#Evoke Villas

[godrej146noida]

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[propertiesupdates]

Check out Godrej Golf Links Evoke Villas in Sector 27, one of the upcoming under-construction housing societies in Greater Noida. There are apartments and villas for sale in Godrej Golf Links Evoke Villas. This society will have all basic facilities and amenities to suit homebuyer’s needs and requirements. Brought to you by Godrej Properties and ACE Group, Godrej Golf Links Evoke Villas is scheduled for possession in Apr, 2024.

[blueiscoool]

Rome's Vestal Virgins: Protectors of The City's Sacred Flame

Chosen as young girls, the priestesses of Vesta, goddess of the hearth, swore a 30-year vow of chastity and in turn were granted rights, privileges, and power unavailable to other women in Rome.

Marcus Licinius Crassus was one of the richest and most powerful Roman citizens in the first century B.C. Yet he nearly lost it all, his life included, when he was accused of being too intimate with Licinia, a Vestal Virgin. He was brought to trial, where his true motives emerged. As the first-century historian Plutarch recounts, Licinia was the owner of “a pleasant villa in the suburbs which Crassus wished to get at a low price, and it was for this reason that he was forever hovering about the woman and paying his court to her.” When it became clear that Crassus’ wooing was motivated by avarice rather than lust, he was acquitted, saving both his and Licinia’s lives.

One of the most remarkable elements of this story is the fact that Licinia owned a villa in the first place. Unlike other women, Licinia could own property precisely because she was a Vestal Virgin. The story of her trial also reveals how that privilege came with a price: A Vestal Virgin had to abstain from sex, a sacred obligation to one of Rome’s most ancient customs that would continue until Christianity ended the cult in A.D. 394.

FIRE GODDESS: The remains of the Temple of Vesta stand in the Roman Forum. Unlike most temples, it did not contain a central image of the goddess. It was the site of the holy fire and a repository of various sacred artifacts.

Vestal Veneration

According to Roman authors, the cult was founded by Numa Pompilius, a semi-mythical Roman king who ruled around 715 to 673 B.C. Unlike most Roman religious cults, worship of Vesta was run by women. The hearth was sacred to this goddess, one of Rome’s three major virgin goddesses (the other two being Minerva and Diana). The rites surrounding the Vestals remained relatively fixed from the time of the Roman Republic through the fourth century A.D.

Six virgin priestesses were dedicated to Vesta as full-time officiates who lived in their own residence, the Atrium Vestae in the Roman Forum. The Vestals’ long tradition gave Romans a reassuring thread of continuity and may explain the Temple of Vesta’s traditional circular form, a style associated with rustic huts in the city’s deep past.

KEEP THE FIRE The Vestal Virgins tend the sacred fire of Vesta, on whose protection Rome depends. 17th-century oil painting by Ciro Ferri, Galleria Spada, Rome

This place of worship, which lay alongside the Atrium, was where the priestesses tended the goddess’s sacred fire. Once a year, in March, they relit the fire and then ensured it remained burning for the next year. Their task was serious as the fire was tied to the fortunes of their city, and neglect would bring disaster to Rome.

To become a Vestal was the luck of the draw. Captio, the process whereby the girls were selected to leave their families and become priestesses, is also the Latin word for “capture”—a telling turn of phrase that evokes the kidnapping of women for brides that took place in archaic Rome. Records from 65 B.C. show that a list of potential Vestals was drawn up by the Pontifex Maximus, Rome’s supreme religious authority. Candidates had to be girls between the ages of six and 10, born to patrician parents, and free from mental and physical defects. Final candidates were then publicly selected by lot. Once initiated, they were sworn to Vesta’s service for 30 years.

On being selected, their life was spent at the Atrium Vestae in a surrogate family, presided over by older Vestals. In addition to room and board, they were entitled to their own bodyguard of lictors. For the first 10 years they were initiates, taught by the older priestesses. Then they became priestesses for a decade before taking on the mentoring duties of the initiates for the last 10 years of their service.

Training the Novices

"The School of the Vestal Virgins" 19th-century colorized engraving by L. Hector Leroux.

After lots were drawn from the list of young girls who could serve Vesta, initiates were brought to the Atrium Vestae, where their training would begin. The training was overseen by the chief priestess, the Vestalis Maxima, who came under the authority of the Pontifex Maximus. The first 10 years were spent training for their duties. They would spend the second decade actively administering rites, and the final 10 were spent training novices. The chastity of the priestesses was a reflection of the health of Rome itself. Although spilling a virgin’s blood to kill her was a sin, this did not preclude the infliction of harsh corporal punishment. First-century historian Plutarch writes: “If these Vestals commit any minor fault, they are punishable by the high-priest only, who scourges the offender.”

Public monies and donations to the order funded the cult and the priestesses. In Rome religion and government were tightly intertwined. The organization of the state closely mirrored that of the basic Roman institution: the family. The center of life of the Roman home, or domus, was the hearth, tended by the matriarch for the good of her family and husband. In the same way, the Vestals tended Vesta’s flame for the good of the state.

A silver denarius, also from the second century B.C., bears a representation of the circular Temple of Vesta.

Unlike other Roman women, Vestals enjoyed certain privileges: In addition to being able to own property and enjoying certain tax exemptions, Vestals were emancipated from their family’s patria potestas, patriarchal power. They could make their own wills and give evidence in a court of law without being obliged to swear an oath.

Thirty Years of Chastity

These rights came at a high price: 30 years of enforced chastity. Many historians believe that the health of the state was tied to the virtue of its women; because the Vestals’ purity was both highly visible and holy, penalties for a Vestal breaking her vow of chastity were draconian. As it was forbidden to shed a Vestal Virgin’s blood, the method of execution was immuration: being bricked up in a chamber and left to starve to death. Punishment for her sexual partner was just as brutal: death by whipping. Throughout Roman history, instances are cited of these grim sentences being passed.

Jealousy or malice made the women vulnerable to false accusations. One story, celebrated by several Roman writers, concerns the miracle of the Vestal Virgin Tuccia, who was falsely accused of being unchaste. According to tradition, Tuccia beseeched Vesta for help and miraculously proved her innocence by carrying a sieve full of water from the Tiber.

Allegations of crimes against the Vestals’ chastity sometimes went to the top of the social order. The flamboyantly eccentric, third-century emperor Elagabalus actually married a serving Vestal Virgin. It is a sign of the enduring symbolic importance of the cult that this heresy was one major factor that led to his deposal and murder.

The Vestal Tuccia, falsey accused of breaking her chastity vow, is saved by the intervention of Vesta, who enables her to carry water in a sieve from the Tiber back to the temple. 17th-century painting by Giovanni Battista Beinaschi.

Vestal Vestments

The ceremonial dress of Vestals highlights their dual, and somewhat contradictory, embodiment of both the maternal and the chaste. Physical appearance was an integral part of their role, making them stand out as different from other women, but also echoing physical traits of conventional women.

Dressed in white, the color of purity, the Vestal Virgins wore stola, long gowns worn by Roman matrons. Hair and headdresses played an important symbolic function. The Vestal hairstyle is described in Roman sources using an ancient Latin phrase, the seni crines. Historians cautiously agree it means “sixbraids,” and is mentioned as the coiffure of both Vestal Virgins and brides. A Vestal wore the suffibulum, a short, white cloth similar to a bride’s veil, kept in place with a brooch, the fibula. Around their heads they wore a headband, the infula, which was associated with Roman matrons.

