#There are NOT enough Jewish miniature things

[the-lesser-light]

Admission time: I've always been obsessed with miniature things. I collect wee tea sets and food items and various other things. My dream is to build a doll house some day.

Since conversion, my new obsession is to one day build a miniature Jewish doll house for my little Jewish 1/12th scale doll family.

I currently have a 1/6th scale Shabbat table with little dolls around it and I'm working on putting together a Calico critters house. I already have them sitting around a Shabbat table and I have various items to change out for the different holidays! I've ordered a wee little Menorah, I have a plate of latkas, a Seder plate and little haggadahs, little Hamantashen, challah, apples and honey, and even little bottles of alcohol so they can get smashed on Purim.

I know a lot of people are creeped out by dolls, but if anyone wants to see things as they progress, I'm happy to post pictures.

At least the Calico critters are cute, right?

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Noah Lanard at Mother Jones:

Two weeks after the election, I met Dianela Rosario in Huntington Park, California—an almost entirely Latino city that swung hard to the right this year. A 51-year-old Dominican American shopkeeper, Rosario told me that before this year she had never voted for a Republican presidential candidate. But, in 2024, inflation and the prices of groceries were front of mind. President Joe Biden and Democratic nominee Kamala Harris were not fully responsible for the cost of living crisis, she said, but she still wanted someone new.

“If she’s been vice president and there’s been no change, then I wasn’t sure she was going to be able to change things as president,” Rosario, who identifies as Afro-Latina, explained in Spanish about why she had not voted for Harris. “That’s what influenced me the most—that things might stay the same as they are now.” Earlier that afternoon, a Guatemalan shopkeeper shared a similar perspective. She told me she missed the lower prices of Trump’s first term and that she hoped the incoming president would deport people she saw as causing problems in the area. Unlike Rosario, though, she hadn’t been able to cast a vote. “Soy ilegal,” the shopkeeper explained of her own immigration status. In 2016, stories like these would have been hard to find in cities in Southeast Los Angeles like Huntington Park, where 97 percent of residents are Latino. That year, Trump lost by huge margins. In 2016, Hillary Clinton received 84 percent of votes in the area, compared to only 8 percent for Trump. Sometimes, Trump even came in third; in several precincts, Jill Stein was the runner-up to Clinton.

Eight years later, a Mother Jones analysis of precinct-level voting data shows that Democrats have lost more support in Southeast Los Angeles than any other part of Los Angeles County. Democrats’ combined margin of victory in nine cities in the area, which are more than 90 percent Latino on average, has declined by nearly 40 percent since 2016. Trump has gone from getting less than 10 percent of votes to nearly 30 percent. This is not just a function of Democrats staying home. Trump received more than three times as many votes this year in Southeast Los Angeles than he did during his first presidential run. While the data makes clear that voters in largely working-class Latino areas have moved right, the results do not reveal how individual Latinos who live in more mixed (and often richer) parts of Los Angeles voted. Compared to Southeast Los Angeles, Democrats’ have lost less support since 2016 in more middle-class majority-Latino cities, although those cities remain more conservative overall.

Still, a national trend—working-class Asian and Latino voters shifting to Republicans, and upper-class voters choosing Democrats—can be seen in miniature in Los Angeles County.

The results in Southeast Los Angeles mirror the dramatic drops in Democratic support in heavily Asian and Latino areas across the country, ranging from the border counties of Texas' Rio Grande Valley to the rural towns of California's Central Valley to urban areas of New York and New Jersey. While some of these losses have been offset by gains among affluent college graduates who once voted Republican, it was not enough for Harris to win. The voting records analyzed by Mother Jones include results for roughly 170 communities. Since 2016, Democrats’ margin of victory has dropped by at least 25 points in about 40 of those places, which is well above the countywide shift of about 17 points during the period. In nearly every single community with that large of a drop, Latinos and Asians comprise a majority of residents. The main exception is Beverly Hills, a famously affluent area with a large Jewish population. (Most of the shift in Beverly Hills happened between 2016 and 2020—meaning that it was not primarily a reaction to how Democrats discussed October 7 and Israel's military campaign in Gaza.) Karina Macias, the mayor of Huntington Park, said in a phone interview that the shift to the right among her constituents reflected concerns with issues that voters across the country prioritized: price increases, crime, and immigration. Macias noted a significant uptick in the number of families in Huntington Park who rely on food distributions, including among residents who probably would have never considered seeking help in the past.

“I think a lot of people were looking at their current economic situation, and [were] pissed off about it," Macias said. "Can you blame them? No, right? Especially in a community like Huntington Park, they feel it. They’re paying a lot more for things and are not necessarily being paid a lot more. If they work two jobs, maybe somebody in the household needs to go and get another job, right? We have a lot of families here that are doubling up in an apartment, and that’s how they get by."

The nearly 40-point shift in Southeast Los Angeles is far different from what has happened in some of the wealthier communities in Los Angeles. In the affluent coastal cities of Manhattan Beach, Redondo Beach, and Hermosa Beach, Democrats have maintained or slightly improved their margin of victory since 2016. But these voters did not necessarily back Democratic candidates all the way down the ballot. In 2020, Los Angeles County voters elected George Gascón, a progressive Cuban-American district attorney defeated his more moderate opponent by seven points. After the win, a backlash began almost immediately. This year, Gascón still managed to secure the endorsement of the Los Angeles Times. But he ended up losing to Nathan Hochman, a comparatively tough-on-crime challenger who became an independent after running as a Republican for California attorney general office in 2022. Hochman won by 20 points—a 27 point swing from 2020. Wealthier cities like Manhattan Beach and Santa Monica moved harder against Gascón than most of the county, despite being the areas where Democrats had some of their best results at the top of the ticket. Santa Monica residents went from supporting Gascón by a nearly 2-to-1 margin in 2020 to backing Hochman. In Manhattan Beach, Gascón lost by about 50 points—nearly 40 points worse than he did there four years ago. It meant that there was an almost 80-point gap in the city between Harris and Gascón, even though both are Democrats.

[...] Another dynamic is a belief among some Latino voters that Venezuelans, who crossed the border in record numbers in recent years, and other people arriving today are different from them and their ancestors. Gustavo Arellano, a Los Angeles Times writer who covered the recent political history of Southeast Los Angeles earlier this year, told me before the election about how his cousins objected to "these new immigrants" and were turning Venezuelans into scapegoats. "Venezuelans they get free everything," Arellano said, paraphrasing his cousins. "Our parents, when they came here illegally, didn't get anything at all. They did it on their own." Arellano tells his relatives that "these immigrants are just like our parents" but they insist otherwise. Macias didn't hear this perspective too often, but did recall someone saying about recent arrivals: "They're demanding things, and we work for them." It also doesn't help that Democrats—largely as a result of Republican opposition—have been unable to deliver on their promises to provide legal status to family members of some of the voters now turning against them. An undocumented Salvadoran immigrant named Sam made that clear when we spoke in Huntington Park—even though he was one of the strongest Kamala Harris supporters I interviewed. "The Democrats had the opportunity to help us," Sam explained in Spanish. "They didn't do it. As a result, all the Hispanics that are scattered throughout the United States, who are now citizens, who can now vote, are making them pay."

While Los Angeles County, California provided hefty winning margins for the Democratic Party this election, there are blinking red lights that the Democrats ought to be concerned about: Heavily Hispanic and Asian areas, especially lower-income ones, swung hard to the right. Example: Voted handsomely for Hillary in 2016, modestly for Biden in 2020, and either narrowly for Harris or flipped to Trump in 2024.

[feygaleh]

Idk if this is a polite question or if you think yourself qualified enough to answer? But what does Jewish witchcraft entail? Is it different from normal Jewish ritual?

it’s perfectly polite! and it’s honestly like… hard to answer? i particularly love herbalism so ive built a miniature apothecary of herbs that are spiritually relevant in jewish history/culture/superstition and will do things like burning spells, brew into my tea, use for manifesting, etc.

im big into tarot which isn’t inherently jewish but i know most jewish witches dip their toes into from time to time

jewish witchcraft (for me) is taking pre-existing jewish rituals and getting more spiritual with them. or taking pre-existing jewish myth/mysticism and incorporating it into my day to day rituals

yk like maybe i’ll burn my shabbos candles on friday nights but in addition ill do a peace manifestation spell so i can go into my saturday with less stress

idk i hope this is an okay answer? it can kind of entail whatever you want but this is how i do it

[thegreatandpowerfulversy]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💗

Hmm alright, five favorites out of... *checks notes*

Not a huge selection to sort through here, but enough to choose a few that stand out. I'm also not going to count the WIPs, whether parts have been published so far or not. Now let's see here...

5. No Blazing Kin (Hollow Knight)

Look. This one's batshit insane, but I love it. It's the shortest fic I've completed (at barely over 5k) and was born from an absurd idea that somehow, somehow, has the status of Technically Not Noncanon. By which I mean, it goes against every common and reasonable interpretation of what's shown to the player, but I am 99% sure it's never actually contradicted by explicit canon anywhere. And that's wonderful.

Also I just love the writing style it ended up in. There are parts where it goes multiple sentences at a time in perfect iambic meter, and that really gives it a sense of it being a legend told long after the events, or even a form of holy scripture or something. I can't really say much about the premise because anything would be a spoiler, and if you like Hollow Knight you really should just experience it for yourself.

4. Between The Candle And The Star (RWBY)

Yes, I know the title is taken from Babylon 5. Yes, I've written a B5 fic and like half an unpublished sequel to it. No, this is not that fic.

In some ways, this is basically a combination in miniature of all my favorite things from writing RWBY fics, mostly in response to, well, the next fic on this top 5 list. Those favorite elements being, of course: A) Salem as a main character, and having a proper 3d characterization like she did up through volume 6 before the writers took a long break for covid and forgot all about their prior work, B) my own personal crackship-taken-seriously, Salem x Yang, and C) inserting Judaism into anything and everything, just because I can.

The title is like that because the whole point is that things are grey. Morality is not clear cut, when the only way to save the world is to prevent there ever being even a moment of world peace. Also have you ever wondered, what if Chanukah were also Yom Kippur? What if, instead of one candle per day, you just had so many candles that it took you eight full days to light them all? Judaism proper may not strictly exist on Remnant, but the stories and themes of both those holidays are surprisingly relevant to Salem's life and I had a lot of fun writing about this.

3. Threading The Needle Of Destiny (RWBY)

And here we have it, the big one, my first RWBY fic ever written and it's kind of a monster at almost 200k. This fic is about Choice: the concept, the Relic, the importance of both... Sixteen timelines of the world, some with barely perceptible differences and some so completely altered that they're barely recognizable, yet each one separated from another by just a single person's choice at one moment in time.

It starts at the end. The worst timeline, a stalemate between the last survivors of each side – Salem and Yang – and from there, reaching back into the past one choice at a time, driven each time by Salem making selfish choices and nevertheless stumbling headlong through an accidental redemption arc as a result, until what comes out the other end is a world so beautiful that none of the characters could have imagined it at the start.

Also there's some Jewish themes, because of course there are, it's one of my fics after all. This one was written early in my own conversion journey so it's less explicit than some other fics I've done, but RWBY is very much a world where tikkun olam is highly relevant and also can be done in highly visible and tangible ways, and that's quite fun.

2. In Gold Everlasting (Elden Ring / RWBY)

And now a more recent fic! Crossover time, though it's 99% Elden Ring and just happens to have an isekaied Pyrrha Nikos as the protagonist. Because honestly, Elden Ring's player character canonically kind of is an isekai already, so why not drop someone from another media I enjoy into it?

This fic really shines with just the overall prose quality, I think. I look at this as compared to anything I wrote before it and the difference is just so visible, it's a huge sign of how far I've come as a writer in just a few years. And also it's another shining example of my favorite thing to do in fic: take an absolutely fucking insane concept, and take it 100% seriously and to its logical conclusions, while featuring lots of lesbianism, Judaism, and satisfying happy endings even if I do put the blorbos through the pear wiggler along the way.

Take one look at the ship tag on this fic and you'll see exactly what I mean about insane concepts. Trust me, it works. It works so unfairly well. After all, these two have much more in common to bond over than it might seem, both in their pasts as well as their desires for a life in this world in the present day.

Also it's Jewish, and... do I really have to say that at this point, of course you know my writing is all really Jewish. This fic especially though. This fic is so Jewish that it has citations to Sefaria in the chapter endnotes.

1. Vox Faunus (RWBY / Warframe)

And finally, there is Vox Faunus. This one is actually... not that Jewish. Weird, I know.

This fic is a crossover/fusion between RWBY and Warframe, in a far deeper way than the crossover of the fic above. It's set in the RWBY world, but every character from Warframe is also there, and has always been there, in positions as analogous as can be to how they are in their own canon. The debt-slave colony of Fortuna on a terraformed, frozen Venus is now the workforce of a Schnee Dust Company mine in Mantle, rebuilding their old union years after a workplace accident and brutal corporate repression afterward forced them into inactivity. The plots of both RWBY volume 7 and Warframe are woven together masterfully and are not separate from each other.

Also, Vox Faunus is just always going to hold a special place to me because it was co-written between me and the lovely and talented @ofstormsandfire, and that alone could elevate any fic in my mind, but particularly for one as incredible as what we achieved with Vox Faunus. We met through one of my Warframe-only fanfics that didn't make this list (they were good, but I've simply improved too much since then), and I can confidently say that interaction in the comments section was one of the defining moments of my life in the most positive way. I just absolutely love the planning together, bouncing ideas off each other and refining them, outlining scene by scene and then dividing up who would write which bits so we each get to write the portions that we like more and that we're good at... And having the two of us together and both motivated to keep going and able to pull each other back up when that motivation wanes for a little while... There really is just nothing better than doing an activity you love alongside a person you really love, and coming up with an incredible work of art at the end of it too as a bonus.

That's right, @ofstormsandfire, you put this in my inbox and you gave it to me to respond to and I'll be sappy on main if I want to be. Never hand a blank tumblr draft to a lesbian unless you're sure of where she's going to point it. This is an @ofstormsandfire appreciation post now, everyone reading this needs to go check out all of her writing as well because it's so good and she's been writing so much longer than I have, for so many more fandoms, and I guarantee there's something in there you'll love no matter what media you're into.

