on Waiheke. Their previous nanny had recently left, and they needed help. Pavlovich agreed and was pleased when Palmer offered to pay her for the weekend’s work.

Waiheke Island, Auckland, where Amanda Palmer and her husband Neil Gaiman have settled with their son. Photo: AucklandNZ

Around four in the afternoon on February 4, Pavlovich took the ferry from Auckland to Waiheke, then sat on a bus and walked through the woods until she arrived at Gaiman’s house, an asymmetrical A-frame of dark burnished wood with picture windows overlooking the sea. Palmer had arranged a playdate for the child, so not long after Pavlovich arrived, she found herself alone in the house with the author. For a little while, Gaiman worked in his office while she read on the couch. Then he emerged and offered her a tour of the grounds. A striking figure at 61, his wild black curls threaded with strands of silver, the author picked a fig — her favorite fruit — and handed it to her. Around 8 p.m., they sat down for pizza. Gaiman poured Pavlovich a glass of rosé and then another. He drank only water. They made awkward conversation about New Zealand, about COVID. Pavlovich had never read any of his work, but she was anxious to make a good impression. After she’d cleaned up their plates, Gaiman noted that there was still time before they would have to pick up his son from the playdate. “‘I’ve had a thought,’” she recalls him saying. “‘Why don’t you have a bath in the beautiful claw bathtub in the garden? It’s absolutely enchanting.’” Pavlovich told Gaiman that she was fine as she was but ultimately agreed. He needed to make a work call, he said, and didn’t want Pavlovich to be bored.

February 2022: The bathtub in Gaiman’s garden where Scarlett Pavlovich alleges he raped her, which Gaiman denies. Photo: Courtesy of Scarlett Pavlovich.

Gaiman led Pavlovich down a stone path into the garden to an old-fashioned tub with a roll top and walked away. She got undressed and sank into the bath, looking up at the furry magenta blossoms of the pohutukawa tree overhead. A few minutes later, she was surprised to hear Gaiman’s footsteps on the stones in the dark. She tried to cover her breasts with her arms. When he arrived at the bath, she saw that he was naked. Gaiman put out a couple of citronella candles, lit them, and got into the bath. He stretched out, facing her, and, for a few minutes, made small talk. He bitched about Palmer’s schedule. He talked about his kid’s school. Then he told her to stretch her legs out and “get comfortable.”

“I said ‘no.’ I said, ‘I’m not confident with my body,’” Pavlovich recalls. “He said, ‘It’s okay — it’s only me. Just relax. Just have a chat.’” She didn’t move. He looked at her again and said, “Don’t ruin the moment.” She did as instructed, and he began to stroke her feet. At that point, she recalls, she felt “a subtle terror.”

February 5, 2022: Pavlovich the morning after the bathtub incident. Photo: Courtesy of Scarlett Pavlovich.

Gaiman asked her to sit on his lap. Pavlovich stammered out a few sentences: She was gay, she’d never had sex, she had been sexually abused by a 45-year-old man when she was 15. Gaiman continued to press. “The next part is really amorphous,” Pavlovich tells me. “But I can tell you that he put his fingers straight into my ass and tried to put his penis in my ass. And I said, ‘No, no.’ Then he tried to rub his penis between my breasts, and I said ‘no’ as well. Then he asked if he could come on my face, and I said ‘no’ but he did anyway. He said, ‘Call me ‘master,’ and I’ll come.’ He said, ‘Be a good girl. You’re a good little girl.’”

Afterward, Pavlovich crouched down in the water and tried to clean herself off. Gaiman looked at her and smiled. “‘Amanda told me I couldn’t have you,’” Pavlovich recalls him saying. As soon as he’d heard this, he “knew he had to have” her. “‘God,’” he continued, “‘I wish it were the good old days where we could both fuck you.’”

Next: Part 2

[arturpastor]

Majericon and the Arquivo Municipal de Lisboa (Lisbon Municipal Archives) announce the reprint of the book

Artur Pastor - Portugal, país de contrastes [Artur Pastor - Portugal, a country of contrasts] is a photographic guide to the legacy of Artur Pastor (1922-1999), one of the few Portuguese photographers who, between the 1940s and 1990s, left us a vast and extensive body of work in terms of representation of Portugal: a collection of tens of thousands of photographs, including 6×6 and 35mm negatives, in black and white or colour, slides and print proofs.

