#Vienna Workshop

[zurich-snows]

Koloman Moser (1868-1918) design, possibly for Ver Sacrum  ('Sacred Spring' in Latin) magazine, the official magazine of the Vienna Secession. Founded by Gustav Klimt and Max Kurzweil, it was published from 1898 to 1903. It’s advances in graphic design, typography and illustration set the model for later art magazine design and continues to influence magazine and book design to this day.

[ivolederer]

NEW! Next LINOCUT WORKSHOP🌈🏳️‍⚧️💅✨ 3/8 spots AVAILABLE!)🥺🫶

Looking forward to seeing your projects come to life!🥰 Btw, if you have ever attended one of my workshops, you are entitled to a FREE copy of my Linocut Guide (Zine); DM me and I’ll mail it to you, or pick it up at a con/market.😉

There will be coffee and cake + some other light snacks, since we enjoyed that a lot last time.🍰☕️

See ya there!<333

#linocutworkshop #linocut #linocutartist #linoldruck #linolschnitt #artworkshop #kunstworkshop #wienworkshop #transartist #queerartist #lgbtartist #druckgrafik #druckgrafiker

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If you are in Vienna, maybe you wanna learn linocut w me on Saturday?☺️🫶

[krakrava]

[craft2eu]

More Than Human. Design nach dem Anthropozän: Berlin ab 22.03. 2024

Das Berliner Kunstgewerbemuseum startet im März 2024 eine neue diskursive Plattform mit Pop Up-Ausstellungen, Vorträgen, Workshops und Diskussionspanels, um sich mit dem komplexen Konzept des „More Than Human“ aus der Perspektive der Gestaltungsdisziplinen, insbesondere des Designs, auseinanderzusetzen. Das Projekt startet am 22. März 2024 mit einem international besetzten Symposium und wird bis…

[rosszulorzott]

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Lights Go Out I Wake Up

König is my sweet little baby and I love him dearly. Enjoy some more Phantom of the Opera!König as he watches reader. He's a bit creepy, but he's also my little creepy baby. Also, this story has a very different interpretation of Carlotta. I thought it might be nice to have women supporting women this time. Or well, one woman being a support. Anna, who you have yet to meet, is not so nice at all.

Also, König learns he has competition! He's not too happy about that.

Anyways,

No Content Warnings

Wordcount: 2.4k

Art from This Post

Story below the cut

Lights Go Out I Wake Up

You looked up in the balconies of the opera house expectantly. You tried to see if he was there. Maybe, if you were lucky, you might see a flap of his cape or a glimpse of the crimson ribbons of his mask. You desperately searched but, as always, it was to no avail.

You turned back to the stage where the primadonna was on center stage. She flicked her long blond tresses over her shoulder as she reached out to the audience, serenading them with her warbling soprano voice. You were drawn into the siren’s song, listening to each staccato note followed by a sweeping drop, each rise and fall of her tone as she sang out the tune to The Magic Flute. She attacked, she defended, she swooped and she swelled with the song as she traversed across the stage.

You smiled softly. You would never be like Carlotta, not in a thousand years. She was leagues above anyone in the house, hands down. Men traveled halfway across the world to bear witness to her voice and her visage. By the final notes of the song, the stage had been outlined with a row of roses, each bouquet from a different suitor fighting for her hand. Carlotta’s voice masterfully lulled each one of them into an enchanted hypnotic state. You followed her movements, trying your best to memorize each and every single flick of her fingers or swoop of her wine red dress as she sang out to the crowds. In that moment, Carlotta had placed the dagger in your hands and sang to you of rage, hatred, scorn. You, Pamina, watched as your mother told you her plans and urged you to slay the sorcerer. You watched her, her passion and beauty overwhelming as she came to a crescendo of the song, the make-or-break of the piece, the part that broke many a singer’s voice before.

Carlotta’s face was clear and relaxed as she hit the high notes, a beautiful crystal clear attack, receding briefly only to sharply hit it again and again before swaying onwards. One of the most brilliantly technical pieces of opera written for a soprano, and yet Carlotta seemed to be floating as she swept across the stage. She was above it all as she magically twisted the song to her delight.

As always, you were floored.

Carlotta was the greatest opera singer to ever come from the British Isles. At least, that was your opinion. The true beauty of Carlotta though was not her voice, nor was it her impeccable diamond-cut beauty. The beauty of Carlotta was her loving eye. She looked into the crowd and you could see her love for them in every smile she gave them. She was the queen of the stage and you would never dare to steal her title. As always, she looked at home here, presented for thousands to admire. She was the songbird of the Vienna State Opera, but this building was her cage.