Anyway I should stop here now, I think, it's midnight as of when I'm writing this and this post is already 1468 words which is longer than some people's entire fanfics (not mine though!) and I need to go to sleep before I derail the fic recommendations with how much I love @ofstormsandfire and her writing even more than I already have. I'm queueing this for tomorrow, passing on the ask to a few more friends, and then passing the fuck out. If you're seeing this, go read some fics.

[apexart-journal]

Catching Up

Hi journal, I have some catching up to do from my last writing. I've been feeling a little under the weather the past few days and not up for putting down anything coherent here.

Tuesday night I went to a language exchange meetup. Since I'm going to activities held in English it's a gamble every time if I'll get to interact with Greek people, so it was nice to find some Athenians and a friendly guy on vacation from Belgium at the event. I also met an American who had been an expat in Athens for many years and was reminded of a certain type of pedantry about the US that people like that can assume. As a former English language teacher I can smell one of my own who has gotten a little to high on their own supply. It's interesting how being in another culture far from home can give one perspective while also introducing the temptation to oversimplify complex matters in which one is no longer immersed. There's something there about running away from pain, or fear, or maybe the burden of empathy. It's probably true too that most people are more interested in dwelling on their local problems, which makes it less rewarding to have a nuanced conversation about American issues, but let's just say that I can't tolerate people joking about things like the LA fires. In any case, I enjoyed the way one of my Greek speaking partners would ask a question of me or someone else and then follow it up with a sort of multiple choice verbal challenge - giving us clear and playful options of how we would feel most comfortable interacting. I think I might use that one.

Wednesday I walked in the National Garden and visited the Zappeion building, which is a part of modern Olympic history here. There are green parrots living all over the gardens, loudly making their presence known and building nests the size of exercise balls, weighing down the branches of the trees. According to my online research, the parrots arrived here in the 1990s, probably as exotic pets that were released into the city, and while they are normally found in hotter climates it's temperate enough here for them to thrive. Given that the gardens themselves are made of a collection of plants and trees from all over the world by Queen Amalia of the Greeks, it seemed almost appropriate for the parrots to be there, sort of blurring the lines between "invasive species" and "exotic collection" in a festively annoying way. There were also some humans quietly making their homes in the park in tents. Who belongs where is a sort of theme of this trip for me, and of current events.

I then went over to the First Cemetery of Athens and wandered through the narrow pathways between the crypts. The landscape felt like visiting a miniature, solemn version of the city. I was surprised to smell the oil of the lamps that burn in from of some of the markers. Of the other scattered people visiting the cemetery I suspect that some of them were there to feel the cat colonies.

I got some lunch afterwards, and when the cashier joked with me that I couldn't pay for my food with my bus card (oops, I could have sworn I was handing him my debit card), I realized that I really wasn't feeling 100% and that it was time to go back to the apartment early and rest.

Thursday morning I watched a lecture of what happened to the Jews of Greece during the Holocaust by Professor Davin Naar. The story really starts with the Greek city of Salonika which was a majority Jewish population for hundreds of years. Again, we link up to the Christian Greek refugees from Smyrna. There was a devastating fire in Salonika in 1917 that paved the way for the city to be used as a relocation site for displaced Christians after 1922. I really recommend listening to the lecture to hear all the facts, but one thing that stuck with me was that the largest Jewish cemetery in the world was once there, and Greeks demolished it to build a university on the site, re-using graves markers for paving stones and even as liners for a swimming pool. Towards the end of World War II, almost all Greek Jews were handed over to the Nazis and sent to concentration camps where they suffered immensely before they were killed. Only one island refused to give up their Jewish population.

As a learn more about the history of this time period, there's a sort of constant unfolding of what parts of the story are being told or purposely omitted. I have yet to learn about what happened to the Muslims living in Greece who were expelled from homes they'd been in for countless generations during the "population exchange."

With a lot of heavy feelings, I went to my first activity of the day, meeting with a couple who owns a really lovely shop called Flaneur. They are situated in the midst of a very touristy area of souvenir shops, but they have a completely different approach to their work. They sell all kinds of items with designs from local Greek artists, posters, t-shirts, stickers, almost all printed here in Athens. We talked about the logistics of how they run their business, the joy they take in building their network of artists and interacting with their customers, and how they area also managing to raise a small child while they do it all.

After that, I took myself on a long walk through the old wholesale section of downtown, which is a mix of old school shops and gentrified businesses, until I found an area where the Chinese dollar stores and wholesalers have their stores. I spend a lot of time in places like this at home, and so I was enraptured to find one after the other in Athens. This eventually led me to an area where they blended with Pakistani and Indian wholesale shops. I noted that there weren't any businesses, like restaurants, groceries, or hair salons, specifically catering to the Chinese workers, but that the Pakistani businesses seem to have adopted to include things that Chinese people would want. At least, I saw the evidence in the produce.

I had my weekly check in with Nia on the phone while I was still walking because I was near enough to my next activity, and when we finished up I checked the map to learn that I was in what some Athenians consider to be the sketchy part of town. The edge of the immigrant area is often like that. All was totally fine though, and I went to the Theater of NO for my joke writing workshop. The students were just me and a very enthusiastic middle aged French woman, who while she could barely contain herself to focus on the writing part had amazing energy onstage. The teacher was a stand up comic originally from San Francisco. She taught us about the structure of jokes needed for a basic stand up routine. I was feeling lost and in an unfunny headspace, but she quickly picked my brain for material, helped me craft it into some efficient one-liners, and got me up on stage to try them out. In the space of an hour, I tried something I'd alway been curious about and found the barrier to entry to be much less intimidating than I'd thought. Liberating!

I decided to stick around for the comedy night. The comedians where good but seemed disappointed that there were initially only about the same number of people in the audience as there were performing, one of whom was a 14 year old boy from Israel. They all agonized onstage about needing to change their dirtier material so as not to harm him, and in the process he almost became a part of the show. He and his mother said they were in Athens because their people were on the wrong side of history. By the end of the performance I was starting to get a little weary of these awkward in-between English speaking spaces, but at the same time the awkwardness and the trying to understand one another seems like part of the project.

OKAY. We made it to today. My late night comedy jaunt set me back and I was kind of feverish today. I didn't want to miss the day's plans and bed rot in the apartment though, so I rallied and made it to the volunteer orientation and an organization in my neighborhood called Khora that provides services to refugees. The meeting was at their free store and when I arrived they were serving their final clients of the day, which included a mom and her two small boys picking up clothes. The orientation was given by a member of the group who explained their non hierarchical structure and consensus based decision making process. We - an exchange student from India and I - were asked to agree to their community guidelines and safety procedures, which I found to be very well thought out. Sadly, the group, which does not accept any government or EU money, is having funding issues and just decided not to renew the lease on their soup kitchen. I do admire the way they arrived at such a hard decision and prioritized the survival of the organization. All in all, the attitude of the place was about doing what you can and treating others with respect while facing the massive injustices of the world with a good humored smile. I'll be going back there for my volunteer shift next week.

My next stop was supposed to be the chess club of Athens, but when I arrived no one was there to answer the door. This may have been an example of "Greek time" - I wonder if they opened later in the evening. Then tonight I went to an English language AA meeting very close to my apartment. It was in a small building dedicated to AA, tucked underneath a staircase in the residential neighborhood. I had never been to an AA meeting before, and admittedly, I'd always been curious about them. There have been other activities I've been to in this program where I was clearly not a part of the target audience, but this was the first time that I felt I really shouldn't have been present. The meeting starts with an explicit statement that it's only for people who are trying not to drink alcohol. Everyone is asked to introduce themselves as alcoholics and share a story of their own experiences. It was emotional and eye-opening, and people were very kind to each other. When it was my turn I said that I didn't feel I could share anything, but that I appreciated the way they cared for each other, and they were very accepting of that. 

[globalworship]

A Visit [by Angels to Mary in Community] (JA Swanson serigraph)

A Visit by John August Swanson, 1995 Image size: 38½” x 14½” Serigraph, 61 colors printed Edition of 250, sold out

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Artist’s Notes

Visit of the Angels (Acrylic on board, 1992), was one of my most elaborate paintings and when I printed it as a serigraph edition it became the most elaborate one that I have done. It presents Mary as a member of a community in which each cares for each other. Usually Mary is represented in paintings by herself and more isolated. I wanted to paint a picture showing her as part of a larger group, village, or community, as she would have been in real life. Her formation and her character would have been formed by the people around her and by the Jewish religion and stories. The African proverb: “It takes a whole village to raise a child” is a timeless one and I am sure that it would have been part of the way things were done in these Biblical times.

In thinking about the people at that time, very few would have had the chance to learn to read. Mary would not have been literate. The demands of everyday life and survival would not have allowed her enough time for that. But she and all the people in the village would have other knowledge, knowledge of oral traditions, knowledge of all the customs, and in great depth. The many stories that I have represented on the walls of the buildings would have been known and thought about by all the people in the village. This knowledge would have been a part of their connections with the ancestors and distant relatives. I have drawn 25 scenes of these Biblical stories to capture their complexity which can be compared to a woven fabric with many threads.

The people are all doing work that helps each other. They are interested in and caring for each other, to make sure of the survival of the village as a whole. All these works are called Mitzvah, the Hebrew word which means to do a good deed or to help others. Each of the groupings of people is doing some work that connects them to or helps the village. Part of the tradition of the Mitzvah is that the angels of God would somehow bless the people who do their work using their talents and doing the best they possibly can for their community.

In many spiritual traditions the philosophy is that the sacred comes through ordinary life. I have tried to show that in this painting. All the people are doing their everyday work that has no grandeur or representation of power over others. So even Mary as the young woman feeding the chickens and sweeping the roadway is the first to be blessed by the angels. They would then go to bless each of the other people in their everyday tasks. I also wanted to show the important scene of the angels announcing to Mary the news of God coming to earth and asking her to participate in this event. The angels continue to visit all of us in our everyday lives, to ask us to allow God to be in our lives and to honor God’s presence in the creation around us.

I had made many drawings considering this scene of the Annunciation. I wanted to connect it to the other paintings and serigraphs of the TRIPTYCH and so I chose the finished drawing to be the format of the elongated shape. The first attempt was a painting called THE ANNUNCIATION, 23” x 7” in 1992. It was more at dusk or early evening and the houses in the village had only elaborate decorations. After I completed this I decided to try to draw it again but have it as a day scene so that I could show more varieties of chores and work that people are doing. I also felt that instead of using the decorations I would like to put small miniatures that would show the oral traditions and stories of their ancestors. This new painting was started in that same year and completed in 1992. I painted it in a larger size (40” x 14”) so that I could work the very fine miniatures into the village scene without straining my eyes.

In 1995 I decided to rework the image into a serigraph called A VISIT. There were changes made in the drawing and colors were changed in the serigraph, differing from the painting. It took me eight months to complete this very complex printing and I drew a stencil for each of the 61 colors printed. https://johnaugustswanson.com/catalog/a-visit/

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 I was delighted to meet John, one of my favorite artists, a few years before he died in 2021.

John’s studio colleagues continue to promote his art here: https://www.facebook.com/JohnAugustSwansonStudio

“His art reflects the strong heritage of storytelling he inherited from his Mexican mother and Swedish father. John Swanson’s narrative is direct and easily understood. He addresses himself to human values, cultural roots, and his quest for self-discovery through visual images.”  http://www.johnaugustswanson.com/

Remembering John August Swanson: a life dedicated to art, faith and justice https://www.americamagazine.org/arts-culture/2021/09/23/john-august-swanson-death-art-241485

The holy simplicity of artist John August Swanson https://www.christiancentury.org/article/features/holy-simplicity-artist-john-august-swanson

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One of the limited edition original serigraphs with this "Visit" image is currently for sale here, price not listed. https://www.eyekons.com/john_swanson_serigraphs/swanson_out_of_print_serigraphs_available

As well as his original serigraphs, you can buy many posters he created - most are $15. https://johnaugustswanson.com/product-category/posters/

[lucky-hammer]

Hi, I'm Luka, and this is my story.

If you're confused, it's because I was Oli when this happened and have changed my name.

Since my story came up, I wanted to post my perspective. Please please message me if you have questions or comments. I am willing to have calm conversations about nearly anything.

Never once did I think this had anything to do with me being queer.

This was simply a difference in beliefs that got well out of hand.

One of the reasons I fell in love with Judaism is the openness to discussion. The draw of the concept of the Talmud was groundbreaking in my little universe where my own family exorcised me and kicked me out of Sunday School for asking too many questions.

I admit I did wrong in this as well. I looked up to her and really wanted to be able to learn from her. I understand it is not her job to educate me, and I would have respected her saying she didn't want to discuss. And I would have respected her not engaging in my discussions.

I am not proud of my reaction, but I stand by standing up for myself. I am the proud owner of family heirlooms and I do not view my display of them as religious. Bringing greenery and lights into the home during a cold, dark winter is a non-religious (ad it predates modern religion) tradition of my German heritage to bring joy and warmth into the home.

My great grandmother hand made a miniature pine tree and all of the tiny ornaments she made herself. It was the first thing my grandmother gave to me when I moved out.

The other is a memorial ornament of my grandfather who died in 2020.

The discussion began with me asking for others to offer opinions on leveling with my history and my new religion during my first winter of study. I was open to hearing others thoughts. I wanted a discussion.

I did not expect someone to take my comment(s) in such bad faith or to tell me that (not word for word, but it seemed to be the vibe) even considering keeping these things means I'm not Jewish enough.

My Judaism is between me, my rabbi, and Hashem.

And we spent a lot of time talking about this after temple, and we came to our own conclusion. But understanding other forms and beliefs of and in Judaism is extremely important to the culture and study of the life I am actively choosing. Other people deserve and are entitled to their own system of beliefs.

I had questions. I asked this group specifically to hear their more conservative takes on the matter. I'm converting into reform and often feel it's not observant enough. My partner is reform, my temple is reform, so I wanted to get other views. Again, it is not anyone's job to teach me just because they're Jewish. Which is likely why there was very little response to most of my inquiries and is very understandable.

In summary:

- i miss you guys

- I'm am very sorry, though I have been told my many that I shouldn't be apologizing. I do think this particular situation was (at minimum) partially my fault

- She was supposed to be on hiatus. She had other things happening in her life and the misinterpretation of my statement must have been a straw to break the camels back and for that I am sorry.