Taking as its starting point the text Portugal, a country of contrasts, written by Artur Pastor in April 1954 for the magazine Portugal Ilustrado, and his testimony “Portugal cannot be visited only with the eyes because it can also be felt in the heart”, this book constitutes a photographic guide to the legacy left by photographer Artur Pastor, evoking his ambivalent restlessness, around writing and photography, the coast and the interior or rurality and modernity. “Portugal is not just visited with the eyes, because it is also felt with the heart” , this book is a photographic guide to the legacy left by photographer Artur Pastor, evoking his ambivalent restlessness, around writing and photography, the coast and the interior or rurality and modernity.

Bringing together a selection of 250 black and white photographs, among the many that make up the estate acquired from his family by the Lisbon City Council in 2001, its aim is to showcase the work of this unique photographer and his vision of Portugal, a country that has disappeared and changed in the memory of the youngest, but reflects a present past for those who lived it.

In the selected images you will find an ethnographic survey of agricultural work, such as ploughing with oxen, sowing and harvesting, shepherds and their flocks, threshing on the threshing floor or mechanical threshing with a steam engine. In fishing activities: tuna fishing on the Algarve coast, the art of xávega in Nazaré with oxen pulling the boats, the preparation and drying of fish in baskets, the repair, transport and washing of nets, the distribution of fish in grids on the sand for the fish market in Sesimbra, crafts and crafts, fairs and markets, popular festivals, industry, urban and rural landscapes.

Pre-Order your copy:

https://majericon.com/en/product/arturpastor/

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Smithsonian Magazine:

The birds weigh about as much as a bar of soap.

That’s how Melissa Boyle Acuti describes the northern saw-whet owl, the smallest owl species found in Maryland and one of the smallest in North America. They’re hardly bigger than a fist with a ping pong ball on top, she adds.

During the fall in Edgewater, Maryland, a small group of volunteers helps catch and band these little owls from sunset to midnight. They’re participating in Project Owlnet, an initiative that seeks to learn more about these birds and their migration and that supports an ever-expanding network of migrant owl banding stations.

Boyle Acuti is the banding station manager for Project Owlnet’s site at the Smithsonian Environmental Research Center (SERC) in Edgewater. She leads the participants through the project’s processes.

The group uses an audio lure to entice the birds, capturing them in mist nets to bring back to the banding station. Once there, they place aluminum bands on the birds—“friendship bracelets for science,” as they’re called within the project. Project participants also measure the owls’ bills, wings and tails.

They use a blacklight to look at the underside of the owls’ wings and see their molt pattern, which helps determine their ages, a difficult task. Old feathers don’t glow as brightly under the light because the pigment has faded, while new feathers have a brighter glow, Boyle Acuti says.

“They nest and summer up in these boreal forests in Canada,” she says. “Those areas, people can’t get to very easily. … So that’s why the fall migration studies are really important to know what’s happening with the population of owls.”

For Christmas bird counts, the owls may be found down in their southern range, possibly showing up at stations in Georgia, Alabama and Oklahoma. “They go pretty far south in small numbers,” she says. “The more that we do with Project Owlnet, the more we learn about their migrations.”

Saw-whet captures have varied widely from year to year at SERC, which became a Project Owlnet banding site in 2017. That year, the team captured eight birds, and the next year, they captured 54. Then in 2019, it was six; the year after, it was 29. And then eight in 2021, 26 in 2022, nine in 2023 and ten in 2024. Notably, one of the birds banded at SERC and identified as a recently hatched owl in 2022 was recaptured nearly 600 miles away in Quebec on October 14, 2024.

Many factors may affect the owl population, Boyle Acuti notes: “You hear about the wildfires in Canada—they’ve been in the news. Even climate change, that could be causing the southern species to move more northerly. The tree species compositions, if those change, that could impact where the owls are nesting and the prey. There’s a lot we don’t know, and that’s why we study them. In order to see trends, you have to have long-term data sets.”