When she had finished, she left the stage with tears in her eyes. You immediately took her in her arms and hushed her.

“I don’t want it to be over,” she sniffed as she held you tight.

“We’ll still keep in touch,” you assorted her.

“We both know it’s not the same,” she held you tightly, then released you back to the darkness of the workshop.

“We can message each other online,” you tried to explain but she wasn’t having it.

“I won’t be able to teach you anymore,” she bemoaned, “and then you won’t have anyone to help you with Anna.”

“I don’t need help with Anna,” you huffed.

Carlotta gave you a look, “Darling, we both know that’s a lie.”

You frowned, but followed her back to the dressing rooms. You flipped on a single light, keeping the room only barely lit enough to be able to see yourself in the mirror. Meanwhile, Carlotta sat at her vanity and flicked on the lights to get a better look at her own beauty. You watched her slowly wipe off the theater makeup while she sat at her vanity. She drummed her fingers on her cheeks in a light massage as she cooled down from the performance.

“So, do you know what you’ll do when you get home?” you leaned on the wall beside the vanity.

“Go to my parents probably,” Carlotta said as she put a dab of skin lotion on her fingers, “they’ve missed me. I’ve missed this little cafe in London that makes the best butter tarts. I hope they’re still open…”

“If they make the best butter tarts, why wouldn’t they be?” you asked.

“Everything goes too fast in London. One day you see a new hat shop, the next day it’s a tourist trap. There’s never a dry day in London!” Carlotta gave you a quick grin before dabbing at her temples again, “and I miss it. Vienna is nice, but it’s not home.”

“I thought you said Madrid was your home,” you pointed out.

“I was born in Madrid but I was raised in London,” Carlotta explained, “I moved there when I was eight. I only visited Spain when going to see my family, but other than that I was at home in London.”

“You know, you’re the only english woman I’ve ever heard be nostalgic about London,” you mused, “everybody else calls it a tar pit.”

“Oh it’s a tar pit alright,” Carlotta laughed, “but it’s my tar pit.”

You smiled as she went through the rest of her routine, unwinding her hair from its high knot and gently sloughing the great billowing red dress to change into a sleek pair of leggings and a turtleneck. She tossed her blond hair over her shoulders, casting you a sad look as she watched you take off your own clothes.

“I don’t have much longer to teach you,” she sighed.

“Well, it’s not like I need the teaching,” you pointed out, “I’m not your protege. I’m just a backup singer.”

“But you have the voice for a lead,” Carlotta countered, “you have it! Oh stop laughing, I’m serious! You can do it! Anna can do it, but she’s not a natural. You are.”

“I can’t handle that much pressure,” you sighed.

“But you can!” Carlotta sighed, “I just… I wish I could take you home with me. I could train you, give you a position at the RBO, we could do it! You could be a star!”

You shook your head sadly, “I’m not a star though. I’m lucky I even got my parts here.”

Carlotta clenched her lily-white fists in her lap. Her big wide eyes narrowed into feline slits. She looked angry, frustrated, but most of all, disappointed as she whispered, “You don’t know what you’re throwing away, do you?”

“I just know that it's best if I stick to my own lanes,” you grumbled.

Carlotta’s eyes never left you as she pursed her cherry red lips. In the dim light, she looked like a perfect angel, much like the ones painted above. She clenched her hands together, then let them relax with a sigh.

“You’ll keep up your lessons with me?” she asked hopefully.

You nodded and sat on a nearby stool, “Of course. I love your lessons.”

Carlotta smiled thinly, “I love them too.”

You watched as she slipped her necklace back over her swan neck. The bright glint of ruby reminded you of the stage curtains she wrapped herself in. You couldn’t imagine Carlotta as anything other than a singer. She was born for the stage, after all. Her entire childhood had been preparing her for the opera house, following in the footsteps of her mother and her mother before her.

How you wished you could follow in her footsteps.

“I’m gonna miss you, you know,” you sighed.

“I’m going to miss my best student,” Carlotta gave you a somber smile.

“We’ll keep in touch, right?”

Carlotta flashed her award-winning smile, “I have all your socials; I’m not letting you get away from me that easily!”

You chuckled as you walked around the room, searching for a small brown box.

Carlotta got up to peek over your shoulder to admire the empty wrappers tucked under your shawl.

“Well,” she crowed, “looks like tubby got his treat after all!”

“Tubby?” you scoffed, “the phantom isn’t fat!”