- I'm extremely sad that I am not the only person who has had an experience like this with her.

- I've wanted to work this out for a long time.

[kjack89]

Propaganda

Happy (early) Halloween!

Technically a companion to the other fics I’ve written about Enjolras and Grantaire’s son Max, but you don’t need to have read any of those to read and (hopefully) enjoy this. Also inspired by my drabble from a few weeks ago.

Modern AU, established relationship, kidfic fluff.

“Dad?” Max asked, setting his spoon down into the melted brown puddle in his bowl that had at one point earlier that evening been chocolate ice cream. “Is Daddy gonna be home for Halloween?”

Grantaire’s forehead puckered as he looked at his son, a perfect Enjolras in miniature, from his unruly blond curls right down to the serious expression he currently wore. “You bet he is,” he said firmly, because that was their arrangement.

When Grantaire had broached the topic of having children, Enjolras had been hesitant to agree, but not for the reasons Grantaire had initially expected: Enjolras traveled frequently for work, and that was unlikely to stop in the near future, and he didn’t want to place the burden of raising their kid fully on Grantaire. “We’ll make it work,” he had assured Enjolras at the time, “provided you’re home for the big stuff, and for holidays.”

Of course, getting Enjolras to agree to what constituted a holiday had been a struggle in and of itself (“The High Holy Days?” Enjolras had repeated incredulously. “Neither you nor I are even Jewish!”), but they had landed on a list in the end, and that list, at Grantaire’s insistence, had included Halloween. 

“Why do you ask, Squirt?” Grantaire asked as their son fiddled with his spoon. 

“I want him to see my costume,” Max told him earnestly, and Grantaire smiled with relief that it wasn’t something more serious than that. 

That smile quickly turned into panic when he glanced at the calendar and realized that he had less than a week to get Max a costume. “Uh, speaking of, what do you wanna go as for Halloween this year?”

“Chase,” Max told him, and Grantaire frowned.

“Chase?” he repeated blankly. 

Max nodded. “Yeah,” he said brightly. “From Paw Patrol.”

Grantaire blanched. His conditions for childrearing may have included having Enjolras home for various holidays, but Enjolras’s had staunchly included raising their child to be socially conscious. As a result, their kid was a walking embodiment of everything Fox News feared children were becoming, including with a rudimentary understanding of Critical Race Theory, something that millions of children in America had never and would never be taught in any public school in the entire country.

That also meant that Enjolras had very specific guidelines for what type of entertainment Max could consume, especially before they were able to have what promised to be a long and involved conversation about the role of the military-entertainment complex and the normalization of extrajudicial policing, guidelines that distinctly forbid some popular children’s tv series. Including, especially, Paw Patrol.

Grantaire stared at his son, who seemed completely oblivious to the internal struggle Grantaire was facing right now. Because on the one hand, he understood Enjolras’s concerns and it was an easy enough thing to enforce, and so he should probably nip this in the bud sooner rather than later.

And on the other hand, however this turned out, it was bound to be hilarious.

“Have you, um, been watching Paw Patrol?” he asked cautiously. “You can be honest, I’m not gonna be mad, I promise.”

Max shook his head. “No,” he said.

“Not even when you’re at Uncle Marius’s?” Grantaire asked. Marius, as the only other one of their friends with kids around Max’s age, watched Max a few days a week when Grantaire had to work, and had already suffered the wrath of Enjolras once by letting Max watch Dumbo without properly decrying the stereotypes of the Black-coded crows.

Again Max shook his head. “No, we normally watch Sesame Street.”

Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief, because Enjolras would actually have murdered Marius if that had been the case. “Oh, good, on PBS?”

“HBO.”

Grantaire winced. “We’ll save the conversation about public financing for children’s educational programming for when you’re older.” He looked at Max closely, and decided his best course of action was to take no action at all. “Well, we’ll see what they’ve got at the store, alright?”

Max just shrugged. “Ok,” he said brightly. “Can I go pick out a book to read?”

“You sure can,” Grantaire said, feeling like he’d somehow dodged a bullet and hoping beyond hope that whatever costumes were left at the store did not involve Paw Patrol or police of any kind.

----------

His hopes were dashed sooner than expected, as the next day Max came home from preschool where they had spent craft time making masks for their Halloween costumes, and his was unmistakably a dog with a tiny police hat drawn on clumsily.

Grantaire got Max set up with some coloring and activity books before calling Max’s teacher, Musichetta, ready to give her a piece of his mind.

Or at least, a piece of the best Enjolras impression he could muster.

“Grantaire,” Musichetta said when she answered, sounding surprised. “Is everything alright with Max?”

“Physically, yes,” Grantaire said, perching on the kitchen counter. “Spiritually…”

He trailed off and Musichetta sighed in such a way that Grantaire was certain she had rolled her eyes. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or am I supposed to guess?” she asked dryly. “Because frankly, I get enough of playing guessing games from the children.”

Grantaire laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “But, uh, actually, it’s about Max’s Halloween mask that he made today.”

Musichetta was quiet for a moment as if trying to remember what mask Max had made. “Chase from Paw Patrol?” she said finally, and a little warily. “Do I even want to know what’s wrong with that?”

“Do you want my answer, or Enjolras’s answer?”

“Oh, God.” Grantaire heard the telltale sound of Musichetta pouring herself a cup of coffee before she asked tiredly, “How much am I going to wish this coffee was wine?”

Grantaire considered it. “More than a little, less than a lot.” She muttered something obscene under her breath and he tried not to laugh, schooling his expression into something serious. “Honestly, I’m a little concerned about the sudden interest in Paw Patrol. That’s a TV that Enjolras and I decided not to let him watch due to it being—”

“Don’t say it,” Musichetta groaned.

“—Paw-paganda,” Grantaire finished with a smirk, waiting for her resulting sigh before continuing, more seriously, “So we know it’s not something that he picked up at home, and that leads me to think he may have picked it up at school.”

“Well, no shit Sherlock,” Musichetta said bluntly. “I think at least half the kids have Paw Patrol backpacks or lunch boxes. And Max is smart enough to be able to figure out what Paw Patrol is with even less context than his friends talking about it.”

Grantaire had to chuckle slightly at that, because she wasn’t wrong, but… “Fair enough,” he said, “and make no mistake, he gets that from me, but that still doesn’t explain how my son went from learning vaguely about Paw Patrol through his friends to deciding he wants to be one of the main characters for Halloween. Or, for that matter, why you didn’t discourage him from doing so.”

“Probably because it’s not my job to discourage your son from his interest in a television show for children, no matter how questionable your husband may find the portrayal of the fictional police dog,” Musichetta said with a weary sort of patience. “And as to deciding he wanted to be Chase for Halloween, have you asked Max that question? Because his answer will probably prove more illuminating than mine.”

Grantaire was silent for a long moment. “Am I the worst parent in the world for not even thinking of asking my own damn kid why he wanted to be Chase from Paw Patrol?”

“Worst? No,” Musichetta said. “But you’re probably not bringing home any ‘Parent of the Year’ awards either.”

He barked a laugh and ran a hand across his face. “Harsh but fair.”

Musichetta’s voice softened. “Look, you have a good kid, and you and Enjolras are doing a really good job of raising him to be conscientious and equity-minded. I’m sure whatever reason he had for wanting to be a fictional canine cop for Halloween, it’s not going to undo any of that.”

“Thanks Musichetta,” Grantaire said. “I’ll stop harassing you now.”

Musichetta laughed. “Honestly I wish all my conversations with parents could go as nicely as this one did.”

Grantaire winced. “I can only imagine,” he said before hanging up and looking carefully over at where his son was still studiously coloring, seemingly without a care in the world. 

He took a deep breath before sliding off the counter and heading over to sit down next to Max at the kitchen table. “Hey buddy, can we talk real quick?” he asked. Max shrugged, not looking up from his coloring book, and Grantaire took another deep breath before starting, carefully, “I want to talk about your Halloween costume.” That got Max’s attention, and he set his crayon down as he looked up at Grantaire with wide blue eyes. “So do you remember Daddy teaching you what ACAB means?”

Max nodded enthusiastically. “All cops are bastards!” he practically cheered, and Grantaire grinned.

“Darn right,” he said, his smile fading as he then asked, “And you know that Chase from Paw Patrol is a cop, right?”

Again Max nodded, this time with less enthusiasm. “Yeah.”

Grantaire looked expectantly at him. “So what does that make him?”

Max screwed his face up as he thought about it, then he brightened. “A bastard!”

“You’re exactly right, buddy,” Grantaire said, nodding, and his brow furrowed as he looked at his son closely. “Ok, so, why do you want to go as a bastard for Halloween?”

“Because I wanna be like Daddy.”

It was literally the last thing Grantaire was expecting, and he stared open-mouthed at Max before recovering. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said slowly.

Max shrugged, picking up his crayon again. “Well, you call Daddy a dirty bastard all the time,” he reasoned innocently.

All the blood drained from Grantaire’s face because, well, yeah, he did. Almost always jokingly and apparently less out of Max’s earshot than he had thought. “Well, um,” he started, grasping at anything to say to make this better. “Yes, I do sometimes call Daddy that, but, um, that’s not really what I mean when I say that.”

Max blinked up at him in confusion and Grantaire winced, wondering how in the hell he was supposed to explain his and Enjolras’s way of teasing each other to a four-year-old. “Sometimes adults call each other names when they’re joking. Like a nickname.”

“So Daddy’s nickname is bastard?” Max asked.

Grantaire made a face. “Not...quite,” he said, before deciding to try something different. “So Daddy may be a bastard sometimes, but that doesn’t mean going as a cop for Halloween is going as your Daddy. Because Daddy is a bastard but he’s not a cop.” Max was staring at him like he was completely lost and Grantaire winced again. “It’s like...you know how all squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares?” Max shook his head and Grantaire sighed. “Not at that part of geometry yet, huh. Ok, well…” He cast around for another example. “Ok, it’s like broccoli.”

Max wrinkled his nose. “Ewww,” he said, drawing the syllable out, and Grantaire smiled with relief.

“Exactly,” he said. “You don’t like broccoli. And broccoli is a vegetable. But there are vegetables you like, right? Like you like green peppers, and carrots—”

Max nodded seriously. “So some cops are good.”

Grantaire blanched. “No,” he said quickly. “No, uh, that is, uh, not– not where this was supposed to be going.” He ran a hand across his face again. “No, um, what I meant is, broccoli is a vegetable. But not all vegetables are broccoli, right? Like, you wouldn’t call spinach broccoli, right?”

Max giggled. “No.”

“And you wouldn’t call tomatoes broccoli, and they’re a vegetable.”

“Tomatoes are a fruit,” Max told him seriously.

Grantaire took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten. “You know what, squirt, you’re absolutely right, but here in the United States of America, the Supreme Court – you remember Daddy talking about the Supreme Court? They decided that tomatoes are vegetables, so for the purpose of this conversation, how about we pretend, ok?”

Max shrugged. “Ok.”

“Ok, so tomatoes are vegetables, and…” He trailed off. “I don’t even remember where I was going with this.” He looked at his son, who, judging by the way he was shifting in his seat, was rapidly losing interest in this conversation. “You know what? Let’s try something different.”

----------

“Daddy!” Max screamed at the top of his lungs, launching himself at Enjolras the moment he walked in the door.

Enjolras groaned as he scooped Max up, carefully shifting his bag so that he could hold both child and bag without dropping either. “Hey, buddy,” he said tiredly, kissing Max’s cheek. “I’m really glad to see you, too.”

He crossed to Grantaire, a slow smile erasing all the exhaustion from his face as he looked at him. “And hello to you, too,” he murmured, before leaning in and kissing him.

“Gross,” Max giggled, squirming until Enjolras set him down on the ground, at which point he ran excitedly back to his toys.

Grantaire rolled his eyes affectionately, grabbing Enjolras by the shirt collar to pull him into another kiss. “For what it’s worth, I’m really glad to see you as well,” he said.

Enjolras smiled before setting his bag down and groaning, rolling his shoulders to relieve them of tension. “Dare I ask why our son is dressed as a pig?” he asked conversationally as Grantaire went to pour them both glasses of wine.

“It’s his Halloween costume,” he told Enjolras, passing him a glass of wine.

Enjolras arched an eyebrow as he took in the bright pink outfit complete with fake plastic pig nose and ears and curly tail poking out of his pink sweatpants. “And why is our son going as a pig for Halloween?”

Grantaire took a sip of wine before assuring him, “Oh, he’s not a pig.”

“He’s not.”

“No,” Grantaire said sweetly, before raising his voice to call to Max, “Sweetheart, why don’t you tell Daddy what you’re going as for Halloween?”

Max beamed up at them. “I’m you!”

Enjolras’s expression went from amused to confused. “I’m a pig?” he asked Grantaire in an undertone.

Grantaire smirked. “No, you’re a bastard.”

Enjolras frowned. “I missed something.”

“Yes you did,” Grantaire agreed, kissing him once more, but instead of laughing, Enjolras’s expression fell slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Grantaire frowned. “What?” he said, taking another sip of wine. “Don’t be. You’re here for the important part.”

Enjolras looked over at where Max was playing. “I feel like I’m not,” he admitted.

“What do you mean?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras shrugged. “I just feel like there’s so much that I’m missing out on,” he said tiredly. “The least of which is whatever happened that led to our son dressing as a pig for Halloween.”

“If it makes you feel better, the easiest explanation is not exactly a stellar parenting moment for me,” Grantaire told him with a half-smile, one that faded when it wasn’t returned. “Well, there’s an easy solution for that, you know.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “To feeling like I’m missing out on things, or to your lack of stellar parenting moments?” he asked, clearly aiming for a joke but not even bothering to wait to see if it landed. “Look, I know you’re going to tell me that I should be home more often, and if you’re not happy with our arrangement—”

“I have no issues with our arrangement,” Grantaire returned, a little coolly. “You’re the one who doesn’t seem happy with how things are right now, and I’m just pointing out an obvious solution.”

Enjolras sighed, looking back over at Max. “I’m not unhappy, per se,” he hedged. “I just – I don’t want to miss this.”

Grantaire nodded slowly, and he nudged Enjolras gently with his elbow. “For what it’s worth, I know at least one kid dressed as a pig who would be really happy if you were home more.”