[fiercynn]

palestinian poets: tariq luthun

tariq luthun is a detroit-born, dearborn-raised community organizer, data consultant, and emmy award-winning poet. the son of palestinian muslim immigrants from gaza, he is a kresge arts in detroit fellow that earned his MFA from the program for writers at warren wilson college. he has been recognized as a best of the net poet and has earned fellowships from kundiman, the watering hole, and the kresge foundation. his work has appeared in vinyl poetry, lit hub, mizna, winter tangerine, and button poetry, among others. luthun currently serves as a board member of the offing literary magazine. his first collection of poetry, How the Water Holds Me, was published by bull city press in 2020. the press named the book an editors' selection.

luthun spends most of his time hosting events, working with youth, and facilitating marginalized communities for growth through expression and action. he is a deep dish pizza evangelist, and can best be described as the end-result of a less problematic drake falsetto-rapping edward said's orientalism.

luthun was also recently interviewed by national public radio about the current escalation in genocidal violence by israel against palestine. as of ten days ago, his family in gaza was all okay.

IF YOU READ JUST ONE POEM BY TARIQ LUTHUN, MAKE IT THIS ONE

OTHER POEMS ONLINE THAT I LOVE BY TARIQ LUTHUN

We Already Know This at literary hub

Al-Bahr at tariq's website

Portrait of My Father Drowning, originally published at crab orchard review

Fruit at up the staircase

Dance at winter tangerine

The Summer My Cousin Went Missing (read aloud) at tariq's website

Whisp at the offing

Mismarked (live performance) recorded by button poetry

Museums at voicemail poems

New Rule at the offing

[dailyrothko]

Are you a Mad Men fan? I'm curious what your thoughts are on the Rothko centric episode

Forgive me for being overly digressive about this instead of just simply answering.

I always have a feeling of trepidation when something I love is worked into the popular culture. I think it's a throwback from before the Internet when things felt more precious and personal because they were not as widely distributed. When I was a kid if you had $10 you had one record, if you have $10 now you have the whole history of music on Spotify ( we will temporarily forget that they are destroying the music business and using the money to make robots for the army).

But if you had an Os Mutates or Mulatu Asake record back then chances are you were bringing it from a different country and it was as if you had fetched the sword from the lady of the lake and were bringing it back to the common people. The effort required to be interested in certain things seemed to make them extra special due to your devotion and labor. I think maybe that's why one can feel protective of certain things like "I hope everybody doesn't get into this now and ruin it."

It's actually counterintuitive, but that's sometimes how it works. I loved Ghost World but was nervous that one of my favorite artists Skip James, was a feature of the movie . I thought they might diminish it because it's Hollywood, but actually of course they did a perfect job with it partially because of the director is also a legendary record collector of early music.

All of this is to say that I was pretty worried about how they would treat a Mark Rothko in a main stream television show. But honestly, I think they did a pretty good job. When I finally saw it I thought it was good they used a reproduction of a real painting ( even though someone on Reddit misinformed everybody saying it was invented) . I thought what was good about it is that the reactions of the characters on the show to the painting pretty much track with my experience of people discovering Rothko.

One person thinks it's for the monetary value, another one doesn't understand it and still another person sees something in it that they can't describe. And I thought that was pretty good, I think for a Rothko specifically that's realistic. Also as conservative as the 1950s was, in some ways people were more receptive to new art. The media treated art as something that was culturally important rather than a waste of time and money. Life magazine had a circulation that reached a quarter of the American public and they would have articles on people like Jackson Pollock.

So I thought it was not bad and also so many people who had never heard of Rothko discovered him through the show so that was an accompanying felicity. 

I still find it a little strange the TV is the main communicator of culture but millions of people had never heard Nick Drake until a Volkswagen commercial so I suppose that was a net positive for the world that they did .

[filmgad]

I think that your quality of work is that of major magazines and photography works. It feels like you’re big already. The quality is so rich. It’s also like seeing black women in magazines in the 90s and 2000s. I hear a soundtrack when I see your photos. It’s like watching a documentary. They are so beautiful. Put together your portfolio and submit it to every major publisher of your craft. Cast your net wide and one will catch. That’s the only way. Keep doing it. When you’re hungry, the sea is less of a challenge because you’ve got no other option man. Represent for your country. Don’t let anyone stop you. They were not given the skill that you have. Learn the environment you want to be a part of as well. To be taken as seriously as you want you must adapt externally without hiding your authenticity. Where you are going you must represent not just in your art but in your attire as well. Remember where you come from always and seek better because it’s in your heart to. I wish you all the success and the focus. The drive to never give up on yourself and to fight even when you get knocked down. Your dreams are worth living. Never forget that. Much love. ❤️

thank you for your words, if it’s even ten people that feel the same way like you then i feel like i’m doing something right, stories have been told for centuries and i just want to get my story out there as well. ✨❤️✨❤️✨❤️