Daily rites for Vestals were often centered around the temple. Most important was maintaining the holy fire. If the fire went out, the attending Vestals would be suspected not only of neglect but also of licentiousness, since it was believed impurity in a Vestal’s relations would cause a fire to go out. Other typical duties included the purification of the temple with water, which had to be drawn from a running stream. In readiness for the numerous festivals that required their attendance, the priestesses were required to bake salsa mola, a cake of meal and salt that was sprinkled on the horns of sacrificed animals. Important religious festivals included the Vestalia, dedicated to their goddess, Vesta, and the Lupercalia, which highlights the contradictory role of the Vestal Virgins, as it was closely associated with fertility.

A representation of a Vestal Virgin.

A Roman Tradition

A bust of Numa Pompilius from the Villa Albani Museum in Rome, believed to have been sculpted in the Roman Imperial Period.

Romans believed the cult of the Vestal Virgins was instituted under the eighth-century B.C. king Numa Pompilius, the successor of Rome’s founder, Romulus. First-century A.D. historian Plutarch wrote that Numa may have “considered the nature of fire to be pure and uncorrupted and so entrusted it to uncontaminated and undefiled bodies.“ Numa is credited by Livy, in his History of Rome, with formalizing other key Roman cults, including those of Jupiter and Mars. Many historians believe Numa was legendary, and that the worship of Vesta and other cults developed slowly out of pre-Roman customs, perhaps dating back to the older Etruscan culture that dominated Italy before the rise of Rome.

In the innermost part of their temple, the priestesses looked after their secret talismans. Among these objects was the sacred phallus, the fascinus, the representation of a minor god of the same name. The fascinus (the root of the word “fascinate”) is closely bound with magic and fertility. It was also in this part of the temple that they probably kept the palladium, the statue of Pallas Athena that the legendary founder of Rome, Aeneas, brought to Italy after the destruction of Troy, his home city—another aspect of the Vestal cult that tied Rome’s origins into an ennobling and ancient tradition.

Romans regarded these priestesses with a sense of awe. Plutarch points out “they were also keepers of other divine secrets, concealed from all but themselves.” It was believed they possessed magical powers: If anybody condemned to death saw a Vestal on his way to being executed, he was to be freed, so long as it could be proven the meeting was not by design. Vestals, it was said, could stop a runaway slave in his tracks.

The privileged position of the Vestal Virgins in Roman society survived for more than a thousand years, passing through Rome’s changing systems of monarchy, republic, and empire. The cult would not, however, survive Christianity. In A.D. 394 Theodosius closed the House of the Vestals forever, freeing the virgins from their obligations, but also removing their privileges.

VIEW OF THE VESTAThe ruins of the Atrium Vestae stand in the Roman Forum. The rectangular pools formed a part of the complex’s long, central patio. To the right of the Atrium are the remains of the Temple of Vesta, and behind the wall are the three remaining columns of the Temple of Castor and Pollux.

Even as their flame was extinguished, aspects of the cult may have passed into the new faith as it swept through the Mediterranean. Just as the position of the Pontifex Maximus lived on in the papal title “pontiff,” young women in the early years of Roman Christianity embraced virginity and celibacy in their desire to be “eunuchs for the love of heaven.” Scholars believe the role of the Christian nun was inspired, in part, by the chaste figures who dutifully tended the holy flame of Vesta.

By Elda Biggi.

[clairedaring]

"Thai BL The Finest" Screening: I Feel You Linger In The Air & Scent of Memory

Hosted By Panoramist Spotlight

Date: 9:30-14:00 (Berlin), Saturday, 02/24/2024

Location: Colosseum (Schönhauser Allee 123, Berlin, 10437)

Public tickets (15€) available at https://shorturl.at/mDKMS

Details

Highly-acclaimed and award-winning in Thailand and abroad, "I Feel You Linger in the Air" is a Thai historical BL series with a fantasy twist, adapted from a popular Thai novel of the same title that has been translated into several foreign languages including English, German and Italian. It was co-produced by YYDS Entertainment and Dee Hup House and released in 2023.

The boys-love, or BL, series are those that depict a romantic relationship between two male protagonists. Originated from Japan, it is also acknowledged as a fascinating aspect of Thailand’s popular culture, showing the country's increasing openness towards people with different ways of life. In the past years, it has been continuously gaining popularity around the world.

"I Feel You Linger in the Air" tells a story about Jom, an architect in Chiang Mai overseeing the renovation of a rundown villa, continuously dreaming of a man he's never met. After his boyfriend broke up him for a woman, Jom is devastated, driving into a river. After regaining consciousness, he finds himself stuck in the time of 1927. In this unfamiliar world, he finally encounters the mysterious man from his dreams - Mr. Yai, and starts a bitter sweet love affair that defies social status, gender expectation, time and space.

"From the fantasy premise to the historical setting, I Feel You Linger in the Air is one of the most extraordinary BL dramas. Each fascinating storyline explores the past era and examines cultural nuances insightfully. It tackles many complex themes, including class differences, womanhood, and LGBTQ+ experiences. Thanks to the couple's enchanting chemistry, I'm spellbound by their majestic romance. Everything about this series evokes epicness." — blwatcher.com review

Therefore, we delightedly invite YYDS Entertainment to bring this masterpiece to Berlin for a public screening during the Berlinale, along with its special episode "Scent of Memory" that has not yet officially released globally. Beside screening, we will also have YYDS CEO Ms. Wan Thabkrajang to share some behind-the-scene stories and introduce the company and Thai BL production industry. She will also present a spoiler video of YYDS' upcoming BL series "My Stand-in".

We also prepare a souvenir gift that we hope can help keep this series lingering longer in your memory. The number is limited and will be given out on the first come first serve basis.

Planned agenda

9:30-12:00 I Feel You Linger in the Air (movie version)

12:15-13:45 Scent of Memory

13:45-14:10 Dialogue with YYDS Entertainment

I Feel You Linger in the Air Official Teaser Scent of Memory Official Trailer

Invite your friends to enjoy one of the finest Thai BL series together. Let this love linger in the air of Berlin ~

[adarkrainbow]

The art of Perrault (2)

Continuing from this post, there is another segment of the article which is absolutely delightful: the one about the "Fairy tale salon" of Jean Veber

Because Perrault didn't just inspire paintings and drawings - furniture too!

In the beginning of the 20th century, Jean Veber (a student of both Alexandre Cabanel and Robert Delaunay) was doing a lot of fairy-themed expositions, and when he was asked by Rosemonde Gérard (the wife of Edmond Rostand) to create her "boudoir" at their Arnaga villa (Cambo, Pays Basque), he chose "fairy tales" as his theme. He notably composed there beautiful wall paintings that attracted the attention of both Léon Bérard (under-secretary of state of the Beaux-Arts) and Gustave Geffroy, the administrator of the Gobelins Manufacture.