“Oh, just a kid dressed as a pig?” Enjolras asked with a smile, wrapping an arm around Grantaire’s waist. “Not, say, my husband of six years?”

“Who, me? Perish the thought.” Grantaire took another swig of wine before adding contemplatively, “We’d probably end up divorced if you started spending too much time at home.”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed, and his grip around Grantaire’s waist tightened. “Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire told him, as sincerely as he could. “Besides, there’s no way I would divorce you.”

Enjolras set his glass of wine down on the counter to wrap both his arms around Grantaire’s waist from behind, resting his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Because you love me too much?” he asked, his voice low in Grantaire’s ear.

Grantaire let out a hum of agreement. “That too, I suppose,” he said, turning his head to kiss Enjolras’s cheek before smiling and adding, “I was thinking more that I’ve got four more years until I can take half your assets in the divorce.”

Enjolras snorted a laugh. “Asshole.”

Grantaire laughed. “Careful,” he warned, leaning his head against Enjolras’s chest, “or our son’s going to want to dress as that for next Halloween.”

He couldn’t see Enjolras’s face from his angle, but he knew him well enough to tell that he furrowed his brow at that. “Have you been calling me a pig while I’ve been away?” Enjolras asked, a teasing lilt to his accusation.

“No,” Grantaire told him, honestly. “I’ve been calling you a bastard.”

Enjolras laughed lightly at that. “Fair enough,” he murmured, kissing the top of Grantaire’s head. “But I’m not sure I follow the correlation between that and Max dressing as a pig.”

Grantaire tilted his head back to capture Enjolras’s lips in a kiss. “Don’t worry,” he assured him teasingly, “I’ll explain it to you when you’re older.”

[felinisfeloney]

with everything going on and the state of protests and what my grandma has been doing I keep thinking over the first time I realized- genuinely realized, that she didn’t see me as white. It was the moment I realized that when she had disdain for my love of fantasy and magic that she believed it was something I inherited. We were at a botanical garden that had these beautiful tiny miniature places of worship and I loving architecture stepped inside the catholic church first and loved it. It was simple but warm in its design.

Grandma said it was nice for being Catholic and I’m not sure how but we ended up talking about founding of religions and world mythology. And I remember the warm wood and the light in that tiny stained glass window as she touched my curls and said “It’s too bad you inherited your father’s dirtiness.” She said it so sweetly. Like it didn’t occur to her what those words meant. 

Like she didn’t call dad a dirty Jew 

She got bolder after that and would say to my brother how dad was a ‘dirty Jew’ and that I was bound for hell. My brother was never the one called out on this and I genuinely believe it came down to the fact that my brother looked white without question. My brother would burn in the sun and he had fair straight brown hair and light eyes. I inherited my dad’s dark hair and eyes along with mom’s Cherokee nose. The curls that make my hair unmanageable and if I stand in the sun enough I don’t burn instead my ‘heritage shows’ as Grandma put it.

I for all standpoints do not appear to most as anything but white. On legal documents I check white because there isn’t an option that says ‘it’s complicated but white supremist wouldn’t want me alive despite all appearances and have been bullied enough that it feels uncomfortable to say even though it is true’. I have never been exposed to the indigenous part of my mom’s heritage and neither was she. I have no claim to it and it’s likely only 1/8th which is next to nothing. I am half-Jewish with a quarter Sephardic along with the other quarter Ashkenazi and because of my childhood I struggled to take part in Judaism in most cases despite wanting to. And yet, despite all this distance every mention of my Jewishness and every time I brought it up would take me one step away from white. One step away from being someone people were completely okay with. After 9/11 happened my dad who’s very tan whenever he came to my elementary school I remember that people would suddenly seem uncomfortable. He’s told me stories about being stopped because he’s got that dark goatee and that slight brown tone. That he’s been called the face of Satan. I remember being asked for my ‘Jewish opinions’ or being told my cheapness made sense. People assuming I was rich or a grifter when I’m a ditz who usually just forgets my wallet. I have been unfortunately called ‘not white enough for Texas’ by children who were my age. 

I have been privileged to never had people call me out on the street. To be attacked by a Karen or police for just existing in a space. I have never experienced that but I also know what it is like to have relatives who say protesters deserve to be hurt and that it’s only natural I would side with the BLM movement because I’m ‘one of them’. No. I am siding because police brutality has always been wrong and because people of color don’t deserve to live a life where they can expect law enforcement to kill them. Because human right’s are not a thing to debate. I am not the target for this movement but I sure as hell support everything it stands for. I have only ever tasted the tip of racism and it made me want to regret who I was so what of people who truly experience it? What of those horrors I hear in pieces that make my heart weep and my body shiver? What of people who are actual minorities and not whatever I am? They are who matters now and I will support them. I will do what I can to help them.

Because it is what is right.

[impressivepress]

Matisse And The Nationalism of Vichy, 1940-44

How did André Derain, Maurice de Vlaminck, Andre Dunoyer de Segonzac and Henri Matisse fare in Paris during the Nazi occupation 1940-44? Given that their Fauve works in German museums had been seized by the Nazis, sold for cash or possibly destroyed in a bonfire of degenerate art, were they and their works then banned in France?

This was not the case. The Nazi occupiers did check poster announcements and visit art exhibitions before they opened to the public, but they interfered minimally in the artistic life of Paris, and confined their nefarious activities to slashing paintings by Jewish artists still hanging on gallery walls. As for Paris salons, at the Salon d’Automne for example, French-born artists in good standing could continue to exhibit there as long as they placed their signatures onto a document headed, "I certify that I am French and not Jewish." My source for this is the pages of signatures from the 1942 Salon d’Automne. Finally, to the extent that the Vichy government retained any autonomy on what went on in occupied Paris, it welcomed the rebirth of art like early Fauve painting which, as the last modern art movement said to be rooted in a purely French tradition, coincided with its own nationalist agenda.

A group show of Fauve paintings ("Les Fauves 1903-1908") took place at Galerie de France in June 1942. Opened on Feb. 8, 1942, its inauguration was held under the aegis of Louis Hautecoeur, head of the fine arts department in the Vichy government at that time. At the reopening of the Musée National d’art moderne, a state institution, in August 1942, paintings by the Fauves were very much in evidence. When that show traveled to Switzerland, Spain and Portugal, the Fauve contingent was there as well. In 1943, a book on the Fauves came out at éditions du Chène with a text by Gaston Diehl. Also in 1943, Comoedia Charpentier published a collection of interviews -- most of them with Fauve artists.

How much Matisse partook of this officially sanctioned revival of the Fauve movement is a question posed in my book, Artists under Vichy, published by Princeton University Press in 1992. My answer -- or rather my very questioning -- has displeased Hilary Spurling, the author of Matisse the Master, the second volume of her much-praised biography. According to Spurling, I intimated that Matisse’s attitude during the Occupation years meant psychological collusion or passive collaboration with the "Fascist authorities." "Psychological collusion," "passive collaboration" -- these words are not mine. As for the "Fascist authorities," implied in this collusion or collaboration, although there was communication and much "collaboration" between the pro-fascist government of Pétain run out of the French town of Vichy and the Nazi occupiers who ruled from Berlin, they were quite separate entities and it was possible for a French person to be anti-Nazi and pro-Vichy.

There is no question that Matisse managed to steer clear of the Nazis by living in the South of France, mostly in Nice, a city in the non-occupied zone of France run by Vichy -- until all of France was occupied following the Allies’ landings in North Africa. Unlike his former comrades Vlaminck and Derain, he did not prostitute himself by going on a trip to Nazi Germany in the company of SS officers, and did not ooh and aah at the sight of National Socialist art the way they did. He did not attend the parties given at the German embassy in Paris. While this forbearance suggests that he did not collaborate with the Nazis, it does not say anything about his views of the regime of Vichy.

Through his art and through his words, Matisse did accompany the Fauve revival -- albeit from a distance. Considering the serious operation the artist underwent in early 1941, and the fragile state of his health thereafter, his active participation in the art life of France at that time is that much more surprising. In addition to giving interviews to the art critics of the period, Matisse spoke on the Radio Diffusion Nationale de Nice, a branch of the official Vichy radio. All these interviews -- concerned with artistic issues -- were published in officially sanctioned publications of that time: Comoedia, Nouvelle Revue Francaise, Les Beaux Arts, Le Rouge et le Bleu. Matisse’s paintings were on view with other Fauve painters at the Salon d’Automne of 1943 and in the group shows of Galerie Charpentier. A number of his works were included in the show of "Les Fauves" at the Galerie de France in June 1942, and in the exhibition of modern French art officially sent to Spain in 1943. The Vichy government bought two drawings from his show of recent drawings at Galerie Louis Carré in 1941. Books illustrated by the great master came out at that time. This information is easily verifiable, and given in more detail in my text and in texts cited in my bibliography. If nothing else, these facts suggest that Matisse’s name and his art were appropriated by the Vichy regime.

The question I did not fully resolve in 1992 was whether the great master was unaware of being appropriated by Vichy, or supremely indifferent to the context in which his work was shown. What I noticed and wrote about in my second book on the Vichy years, their antecedents and their sequel (French Modernisms, Cambridge University Press, 2001), is that Matisse had already displayed his indifference to context by allowing work from his studio (Branch of Lilac, 1914) to be on view in Berlin in 1937 at an exhibition of modern French art co-organized by the Nazi and French governments. Only artists born on French soil -- and their birthplace was clearly indicated in the catalogue -- were considered French enough to represent French art in this repugnant German context. Fauve painting was present, but not the work of the foreigner Picasso nor the work of the Jews Chagall and Soutine, among the so-called foreigners who had made France their patrie.

This rarely discussed exhibition of modern French art in Nazi Berlin, held the same year as the show of degenerate art in Munich, was positively reviewed in the art press of Nazi Germany at that time, and succeeded in stirring confusion in the minds of those who assumed that all vanguard French art was anathema to Hitler and his cultural henchmen. Hitler visited the exhibition, and apparently acquired a small sculpture by Aristide Maillol. I have no information on any other purchase of French art by Hitler, or by Goering, an aficionado of modern French art.

Matisse’s supreme indifference to the context in which his work was shown (and his thoughts published and aired) is not enough to say that Matisse shared the nationalism of Vichy. What can be said is that for several years prior to World War II, the art world had been divided between a Franco-French Ecole Française rooted in French tradition, and a foreign-born (and often Jewish) Ecole de Paris. During this period, Matisse had, at least on one occasion, expressed his views on the subject of art and its national traditions. That was in December 1924, at the time of his first major retrospective in Copenhagen, at the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek (September-December 1924) when he was interviewed by the Danish critic Finn Hoffmann.

In the final chapter of an anthology entitled L’Art face a la crise 1929-1939, published in 1980, the French art historian Jean Laude discusses this interview: "As for the problem of a national content of painting, Henri Matisse declares in 1924, in an interview with the Danish critic Finn Hoffmann, ‘I do not consider as a positive thing in every aspect that so many foreign artists come to Paris. The consequence is often that these painters bear a cosmopolitan imprint that many people consider as specifically French. French painters are not cosmopolitan. . . ‘." A little further, Matisse specifies with the same interviewer that in his teaching, he always stressed the need to ground oneself on a national heritage "which is what I have done for myself." Jean Laude, hardly a lightweight art historian, cites as his source for this passage the Danish review Buen (no.2, December 1924), translated into French in the journal Macula (no. 1, 1976). That journal can be consulted at the library of the Institute of Fine Arts of New York University.

By describing French artists as "not cosmopolitan," by advising his students to ground their art in a national heritage and by saying that he himself had grounded his art in a national heritage, Matisse -- who rarely can be caught off guard on any subject -- did give himself away as a partisan of the national content of painting. The view expressed in that interview was more than an off-the-cuff "single remark" (Spurling’s words), it was the expression of a position in a serious debate that was to become exclusionary during Vichy and involved the issue of artistic decadence in Ecole de Paris painting, the nefarious influence of foreign talent on French art, and the work of Pablo Picasso.

By what formal criteria a member of the Ecole de Paris could be distinguished from a member of the Ecole Française was not always clear. Yet supporters of the Ecole Française argued firmly for the cultivation of national traditions. The pro-Ecole Française critic Louis Vauxcelles pointed a finger at the "barbarian horde" (Ecole de Paris foreigners) who "have never really looked at Poussin and Corot, never read a fable by la Fontaine, ignore and, in the bottom of their hearts, look down on what Renoir has called the gentleness of the French School."

Matisse’s advice to his Danish counterparts, that they must follow his lead and ground themselves in their national tradition, was not exactly genuine, for Matisse himself had looked at art beyond his national heritage, at exotic textiles, at art from Africa and Oceania, at Persian miniatures and at Vincent van Gogh, but his words echoed the views of Franco-French artists who reeled at the success of non-French artists on the Paris scene at that time, Chagall, Soutine and Picasso among them. Foreign artists, Matisse was saying, would be well advised to stay in their own country, search for their own national traditions, and let French art flourish in France. Of course, this was 1924, and between then and the years of the Vichy regime, Matisse could well have changed his views.

Indeed, much has been made of Matisse’s "delicate" position during the war due to the Resistance activities of close members of his family. The arrest of his wife and daughter, about which he learned two days after the event, was greeted by him as "the greatest shock of my life," he told the painter Charles Camoin in a letter of May 5, 1944. "It is very delicate, right now, it is very compromising," he added. Compromising as it was for Matisse to get involved in the fate of these family members, Matisse did activate himself on their behalf. He asked Camoin to intervene with friends in Paris. The playwright Sacha Guitry acknowledges in his memoirs being contacted. Madame Matisse was imprisoned but not deported, and survived the war. So did Marguerite, though she was tortured by the Gestapo, and escaped from a train headed for a concentration camp. It is more than likely that Matisse’s intervention was of some help, at least to Amélie. But Madame Matisse and her daughter lived apart from the master in concrete and spiritual ways. And, it was not infrequent during those years for family members to hold divergent political ideas.