“Well that’s what everybody else says,” Carlotta pointed out,” and if he’s eating candies and chocolates all day long then he’s bound to be… Well, you know… Tubby.”

“I’m telling you,” you rolled your eyes, “when I saw him he was skinny as a rake.”

“As a rake?” Carlotta raised a perfect eyebrow, “not a tractor mower?”

“No he’s skinny! Honestly, I should probably put out something a bit more substantial for him…” you muttered.

“Oh you’re going to go and make the phantom home cooked meals now, are you?” Carlotta smirked.

You huffed as a blush crossed your cheeks, “Well, maybe it would be nice.”

Carlotta hummed as she watched you go dispose of the wrappers. When you sat back down, Carlotta gave you a sagely nod.

“Well, if you get this phantom on a diet maybe he won’t be so afraid to show himself,” Carlotta shrugged, “who knows, maybe you could introduce us. You do seem to be his favorite.”

“Me?” you twittered awkwardly, “I don’t know about that…”

“Oh I know!” Carlotta laughed, “whenever you’re on stage the reviews are all five stars! I think the reason you’re being cast so often is that the managers are noticing how well we do when you’re on stage!”

You huffed, “You’re saying it’s not my skills as a performer drawing in the reviews?”

Carlotta bristled, “No I’m not saying that!” she relaxed as she took your hand in hers, “I’m saying that the phantom has a liking for you. I love you, but one particularly good background singer isn’t going to turn the tides of an entire production. You don’t ensure that lights magically keep working. Hell, one lead girl, Hannah I think but you’d have to check with her, her mic went out halfway through a performance. Not a single person noticed until they were doing audio checks after the performance! It was incredible!”

“Wait, you’re talking about the time we did Faust, right?” you asked.

“Yes that’s the one!” Carlotta grinned, “I’m telling you that something’s special about you when you’re on stage. Everybody else says you’re a lucky charm, but I think that a certain someone is watching over you.”

You looked away to try and hide your flushed face, “Well, maybe. But if he really liked me, wouldn’t he maybe introduce himself? I only saw him once…”

“I’m telling you,” Carlotta said primly, “he’s afraid you’ll think he’s fat! Either that or he’s an actual ghost, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

“I thought Henry was the ghost hunter around here?” you elbowed her lightly.

“What I said stays between us!” Carlotta warned you.

“Sure,” you smirked, “whatever you say.”

“You know, you should show more respect for your teacher,” Carlotta sniffed.

“I thought you were Anna’s teacher?” you pointed out.

Carlotta groaned and rubbed her temples irritably, “Well she’s no star either. If it weren’t part of my contract here I would’ve dropped her ages ago. She’s…”

“She’s something else,” you supplied.

“Oh she sure is…” Carlotta grumbled as she leaned her elbows onto the vanity, “at least I get one decent student out of this contract.”

You smiled, “I try to be.”

Carlotta turned to face you again with a ghost of a smile, “You are.”

You chatted easily in the dressing room, swapping stories of theater hijinks and arguing over the stature of the phantom of the opera late into the night. As you left for the night, you wondered once again if you had actually seen the phantom so long ago. Was it really true? Did you actually see the phantom, or was that just another performer? You suspected you’d never know for sure. You just hoped that you’d actually seen the whole event. You’d started to wonder if you were hallucinating the entire time.

You shut the door and locked it as you left.

Inside the room, König drifted from the corner of the dark room to your vanity. He heard voices coming from the alley behind him. Carefully, he used a nail he’d stolen earlier to tack a small letter to the corner of your mirror before ducking behind a panel in the wall. He noted that the gap was terribly small, far too small for a ‘tubby’ man to fit through. If that Carlotta wasn’t such a good teacher, well… König shook his head of the thoughts. As long as Carlotta was good to you, he’d be sure to watch over her too. His personal offense could wait another day if it meant ensuring you’d be safe in the opera house. He could be the ‘enormously fat rat’ as long as he could continue to watch your performances.

He hid behind the wall as the next group of singers swanned through the door. He listened to them titter about, laughing and giggling after such a successful showing. He heard a small gasp, and listened close.

“Look at that!” a girl said aloud.

“Look at what?” another asked.

“On the Songbird’s vanity! There’s a note!”

“Should we take a look?”

König bristled.

“No, no we shouldn’t. Let’s just ask her about it later.”

“Do you think it’s a lover?”

A scoff.

“I don’t think so. She’s not exactly a lovable sort.”

König rolled his eyes.

“Well, maybe. There’s that one guy who’s always asking about her.”

“Oh, that Makarov guy?”

That got König’s attention.