(Here is a Sleeping Beauty mural):

In 1912, Gustave Geffroy paid Veber to create an entire salon themed after Charles Perrault's fairy tales - tapestries and various sitting-furnitures. The plans for the salon were originally ambitious, but it was restricted due to limited money - else we would have had five tapestries and thirteen furnitures, including a bed, and many more "chairs" of various models (chaise, fauteuil, bergères). Instead, the "Contes de fées" salon gathers three tapestries, four armchairs, four regular chairs, a sofa, and a fireplace screen - now all preserved in the Mobilier national collection. (The two additional tapestries would have been Puss in Boots and Donkey Skin)

(Here's the Puss in Boots armchair)

(And the Bluebeard sofa)

After the newspapers mediatized madame Rostand's boudoir in the beginning of the 1910s, the Gobelins immediately asked Veber painted preparations of the Sleeping Beauty and Little Thumbling tapestries. In the 1914 he was commissioned the drawings for the various chairs by the Beauvais manufactury - specialized in chair tapestry. The project was interrupted by the First World war, but it began agan in 1919, year where the drawing for the Bluebeard sofa was made. The project got faster by the 1920s, thanks to the collaboration of the cabinet-maker Paul Follot. The entirety of the furniture was delivered by the end of 1922, after the Little Thumbling and Sleeping Beauties tapestries had been completed (1919-1920). The Cinderella tapestry (prepared by 1919) and the Beauty and the Beast screen won't be woven until 1923 and 1926.

(Sleeping Beauty silk-and-wool weavework)

The aesthetic of Veber's paintings evoke the paintings that cover the walls of the Arnaga villa: frize disposition and very colorful.

(Preparation work for the Cinderella tapestry)

These creations appeared half-a-century after Gustave Doré's illustrations, and in many ways oppose them. Here we have a sentimental, idealized, almost childish view of Perrault's story. Everything is light-hearted and funny, and the terror of the tales is removed - even the most frightening characters are merely grotesque. This is due to how, in this era, fairytales had been massively shared and spread as children literature, as well as to the nature of Veber's commission: indeed, the creation of a salon requires a peaceful and comforting ambiance, where someone can rest. He can't possibly put Doré images in there. After the First World War, this literary theme allows one to find back a sort of lightness - the tapestries of Beauvais being in harmony with the walnut-wood furniture, all golden and in curvy shapes.

(Beauty and the Beast fireplace screen)

Far from doing a "composition monotony", Veber makes sure each of the tapestries has been conceived in a different way, to offer a large palette of movement and dynamics. For Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella he chose specific moments of the tale. In the first, we have the prince charming rushing to the side of his beloved, in the middle of a thick vegetation filled with asleep characters. In the second, we see Cinderella fleeing the ball, her rushing carriage preventing the prince from stopping her. However, for Little Thumbling several key moments of the tale are presented side-by-side, so that in one glance the whole story is offered in a condensed version.

(Little Thumbling silk-and-wool weavework)

The "Contes de fées" salon of Veber is another example of the universality of Perrault, which can extend further beyond the world of the page, and into the decoration of walls and furnitures. The originality of this project seduced people at the time, and the Beauvais manufecture immediately demanded a new work from the artist: an "Animals in the forest" project for which he created four chairs, three armchairs and a screen. Delivered in 1925, this set can be considered a continuation of his "Fairy tales" salon.

(Armchair of the Foxes)

[cliozaur]

So much is going on in this relatively short chapter. We learn a thing or two about Montfermeil during Hugo’s era (a town with plaster villas and bourgeois) and back in 1823, when it had problems with drinking water. Almost immediately after this revelation, Cosette, referred to as 'the poor creature,' is reintroduced, highlighting her greatest fear of venturing out after dark to fetch water.

The narrative then shifts, presenting a kaleidoscope of scenes and themes (it comes out that kaleidoscopes were in fashion in 1823). We're immersed in a Christmas fair and a wandering menagerie featuring Brazilian vultures sporting 'a tricolored cockade for an eye'—an attraction likely to evoke nostalgia among local Bonapartists for bygone days.  (I had to look for that bird: it’s not just its eye—good, initially I worried that it was somehow mutilated—but the entire head is adorned in red, blue, and whitish-yellowish hues. To be honest, tricolour is the last thing I would think of looking at this creature). Fragments of peasants' conversations at the tavern offer a glimpse into Hugo's early attempts at creating a polyphonic effect, a technique that will unfold further in subsequent Revolution chapters.

The chapter concludes with the poignant introduction of two children, criminally neglected by the Thénardiers. Cosette, with her bare feet exposed to the winter cold, diligently knitting stockings for other children, juxtaposed with Gavroche, who bursts forth with a cry. The scene is complete with a chilling detail—a whip ominously hanging on the wall. Poor children.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Drifting - Mal de Mer

Early morning delights...

Mal de Mer on AO3

NSFW

Snippet:

This morning, though, his focus is purely on her.

Through the windowslats, bars of butterscotch sunlight pour. The ceiling fan cuts slowly through the humid air, redolent of seasalt and their bodies. Behind the carefully-cracked window, Mel can hear the trill of birdsong, and the rustle of palm fronds, and the gentle wash of the waves upon the shore.

Pink is the conch shell sitting on the endtable, a gift from Silco's deep dives. Mauve is the bedspread spilling lazily to the carpet, a soft puddle at the foot of the mattress. Blue is the hue of Silco's good eye, heavy-lidded with the residue of sleep, and a hungry lassitude as he rolls Mel onto her back.

Gold is the paint streaking the canvas on the easel behind him: a portrait awaiting her finishing touches before she has it packed for transit. Gold, like the frame she'll choose in Piltover: matching her wedding band, and attesting to the same. Gold, like the fractaling streak that ignites behind her eyelids, as Silco fans her thighs open to fit himself between them: the fullness of him dipping into her, teasing in and out, then sinking home.

Crying out, Mel thinks: This is how it ends.

In the days afterward, she won't remember her stay at the villa except as a flurry of sketches: the sea, the skies, the sands. And, most of all, the spiky loose-limbed silhouettes, all of which have resolved into a full-color nude on the canvas.

His torso, framed by the parabola of sunset, holds a deep-sea elegance. The lithe contours are etched by the eerie palette of fading twilight. Teals, and indigos, and amethysts:  each color evoked by the subtle interplay of water and shadow. His bare shoulders, caught against the coronal threads of sunlight, like sharp juts of coral. The torso, with its cobra's hood of sinew, tapering into a narrow waist. The hard cut of hipbones, showing the navel and the hair below it, then disappearing into the distorting medium of the sea.

His head is half-turned, the features indistinct: just a hint of aquiline nose, the cutting edge of jaw, and lips parted to bare a glint of teeth.

Greeting, or threat.

The eyes are what complete the piece.

They've been rendered in exacting detail. The right eye, she's captured in all its softness: the blue so vivid, it's like a drop of the ocean. A vibrant green rings the iris, and a band of gray limns the pupil. Sea and storm: fused. The left eye is a bottomless void: the sclera inked black. In the iris: a starburst of blood vessels, red lines spiderwebbing from the center, with an inlay of gold to mimic volcanic flare.

His scars, too, have been rendered patiently. The shadowy left side of his face is a latticework of crisscrossing gouges. In some spots, like the rippled sands on the shore. In others, the cragged rocks of the reef. Each contour is traced out with the precision of a goldbeater's needle. She's overlayed the scars in an impasto of cadmium red and jet black: a tapestry of violence, with a touch of decay.

In sum, it's a creature of myth. Half-submerged, and on the cusp of a choice:

Ascent, or descent.

In her ear, Silco whispers, "Where've you drifted off to?"

Mel's lashes flutter. His body, striped in gold, is a languid arch over hers. One hand, callused, cups her breast. The other, scarred, clasps her wrist loosely between the fingers, trapping it against the sheets. His body flows skin to skin with hers—achingly slow.

Mel, nuzzling underneath his jowl, breathes, "Nowhere."

"Nowhere, hm?"