It is hard to know what to make of Matisse’s remark upon hearing the news of Vlaminck’s arrest as a collaborator after the Liberation of Paris in August 1944. In a letter to Charles Camoin on November 16, 1944, he says, "Basically, I think that one should not torment those who have diverging ideas from one’s own, but that is what today is called la Liberté." On the one hand, Matisse’s tolerance of diverging ideas in art was magnanimous, but his lack of political commitment meant one less voice on the side of "la Liberté" during Vichy, and an important one at that. The fact that Vlaminck had been on the side of those who caused Amélie and Marguerite great harm during the Occupation years escapes the great master’s consciousness. Yet had there been fewer individuals sharing Vlaminck’s ideas, and more of them on the side of Amélie and Marguerite, human lives would have been saved.

Finally, Matisse’s poor state of health has put into question any notion that the artist could have had an indulgent life style and many friends around him during the war years. However, while his age and infirmities might preclude an indulgent sexual life, his fragile state of health did not cause him to be isolated. That is an absurd idea. The artist remained in touch with the outside world through the visits of collectors (Pierre Levy), dealers (Louis Carre, Martin Fabiani), art book publishers (Albert Skira), biographers (Pierre Courthion, Louis Aragon), journalists and artist friends. He even took a trip to Switzerland. Throughout that period, the old Fauve painter Charles Camoin, a longtime friend, is one of Matisse’s most loyal ears and eyes. "I saw your beautiful ensemble, exploding with color, at the Salon [d’Automne] where your influence can be felt," Camoin reports on November 10, 1943. Indeed, the most written-about painters in France at that time, shown under the collective label Bleu Blanc Rouge, used a vivid palette in their paintings, inspired by Matisse’s bold harmonies.

Overall, reading through Matisse’s correspondence with Camoin in La Revue de l’Art (12, 1971) makes me suspect that Matisse’s behavior during Vichy had little to do directly with the presence of Marshall Pétain at the helm of the French government. The master could accommodate himself with "any regime, any religion, so long as each morning, at eight o’clock I can find my light, my model and my easel." Or so he told Georges Duthuit. (Transition Forty Nine, no. 5, December 1949, p. 115). What was a more likely influence on his behavior was the absence of Picasso from the Paris art scene. For four years, Picasso, the foreigner, did not have a single exhibition of his recent work, and Matisse had the limelight all to himself. During Vichy, the foreigner who had successfully competed with the equally famous French artist (on the latter’s turf, so to speak) was not on view. At a time of French nationalism and Fascism in Franco’s Spain, the Loyalist Picasso and his art, symbols of Judeo-Marxist foreign decadence in France, were in purgatory.

Not only were the ex- and old Fauves going to triumph at the Salons, in the galleries and elsewhere during Vichy, but they could, like Vlaminck, publish anti-Picasso diatribes in the French press (Comoedia, 6 June, 1942). They could also rise in anger when someone dared to say positive things about Picasso. Thus, Camoin tells Matisse in August 1941, after reporting on a talk in which a "Jewish" lecturer had called Picasso the greatest French painter of our time, because he has done the French the honor of coming to France to work: "I left before the end. . . . It is another proof of the hold of the Jews in our era, out of which the judeo métèque [central European] style has emerged for which Picasso is the inspiration."

In August 1944 came the Liberation of Paris, and the first Autumn Salon to be held in the newly freed city. This time Picasso is given a room of his own that he fills with examples of his wartime production. It is a triumphant return for Picasso, marred, however, by disturbances that have remained unattributed. On Nov. 16, 1944, Matisse wrote a letter to Camoin: "Have you seen the Picasso room? It is much talked about. There were demonstrations in the street against it. What success! If there is applause, whistle." One can guess who the demonstrators might have been -- cronies of the Fauves, still ranting against the Judeo-Marxist decadent Picasso.

~ Michele C. Cone.

MICHÈLE C. CONE is a New York-based critic and historian. Her latest book is French Modernisms: Perspectives on Art before, during and after Vichy (Cambridge 2001).

[chiseler]

Hello, Molly

Molly Picon stopped growing when she was a kid and topped out at around four foot eight -- four-eleven standing on her tiptoes, she liked to say. The biggest thing about her was her impish Betty Boop eyes. But she packed a lot of energy and spirit into that miniature package. She could and would do anything to amuse an audience -- sing, dance, do a somersault, climb a rope, crack jokes, wear blackface or boy's knickers. She played gamins, waifs, soubrettes well into her matronly years. The one thing she wouldn't and maybe couldn't do was to hide or even just tone down her essential Jewishness to appeal to the goys in the mainstream audience. It sets her apart from many other Jewish entertainers of her day. Whether she was performing in Yiddish or English, on Second Avenue or in Hollywood, there was never any question that Molly Picon was Jewish. Very Jewish.

She was born Malka Pyekoon on the Lower East Side in 1898, in a fourth-floor back bedroom of a tenement on Broome Street near Bowery. Her mother was a seamstress who'd escaped the pogroms near Kiev as one of a dozen children. Her father was an educated man from Warsaw who was never happy doing an immigrant's menial labor in America, so he did as little as he could. He also turned out to have a previous wife back in Poland he'd never legally divorced. He drifted in and mostly out of Molly and her sister Helen's lives. Decades later, when Molly became well-off and world famous, he'd drift back into hers, to borrow money.

Their mother and grandmother picked up and moved the girls to Philadelphia, where Mom became a seamstress at a Yiddish theater and took in boarders. Later she'd run a small grocery store. The story of how Molly got her start in show business -- like many of the tales in her charming and irrepressibly schmaltzy memoir Molly! -- is too good not to be true. When Molly was five her mother, who made all her daughters' clothes out of odds and ends, stitched her up a fine outfit and took her on a trolley headed for amateur night at a burlesque theater, the Bijou. On the trolley a drunk challenged the little girl to show him her act. She sang and danced in the aisle. Charmed, he passed the hat and collected two dollars. At the Bijou the audience tossed pennies on the stage while she performed. She also won the first prize, a five dollar gold piece. Her grandmother was astonished at the ten dollars she'd earned -- roughly a week's wages for an adult worker. When her mother said she was going to start taking her around to all the amateur contests, her grandmother said forget the theaters, there weren't enough in Philadelphia -- just keep taking her on the trolley.

Boris Thomashefsky's brother Mike ran Philadelphia's Columbia Theatre. He soon put Molly and Helen in a Yiddish production of Uncle Tom's Cabin, Helen as Little Eva, Molly in blackface as Topsy. Molly, billed as Baby Margaret, continued to act through her childhood. She dropped out of high school in 1915 to tour small-time vaudeville in a female quartet, the Four Seasons. In Boston in 1918 she visited a Yiddish theater group who performed one night a week at the Grand Opera House, a large but no longer grand theater in the South End that staged wrestling and boxing the rest of the week. One of the young actors she met there was Muni Weisenfreund; ten years later he'd go to Hollywood and become Paul Muni.

Jacob Kalich, who ran the theater company, came (like Weisenfreund) from Galicia, a province on the Austro-Hungarian empire. He'd studied to be a rabbi but then fell in with traveling Yiddish theater troupes. He'd slipped into America without a passport and speaking no English in 1914. Kalich hired Molly away from the Seasons, they fell in love and were married the next year in the back room of her mother's grocery store. According to Molly's memoir, her mother stitched her wedding gown from a stage curtain.

Yonkel, as Molly called Kalich, wrote parts and whole plays specifically for his new wife. One was Yonkele, an operetta in which she wore boy's clothes and sang, danced and did her somersaults as a kind of Yiddish Dennis the Menace. Kalich was unsuccessful in trying to get one of the Yiddish theaters on Second Avenue interested. On the Lower East Side as in American theater generally, leading ladies tended to be stately Lillian Russell grandes dames, not petite gamins in knickers.

After a child was stillborn in 1920 Kalich distracted Molly with a new project. They sailed for Europe. His plan was to make her a star (and improve her Yiddish) in the theaters there, then return in triumph. They started in Paris, where Yonkele was a hit, then toured it around Europe for two years. In her memoir she says they did three thousand performances, almost surely an exaggeration, but they did keep busy, and her star kept growing. She made her first Yiddish-themed silent films in Vienna starting in 1921, playing a sassy soubrette or a boy. When they were in Bucharest hundreds of university students shouting anti-Semitic slurs rioted in and outside of a theater where she was performing. They may have been put up to it by the Romanian National Theatre, which was losing business to Picon. It was time to come home.

Jews around Europe had been writing their American relations about the wonderful new star. Kalich's plan had worked. By 1922 the Second Avenue Theatre near Second Street was happy to host Yonkele and anything else Kalich put together, as long as it had Picon in it -- Gypsy Girl, The Circus Girl, Schmendrick, Oy is dus a Madel (Oh, What a Girl!). Picon played to houses packed not just with Yiddish-speaking Lower East Siders but with celebrities like Greta Garbo, Mayor Jimmy Walker, Albert Einstein and D. W. Griffith. Griffith was on the downside of a long career by then and tried, without success, to raise money for a film starring Picon. Flo Ziegfeld and his wife Billie Burke (the good witch in Wizard of Oz) came over from Broadway to see Molly perform. Afterward, Yonkel and Molly took them to a Jewish restaurant, where the waiter covered the table with plates of pickles, sauerkraut, fried steak, radishes slathered in schmaltz. The very goy Burke asked the waiter if she might have some vegetables. What, he snorted, pickles and sauerkraut aren't vegetables?

Picon was such a star that Kalich got the idea of renaming the theater the Molly Picon Theatre. When their packed performance schedule there permitted, they toured Yiddish theaters around the country. Later, Jews who had fled Eastern Europe for South America organized a tour for her there. She would also tour South Africa.

She returned to vaudeville in a big way, headlining at the Palace in Times Square with Sophie Tucker. Picon sang half her songs in English, Tucker sang half of hers in Yiddish, and they triumphed. When Picon played the Palace in Chicago, Al Capone (who had started out on the Lower East Side himself) bought out the first three rows. After the show he took Picon and Kalich out to dinner. At his request she sang "The Rabbi's Melody" (a big hit on Second Avenue) and, she claims, he "cried like a baby." For the rest of her career she introduced it as "the song that made Al Capone cry."

The crash of 1929 ruined Picon and Kalich along with everybody else. They scrambled to get back on their feet. They took over the grand Yiddish Art Theatre on Second Avenue and renamed it Molly Picon's Folks Theatre. In 1936 she and Yonkel sailed back to Europe to film a Yiddish musical in Poland, Yidl mitn Fidl (Yidl with a Fiddle). She plays a penniless girl who disguises herself as a boy to join a band of traveling musicians. Location shooting took place in Kazimierz, the once grand, now bedraggled Jewish zone in Krakow. They recruited the whole neighborhood as extras for a big wedding scene that took days to shoot. Few if any of the locals, deeply Orthodox and very poor, had ever seen a movie. They marveled at the food that kept appearing as scenes of the wedding feast were shot and reshot.

Yidl was a hit with Yiddish audiences worldwide. It inspired one of Hollywood's great eccentrics, director Edgar G. Ulmer, to shoot a couple of his own Yiddish films in America. Ulmer, another Jewish immigrant from the Austro-Hungarian empire, had started his career in Hollywood directing the 1934 Karloff-Lugosi vehicle The Black Cat for Carl Laemmle's Universal Pictures. On the set he met and stole the wife of one of Laemmle's nephews, for which the mogul reputedly banished him from Hollywood. Ulmer drifted to New York. When he saw Yidl drawing big crowds on Second Avenue he started a small Yiddish production company, Collective Film Producers, and filmed Grine Felder (Green Fields), recreating the shtetl in a field in New Jersey on a shoestring budget. Ulmer spoke no Yiddish himself, so he hired the Second Avenue star Jacob Ben-Ami as co-director and go-between with the cast of Second Avenue actors. The movie went on to be one of the most praised in the history of Yiddish film. (Ulmer later went back to Hollywood and a now-celebrated career as a Poverty Row maker of lowest-budget B's, ranging from brilliantly idiosyncratic noir like Detour to zero-budget sci-fi like Beyond the Time Barrier.)

As the 1930s drew to a close, Picon and Kalich saw that they were playing to the same dwindling and aging audiences over and over. Yiddish was dying out among the American-born children of immigrants, taking Yiddish theater with it. Although they would continue to work on Second Avenue through the 1950s, Picon still playing Yonkele in her fifties, it was clear they needed to work harder to crack the mainstream.

In 1940 she took her first serious roll on Broadway in Morningstar, a short-lived and soon-forgotten drama notable mostly for her spot in it and that of a thirteen-year-old actor named Sidney Lumet. In 1942 she returned to Broadway with a big gamble, her and Yonkel's musical Oy Is Dus a Leben! (Oh Is This a Life!), the first Yiddish play on Broadway. It was a vanity piece about Molly's life and their marriage, and they played themselves on stage. The Al Jolson Theatre -- where Jolson had taken thirty-seven curtain calls on the opening night of the revue Bombo in 1921 -- was renamed the Molly Picon Theatre for the occasion. The Times' Brooks Atkinson (who later got a theater named for him, too) caught the opening night, when the house was packed solid with fans and Molly pulled out all the stops. They adored her; Atkinson, who was as goyish as Molly was Jewish, thought she overplayed and mugged for them too much, coming off "gauche and coy." Atkinson was the most powerful theater critic in New York at the time, and his reviews made or broke plays. But his tepid response to Oy Is Dus a Leben! couldn't overpower Picon's appeal with Jewish audiences. The show ran for a respectable seventeen weeks, and she claims it only ended when the producers, feeling that they'd shown it to every Jew in New York by then, decided to quit while they were ahead.

During World War Two Picon did many USO concerts, played every military base she could get to, joined in many all-star benefits for refugees. She stands out in a very brief and uncredited scene in The Naked City, the 1948 cop movie inspired by Weegee's book. She runs a soda fountain at the corner of Norfolk and Rivington Streets. "Got any cold root beer?" a detective asks her. "Like ice!" she replies, then goes into a bit of endearing Yiddishe mamele schtick. After that, while she remained very busy on stage and did some tv, there was nothing much from Hollywood until 1963, when she played Frank Sinatra's mom in the screen version of Neil Simon's Come Blow Your Horn. When Frank had signed on they changed Simon's Jewish family to Italian to accommodate him. Then they hired Picon and changed it back to Jewish. This turned into a problem for Lee J. Cobb, who played the father despite being just four years older than Frank; they gave Cobb old man make-up to age him and put a wig on Frank to make him look younger. Cobb was Jewish, born Leo Jacob in the Bronx, but he hadn't played Jewish in years. He had to relearn it. It's not a good movie but it was a box office success and Picon earned an Oscar nomination for her performance.