“Yeah, the russian guy. He’s always watching Songbird, you know? I’ve heard he only gets tickets when Songbird’ll be on stage.”

“You think he got backstage to pin a note for her?”

“Maybe, or he might’ve given it to a stagehand to do it for him. Either way, it’s so romantic!”

“Well, if it’s really Makarov behind that, Songbird’s got another thing coming for her.”

“You think so?”

“Oh I know so! Makarov… Well, he’s not a good man. Let’s just hope it’s anybody but Makarov.”

König glanced around in the dark. Makarov? Who was this Makarov? Why was he interested in his little Songbird?

He didn’t bother to hide his footsteps as he crawled away, too focussed on the new man to notice how the girls went silent as he left.

“Was that the phantom?” someone asked.

“Maybe. What’re your thoughts he wrote the letter?”

“A ghost writing a letter? Now I know you’re making things up.”

“Who knows, maybe he did. Can you imagine it? A phantom falling in love with our little Songbird?”

Someone hummed carefully, “Something tells me that’s not too far off the truth.”

König dump

Alternate Universes

[steellegacy]

On This Day: July 25, 1564

Maximilian II (1527-1576) becomes emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.

⠀

⚜️ Elements of an Armor Garniture, c. 1550-1555

Medium: Steel, partially embossed, etched and blackened, and gilded; copper alloy (brass); leather; textile

Made in Augsburg

Philadelphia Museum of Art

⠀

This armor is part of a great garniture that included over five hundred pieces. It is believed to have belonged to the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian II. The other related components of the garniture are preserved in the Historisches Museum der Stadt in Vienna, Austria.

⠀

⚜️ Overall of shield and helmet reinforce from Armor Garniture of Maximilian II, German, Augsburg, ca. 1550

Medium: Steel, etched and gilt

Dimensions: H.- 12.1 cm; W.- 21.9 cm; Wt. - 737.1 g.

The MET

⠀

🖼 Portrait of Maximilian II, circa 1566

Artist: Workshop of Nicolas Neufchatel (fl. 1539–1567)

KHM Wien

⠀

- -

В этот день:

25 июля 1564 года Максимилиан II (1527-1576) становится императором Священной Римской империи.

⠀

⚜️ Элементы доспешного гарнитура, ок. 1550-1555

Материалы: Сталь, чеканка, травление, чернение, золочение; медный сплав (латунь); кожа; текстиль

Изготовлен: в Аугсбурге, Германия

Художественный музей Филадельфии

⠀

Этот доспех является частью большого гарнитура, насчитывавшего более пятисот деталей. Предполагается, что он принадлежал императору Священной Римской империи Максимилиану II. Другие связанные компоненты гарнитура хранятся в Историческом музее города в Вене, Австрия.

⠀

⚜️ Усиление щита и шлема из комплекта доспехов Максимилиана II, Аугсбург, ок. 1550

Материалы: Сталь, травление и позолота

Размеры: Высота - 12,1 см; Ширина - 21,9 см; Вес - 737,1 г.

The MET

⠀

🖼 Портрет Максимилиана II, ок. 1566 г.

Автор: Мастерская Никола Невшателя (время активности 1539–1567)

Музей истории искусств, Вена

⠀

#MaximilianII #МаксимилианII #HolyRomanEmpire #доспехи #armor #medievalarmor #medieval_armor #NicolasNeufchatel #НиколаНевшатель

[totowlff]

break the rules

➝ you're there for business and that's all. however, after your presentation, you meet a mysterious man who makes you question all your convictions.

➝ word count: 3,8k

➝ warnings: strip club environment, alcohol consumption, mentions of smut

➝ author’s note: this was an idea that appeared suddenly and that was stored for some time in my drafts. after finishing my last one shot, i took the courage to finish this story. definitely not my best, but I still find it interesting and, in a way, mysterious.

The wind whipped your hair against your face as you walked down the narrow street. Winter hadn't officially arrived in Vienna, but that didn't stop you from feeling a bone-chilling cold under the thick coat and red scarf you had chosen to leave the house that late afternoon.

The movement at that time of day in the Innere Stadt was intense, cars roaming the alleys near St. Stephen's Cathedral, sharing the tight space with buses, bicycles, motorbikes and pedestrians, many pedestrians. Residents and tourists, adults and children, all mixed together, heading to their homes, apartments and hotel rooms to rest after a long day in the City of Dreams. Walking in the opposite direction, however, you weren't going home or to the hotel, like them.

You were going to work.