His tongue whorls in the hollow behind her ear. She shivers, arching beneath him. The tip of afternoon, she thinks, is when he's at his best: the ferocity of the night's hunger faded, the frenzy of late evening's appetite yet to come.

The heat, still banked, becomes a thing to be savored.

"I was thinking," she whispers.

"About what?"

His palm, cradling her breast, traps the nipple between forefinger and thumb. He rolls it round and round. Mel's breath catches; she bites her lip.

"About—about you," she manages.

"I should hope so."

"The painting. It needs, mmmh, something."

"Something?"

"To complete it."

He gives her nipple a playful tweak, and she whimpers. His dark chuckle rumbles through her.  "A title, perhaps?"

[leibal]

Vemdalen Villas is a minimalist home located in Härjedalen, Sweden, designed by Hesselbrand. This development is notable for its strategic placement that allows for direct access to skiing slopes and panoramic views of the encompassing valley. Each housing unit comprises a primary residence alongside a guest house, arranged in a manner that cultivates small communal outdoor areas and walking paths, thereby evoking the ambiance of a village rather than a conventional residential street.

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [25] chapter vi, part ii

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

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summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

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chapter summary : astrid gathers her allies, and draws the attention of her enemies. loki pays a heavy price for a victory.

recommended listening : rebel soul, katharine appleton, maja norming

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tag list: @femmealec, @mischief2sarawr

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[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

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Astrid had told the truth, as always. Ophelia was not her only appointment.

Neither was she the first, however.

Hours earlier, wrapped in a fine, black woollen pea coat and comfortable trainers, Astrid had been walking through the fog and frigid, sea-soaked air of the Cornish coastal town of Looe.

The historical fishing village was sheltered within a deep valley, prefaced inland by thick, verdant forests and winding country roads. Ivory villas and weathered stone cottages were built into the slopes of the cliffs, bordered by a riot of meadow-flora and hardy coastal shrubs, the settlement split in half by the river that decanted into the small marina, and the open, pewter waters of the North Atlantic.

The place held a kind of quaint, antique seaside charm that was ubiquitous to Britain, in Astrid’s experience- a nostalgia that was just slightly foreign to her, evoking the same feeling as the second-hand copies of those interbellum novels by Enid Blyton and Agatha Christie that she used to read on rainy days at home.

She could feel Loki watching through her eyes, dozing gently, shamelessly indolent as he clung to sleep.

Exhaling a smile, Astrid consciously drank in as much as she could. She drew the mouldering, salt-stained tang of seaweed and ocean shallows deep into her lungs, face raised to the damp air, clear-eyed and refreshed.

It was one of the many reasons to be relieved to be out of SHIELD’s custody: wherever she went, and whatever she saw, Loki could experience it through their link. And she was one of the rare, fortunate few who could go anywhere, at any time, with little enough effort.

A flush of affection bloomed in her, like a kiss at the nape of her neck, Loki reading her intentions like braille.

Astrid giggled, the ache of want in her chest ebbing slightly, and glanced out across the harbour.

It was the off-season; the tourism trade withered into hibernation with the last days of August, and first weeks of September. Even so, the picturesque village obviously received a fair number of visitors in the summer months. Across the town, there was an abundance of cafés, bakeries, fishmongers, local crafts shops, ice cream parlours, wetsuit and board rental stores. A sprawling car park had been cut at the base of the hill, and a number of small commercial pleasure boats were moored against the harbour walls, anchored between algae-stained tangerine buoys, advertising sea safaris and recreational fishing trips on printed boards affixed to the weather-rusted harbour railing. A few places were shuttered, but other businesses remained open even into November, catering to the permanent residents of the town.

As she chased the slope upwards, approaching from the narrow, eastern flank of the harbour, towards the ageing arcade and stone bridge across the river, a thought occurred to her.

“Loki. Do you like seafood?”

She felt Loki stir. Astrid could almost imagine his head lifting from his cupped hand- or rolling across a pillow to look at her, black curls spilling, eyebrows steepled in mild askance.

I tend to eat more game, I suppose, he answered cautiously. Hunts are too popular on Asgard for it to be otherwise. But I do like shellfish. Although it is seen as peasant food on Asgard. Cheap fare, common as mud, to be eaten at the harbour by tradesfolk.

“It used to be the same here, for centuries,” Astrid replied, the corner of her mouth twisting up sardonically. “Oysters were still delicious when they were only good for the poor.”

Loki laughed softly. It is ridiculous, is it not? The arbitrary standards of high taste.

He hesitated for a long moment.

I do like oysters, he admitted, almost nervous.

A lilt kicked into Astrid’s step, her mood lifting.

“Oysters, then.” Widening her stride into a loping gait, forming rolling bounce on the balls of her feet, she lifted her face to the headwinds, letting it blow her hair back. “Maybe mussels or scallops, if I can’t find any? Oh- and cream tea.”

Cream tea?

“It’s, ah- like a dessert version of afternoon tea, I suppose? It’s sometimes called Cornish tea.” Astrid crossed the bridge at a brisk clip, shoulder bag tapping at her hip. “You’ll love it. Black tea, served with split scones, clotted cream, and jam. Strawberry is traditional, but I prefer raspberry.”

At the mention of something sweet, she felt Loki’s interest instantly perk.

Astrid’s victory dimmed as Loki swiftly crushed down on his eagerness, cooling into reflexive indifference.

Then you should have raspberry, my heart, he replied mildly, like fingers skimming her cheekbone.

“Mm.”

Astrid strummed her fingers against the cross-strap of her bag, tension furling.

She wondered if she could just scream I want to give you this, let me give you this, I want to give you everything, be selfish with me, just ask me and it’s yours, yours, yours, just say the word, put me to the test, let me prove it across the connection, or if that would be too blunt.

She opted for a subtler option. For now. “Seeing as we’re breaking tradition, we could change the tea out as well.”

Peppermint?

“I thought you might prefer rosehip. Or something floral.”

It’s your tongue, darling.

Astrid nipped her lower lip.

“I like sharing my tongue with you.”

She felt his train of thought stutter, before heating.

You’re playing a dangerous game, Astra, Loki warned, dark and edging into primal, shifting into a voice behind her left ear that seemed spoken through gritted teeth.

Astrid startled, almost tripping, as she felt the sensation of the pads of his fingers swiping at her inner thigh.

Her brain short-circuited for a moment.

Hm. Are you curious, darling?

She bit her lip, restraining the impulse to goad him further.

Following Loki revealing how he could twist his magic into her through their link, Astrid had begun asking about the possibilities. The conversation had been mostly practical- but the thought had occurred to her, even if she had quickly become distracted when it struck her exactly how ingenious the method was, how brilliant Loki was, how blithely oblivious he seemed to that fact.

But now- despite herself, folding her lip between her teeth in an effort to pin her unravelling thoughts in place- Astrid lingered over exactly how far and how intensely he could project sensation into her, how much sensory feedback he received back through their link, and whether-

No. Nope. Nope, nope, no. Work first, North. We’ll explore that another time.

Despite the curl of delighted, thoroughly distracted mischief from Loki, he let the matter drop.

Astrid exhaled quietly, grateful.

Today, she was visiting an old friend. It would be unwise to arrive disarmed of her wits.