[renah]

alguma atualização sobre aquele mangá brazuca com a loba guará, Madenka? até agr só achei uns sites velho, alguns arquivado no wayback machine, falando sobre o mangá, mas nada de scans, tem uns site vendendo uns volume, mas sei lá

nossa colega, nunca pensei que alguém fosse vir atrás de mim sobre isso, mas, então, ano passado eu tava tendando caçar os volumes publicados da Ação Magazine (principalmente pelos capítulos de Madenka, a história dessa Lobo-Guará) já que eu não achava nem scan na net, mas como eles tavam com um preço bem salgadinho (e eu tava quebrada), eu acabei desistindo de comprar

mas a ideia da Ação Magazine era boa, criar uma "versão BR" da Shonen Jump dando espaço para artistas nacionais, apesar que pelos reviews que eu li, a história com mais potencial era Madenka, tinha uma pegada única de shounen brasileiro que era bem interessante, o character design e a arte eram legais, uma pena que só foram 3 capítulos públicados, eu realmente gostaria de acompanhar, não só pela Siena (o nome da Loba), apesar que não dá pra negar que ela é PEAK character design

eu nem sabia que um dos autores estava na ativa ainda, podiam até entrar em contato com ele por mais informações, mas já fazem mais de 11 anos e pelo jeito o projeto está no limbo, o que é uma pena

mas eu fiquei muito feliz de encontrar mais artes da Siena na conta dele, eu queria que eles revivessem o projeto só por ela

[idv-news-boi]

-> Questions for OCs that I’ve been brainrotting about-

{written by yours truly, Laurence :)}

Relations/Bonds

What kind of sibling would they be like, even if they canonly have siblings or not?

What kind of friend are they? Is their treatment the same as how they treat to a best friend and a relative? (this is a pretty deep question if you think about the pros and cons of how they are beneath the surface- don’t be scared to be honest.)

Put your OC and their familiar/friend/other person's OC/acquaintance/significant other/enemy and write a dialogue between them to show how they would tend to treat each other.

Describe OC and their family in one meme.

What are the OC's thoughts on (insert other person's name).

Take out a blank doc or canvas digital art, over the asks. Make anons mention an OC and you slowly reveal a net of relations/thought arrows with your OC as the center of the frame.

Anime

If they ever have an anime intro or outro, how would it look like?

What genre would their anime story show? What lesson would they try to teach their audience?

Would they watch animes about isekai stuff?/ih

What kinds of voice lines would they have? What are their signature quotes? Their Motto?roommates?

What kinds of anime tropes do they like? What kinds of tropes do they dislike?

Lore

What happens if your OC never had trauma or encountered a big life changing event in the first place?

Tell me their backstory but it's nutshell edition

Describe the first moment they were created/born.

Have they ever took out their first baby teeth? If so, how was it like? If not, did they ever have to take out one part of themselves to let something new grow back as a part of their growth?

What was the first story, myth, or Fairy tale they were first told about?

Would they have a happy ending, or bad ending once their story is over? Or it will be an ongoing lore over the years?

Item Psychological Test

Give the OC a piece of paper... what is their first thing they would do with it?

Give the OC an empty gift box... what would they do?

Give the OC a shoe... What would they do?

Give the OC a cardboard box... what would they do?

Give the OC a pocket mirror... What would they do?

Give the OC a coat... What would they do?

Give the OC a toy block... What would they do?

Scenario reactions (can be considered as 'What if' type. If muse never experienced that kind of stuff, just imagine if they have ever done it since it shows more about their character)

If they ever encounter their ex, what would they do?

What do they do if they ever encounter an old friend who have ghosted them along?

What would they say to a person's confession if they don't view them in a romantic way?

What would they do if someone tries to hit on them?

What would they react when getting bullied?

What would they react to a joke they dont find as funny?

How would they explain to a kid who asked "what is death"?