The fact that you had a night job was not surprising, considering that that was a city that had tourism as its main economic asset. There were countless bars, restaurants and cafes that were open, waiting anxiously for customers, especially after a complicated period related to the Covid-19 pandemic.

But the surprising part of your job was that you weren't a waitress, a cook, or a bartender, even though you'd served countless flutes of champagne and glasses of whiskey, with and without ice.

You were a stripper.

It wasn't the most conventional job there was in Vienna, especially considering the city's nightlife. However, it was the only one that, in addition to paying well enough to cover the expenses of the PhD in psychology you were doing, was flexible with the timing of the workshops and seminars you needed to attend, as well as making it possible for you to work on your dissertation during the week.

Your family didn't know, let alone your classmates or teachers. The official version was that you worked in a high-end bar and received some generous tips from customers. Nobody needed to know what you did or said for them to pay you so well.

Stopping briefly to see an interesting shoe that was in the Midanis window, you headed towards the brown door next to the gold tiled wall where the club's name was placed. Stopping in front of the intercom, you quickly typed in the employee passcode, a simple sequence that caused the lock to squeak open.

Descending the stairs leading to the lounge, you came across one of the security guards, who was smartly dressed in a well-tailored suit.

— Good evening, Layla.

— Good evening, Marc — you replied, smiling.

That wasn't your real name. As soon as you were hired by the club, you were given a new name, of Arabic origin, in order to protect your privacy and offer more security against clients who wanted to cross the line that was firmly delimited in your contract. Unlike other girls, you had refused to join the club's list of available escorts.

You were there to dance, and only to dance.

As you entered the main hall, you found the place being carefully prepared for the night. Two female employees were bent over tables, wiping them down, while the bartender arranged drinks on the bar. Greeting them with a smile, you crossed the room towards a door at the back of the room, which led to the dressing rooms.

As she opened the door, your nostrils were filled with the scent of hairspray, women's perfume, and nail polish remover. In the speakers, a lively beat mingled with the conversations and laughter of the other women who worked there, who were already getting ready for the night.

— Good evening, Layla — a blonde girl, who was modeling a curl with a curling iron, greeted you.

— Good evening, Fatin — you answered, as you went towards the lockers and opened yours to put your purse in — Curls today?

— Aisha heard that there is a big table reserved tonight — Fatin replied, letting go of the strand she'd just styled and picking up another one — Looks like it's a big guy's birthday party. And you know what it means, right?

— Tips? — you replied, looking over your shoulder as you removed the coat you were wearing, revealing the black top you were wearing underneath. Then it was the turn of the jeans to slide down your legs, revealing your panties in the same color.

— Exactly — she smiled, releasing another curl — And the good ones. The kind ones that pay bills.

— I hope so, I still have to pay my apartment’s rent this week — you chuckled, as you folded your coat and put it in your locker. Then you pulled the black tulle top and shorts out of your bag, putting them on right there. There was no point in feigning modesty considering the women there were dressed even less discreetly than you. Finally, you put on your favorite heels, with transparent and vertiginous platforms, perfect for the choreography you would be doing that night.

Sitting in front of the mirror, you were just finishing gluing on your false eyelashes when Theresia, the club manager, walked into the dressing room with a wide smile on her face.

— Good evening, girls — she said, receiving a chorus of positive responses — Today we are hosting a large group for a birthday celebration, so I ask that you put your all into your choreographies and be nice to them.

— Do you have the setlists? — one of the girls, a brunette whose name there was Huda, asked.

— You start, Huda, followed by Iman, Layla, Malika and Karima closes the first round — the woman replied, making you release the air that was trapped in your throat. You hated being the first one to perform, as your choreography was more rhythmic, and generally, the audience appreciated more lively opening numbers — Any other questions? No? Great. Girls who want to go to the bar are free to do so.

Theresia walked out with a few girls behind her. However, you remained seated, staring at your own shoes.

— Layla? — someone called you. You looked up to find Fatin standing in front of you with a smile on his red lips — Are you going to stick around?

— Yeah. I want to stretch and concentrate for the performance.

— Want me to take a look at the guys to give you a preview?

You smiled.

— I do.

— Okay, I'm going there and I'll be right back, okay?

Fatin left the dressing room towards the club’s bar, while you remained seated, staring at your own reflection. You were wearing strong makeup, your eyes lined with eyeliner, almost cat-like. A perfect parallel with the choreography you had chosen for that night, which had something wild and mysterious about it.

As you mentally recalled the steps, following the beat of the music in your head, you imagined how your movements would look to the eyes of the men who should be walking into the club at that hour, ordering their drinks and talking about business and other banal things before enjoying the women who would walk onstage and make them put their hands in their wallets and pockets.