In 1961 she was in another hit on Broadway, Milk and Honey, a Jerry Herman (Hello, Dolly!) musical comedy about a busload of Jewish widows from America trying to find new husbands in Israel. She was in her early sixties, but still managed to work a somersault into the part. When she left the show to go film Come Blow Your Horn, Hermione Gingold replaced her.

Then Fiddler on the Roof opened on Broadway in 1964. It was a record-setting hit that ran until July 1972. Picon was not in it. The role of Yente the matchmaker went to Bea Arthur. But when Norman Jewison -- not himself Jewish, despite the name -- put together the cast for the 1971 film adaptation, he studied Yidl mitn Fidl for background and hired Picon for Yente. Inarguably the schmaltziest Hollywood film ever made about Jews, it was the perfect setting for her and remains the role she's most known for today.

After Yonkel died in 1975 she gradually withdrew from the public eye, puttering around in their home up the Hudson, which they'd named Chez Schmendrick. She wrote her memoir, did a little more tv (Grandma Mona on The Facts of Life) and a couple more movies (Mrs. Goldfarb in The Cannonball Run and Cannonball Run II), and in 1979 toured a one-woman show, Hello, Molly! But her own health was deteriorating. She lived her last decade quietly and was ninety-three when she died in 1992.

by John Strausbaugh

[radarsteddybear]

My sister keeps bugging me to post about our vacation, so…here we go.

Part I–Amsterdam

A few things about Amsterdam:

Bicycling is HUGE there--there are more bicycles than people, since a lot of people own more than one (a ratty one for day-to-day use, a nicer one for more focused riding, I guess), and bicyclists will run you down if you’re in their way.  This can make crossing bike lanes (of which there are many) very treacherous.

Marijuana is also very big there, as is smoking regular old tobacco.  It seemed like we couldn’t walk ten steps without smelling some kind of smoke.  It was pretty gross.  

We also saw a lot of litter, at least in the parts of the city we were in.  Especially in the mornings before the street sweeper trucks would come by and clean it up.  There were still often piles of trash near the public garbage cans, through.

It’s a very pretty city.  Lots of canals and row homes.  Most of the row homes are very narrow because, at one point in time, they were taxed based on how much ground space they took up, so people built up rather than out.  This also means that the stairways inside are very narrow, making large furniture extremely difficult (if not impossible) to bring to the higher floors; people solved this problem by putting hooks at the tops of the outsides of the buildings so that they could hoist their furniture up and down with ropes.  Some of the houses even tilt outwards to help keep that furniture from bumping into the outer facade.

Another thing about Amsterdam (at least in the part of the city we were in) is that there are a lot of places to get different types of foreign food.  We had Italian food, Irish food, and Asian food while we were there.  We didn’t have a lot of Dutch food other than pancakes and stroopwaffles.  They were good, though.  And so was that Irish food.

Apparently in Amsterdam you can put a sticker on your mailbox to indicate whether or not you want to receive junk mail and ads, and enough people have indicated that no, they don’t want junk mail that nobody really bothers to send any.  I’m envious.

Anyway, in Amsterdam, we went to the Rijks Museum, which is the same sort of museum as the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC or the Louvre in Paris--it’s got some famous paintings, like the Night Watch and the Van Goghs up there, and it’s also got a ton of other paintings and things that nobody’s ever heard of with the aim of being as comprehensive and complete as they can.  This includes the Delft pottery violin and the small biplane pictured.  It’s pretty cool, but a little overwhelming.  Unfortunately, we didn’t get enough time there because our travel agent sucked and thought that two museums in one day is a perfectly fine, reasonable thing to do.  But we did, of course, stop off at the gift shop.

After the Rijks Museum, we ran over to the Van Gogh Museum for a guided tour.  The tour itself was superb.  It was amazing to go through the museum while hearing about Vincent Van Gogh’s life and how and why his work changed.  Unfortunately, you can’t take pictures in that museum, so I have none. 

We also discovered that Miffy is super big in the Netherlands because, as it turns out, she’s Dutch!  My sister and I used to watch some Miffy cartoon when we were younger, and it was super weird to see her in EVERY SINGLE GIFT SHOP when we haven’t seen her at all since the cartoon disappeared from TV.  I ended up getting a little Miffy dressed in a Delft blue-patterned dress, and my sister got a Delft blue tile of Miffy painting.

The next day was a little crazy.  In the morning, we ended up going to the Jewish museum, which was pretty cool, but then we had to run to catch a tour to Delft and The Hague to see the Royal Delft factory, the government, and Madurodam, a park full of miniatures of buildings and things in the Netherlands.  It was super hot out, so the running part sucked, but we were happy to have made it.   Monkees fans will recognize the portrait on the plate in the seventh picture as The Laughing Cavalier, the subject of “Art for Monkees Sake.”  That was a neat surprise.

The day after that, we went to the Anne Frank house.  It was very interesting, and very, very sad.  It’s hard to imagine a child having to go into hiding like that for so long only to be tortured and killed anyway.  

We weren’t allowed to take pictures there, either, but I took some pictures of the actual Diary anyway because there wasn’t anybody else in the room aside from another guy who was also taking pictures and my dad, who started taking pictures once I started taking pictures.  I guess that makes me a bad influence.

[lowat-golden-tower]

“THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!”

“Not a demon, Roman. We’ve been over this....” Logan sighed and turned a page in his book. If he focused hard enough, he could ignore the crucifix being obnoxiously pressed against his scalp.

Roman shook his head. “Aha! But you see, Logan Blair-”

“Fair reference.”

“-this time I have come prepared! For a hero is not so easily dissuaded from his civic duties!” Roman went so far as to pose, tossing the useless crucifix aside with a flourish. How it managed to fly out the window was beyond Logan, but the yowl of a disturbed cat confirmed his peripheral was not wrong.

M̧͟m̡̀͝m,̧ ̸͟cáţ́.̵̡̀

Oh no. We are not eating a cat, do you hear me? That rat you snapped up while I was sleeping was bad enough. I didn’t even know human were capable of coughing up a hairball....

Í ̢hųņ͏ge̷͢r̴͘͟.̢

Yes, well, then I’ll go fetch us some bagels like a normal human being.

Logan closed his book and straightened his glasses, fully aware he’d been tuning out Roman’s gallivanting while hosting the silent conversation with his... not-so-better half. Was it even a half? Logan wasn’t certain how best to mathematically describe their connection. Perhaps he could ponder it over their snack-

He was abruptly reminded of Roman’s presence when a finger came to rest in front of his face, pointed directly between his eyes and practically touching his nose. Grey eyes followed the line of Roman’s arm to his roommate’s own set of dazzling, determined green.

“Lord Hanuman!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Lord Hanuman!”

“Is this another obscure musical reference?” Logan gently pushed Roman’s arm aside with a fingertip and strode to the kitchen, leaving the man sputtering in his wake. “Perhaps you should stick to movies-”

“It’s a Hindu practice!” Roman snapped, indignant and now flustered as he (unfortunately) trailed after Logan; stubborn as ever, it seemed. “I researched online; saying his name is supposed to make demons and devils tremble with fear!”

“Not a demon,” Logan intoned with all the enthusiasm of the economics teacher from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. He began scouring the cupboards for those elusive bagels, wondering if Patton had gone and consumed all the miniature ones again. (Logan liked those.)

“I thought you might say that-”

“I said it five minutes ago.”

“-so I took it upon myself to bring out the big guns! Have at you, foul de- er, whatever you are!” There was a glint, as Roman slipped something shiny from his pocket.

A soft hiss, a bit of cool mist, and suddenly Logan’s nose was scrunching up with obvious distaste. Even the horror inside him retched at the smell. “Cologne? That’s your ‘big gun’?” Logan performed some air quotes before returning to the task at hand, claiming the last two mini-bagels for himself. Sweet, sweet victory.

Roman snuffed. “Part of an Islamic exorcism is to use perfume. Since you so staunchly claim it’s not a demon, maybe black magic is afoot!”

“So you decided to attempt dousing me with your cologne?” Logan quirked a brow, taking a slow bite from one half of a mini-bagel. He maintained eye contact with Roman on purpose while he did so, relishing the man’s immediate disgust.

“Good lord, man, if you’re not going to cheese it then at least toast the bread, I beg of you!” Roman cringed away, horrified and hoisting up his bottle of cologne as if it could ward off Logan’s “odd” eating habits.

Logan licked a bit of crumbs from his lips. “No.” He proceeded to eat the bagel while Roman fumbled about, cursing softly under his breath.

“What was next, what was next? The Jewish one, right? One of these has to work, that’s how it is in media, you just keep trying techniques until one sticks...” Roman mumbled to himself, grimaced when Logan picked up the other half of the mini-bagel, and decided to act. With a sharp cry he stepped forward, throwing out his hand to smite the bit of baked good to the floor.

It was Logan’s turn to sputter as he gaped at Roman, stunned and wide-eyed, hand still half-raised to his open mouth. “Roman!” He glanced to his fallen sustenance before returning an accusatory expression to the other. “What on Earth-”

“Sacrifice!” Roman pointed at the mini-bagel, looking torn yet triumphant. “In Judaism it says a sacrifice can be made to expel the horrible spirit!”

Logan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Roman, that’s not-”

“Look it was sacrifice or poisoning you, and I don’t think either Patton or Virgil would let me live that one down-”

“You were contemplating poison?”

“Not really! Just as a backup, maybe- look, perhaps I shouldn’t have relied on Wikipedia for my research material...”

“Oh, you think so?”

The front door opened and shut, two pairs of footsteps tromping closer before the remaining two occupants of their shared apartment rounded the corner. Patton and Virgil were loaded down with shopping bags, though whatever pleasant conversation they’d been carrying was cut short as they practically felt the tension in the room.

“Uh, why’s Logan glowing again?” Virgil was the first to pipe up.

Logan frowned, glanced down at his hands and then mentally cursed. He shook off the black aura which had begun pooling and wriggling around him with an irritated huff.

Patton was frowning as well, but with more concern as he stepped closer. “Loganberry? You doin’ okay, sport?” A hint of his Southern accent made itself known, as it was wont to do whenever Patton drifted into more tender speech.

It still managed to make Logan’s heart act irregularly, and he looked pointedly away. “Besides Roman trying to poison me? I’m fine.” Roman’s aghast, betrayed look made all the coddling Patton was about to smother him with worth it. Virgil was on Roman in a heartbeat, finger wagging and all- he really was spending too much time around Patton. Patton, of course, immediately dropped his bags and inquired again about Logan’s health, joining in on Virgil’s scolding.

It wasn’t long until things managed to calm down, Roman thoroughly cowed but silently swearing his continued efforts to Logan via eye contact. It made Logan sigh, even as he helped Patton put away the groceries. Then Virgil’s voice, soft and inquisitive, reminded Logan of exactly why he’d been in the kitchen to begin with.

“So, what’s with the floor bagel?”

------------------------------------------------------

Consider this the first oneshot I guess? Still blaming @fangirltothefullest for this. I noticed tagging people in updates to works/AU’s is a pretty popular thing in this fandom, so... I guess if you want me to tag you in the next one, just mention in a reply or reblog comment? (Or shoot me an ask, I suppose. XD)

[royaltides]

You wanted war  chapter 2

Juvia didn't conjecture this will occur to her, not after all she'd gone through in those several yore weeks, at last Juvia gain a place she belongs to, she did not explicitly planned to reach there, but Juvia didn't complain of how things turn out to be. After the exhausting journeys, lurking in the shadows of abandons building, and even after all that sometimes she and Gajeel were almost identified. Juvia couldn't control it, she fell in love with the first man she saw. Gray Fullbuster was a partisan in a group called Fairy Tail, and he was all she could dream and want in a man. He was thin but muscular with precise lines that defined the toughness of his abs, he was without a shirt even in the harsh winter of this northern forest.-30 degrees Celsius, maybe less. Gray was taller than she was, with piercing black eyes, sexy rebellious and shiny black hair. Even his personality suited him. He was like ice at first until he saved her. When they fought, he defeated her. With great difficulty, Juvia remarked after the battle. He confronted her as if she were equal to him as if he were seeing a man in the shape of a woman. He treated her like no other man had ever treated her. He saw her as someone without a difference because of her gender, Just the despise for someone in the uniform with that badge the whole world despised now. Blinded by the hatred, he didn't realize that she wasn't his enemy at first.

flashback

They were standing on the roof of a half-destroyed building. Juvia tried to explain to him, to talk to him, but all he saw was the uniform. The uniform of the Nazi's, the uniforms of those who almost killed him, but killed his community, his parents, those who seek to destroy all his people, those who torment the whole world with war and endless death. Juvia understood his heart or at least tried. The nuns always told her that "the key to a person's heart is the secret of his understanding." How could she understand the pain of destroying an entire minority nation, a community whose roots had been obliterated and buried in the depths of the earth? How could she know how it was to lose parents when she had never had parents?

In the course of the battle, however, the shots stopped because to the both of them the bullets had run out. Only the two of them remained with jagged daggers and knives hidden under layers of clothing. All of this happened in an ongoing struggle of willpower. She tried to stop him but not kill him though Gray wanted her dead. There on the ground, he wanted her blood on his hands. Gray managed to slide under her protections arms a fast fist into her upper abdomen, the air came out of her lungs, and Juvia fell to the floor in a massive noise. She tried to raise, one hand on the cracked asphalt floor and the other hand trying to attach what must have broken inside her. In a split of a second, he was already there holding her hands in his left hand. Gray grounded her legs to the soil with his own legs, and his other hand went up. She realized that he wanted to beat her to death, punch after punch because of who she had been until a few weeks ago, although Juvia had changed because of his people, because of what was in the document, because of her values, but mainly because of people like him who didn't deserve this horror.