What is one thing they want in a society in order for it to meet their needs/interests?

Dress-up

What color do they think they like/best fit on them the most?

How would you rate the OC from 1-10 in terms of being a fashion model material?

What do they prefer mostly in a clothing; color, texture, or size?

(Challenge the OC to wear something that is opposite from what they usually or have ever wore. Like if they are often seen wearing pale colors, challenge them to wear neon/bright colors)

(Suggest the OC to try an outfit you can find on internet or magazine)

Domestic, Sleepover & Roomates AU

Would they be willing to step on a rat or get rid of it for their roomates?

What do they do in a sleepover? Any fun facts?

What type of drunk person are they?

Do they know how to clean a bathroom?

Do they believe it's necessary to put seat belt on before the car moves?

Are they capable to fix broken furniture?

Would they know how to fix a machine, electronic, or a computer in the household?

What rules would they like to set when living with roomates?

Horror Movie AU

If they are into horror movies, what are their favorites?

Would they make analysis and theories after playing a mystery game story? If not, what signs do they show that they actually enjoyed the game?

What kind of character stereotype would they be in a horror movie? (The final girl, the Jack, the entity, the pawn, etc.)

If a Halloween party prompts OCs to dress based on horror movies, what would they dress?

??? (Pins' horror fanatic oc reveal incoming)

School AU

How long can they handle remote learning?

What type of student would they be?

What school club would they like to join?

How would they react when a fight between students happen in front of the school?

What country can you imagine your OC would study abroad at? Or a different fandom world?

What gang would they be in; skip lunch, have school lunch, or bring their own lunch?

How would their desk setup look like? What's inside their school bag?

Dystopia (in honor of my nonfandom world :)) )

Would they survive in a zombie apocalypse? What would they do to do so? What will they bring?

What are their thoughts about the popularity of AIs and robots?

Based on their occupation, will they be able to maintain it in the future and not be replaced by machines? If not, what would they do to keep it alive?

What kind of dystopian story would they be most scared of? Which dystopian trope would fascinate them?

(I was thinking of having peeps put a 🌸 in this blog’s inbox so I can just randomly spill a Dyanthus dystopian story from different sect states, like Euphrasia’s Oxidanopolis)/ih

[d1gnan]

I have to make a zine as an individual project for college credit this semester. There’s not really any big parameters, it can be of varying length, it can be illustrations or photographs or a mixture of both, and it can be about pretty much anything I want. I’ve never made one before and I really love all of your zines, so I was wondering if you had any tips on how to get started?

oh my god this is awesome!! thanks for coming to me with this

literally anything you bind together can be a zine , i met a lady who overcame the obstacle of making her first zine by buying a cd/dvd sleeve booklet and repurposing it as a museum of all her favorite types of toilet paper

most commonly, zines have been used to quickly distribute information with others so a good way to get started is to consider :

-what are some skills that i could teach or lived experiences i feel others could learn from

-what resources do i utilize that i could share with a wider public

- what are my deepest interests and areas of expertise

another very easy way to start a zine is as simple as starting a list and illustrating it after :

playlists / list of books that impacted you / list of things you think should exist / list of items you have in your house / list of textures you like / list of things you can remember from when you were ten

for me, i like to use zines as a net for catching spare ideas and moods. zines are a fun way to put like with like, so ill go to my journal and find what motifs and drawings and quotes ive been going back to over the past couple months and usually ill realize something that could be a zine or even potentially a bigger publication idea in the future. zines can be a totally abstract collage of just how you've been feeling lately.

everyone has their own unique way of looking at the world, and their own pool of memories and experiences to draw from. whats something that you know that nobody else knows? whats something that you like that nobody else likes? thats where you can find some thing to work with

as for manufacturing, photocopying a pen and paper zine can work but i would reccomend just gathering all your art supplies and playing for a while until you hit a vein of something that inspires you. collaging with old magazines can be a really good way to start, the more visually stimulating stuff around u the better.

hopefully this helps, good luck and i srsly wish u all the best!

(bonus resource: if you have a macbook theres a free app called spectrolite, its for seperating your files into different color layers for risograph printing but theres an entire side of that app thats just to help you easily format your work into different zine layouts and measurements. if you end up needing any help in the manufacturing stage you can dm me and ill see what i can do, for sure.)