Still thinking about one of the moves you would make, your eyes met Fatin's, who was returning to the room with a wide smile on her face.

— Did you like what you saw? — you asked, stifling a laugh.

— There are some interesting guys out there. Apparently they're here to celebrate the 50th birthday of one of them. But if you ask me, they don't look 50 years old...

— Did you ask their age?

— No, but, you know, these guys always have friends the same age.

You laughed.

— Everyone from here?

— Doesn’t look like it, as they're speaking English. There must be foreigners with them.

— Americans?

— Don't think so. Too handsome to be 50-year-old guys from America.

— There are 50-year-old guys from America who are handsome.

— But those are too handsome, Layla. And, let's face it, the only good looking guy in America at that age must be Ben Affleck and I'm pretty sure he's not out there.

— Of course he’s not, he got married this year.

— Married? — Fatin asked, incredulous.

— Yeah, with Jennifer Lopez — you replied. It wasn't like you followed celebrity news, in fact, you found out after a customer commented on your butt being similar to the singer's and lamented for long minutes about her marriage.

— Shit — she muttered, taking a seat in a chair beside her, facing the mirror.

— Don't worry, you'll find your Ben soon, Fatin.

The two of you continued talking, commenting about the choreography you were working on and the song you were dancing to that night. When showing a video that you had made in a rehearsal, your colleague gave a mischievous smile.

— The guys out there are going to love it.

— You think so?

— I'm sure — she replied, as you caught sight of Theresia's face in the dressing room doorway, a slightly worried expression on her face.

— Layla, you’re up.

— Why?

— Iman's with a client and the guy paid for an hour with her. I can't get her out of there now.

You sighed, getting up from your chair.

— The show must go on — you said, pushing past Fatin and heading for the door.

The way to the stage was always a moment of introspection for you. It was as if you stripped yourself of all the labels you occupied in the lives of the people around you. You abandoned your daughter, granddaughter, friend, student, psychologist and future doctor to become just Layla. Your sensual and confident alter-ego, who looked each of those men in the eye and made them feel much more than sexually desired, but understood and welcomed as well.

Standing at the entrance to the stage, you took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching your hands, relaxing the muscles in your shoulders. “It's showtime”, you thought, before looking up and wiggling your feet to check that your shoes were securely fastened to your feet.

And then you entered the stage, slowly.

The room seemed to quieten as you walked to the center of the stage, the voices becoming whispers inside your head. Leaning your back against the pole, you waited for the woman's voice to come through the speakers before looking up. The club was full, men and women mixed up, liquor bottles, champagne flutes and whiskey glasses strewn across the tables.

The soft beat guided your movements. Lifting one leg a few times, soon you were pulling yourself up onto the pole, spinning as your body slid down. Your muscle memory took you through the music as if it were something natural that you had done hundreds of times. Every step came naturally, every sigh, every lust-filled gaze you directed at the audience.

After a few steps on the ground and spinning around the pole to get up again, you finished the choreography looking back at the audience, while the song ended in a whisper from the interpreter. The silence that followed made the corners of your lips curl. The mission had been accomplished.

Taking a deep breath, you waited for the spotlight that illuminated you to go out so that you left the stage in quick steps, hurrying to make room for the next girl who would perform there. At the backstage door, Fatin was waiting for you with a wide smile on her face.

— Another perfect performance, Layla — she said, as she escorted you back to the dressing room — The guys were completely mesmerized.

— I hope you didn't notice that I missed one of the footprints on the pole — you replied, walking back into the dressing room.

— Honestly, I didn't even notice — Fatin murmured, while you took one of the small glasses of water and took a long drink — Now drink this and let's go back to the hall.

After a quick look in the mirror to confirm that your hair was still acceptable and that your makeup still looked fresh, you followed Fatin to the bar, which was, indeed, very busy. Smiling, you waved towards the bar, where the bartender, Farah, was making another Old Fashioned for one of the men sitting across from her.

— Layla — you heard Theresia call out to you from a corner of the hall, near the hallway that led to the private rooms. Giving Fatin's shoulder a knowing squeeze, you walked over to the manager with a smile on your face.

— Yeah?

— There's a guy waiting for you inside.

You blinked.

— Who?

— Does it matter?

— Well, it's just that I haven't talked to anyone yet...

— And you don't even have to, just move that ass of yours and these guys are happy — she said sharply — Now go, he's in room three.

Nodding, somewhat resigned, you entered the hallway in silence. Taking a deep breath, you were concentrating on putting the mask back on, on being the mysterious, seductive woman that man had seen onstage. “Focus”, you thought, before exhaling and putting your hand on the doorknob.