Astrid swung off the bridge and into West Looe, swerving in a hairpin turn back down the hill, sinking into the warren of the town. There were only a few figures out in the midmorning light, walking dogs or tending to their boats, the quiet seeming to echo against the rush of the sea. The narrow streets were barely broad enough to accommodate a single car, the cobbles uneven and worn smooth underfoot, none of the structures more than two or three stories tall; most of them were at least a century or two old, patchworked with modern features, dating to the days of smugglers and portside inns and the great age of sail, their timbers ancient and their walls full of ghosts and memories.

She came to a halt outside a particular storefront.

The entire street was built into the incline of the hill, its rowhouses sitting a foot or so below the edge of the pavement, squatting low. The windows of the ground floor were almost level with Astrid’s crown, the sills above within reach if she cared to make the short jump, walls a washed white between dark Tudor beams.

Astrid tipped her head up a millimetre, the aperture of her senses opening to sweep the interior, as she read the sign affixed above the door.

Witches’ Brew, it read, white font upon a rich violet backing. On the left side of the sign was the outline of a cat, paws upon the rim of a bubbling cauldron to peer at the contents.

Bookshop, was added underneath, in smaller, blunter font. Tarot. Occult. Café.

You know, Loki commented, there is an infusion made from íviðia blossoms called witches’ brew.

Astrid tipped her head. “Really?” She asked softly.

Mother sent some blossoms to my cell recently- if you care to share my tongue later?

She winced into a grin, knowing that he wasn’t going to let that go any time soon. “Mm, in exchange for cream tea?” She teased.

Astrid felt a pair of arms slip and loop around her midriff, a mouth skimming her crown.

She felt the gentle billow of his sigh, the phantom of his chest against her back.

You drive quite a bargain.

With a faint smile, Astrid stepped down to the shop’s door, and turned the handle.

A classic shopkeeper’s bell chimed overhead, jostled into motion, before the door clicked shut behind her.

She was met with the fragrance of incense- a thicker, heavier curtain of agarwood, compared to the delicately floral smoke that lingered in the training halls where she grew up, and which her father preferred- blended with the earthiness of burned white sage, and coffee grounds.

The shop was quiet. Her steps were muffled by a dark patterned carpet, the space airy and inviting, despite the low ceilings and semi-subterranean position. At the right, the space folded into a geometric puzzle of tall bookshelves, walls paved with spines, the stacks labelled by genre with signs in blackboard and chalk, a few tables laid out with bricks of bestsellers and new arrivals. To her left was the register- unoccupied, with a bell to ring for service- and several tables and shelves, displaying various occult-themed wares. There were box-trays of tumbled, semi-precious gemstones, kitsch plastic goblets with dragons curled around their stems, dowsing crystals and decorative glass figurines, starter guides to palmistry and divining the stars.

Her eyes skipped past all of them, and up.

A large sign was placed at the bottom of a flight of narrow stairs. It advertised the café on the second floor, and tea leaf readings.

Astrid didn’t move to ring the bell on the counter, but the one at the door must have been enough.

“I’ll be right with you, dear!”

A woman’s voice called down from the upper floor. It was American-accented, almost neutral, but underscored with something in the region of Massachusetts.

Astrid smiled, folding her arms and turning away.

“That’s alright!” She replied, voice raised to carry as clear as struck crystal, twisting at the waist to speak over her shoulder. “Take your time! I’m here to see a friend.”

Movement upstairs stilled.

A beat passed, before Astrid felt the familiar crackle of magical wards being activated.

Loki reacted, his mana surging into her nerves with a precision that knocked the breath from her chest, pressing up to the surface of her skin, preparing to force his own counter-wards into her flesh.

Catching her breath, fingers fluttering at the foreign magic in her blood, Astrid sent him a gentle nudge of reassurance.

“Did you not hear the word friend, Agatha?” She yelled up, tone dry and hip cocking. “Your wards didn’t react when I walked in. Now would you please quit it?”

Before Loki tries to rip apart your spellwork and fracture your magical core in the backlash, she added internally.

Don’t tempt me, darling, Loki warned, poised like an adder to strike. Who is she?

The wards lingered, bristling like spines- before settling back.

A moment later, Astrid heard footsteps, and the creak of the ageing banister under new weight.

As I said. She’s a friend… of a sort.

Of a sort?

The subject of discussion halted, a few steps above ground floor.

Astrid remained with her back turned for several seconds, shoulder blades open and unguarded.

After deeming that her message had sufficient time to sink in- if it was going to at all- Astrid turned.

It had been about a century and a quarter, chronologically, since they had last seen each other- during the last of her father’s missions that Astrid had accompanied him on, before she had gone looking for answers.

The inciting incident that drove her to look for answers, in fact.

True to form, however, Agatha Harkness had adapted, and today was the very image of a modern, new-age witch.

Stocky, square-jawed, and casually confident, she possessed the mien and bone structure that would command the description of a handsome woman. Dressed in plimsoles, thick black leggings, and a cable-knit sweater the exact velvety depth of wolfsbane, she looked deceptively, cosily middle-class, her dark chestnut hair styled in a cloud of tight waves to her shoulders, framing her fair, round face and dark cobalt eyes.

“Well.” She draped an elbow across the rail, sleeves rolled back, sizing Astrid up with a wide, crooked smile and a gaze as hard as flint. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Astrid was simultaneously reminded of a salacious, bored housewife with a mind like a steel trap, and a large crocodile sunbathing by the water’s edge.

“It’s good to see you, Agatha,” Astrid said sincerely, light as air. “You look well. I’m glad.”

She tried to sacrifice my soul to Mephistopheles once, Astrid admitted to Loki, deciding that it would be better to get it out of the way now.

She did what? Loki snarled, alarmed.

Long story. Daddy stepped in. She came to regret it.

She could feel Loki glaring into her. Because you made her regret it, or because she decided to regret it? Because that’s quite a distinction, darling.

Astrid almost laughed. His mind was always so quick.

Alright, fine. A little of both.

Jaw and mouth pursed tightly, Agatha’s eyes flitted sharply across and behind Astrid’s form, darting as dragonflies.

Astrid softened her stance, loosening her limbs and opening her posture.

“It’s just us,” she said reassuringly.

Conveniently, Astrid did not mention that us included the sorcerer-prince whose mind was currently linked to her nervous system.

Astra.

His tone was grim, steeled, but quietly restrained.

Astrid sensed the unspoken undercurrent underneath- that he wanted her out of that shop, now.

Astrid reached for him, slotting herself into his edges, feeling him shift to accommodate her.

Please trust me, Loki. I have this.

She felt him hesitate, her calm focus an emollient.

Besides, she added. You might find that you like her.

I highly doubt that, dove, Loki replied haughtily, even as he relented.

She kept silent. Something told her that Loki would refuse to see the similarities, even if she informed him of exactly how her long story with Agatha had ended.

Agatha’s expression had stiffened slightly, eyes narrowing to a squint.

“Just so that we’re clear,” she drawled, gesturing vaguely across her with a jabbing index finger, “you’re not here to check in on me, or- drag me away to some kind of tribunal, are you?”

Astrid tipped her head consideringly. “Have you done anything to warrant it?”

Once again, Astrid opted not mention that she already had a fair idea of the answer. She had made it her responsibility to know; confidence in her decision didn’t negate the gamble, and Astrid wouldn’t ignore her culpability if things went sour.

As far as she could tell, however, Agatha had been smart. She had spent the years since they had last seen each other travelling and researching and collecting, restraining herself to a few petty grudges, mild curses, and mostly harmless, mostly necessary fraud. All in all, nothing that Astrid had found worth getting into a snit over.