In a moment of panic, Juvia looked him in the eye. They were dark black, gleaming in the bright sunlight through the fleecy clouds of snow. It was the emotion behind them that broke her. The ex-soldier could see his soul, crushed under the mask of cold and stiffness. She could see, even almost touching his pain. He was scarred by the experiences life had forced him through. The Man deal with all it but not without wounds that would accompany him for life. Before his hand hit her, she began to cry. Not because her pain, or because Juvia was probably going to die (even though the woman was sure she was going to die) but because of what he had absorbed, what this pointless war had cost him, what her people's greed and injustice had done to him. "I'm sorry," Juvia whispered, "I'm so sorry," she muttered again and again as tears came down from her eyes and deep wails of pain from the physical pain were out of control. Her lips trembled, but she kept saying those words. As if she were asking forgiveness for everyone who died, for everyone who was imprisoned and for everyone who survived and was irreversibly injured like the person before her.

Gray got off of her and grabbed his head. He was on his knees, and in this state, he looked like a child trying to stop the tears from falling down. "Do not say that!" He snapped at her sharply, "You have no right to ask me for forgiveness, not after ... not after all your people have done to me!" Juvia took the opportunity to get up and placed her head to the floor. "You're right," she rustled quietly to the ground, hoping he would hear her. "I have no right to ask for forgiveness, but it will not stop me from disapproving what my people had you go through and what you have lost because of it." Juvia hoped it would be enough, but the guy seemed to want more information because he asked, this time his voice was a little more composed. "You talk as if you didn't have a part in it, what do you mean?" Juvia gulped hard and tried to describe briefly but as detailed as possible what her part in the war was and why she is here precisely now. "My job was to gather information, I was a spy, and as you can understand, I was a good mole because I ran into an envelope that was listed on Germany's plans for the Jewish problem." Juvia heard his teeth creak and continued. She understood him because she was angry too. "I was disgusted and hated my own country and the people of mine, I ran away or deserted if that what you wanted to call it. I took vital information with me. I and someone else tried to cross the border to get to the opposing army, but the Nazi army sent pictures of us to all the stations as wanted. This is why we needed to enter the forest and try to cross the border. You caught us unprepared and now we are on the roof of a half-destroyed building because of it."

If it were every other day, Juvia would laugh from the irony that she deserted from the Nazi army only to be killed by a Jew or the building could collapse at any moment and kill them both. If the guy wanted to ask something else, he didn't have time because the building did collapse. Juvia heard Gajeel shouting in her name, and a firm arm lifted her on his shoulder suddenly. In seconds she was on a pile of snow, and the Jewish boy was panting. "Thank you," she told him, but the boy disregarded her. "We'll go to the master so you will present him your information," he stated, remarking that it was as self-evident. Juvia felt his hands doing something over her and blushed. Dirty thoughts invaded her mind. When he got up and told her to follow Juvia finally understood what he had done. This guy tied her hands with a thread. She realized Gray was taking her as a prisoner.

It was not long before they reached HQ or rather a forest's clearing where there were several tents and fire in the center next to it, some women laughing and talking among themselves. A large pot hung over the bubbling fire, and a blond girl with ample breast who had been seen through a thick winter coat stirred in slow turns inside the iron ladle. A girl with gray-white hair like snow on the ground nodded encouragingly. From one of the tents came a tiny girl who looked no older than 13 years old with light blue hair and simple warm clothes. There were large papers in her hands that looked like maps. Even from a distance, Juvia could see the bruises that had turned blue on her cheeks and neck. A few people gathered together around a large figure and kicked it cheerfully. Juvia saw black hair and silver sparkle in the cold sun. All her senses awaked at once even her own injuries didn't matter anymore. The thread was no longer an issue, Juvia's captor was startled as she moved without notice or sign, Juvia launched herself speedily and accurately into the area of the men. Juvia advanced inside while she was stepping on someone. She half-stood half sat there with her hands tied and a rigid expression written all over her face. She was mama-bear protecting her cub.

"If you dare lay a hand on one of his hairs, I swear to you that you will meet a ground before you can say Nazis stinks." Juvia threatened through her teeth, and her eyes shone with determination. Most of the boys stumbled back except for a pink-haired fellow with a strange scarf and an idiotic smile on his face. "Oh? I'm looking forward to it" He grinned at her mockingly. He seemed to be about to progress towards her and Juvia was ready to rip him off with her bare teeth, but before the situation proceeded into a physical fight, her captor stood beside her. How did he get here without her notice? Juvia cursed her ability at surroundings awareness. He said something to the guy with the absurd pink hair. The guy with the absurd pink hair moved, and Gray retook her thread and began to drag her toward one of the tents, but instead of coming silently with him like before, Juvia remained rooted to her place, glancing at anyone who dared to look at Gajeel wrongly. She heard an exaggerated sigh and then a voice she'd learned to recognize recently announced. "If anyone who touches that guy he will have to deal with the master." Silence had passed through the camp. Juvia gave her captor a grateful glance that he disregarded it again and tugged her toward the tent where the short girl had exited from.

They went into the master's tent. Guns and maps lay everywhere. Books were stacked beside one of the chairs. Papers rested on a shaky desk, and a miniature man of about 60 years old looked at them with furrowing appearance. "Master," Gray declared their presence."I brought a prisoner. This soldier says she has valuable information." You could hear his disbelief dripping from his voice, and the venom of his voice blended with Juvia's blood as if he were trying to kill her slowly with words instead of his hands. Juvia favored his fists than whose venom-like deadly words. The Master looked at her. She felt a shiver run through her. The presence and the aura surrounding him were unbridled, beyond creation. This old, wrinkled man can overcome Hitler by sheer force of mind. Juvia saw it in his core. What he saw in her eyes made him drop his defense and send her captor, now named Gray out of the tent.

Without objection and only with a scowl on his face Gray went out, Juvia remained helplessly tied in the office of a master of a specific armed force. "Child," he said in a powerful but a tender voice. "Introduce yourself." "Juvia lockser, a former individual spy from SS, the rain woman from deep depths." The spy saw him shot his eyebrows up twice at the sound of her nickname and the word former. "Why the former?" He asked fascinated. Great, Juvia thought. She had to win his trust. "My co-worker and I deserted the Nazi army a few weeks ago because some information that happened to fall into my laps." She thought of the gas chambers and stoves the size of human bodies. Jews forced to carry the bodies of their loved ones, their people, children and old people while suffering from malnutrition conditions and taken any self-identity away from them. Perhaps the Master, as Gray called him, saw the disgust in her features, nodded at her, and ordered her to continue with a small hand gesture. "In the last few weeks we have tried to reach the opposing troops, but without success. Our identity pictures were sent to all the bases, and in less than a week we were known throughout the war and checkpoints. There was No Nazi soldier would not recognize us. Despairingly we tried to enter this unoccupied forest with the intention of trying to contact the other side of the border and provide necessary information to the Allies. On the way they encountered your men and they ambushed us and defeated us but also saved our lives from the building collapse at the border of the forest." He looked at her thoughtfully.

"After you've seen our camp location, I can't let you continue on your journey." the knowledge hit her Juvia, her journey will end here, but that doesn't mean her war effort will stop. If Juvia will play her cards right, but she had to demonstrate her ability accurately. Juvia perceived that in order to win his favors she would have to share all her deepest secrets and draw calculated conclusions that years of training had given her. Juvia realized it was a traveling camp; the tents were wrinkled with folds. They didn't have an ample supply of trees and didn't dig holes in the ground. In the best case, they will stay here for a week, and in the worst case at night they will move elsewhere. "The army will not catch you even if I will tell them your location. You'll be someplace else by then". She said calmly. It must have been a test she had passed because he slowly applauded her. The Master foresaw it coming. "Wonderful information gathering. Do you've learned Something else about us at this time?" the Mater urged. "You are a small fighting force without any support, without knowledge about your existing concerning both sides of the war. You are about 50 people, at least a quarter of whom are women, and it is clear that most of your fighters don't have military training. Your data about the course of the war is lacking. You, the master, carefully choose your battles." Except for Gray, she thought, from her experience with him she knew he had military training."You were a police captain before the war. The Ladies here have no training or survival knowledge, and I almost convinced that the blonde girl is from a luxurious family and I guess that she is German but not Nazi. You don't have much ammunition, and your defenses are meager, but determined warriors are compensating for this." She finished. The Master stared at her in amazement. "you are well trained." the tiny man stated in awe. Juvia nodded and held herself a little straighter. Pleased that she is beginning to prove herself to him. "One last thing," he said. "What information did you desired to bring to the Allies?" "I have a map of all the defects in the Nazi's borders." Juvia felt the map in her pocket. She glanced at the side of her left trouser leg. The Master's eyes gleamed. "Most vital information. I believe I didn't introduce myself properly, Makarov Dreyer." Juvia's eyes widened at the name. The Polish legend. The captain of the police department in Warsaw before the occupation. The only one who had managed to escape but not before he killed about twenty Nazi soldiers on his way out. "As you assumed, we are a group of warriors who are fighting without consent for the Allies and attacking the German army when it is not prepared. Call our group, the truth that we are more than a family than the militant group. We are Fairy Tail." "Would you like to join us?" He asked with a grin on his face when he saw Juvia's reluctant nod. She was shocked that the circumstances had turned so radically. A moment ago she was captive and now offer her what she wanted! A chance to help the war end and perhaps even to play a significant part in the overthrow of the country that once she called home. Without thinking she spilled out the words. "Can Gajeel join too?" The Master chuckled, and Juvia grinned bashfully.

flashback

At this moment, Juvia sat around the blazing bonfire, her hands stretching out to the heat. Her eyes were unconsciously drawn to a man sitting two campfires away. The campfires were not significantly large or even enough for the number of people around them, and Juvia's chest was still warmer than any other place she had been. With a loud rattle, Juvia accomplished to divide her eyes from the bare-chested Partisan. Juvia studied the closest thing she has to a brother, an unyielding expression of determination on his face, his lips were like if he had sewed them himself. Next to him set two men, who remained hostile-eyed toward him and a blue-haired girl staring at a spot of land near the fire, the isolated location that grass was poking through the white blanket of snow. The spy in Juvia screamed in her subconscious to extinguish the flames so the smoke wouldn't disclose their location, but the master stated it was all right, only for a few minutes of heat before dark, numbing night.

Juvia thought about the developments of the few past days in astonishment, she has some friends now, she belongs to an admirable-causes' group, her best friend is here with her, she has love object (even though he have no knowledge of her feelings and probably will not return her feelings). The only thing that prevents her from savoring those moments is that in this second there are dozens of camps that murder thousands of Jew indiscriminately. That was the principal reason her smile didn't reach her eyes, although another reason for her condition is that Gajeel isn't willing to apologize. The day before Natsu (she had learned the name of the stupid pink-haired guy) and Gray had assaulted them, Gajeel ran into the cerulean-haired girl, Levi, and assumed she was the enemy. He had injured her, not seriously, or killed her (like how he usually did while they were in the army), but the purple bruises danced on her face and neck, piercing out in front of her fair skin and snow. Juvia bent approaching Gajeel, whose hair was a few inches longer than the military haircut that was always on his head. The red in his eyes didn't stop menacing people. "Nothing will happen if you apologize. No one will think less of you, in truth, I think they appreciate that." She murmured to his ears alone. "I know you're sorry about the whole incident." Gajeel didn't respond, except that his lips hardened, he stood abruptly and marched briskly to the edge of the grounds.

A silhouette sat beside her instead of Gajeel, she saw an exposed skin, her face became flushed uncontrollably. 'You are a soldier' her mind told her 'act like one,' however the speed of her pulse didn't slow down, and the heat in her cheeks only got dangerously red. "I owe you an apology." A rich, low, familiar voice spoke. 'Gray,' the thought of him sitting near her, the idea of him coming here mainly to converse with her dizzied all her wits. Juvia gazed at him disoriented, one reason was that she couldn't think clearly with him so near her, and the second reason was the word she was able to recognize, 'sorry, why should he ask her forgiveness?' "Juvia doesn't follow you," she replied in a voice that was too faint to be her own. "About all your injuries and on the way I behaved in our first encounter." Gray stated, and Juvia could see that it was difficult for him to acknowledge it. She welcomed the intention, but she couldn't accept his apology, she doesn't deserve it. Juvia knows she had to suffer for what her nation did to his family, his hometown, and to the people that share the same religion as he. Juvia will willing accept any punishment for that deed. If she ever received a death sentence for the sins of her nation caused, Juvia would carry it gracefully and walk straight to her destination. "You don't ought to apologize, Juvia earns those injuries." She looked back at the fire. Red, orange and yellow swirled together, like snakes wrapping around each other trying to beat the others first. A sweaty hand rested on her small back, right where the torn part of the shirt Lucy had lent her. The uniform aroused too many problems and distress to the camp. The heat from him was unnatural, everyone else was freezing and not radiating with heat, instead of stealing her heat like some other people, Gray give her heat. "The Master told me everything, you deserve none of it ... and that's what I'm sorry about." There were silence and flames danced again.

" A minute to extinguish campfires" someone called in the distance, Natsu complained to Lucy in a childish cry. "Just .." Gray continued, not to accept Juvia's silence as an answer. " when I saw the uniform and..." "You've lost your temper," Juvia has completed his sentence, "don't worry Gray-Sama, Juvia understands." Juvia felt the hand parted from her and sensed his weight neglect the long log they had been sitting on. For the last time, Juvia looked at his face. His lips stretched into a thin line, 'almost a smile' she thought. What a magnificent view. "extinguish all the bonfires in camp!" the same voice from a minute ago called. The rustle of the legs and the 'bzzzz' sound of fire met snow was heard all over the camp.

At night in every hour someone watched over the camp and when Juvia's turn arrived the moon was glowing at its fullness. The brilliant light almost shines through the trees. Bewildered by the beautiful site Juvia almost fail to catch the soft sound of footsteps slowly creeping closer toward her. In a split of a second, her hand went to the knife hidden in her right thigh. She was pushed into a snow-covered tree, Juvia's back bumped softly against the rock-like trunk, it felt like someone protected her from the full blow. "Good instincts, sharp reflexes but intoxicated by pretty things" the low-raw voice that often visits her dreams said. Gray was looking on her knife pressed against his neck. "you can let the knife lose, I'm not going to hurt you" Gray whisper, but Juvia only held it tighter. "Juv.. I don't think so. even though Gray know I no longer a Nazi, for you I still a German." Gray laugh at that, like her terror isn't reasonable nor expected, like he will never hurt her in the middle of the night without any witnesses, he laughed like he never even thought of it. "don't fear me" he whispered sensually. His breath tingling Juvia's nose and a shiver run throw her bones. Before she could understand what was happening his lips devours hers and her knife fall to the ground. His big warm hand held her face and Juvia melt into the feeling. Her arms wrapped uncontrolled around his neck, her eyes closed, small moans escaped her throat when Gray moved his other hand to grab her round butt. On instincts alone, Juvia's legs encircled Gray's hips. Gray start humping back and forth, crashing all his weight into her. A sharp cry came out of her when their groins connected for the first time. Gray growled deeply and continued with all his might. Suddenly someone at the remote call Juvia's name and just like how fast it started, its end. Juvia walked confused to the lookout point to exchange shift with Lucy, wondering what the hell just happened and what she could do to make it happen again.