The private rooms always had the same layout, with a pole placed in the center of the room while a large black velvet sofa took up three of the walls of the room. Sitting right in the middle of it, tugging at the sleeves of his white shirt, was the man who had requested your presence.

He had dark hair and eyes, as well as a strong jaw. His shoulders were broad and, even sitting down, he looked very tall. Upon noticing his presence, he straightened his posture, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.

— Good night — you said, slowly approaching the pole in the middle of the room, your eyes locked on his.

— Good night — he replied, his deep voice running through your body like a caress and a shiver — Layla, isn't it?

— Yeah — you said, placing a hand on the cold metal, leaning almost nonchalantly, even though you were feeling just the opposite. However, the rule was clear: it didn't matter to you who he was. It only mattered that he was willing to pay to have you for his eyes alone, if only for a few minutes.

— I liked your performance — he said, resting his elbows on his thighs — Have you been dancing long?

— A few years already — you replied, as you walked around the pole, your fingers slipping along it.

— And you like it, I presume.

— Well, yes — you said, smiling as you practiced a few laps on the pole — It pays my bills, so I can't complain.

The corners of his lips curled up as he leaned back on the couch.

— I guess I can say the same about my work.

— What do you do? — you asked, before mentally condemning yourself. It didn't matter to you what he did, you were just there to be a pleasant sight and nothing more. However, your curiosity did not anger the man in front of you.

— A curious girl, I see — he murmured, giving her a small smile.

— Someone needs to be — you hesitated, after all, you didn't know his name. And, realizing this, he hastened to complete.

— You can call me Torger.

A strong name. Powerful. Unusual. Something tingled on his skin.

— And what do you do for a living, Torger?

— Business — he replied, punctually.

— That we all do, don't we? — you returned, leaning against the pole.

— Indeed. But in my case, it's real business. Finance.

— Banker? Or investor?

— Neither of them. I own a business.

You snorted, looking unimpressed.

— Ah, crypto, eh? — you said — I hope you're not thinking of paying me that way, I won't accept it.

Your comment made Torger chuckle, throwing his head back. Stopping suddenly, your heart was pounding in your chest as something warm spread through your body.

— No, no, I've learned my lesson regarding cryptocurrency, I don't even want to think about putting money into that.

— Did you already try and lose money?

— Enough for me to regret thinking it would work — the man replied, running a hand through his hair — The point is, my job is related to finance, and before you ask, it's not illegal at all.

— I'm relieved — you murmured, allowing yourself to hook one leg over the pole for a quick spin.

— And you?

— What about me?

— What do you do? — Torger asked.

— You see what I do — you answered — I dance.

— I'm asking out of here. Do you work with something else? Study?

You pressed your lips together as you put your feet back on the ground. The moment you stepped there, Y/N didn't exist, the woman who was fighting for a postdoctoral degree didn't exist, neither the daughter, or the sister or the granddaughter that you were.

There was only Layla. And only she could be there, inside that room.

— I can't say anything.

— Why not? — he asked, raising an eyebrow.

— Because it's in the rules — you said, leaning against the pole again.

That was an outright lie. There were no rules within the club regarding what you could and could not say about yourself to the customers. The choice was entirely yours and you always chose not to say it so as to protect yourself from potential stalkers. Yet even following your own directive, something told you that you could trust Torger.

— Rules?

— From the club. I can't say anything about myself.

— Anything?

— Anything.

— Not even if I want to know more?

— Not if I wanted to tell you more — you said, stopping in front of the pole. Staring at you, Torger had the shadow of a smile on his face, as if he sensed that you wanted to say more. “Am I that transparent?”, you asked yourself as you took careful steps towards him.

— And are there any other rules here that you need to follow?

— Well, there are some — you murmured.

— Do you mind telling me?

You took a few seconds to think as you allowed your back to slide down the pole, coming to a stop on your knees in front of it.

— I can't use my real name or any information that identifies me, and I can't drink or smoke during working hours.

— Layla isn't your name then?

— No — you replied with a smile, as you slowly rose from the ground — And I didn't even mention the rules you have to follow…

— Are you serious?

You chuckled as you walked to the front of him.

— Yeah. You can't pressure me for information about her private life, not even take me out of the club during working hours... And you can't, under any circumstances, make physical contact.

— You mean I can't touch you? — he asked, a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

— No, you can't — you replied, looking down at his hands. They were big, with long fingers and not a ring in sight. Perfect to touch you.