Besides. That thing with the carnivorous rabbit had been pretty funny.

Astrid could feel Loki trying to pretend that he wasn’t intrigued.

Agatha snorted. “Not in my book, but we both know that doesn’t mean much. Even my best behaviour means being a little badsometimes.”

“Mm. Well, so long as they deserved it, I’m happy to remain ignorant.”

Brows raised, corners of her mouth tugging into a shrug, Agatha looked pleasantly surprised.

“Huh. Well, in that case- it’s good to see you too, Little Miss Dante,” she said wryly, dragging out the old nickname as though she were dusting off a spellbook, descending the last few steps. “Now that we’ve got the formalities out of the way, how have you been for the past- oh, hundred and thirty years or so?”

“Not quite so long on my side, Madame Virgil,” Astrid admitted, satin-smooth as sugar ribbons, “but I’ve- been busy.”

The Divine Comedy? Loki noticed.

Mm, good catch.

He paused, quietly assessing- before relaxing slightly in realisation.

Aha. I see.

Astrid held down her smile, but sent its warmth in his direction.

“And what about your dish of a father?” Agatha asked.

“Not interested, Agatha.”

And still hung up on whoever gave him that watch.

“Huh. Pity.” Agatha paused, appraising Astrid with long, slow sweeps. One forearm folded against her lower ribs, the opposite hand raised, fingertips rubbing together. “Any luck, then, dear, with that little- soul-searching identity quest of yours?”

Lifting one shoulder, Astrid let herself smile abstrusely.

“Some. Thank you for asking.”

“Well, you know. I like to know who and what I’ve made a deal with,” she said, head lowered into an unblinking stare, as though wondering how Astrid’s liver might taste, “as a rule.”

“It’s a good rule.” She said mildly.

Agatha looked at her for a long moment, one corner of her mouth and eye tensing- then straightened, clapping her palms together and spinning on her heel.

“Well, since you came all this way- fancy some tea? I could read your leaves for you! I must say, I’ve gotten pretty good- or, well, as good as you can get, with fortune-telling. It’s always a bit of a crapshoot, you know. Less mess than the animal guts, though.”

Astrid adjusted the strap of her bag against her shoulder as Agatha began to head up towards the café, not even waiting for her reply.

“Why not? We do have a lot to catch up on.” She began to follow her up the stairs, drawing a shallow breath as she went in for the kill. “And I think I have a way to get Karmar-Taj off your back so that you can come out of hiding, so I’m sure you’ll want to-”

Agatha turned back to her sharply. “What?”

Her eyes were slightly wild, incredulous, and treacherously hopeful.

Reflecting briefly, Astrid supposed that she should feel a little bad.

That was, if not for the memory of choking sulphur, of her face and throat scorching with brimstone-heat, and the sound of dimensions ripping apart like adipose from muscle tissue and Agatha laughing broad and wild- just before Mephistopheles betrayed her, just before Astrid regained the strength to yank the witch away from the consequences of her own actions.

Just because she had forgiven did not mean she was inclined to be nice.

Besides. Agatha would respect her less if she was.

Loki watched her work, ruthlessly, using honesty as a weapon and the truth like she she owned it, cautious and amused and a little proud.

Astrid arched her brows, both at him and the witch standing before her.

“You didn’t think I’d come without a gift, did you?”

-

Some time later, a platter of a dozen shucked oysters in front of her, seated with a sea view and décor of scrubbed wood and clean white walls, Astrid made the first entry on her shopping list.

Tea leaves.

-

[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

[satureja13]

Leander meets Ji Ho and Jeb at Villa Elba.

And Wesley awaits Saiwa, Vlad and Jack at Hummelshain Castle.

The truth about Luci

Leander: "Before I begin, I want you to know that none of us had planned this. We just decided to not tell you until we defeated the Council. There was too much at stake for us to put it at risk. For this I apologize."

Leander: "I already told you that, after Vlad died, I was able to save the largest part of his soul from vanishing into Nirwana by dragging him into the realm where Wes and I had escaped to after we died. Though, there were still a few remnants of him left in his body. Parts of his heart, memories... your bond - and his love for you."

Wesley to Vlad: "And when I felt through our old bond that someone (Morgan) was about to revive your body, Leander sacrificed parts of our life force to leave our realm and stop her. But it was too late and your body came to life without your soul."

Wesley: "From what we know is, that when one of a bonded couple dies, the other one is condemned to die too. But Ji Ho didn't. A bond lives off of the love of it's owners and grows stronger through this love. Your bond, still present in your body, evolved a life of it's own. It started to act for it's own needs to survive. And the primary need of a bond is to keep it's owners - you and Ji Ho - loving each other to 'feed' it so it can survive and grow." Vlad: "What are you trying to tell me?"

Wesley: "You are Luci. The remnants of you and the bond." Vlad: "Are you crazy? Is Leander telling this nonsense Ji Ho right now? I'm going to kill him!"

Wesley: "Calm down! For Ji Ho! Didn't you notice that he's fading away since Luci left him? Luci/the bond pushed you through winter and summer solstice to close the circle and evoke your powers before he left. He did it for this reason only - and to erase the fears Ji Ho had that kept him from being with you! Ji Ho deserves to know. It's up to you now. Give him time to process it. He must have loved you too. Otherwise the bond would never have grown that strong. You and I were never able to evoke such strong powers - neither could Ji Ho and Genji. Look what became of Leander and me. He wanted to marry you and I killed him - and even we are lovers now." Vlad: "I will never be able to face him again after he learned about this."

Jeb to Leander: "How could you let this happen! And I mean all of you! And what for?" Leander: "It was for the greater good. You need to realize that the deeds of the Council affect all of us. And all of us have to make sacrifices."

Ji Ho: "I will never be able to face him again after he learned about this. I caused him so much pain because I fell in love with - a thing that doesn't exist…"

'Da quando sei partito è cominciata per me la solitudine Ricominciare insieme, ti voglio tanto bene. ll tempo vola, aspettami. Tornerò, pensami sempre, sai, e il tempo passerà.

Since you left me alone, I'm surrounded by loneliness. Let's start all over again, I love you so much Time flies, wait for me - I'll come back Think of me always you know the time will pass.'

Tornero - I santo California I added the song to the 'Summer at Tartosa' playlist on youtube and spotify.

From the Beginning  ~  Underwater Love ~  Latest

[bitter69uk]

In Memoriam: the truly great and berserk operatic Polska singer, actress and all-purpose diva Violetta Villas (née Czesława Maria Cieślak, 10 June 1938 - 5 December 2011) died on this day aged 73. For anyone not au fait with the wild, wild world of the tempestuous Villas, think of her as an ultra-campy, kitsch outsider artist; a wild low-budget Eastern European hybrid of Yma Sumac, Jayne Mansfield, Anita Ekberg in La Dolce Vita, Brigitte Bardot and Charo; a punk (her image and un-hinged performances can suggest Nina Hagen or Jayne County); and the self-parodic possessor of a drag queen sensibility (is it deliberate or naive? Certainly, her persona evokes the films of the Kuchar brothers and John Waters). Dubbed "the voice of the atomic age”, Villas was a celebrated Las Vegas headliner in the 1960s and even appeared in some Hollywood films, but her promising international career was cut short by Communism (she bounced back in the 1980s and never stopped being venerated in Europe). I revere this woman and wish she was more embraced as a queer icon in the non-Polish speaking world. I highly recommend investigating old clips of Villas on YouTube – prepare to have your mind blown!

