#Symbolism

[classicalcanvas]

Hercules at Lake Stymphalos (1880) by Gustave Moreau

[weirdlookindog]

Walther Witting (1864–1940) - Vanitas, c. 1900

[spyboy2000]

ᴏᴅɪʟᴏɴ ʀᴇᴅᴏɴ The Buddha. 1907. Pastel on paper: 90 × 73 cm (35 × 28 in).

[diemelusine]

Mäntykoski waterfall (c. 1894) by Akseli Gallen-Kallela. Private collection.

[helveticablanc]

Happy Solstice! From now until the end of the year, all my zines are half off — or get all 38 zines for $24!

[aventurineswife]

[Original Prompt]

The room was quiet except for the rhythmic ticking of a golden pocket watch Aventurine had carelessly placed on the edge of his ornate desk. It gleamed in the dim light, catching the flicker of a nearby lamp—the same way your presence caught his attention no matter how often he pretended it didn’t. His hand hovered over a stack of scattered documents, but his eyes were far away, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him some clarity.

In his mind, your image surfaced, unbidden and unrelenting. You were laughing softly, that small, genuine sound that always seemed so far removed from the world he inhabited. Aventurine had built his life on risk and duplicity, but around you, he felt... different. It wasn’t that you disarmed him—no, he was too guarded for that—but you made him wonder. What would it feel like to stop playing the game for just one moment? To let someone see the cracks beneath the mask?

But he couldn’t.

You were an anomaly in his carefully constructed world, a gamble he didn’t dare take. He told himself it was for your sake, sparing you the weight of his lies, his manipulations, the shards of his fractured soul. Yet, deep down, he knew the truth. He was afraid. Not of you, but of the fragility you represented—the vulnerability he buried beneath calculated smiles and dangerous deals.

Aventurine leaned back in his chair, the fabric of his coat pooling around him like shadows. His left hand clenched briefly before disappearing behind his back, an unconscious habit born of fear he rarely acknowledged. He stared at the ceiling again, trying to banish the thought of you from his mind, but it lingered, stubborn and insistent.

“I think about us a lot,” he admitted silently to the room, though the words felt too raw to say aloud. "Even though 'us' doesn't exist."

He could almost picture it—your hand brushing his as you walked side by side, the way your smile might falter when you saw the darker corners of his soul, the inevitable moment when you’d leave. Because you would. They all did, eventually.

The ticking of the pocket watch grew louder, like a taunt. Time moved on, as it always did, yet Aventurine remained stuck in this quiet torment. He didn’t allow himself to feel regret often—it was too dangerous, too consuming—but with you, he couldn’t help it.

He leaned forward abruptly, his hands pressing into the desk’s polished surface. His reflection stared back at him, fragmented by the design engraved into the wood. It was fitting, he thought bitterly. He was always fractured, always betting on outcomes he knew could never favor him.

And yet...

He reached for the pocket watch, snapping it shut with a sharp click. The silence that followed felt heavier than the ticking ever had. Aventurine rose from his chair, his steps deliberate as he crossed the room to stand by the window. The city lights glittered below, a thousand possibilities waiting to be seized. But all he could think about was you—what you were doing, where you were, whether you ever thought of him the way he thought of you.

It was foolish, he knew. Sentimentality had no place in his world. But for a fleeting moment, Aventurine let himself imagine it—what it would be like to hold you close, to hear your laughter without the weight of his lies, to let someone truly see him.

The thought hurt more than he expected.

Aventurine turned away from the window, pulling his overcoat tighter around his shoulders. He allowed himself one last glance toward the door, as if you might suddenly appear. But it remained closed, just like the part of his heart that would always be yours.

With a bitter smile, he strode back to his desk, shuffling the documents into neat piles. The game continued, and he played on, as he always did. But tonight, as he worked under the glow of the flickering lamp, he couldn’t help but wonder if, for once, he had made the wrong gamble.

[kimiko24]

DOG MOSAICS (From Italy and Greece ××)

[fogmoo]

Lamb to the slaughter

[sweetlemondream]

the angel and demon on the shoulder symbolism oh im sick

[soundsofmyuniverse]

Witold Pruszkowski - Falling Star, 1884.

[endofthestaff]

I love the symbolism in this scene. Whilst both Husk and Angel are bound and trapped by their contracts, Angel has a more messy and enveloping commitment to Valentino with some flexibility all around (being able to stay at the hotel and so on) whereas Husk is more tightly bound and his bindings are concentrated showing how Alastor has made a cleaner deal, yet Husk cannot get out of being a bartender at the hotel.

[weirdlookindog]

“Dinner”

© Vlad Gradobyk

[die-rosastrasse]

First sketchbook page of the year 💘

[miamaimania]

Unlocking the Mysteries: A Contemporary Interpretation of the Hierophant Tarot Card

by Aaron Nosheny

[helveticablanc]

From the Archives — 2021 12 15-21