[brokengem]

Title: Blues and Whites Fandom: Descendants Pairings: Mal/Jane, Fairy God Mother. For: @tinybroodinggay from your @descendantssecretsanta! I hope you enjoy this little work of art. Hope you had a very Happy Hannukah and Happy Holidays! <3

Also can be found on AO3 over here. 

“Oh no! I’m late!”

Jane’s outburst tore Mal’s attention from the book she’d been studying. A frown graced her lips as she watched the pretty little fairy rush about to collect her things. With a slight huff Mal leaned against her hand, not once taking her eyes from the other girl.

“What’s got you in such a rush?”

Jane paused, the Calculus book she’d been trying to stuff in her book frozen in her hand. Bright blue eyes blinked back at the dark fairy.

“I’m so sorry, Mal,” Jane rushed out, stuffing the book in her bag, “I don’t mean to cut our study session short, but I’ve so lost track of time. It’s the first day of Hanukkah and I was supposed to meet with my mom ten minutes ago.”

“Hanukkah?” Mal’s frown deepened. The Isle hadn’t offered them much joy in terms of holidays. In fact they had never  celebrated a thing until they were welcomed in Auradon. Sadly, she only a vague idea of what Jane was talking about.

A sad frown appeared on Jane’s lips, “that’s right. I’m sorry, Mal. You guys didn’t get the chance to celebrate the holidays did you?”

“It’s no big deal,” Mal shrugged, turning back to her forgotten math book. It wasn’t a complete lie. A part of her didn’t mind, but the other part. The part that enjoyed being in Auradon and liked being good felt a little hurt by her lack of knowledge of all the traditions her new home had to offer.

Jane’s giggle brought Mal’s attention back to her, a pale hand extended out towards her. “Why don’t you join us? We’ll go meet mom in the kitchen and then head back to my room.”

Mal blinked down at the offered hand, “what are we going to the kitchen for?”

The blue-eyed fairy’s smile grew impossibly wider, her eyes practically sparkling in her excitement. “Mom got permission for us to use the kitchen to make latkes! You’ll love them, I promise. They’re like a potato pancake and if you want you can even have them with sour cream.” Mal’s amusement must have shown because the tip of Jane’s ears turned red followed by a light dusting of pink coming to her cheeks as she quietly finished, “They are delicious.”

With a playful shrug, Mal accepted Jane’s eagerly wiggling hand, “I can’t really turn down food, especially if you’re claiming it to be so delicious.”

She was barely able to pack up her things before the excited Jane lead her out of the library.

                   ******************************************************

Mal didn’t know what to expect when she entered the kitchen, but a cheery Fairy Godmother in a blue and white apron with bowls of ingredients was certainly a sight to behold. The headmistress beamed as they entered.

“Mal, what a pleasant surprise!”

She dropped her bag down beside Jane’s, accepting the matching apron Jane held out for her. “I hope  it’s okay if I join you. Jane invited and I really don’t want to mess up your holiday or anything.”

Fairy Godmother’s face melted into a small frown for all of a second before her bright smile return. “Not at all, child. I’m happy to have you.”

Before anything Mal could say anything else, the woman swept her up into one of the tightest hugs Mal had ever had. It was enough to help calm her nerves as she relaxed and returned the hug with one of her own.

“Wonderful,” Fairy Godmother gave her cheeks an affection pat, “now you can help Jane with the onions and potatoes.”

Jane held out a onion and knife, smiling sweetly as Mal made her way over. “You’ll want to peel the skin off and cut them into quarters. I’ll do the same with the potatoes.”

Nodding, Mal carefully took the items and did as she was told. It didn’t long for her eyes to begin to water, the purple haired fairy wiping away the tears with the back of her sleeve.

“How do you do this without crying?” she whined, happy to be finished with her task.

Jane laughed from beside her, “I’m sorry. I probably should have done the onions. I’ll show you a good trick to preventing tears next time.”

The promise of their being a next time totally didn’t send warmth through Mal’s entire body.

“Now we put these in the food processor and then we’ll quickly start making the batter.”

Everything was much more fun than Mal imagined. The potatoes and onions were grated and Mal got the pleasure of squeeze out as my liquid as possible. They worked together to mix it all together with the eggs, flour, salt, pepper and baking powder. Fairy Godmother let them have their fun as some flour found itself smudged across Mal’s cheeks and blended into Jane’s brown hair. Their giggles feeling the kitchen as they took turns mixing.

“All done girls?”

Mal took a step back and watched as Fairy Godmother poured some batter into the hot oil she’d taken care to prepare. Quickly the kitchen was filled with such an overwhelmingly delicious scent. She couldn’t wait to try the treat they’d worked together to prepare.

That warm feeling returned as watched Jane come to her mother’s side and they sung together. It was beautiful even if she couldn’t understand a single word.

Ten minutes passed and the first set of latkes were ready. Jane handed her a plate of two of the treat with a smile. With a small thank you, Mal took her first bite and groaned happily.

                       ******************************************************

Mal had been to Jane’s dorm plenty of times to study or just to bother the younger girl, but she’d never seen it so clashing before. Audrey’s half of the room was decked out in the traditional greens and reds that all of Auradon Prep seemed to have been drowned in just after Thanksgiving. Jane’s half of the room was decorated in blues and whites. A large six pointed star hung just above her bed, she’s seen a smaller version around Jane’s neck everyday.

“That’s the Star of David,” Jane smiled, playing with the miniature version she wore, “it’s a known symbol of the Jewish people, but it also means so much more than that.”

Mal walked up to the large star, tracing the points and triangles with a finger, “I’d love to hear more about it sometime.”

When she looked back, pink dusted Jane’s cheeks and her ears were red once more as she beamed back at her, “I’d be happy to tell you more!”

“What’s the story behind that?” Mal pointed to the silver nine-candle candelabra on the windowsill, only one unlit candle in it’s holders.

Jane clapped her hands together, quickly crossing her room to reach her desk. The top drawer opened and she pulled out a candle and box of matches.

“That’s a menorah. We celebrate Hanukkah for eight days starting today at sunset and each night we light a candle after saying our blessings. Mom offered the blessing before she had to go. She can’t be here for the lighting tonight but she’ll be here tomorrow and every night after.”

Mal nodded, watching as Jane lit the lone candle in the center, the shamash she’d said. She added the one she’d taken from the drawer right beside it. Carefully, Jane removed the lit candle and held it out, a shy smile on her lips.

“Would you like to light the first candle, Mal?”

Green eyes widened, “are you sure? It wouldn’t be disrespectful or anything will it? I don’t want to mess anything up.”

Jane shook her head, “it’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“If you’re sure,” Mal took the candle, carefully using it to light the other, staring bright-eyed at the flames. Jane hummed beside her, taking the lit candle and returning it to the center.

They stepped back, Jane quietly singing another song in Hebrew. The word beautiful crossed Mal’s mind again as she listened, sliding her hand into Jane’s. The younger gave paused for a minute in her song, but gave Mal’s hand a squeeze as she continued her song.

The evening had been pleasant and Mal enjoyed herself. She hoped Jane would be okay with her joining in on the celebration for the remainder of the days as she learned more and hopefully got to get closer to the girl.

[anhed-nia]

PROFONDO ROSSO/THE APPLE

For some disgusting reason that may never be explained, I recently watched THE APPLE back to back with DEEP RED, and the experience produced a powerful moral outrage that I didn’t even know I had in me. Readers may be aware of the latter-day cult classic THE APPLE, a US-West German nightmare vision from 1980 that was exhumed in recent years by masochistic thrill-seekers and subsequently elevated to appropriate infamy. In fact, nonsensically, THE APPLE may have enjoyed wider visibility in our time than PROFONDO ROSSO, a virtuoso directorial effort from giallo master Dario Argento arriving the year before the more popular SUSPIRIA (not a giallo, by the way). PROFONDO ROSSO was exported under the ironic american title DEEP RED: THE HATCHET MURDERS--ironic because the film was hacked nearly to death, with the fatal amputation of more than twenty minutes of character development, leaving behind a movie that was too confusing and too revolting for foreign audiences then unfamiliar with the italian thriller genre. Happily, the film has enjoyed loving restoration and increased circulation since its 1975 debut, giving one a feeling of justice served. It is hard to feel that same sort of cultural pride in the endurance of THE APPLE, which is similarly impossible to look away from, though for quite opposite reasons.

So the thing is, Dario Argento is an artist who, in spite of his notable misanthropy, has given something to the world. He works in what I would call the most complex artistic medium in human history, and for more than a decade, he consistently lives up to its many intricate challenges. Here you have a guy who wakes up one day and says, "You know, I have something to say. I see the world in a certain way, and I need to tell everyone about it. I'm going to shoot a movie that's really going to make people feel something." And he does. He makes PROFONDO ROSSO, a perfect film. He really cares about it. Every single thing is just so. He takes these absurd miniature tableaus, and photographs them in a way that transforms them into another universe. He makes you feel like you're seeing the color red for the first time. He positions flashy modernity against grave antiquity, and seductive trash against high art, creating juxtapositions that communicate vividly about the dazzling contradictions in the very soul of Rome. This dichotomy is mirrored in his main character, a nervy but vulnerable pianist who has to hide his full artistic sophistication, lest he lose his job playing in seedy dives. This being a giallo, he witnesses a mysterious murder, the key to which is buried in his own memories--he himself becomes the only substantial evidence of the crime, and he is forced to live out his life in an escalating nightmare until he gathers enough context to make meaning out of what he knows. PROFONDO ROSSO is indeed profound and savage, offering reflexive commentary on its own existence as a primal and salacious piece of entertainment that is executed with almost impossible elegance and wisdom. Dario Argento is an artist who recognized the full multifaceted power of cinema, and then with great deliberation, fashioned this gift to the world.

Meanwhile, this same world also contains a guy like Menahem Golan. Golan may be forgivable as the crass commercialist behind the Cannon Group, who shat out a number of dusty-looking vehicles for goons like Chuck Norris and Sylvester Stallone. However, nothing forgives THE APPLE. Nothing even explains it. It appears to be marketed to no one at all, being that no human being who has ever walked the earth could derive pleasure from it. While it may be hard to imagine possessing Argento's talent, it's easy to imagine him contemplating the vast potential of cinema, identifying its prismatic means of expression, and approaching it with both the humility and the courage to make of it something flawless. He does due diligence. He is responsible. He may injure his audience with his brutality, but he’ll never hurt their eyes. It is in no way so easy to even begin to estimate what Menahem Golan was thinking when he dreamed up this grueling fundamentalist christian sci-fi fantasy in which a pair of dopey Adam and Eve-like folk singers tries to save the distant future of 1994 from a literal disco inferno. This dystopian fable, apparently shot in the mass transit hubs of West Berlin, describes a world that has been taken over by a tyrannical music production company-cum-government, Boogalow International Music. The defining characteristic of its rule is enforced disco dancing. The viewer will never find out what is gained by all this disco dancing, or what else this company/government does; there is almost no apparent violence, physical or institutional, and there seem to be no consequences for the disco-averse other than that they are occasionally fined for failing to wear their "BIM marks" (a sort of "mark of the beast" that's obviously just a dead stock skate sticker). BIM's worst crime is trying to turn cherubic hippie chick Bibi into a disco diva, while keeping her apart from her beloved folksy musical partner Alphie. The action culminates with the lovebirds running away to live with a bunch of dirty hippies who leave unattended fires burning all over the public park where they live, and who are presently rescued by a godlike intergalactic being (or just god, but he flies around in outer space, I have no fucking idea) in a white tuxedo, who ferries them all off to another planet in his flying Rolls Royce.

That is how THE APPLE resolves itself. It's almost a feat in and of itself that, in spite of being based so transparently on the story of the Garden of Eden and certain parts of the Book of Revelations, THE APPLE manages to have no clear message whatsoever. There's a tenuous thing about how it's good for people to love each other, but it's impossible to imagine what BIM's point is, why they care whether or not people love each other, why they oppress people, how they oppress people, and what happens if you defy them, other than that you get a ticket and someone chases you out of the civic space that you're vandalizing. Besides that, the movie is simply bad in every single way. The music is the worst you'll ever hear, vacillating between being purely idiotic, and being militantly offensive, as in the case of a reggae number comparing the rule of BIM to the American slavery period. The costumes are beyond ugly, leaving every single character looking like they've been scribbled on and thrown in the garbage by an angry child. At a certain point, THE APPLE seems to be meticulously checking off a list of things that no person would ever wish to see in a movie, from filthy gangs of sack-clad children shrilly repeating nonsense lines, to warty old jewish stereotypes being sexually molested while they spoon-feed unctuous folk singers a greasy-looking stew

The film is so hideous in every dimension that you wouldn't even take a picture of it if it were happening in front of you. It's bad enough that the people who collaborated on this movie actually did any of what you see on the screen even one single time, without someone actually deciding to record the whole thing and distribute it to the world at large. What I'm essentially trying to say is, on the same planet in the same timeline, you can somehow have a person like Dario Argento, considerately and patiently crafting an incomparable work of art that speaks to the artist's economic and historical context--and you can also have someone like Menahem Golan, who can't even figure out how to make meaning out of the fucking Bible, who has the fucking nerve to shoehorn a bunch of degenerates into grimy leotards and make them twirl batons in a world covered in shitty stickers, and he calls that a fucking movie. He charges money for people to see it. It is literally maddening to even try to imagine what would motivate all this wasted motion, the product of which is so aesthetically and emotionally destructive that it is actually evil. It can be evil, to make a bad movie. This is the one and only lesson of THE APPLE.

PS I've seen THE APPLE like a hundred times so I guess I actually love it in some perverted way, I mean I'm not above it. Just, something had to be said.