[optimismxmagicism]

A moment stuck in time

(Post Happyland Drabble) (bgm)

They were about to return home, the island previously full of life now seeming so empty. Seeing inside the Villa, a little pocket in time, made his heart hurt. So much love must’ve gone into these rooms, all those toys…. There were more than he could’ve ever dreamed of. He wondered if they were all loved and played with at one point.. Like he loved his own stuffed rabbit.

But it was over now, wasn’t it?

These poor toys, he wondered if they’ll be forgotten. A fading memory only to those who set foot on the island. Fading together with their master.. that’s just too sad. He didn’t know who the master of the villa might’ve been. An old toymaker? A small child? What was the history of this place? It evoked a sentimentality he didn’t know he had.

He was about to step back outside, when his foot hit something. One plushie, a seeming outlier away from the other piles. It was dusty, but recognizable as an animal of some sorts. Gently, with soft hands he picked it up and brushed off the layer of dust, revealing a cute looking white creature.

A soft smile.

He looked around. Was anyone watching?

A warm hug. He wondered when the last time was this toy received one?

“Don’t worry. I’ll be your friend now.”

[amazingarchitecturewebsite]

Villa Emerald, a jewel on Lake Garda, Italy by Gruppo Building / Boffa Petrone & Partners @gruppobuilding. Read more: Link in bio! Photography: Piero Ottaviano @pierottaviano. Design team: Boffa Petrone & Partners, Studio Fezzardi @studiofezzardi. Interior design: Kristina Pulaeva, Elio Sereno Home Building Group: Nestled in the morainic hills overlooking Lake Garda stands Villa Emerald, a true gem of architecture and design whose name evokes the colour of the waters in which it is reflected, in harmony with the surrounding landscape and nature… #italy #pool #lakegarda #архитектура www.amazingarchitecture.com ✔ A collection of the best contemporary architecture to inspire you. #design #architecture #amazingarchitecture #architect #arquitectura #luxury #realestate #life #cute #architettura #interiordesign #photooftheday #love #travel #construction #furniture #instagood #fashion #beautiful #archilovers #home #house ‎#amazing #picoftheday #architecturephotography ‎#معماری (at Lake Garda Italy) https://www.instagram.com/p/Ckym5x0uaww/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[blueiscoool]

Pantone’s Color of the Year for 2024 'Peach Fuzz'

The gentle, pinkish-orange hue was chosen to reflect a collective desire for respite

A soft, pinkish-orange hue called “Peach Fuzz” is Pantone’s pick for the 2024 color of the year, the company announced last week.

Officially called “Pantone 13-1023 Peach Fuzz,” the color is “velvety,” “gentle” and “subtly sensual,” according to the design and color authority.

Pantone is best known for its color-matching system, created in the 1960s, that numbers and organizes hues with a distinct chip format. The company also runs the Pantone Color Institute, which selects the color of the year and conducts color trend forecasting research.

This year’s choice “echoes our innate yearning for closeness and connection,” says Leatrice Eiseman, executive director of the Pantone Color Institute, in a statement.

“We chose a color radiant with warmth and modern elegance,” she adds. “A shade that resonates with compassion, offers a tactile embrace and effortlessly bridges the youthful with the timeless.”

Peach Fuzz is Pantone’s 25th color of the year. The annual announcements began in 1999 to “engage the design community and color enthusiasts around the world in a conversation around color,” per a statement from Laurie Pressman, the Pantone Color Institute’s vice president.

Every year, a team of color experts examines movies, art, fashion, design, travel destinations, technologies and more to figure out which colors are influencing the world in the current moment. They also use forecasting tools, color psychology research and other sources to predict upcoming trends. From all that research, they narrow down the options to just one color that they feel sets the tone for the year ahead.

Peach Fuzz is less bold than last year’s choice, a bright, pink-red shade called “Viva Magenta.” But the world felt different in 2023, when Pantone “celebrated coming out of the malaise of the last year,” as Eiseman tells CNN’s Leah Dolan. Viva Magenta was intended to evoke verve, power and grace as the world emerged from the pandemic and continued to grapple with social unrest, as NPR’s Rachel Treisman wrote last year.

Heading into 2024, however, Peach Fuzz “arrives at a dark time amid a tumultuous war and a tense election year,” as Angelica Villa writes for ARTnews. The more muted hue is meant to reflect the “need for some quiet, some peace, some respite,” Eiseman tells CNN.

Where will Peach Fuzz show up in 2024? Rugs, wallpaper, fabric, makeup, tea and more—which are all examples of products released in conjunction with Pantone’s announcement. The color is already showing up in fashion, with celebrities like Taylor Swift and the Rock wearing Peach Fuzz to various events, notes USA Today’s Emily DeLetter.

“It feels like another rediscovered neutral that’s meant to seep its way into every surface of our lives,” said Jeremy Allen, the art director for the New York Times Styles Desk, in a conversation with colleagues.

By Sarah Kuta.

[denimbex1986]

'What would “Ripley” be without its transfixing style, from the palpable isolation of a squalid New York apartment to the shadowy charms of ancient Italian streets?

Writer-director Steven Zaillian’s acclaimed eight-hour Netflix series isn’t merely a new adaptation of Patricia Highsmith’s enduring thriller about an American tourist in coastal southern Italy embracing deceit and murder: It’s a coolly gorgeous black-and-white pleasure bath of sights, shades and textures. Beauty with darkness. Modern touches in ancient spaces. Art for con artist’s sake.

To achieve his vision of a 1960s Italy that would sweep viewers away right along with Andrew Scott’s dangerously impressionable protagonist, Zaillian assembled a murderer’s row (ahem) of design collaborators: Oscar-winning cinematographer Robert Elswit, who’d worked with the director on the miniseries “The Night Of”; production designer David Gropman, an alum of Zaillian’s 1993 film “Searching for Bobby Fischer”; and Italian costume designers Maurizio Millenotti and Gianni Casalnuovo.

Elswit makes no bones about how important everyone’s set contributions were to the look and feel of “Ripley.” “It was such a clear ensemble of decisions based on Steve’s original ideas that we pursued for the whole [show],” he says. “We wanted to underlie the drama, be part of the storytelling, part of the emotional life of it.”

The production design

“A dream job” is how Gropman describes working on “Ripley,” starting with what Zaillian’s 400 dialogue-sparse script pages evoked, and ending with myriad locations across New York, Italy and at Rome’s fabled Cinecitta studios.

Early research led Gropman to the kinds of images that called out to be re-created. “When you’re doing Tom on the train from Cherbourg to Naples, and you pull up David Seymour’s photograph of Ingrid Bergman going from Naples to Cannes on the Orient Express, you know exactly what that train car looks like in black and white.” Another inspiring source was Piergiorgio Branzi, revered for his naturalistic postwar pictures of life in Italy. “Any photograph of his would fill a moment in [‘Ripley’].”

Months of scouting the Amalfi coast for the sleepy town holding Dickie Greenleaf’s villa led Gropman to quiet but picturesque Atrani. Three elements cinched it: The views from the road above were stunning, the piazza charmed, and what would become something of a location star for rapt viewers, “the incredible network of stairs, alleys and passageways.” The actual villa, however, was discovered in Capri, and completely outfitted in midcentury furniture and assorted antiques and artwork.

You can get to 200 locations and sets easily when a character is constantly on the move, and the norm is to crib from many places to suggest one. “For the Excelsior hotel in Rome,” says Gropman, “the exterior was the Hassler, the lobby was the Plaza, and two suites were an amazing 16th century palazzo in the middle of Rome.” And where exterior period authenticity couldn’t be counted on, CGI filled out plenty of backgrounds. “Train platforms, views out windows, and ferry docks were all big visual effects set extensions,” Gropman says.

As for what was built at Cinecitta, two favorite sets for Gropman were Tom’s New York hovel and his well-appointed, furnished Rome apartment. For every set, though, walls were never moved for the camera’s sake, “so you’re true to the claustrophobia,” says Gropman, and in the case of the dingy New York SRO, “the meanness of that space.”

Props were nearly as important, and Zaillian spent two days looking at demos. One story item, however — a Murano glass ashtray whose importance won’t be spoiled here — had already been chosen. “The ashtray is on one of Steve’s side tables at home in California,” says Gropman, laughing. “That will tell you a lot about Steve, and his ‘Ripley.’”

The cinematography

“Steve is the most meticulous, focused, precise director you could ever work with,” says Elswit of his “Ripley” writer-director. “He had a very clear concept of shooting in black and white, making a designed movie formally organized around tonal structure and graphic images.”

Elswit, who’s previously worked in black and white (“Good Night and Good Luck”), explains why cinematographers love the monochrome palette. “You can exploit the extremes between the brightest white and the blackest black. You exaggerate the contrast in their faces. You can feel it. Sense it. You really do create tension and anxiety through lighting. It’s been done since the beginning of movies.”

It’s even baked into Zaillian’s script. Ripley’s fascination with Caravaggio allowed the Italian master’s famed tenebrism — intense darkness and pockets of equally intense light — to also become a guiding aesthetic for Elswit. Caravaggio “was also obsessed with quality of light, its direction and the reality of it. Like a spotlight on what was interesting.”

Elswit says Italy’s very physicality lends itself to such extremes of light and shadow. “There’s so much texture when you’re looking at walls, streets, the surfaces of buildings, the cobblestones, stairways. It’s granite, plaster, rock, marble, whatever it is, and in black and white, it emphasizes the texture.”

Caravaggio and his era’s peers influenced the show’s look in another way. Elswit and Zaillian gave themselves an unusual rule in framing, to keep Renaissance and Baroque art’s straight-ahead perspective and avoid converging vertical lines, as would happen if a camera tilted up or down. It’s why so much of “Ripley” is a crisply edited procession of static shots, with only humans providing movement.

“That was built into every setup, indoors and out,” Elswit says. “We were going to have the picture plane parallel to the walls of structures we were shooting, always. The buildings couldn’t have converging lines. Steven wanted that formal graphic design.”

Zaillian also preferred overcast days, to avoid any sun-kissed hint of romance and warmth. But Elswit made great portentous use of a hot sky for when Ripley first encounters Dickie and Marge, lying on the gravel beach. “We had a high shot where we had Tom walk by them, and his shadow goes over them,” Elswit says. “I was thrilled. I’m not sure if Steve was at the time, but he ended up being happy with it. That was a wonderful advantage to a sunlit day!”

The costumes

Italy in the ‘60s may have been a fashion mecca, but that wasn’t how Millenotti and Casalnuovo saw the job Zaillian set out for them. “There was a focus on subtlety,” Casalnuovo wrote via email, speaking for the duo. “The costumes shouldn’t be flashy or distracting. Steve’s vision emphasized creating a sense of character and story through the clothing.”

Casting a wide net in their research — with a little over four months of pre-production time — the pair pored over photo books, archives, even vintage albums found in street markets, “searching for a nuanced understanding of the period,” Casalnuovo says. Their rummaging unearthed one socked-away trove containing unpublished pictures of everyday life in the story’s key cities. “This provided invaluable insight into the social fabric and atmosphere. This allowed us to create costumes steeped in authenticity and narrative depth.”

That meant capturing a moment when the world was turning away from formality, while areas like southern Italy still reflected class divisions. Lighter fabrics such as linen and cotton are presenting themselves, and yet the privilege Dickie Greenleaf (Johnny Flynn) represents hasn’t gone away. “Dickie’s wardrobe would be more tailored and polished. In contrast, characters of lower social standing would wear simpler, more practical clothing.”

With a black-and-white palette, however, certain scenes needed extra consideration, as when Tom Ripley’s swimsuit needed to set him apart at the beach. Highsmith wrote about a garish yellow/black checkered pair of trunks, but, says Casalnuovo, “a color contrast wouldn’t translate.” (As the final decision ultimately showed, an eye-opening fit and pattern humorously did the trick.)

Of course, when it came to Ripley overall, charting his sartorial trajectory, not surprisingly, was the designers’ most enjoyable project. “Ripley’s wardrobe is a chameleon’s act. Initially, his casual American style clashes with Dickie’s European flair. He subtly incorporates elements like polo shirts and loafers, mirroring Dickie to gain acceptance.” Getting from high-priced mimicry to Tom’s own personal style toward the end was a particular challenge, but the kind costume designers live for. “It was a process that demanded focus and a deep understanding of the character, but seeing it all come together was incredibly rewarding.”'

[sloshed-cinema]

Barbie (2023)

Allan’s gaze is a symphony of sadness. How has Michael Cera not aged a day since Scott Pilgrim vs the World? Ageless to is his puppy-dog ennui which he channels so effortlessly. The fact that he’s tertiary at most but still worthy of mention speaks to just how stacked the casting of Barbie was. All of our Barbies and Kens are ostensibly the same, and yet they are all infectiously fun to watch. President Barbie is just happy to be there, Simu Ken is so much more effortlessly dorky-cool than the others, and Midge, well… we don’t talk about her much. Who better than Kate McKinnon to embody those dolls that get roughed up more than others? Will Ferrell is… well, he’s doing his cutesy-weird thing which worked as the father figure in the LEGO Movie but is just off-putting here. Helming it all is the unstoppable duo of Margot Robbie and Ryan Gosling. Robbie’s journey from a life of total but unfulfilling happiness to the leap into the unknown is about as committed and authentic as the movie will allow, and Gosling is the ideal vapid limbo who 100% isn’t gay. For real, he’s just fabulous.

But Barbie is nothing without her accessories, right? The other major standout of Greta Gerwig’s creation is its immaculately fantastical production design. Much like The LEGO Movie, this takes a pointedly and intentionally artificial approach. Nothing looks real because nothing should; this is a pretend land where everything is perfect and controlled. Products are integrated into the background to create enough Easter eggs to make the most die-hard Bar die fanatic happy. But it moves farther than that. This is a constructed fake world, in a literal sense. These are real Dreamhouses and props that the characters interact with, creating a tactility not unlike the experience of playing with a doll and imagining her immaculate world. Painted mountain backdrops and static waves keep this at a remove from direct reality, keeping this realized but not real. In a way, this feels like a postmodern Powell and Pressburger film, evoking Old Hollywood soundstages and painterly sets while telling a story with new sensibilities. Weird Barbies house with its winding path has to be a direct reference to The Red Shoes and its villa where the men revamp their ballet. There is Busby Berkeley too, eluded to in Barbie’s bespoke party but elevated to apotheosis in the Kenergy of the ir storming of the beach.

THE RULES

SIP

Someone says "Hi, Barbie!"

A pop song begins.

Ken is really into horses.

BIG DRINK

Someone travels to or from Barbie Land.

The movie makes a reference to a classic film.

Barbie cries.