— Not even if I asked?

— No.

— No one would know.

— They would.

— Only if you tell — he returned, in a mischievous tone.

Moving closer, you crouched down in front of him, your eyes wandering over his expression, trying to unravel what was behind the mischievous smile and curious look. He was completely magnetic, drawing you into his orbit in an almost natural way.

— And you want to touch me? — you finally asked.

— Yes, I do.

Looking into his dark eyes, you took a deep breath before taking his hand and bringing it to his face, your fingers lightly touching his skin. You felt as if your entire body was pulsing, heat spreading inside your chest. The feeling of doing it for the first time was both frightening and delicious.

— You're beautiful — Torger murmured, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek.

— You're rather handsome yourself — you replied, making him chuckle.

— Thanks, I don’t hear that often.

— Seriously?

— Yeah. I've never been successful with girls.

— I don’t believe you.

— Why not?

— Because you're making me want to break all of my rules — you replied, instinctively bringing your face closer to his — And I never break rules.

— But you're breaking them now.

— For you.

— I guess I should feel special.

— Maybe you are — you whispered, your face close enough that your nose was brushing his. His touch on your face made anticipation swell below your navel — Maybe you are that much more than special…

You knew the moment you kissed him, you were lost. This was your last chance to back off, to avoid doing something you would bitterly regret. But at the same time, you wanted to jump into that abyss, you wanted to do that.

And when you kissed him, it was glorious.

It was a chaste, subtle touch. It was the first time you'd kissed a customer, and in a way, you wanted it to be the last. You wanted to kiss that man forever if that was possible. You wanted to taste him, wanted to feel his skin under your fingers. I wanted to feel his strength and delicacy mixing with his desire between the sheets.

— Torger — you whispered as he pulled away slightly. However, the answer came through his hands, which helped you up and placed you on one of his legs. Wrapping one of his arms around his neck, he didn't wait to bring your lips together again, this time in a more intense kiss.

It was strange to be in that position, completely surrendered to a customer, tasting alcohol on his tongue and his fingers squeezing your thigh. But, it was a good-type stranger. A stranger who made you understand why other girls had their favorite customers, who they offered more than attention and affection.

— I've never seen a woman like you — he growled, nibbling her neck, the hand that was on her thigh slowly moving up her body, burning you with desire — So beautiful, so perfect...

Your fingers dug into his dark hair, pressing his face against your skin, as if it could give you a crumb of pleasure. And, considering the path his lips made towards your breasts, you were pretty sure it was close.

Until the lights in the room turned white, and the music suddenly stopped.

That change in the environment had him looking up at you as sadness invaded your chest, your lips pressed into a thin line.

— What happened?

— Your time is up — you muttered.

— But… If I want, I can request more time, right?

You sighed, getting up from his lap. It was like waking up from a really good dream and realizing it never really happened. You couldn't have a guy like him all to yourself, you never could. You could never have more of him, however much you wanted.

— No, Torger. The limit is 30 minutes per girl, per night.

— Shit — he said quietly, running a hand over his face.

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, not to say painful. You didn't want to go, but you knew you needed to get on with your night, just like he did.

But how to continue working after that?

“The show must go on”, you said to yourself mentally, before sighing and turning towards the door. However, something wrapped around your wrist, preventing you from following. Turning your face, you found Torger's dark eyes fixed on yours.

— Are you going to be here tomorrow?

— Yeah. I perform every night here.

— So I'll see you tomorrow, okay?

— Okay — you replied with a little smile — See you tomorrow, Torger.

Bringing your hand to his lips, he placed a kiss on your knuckles.

— See you tomorrow, Layla.

[whencyclopedia]

Titian

Titian (c. 1487-1576 CE), real name Tiziano Vecelli (or Vecellio), was an Italian Renaissance painter who during his lifetime was considered the finest of the Venice school of artists. In a long career working for dukes, kings, and popes, Titian produced a large number of paintings, mostly with a religious theme, a mythological theme or portraits. The artist's work is renowned for the emotion of his figures, rich colouring, and overall mood of the compositions. Titian's masterpieces include Venus and Adonis, now in the Prado Museum of Madrid, several altarpieces for churches, and portraits of such noted figures as Philip II of Spain (r. 1556-1598 CE).

Early Life

Tiziano Vecelli, better known internationally by his anglicized name Titian, was born in Pieve di Cadora, Veneto c. 1487 CE. When he was just nine, he was sent to a mosaic workshop in Venice to begin an apprenticeship there. The young artist then progressed to become a student of Giovanni Bellini (c. 1430-1516 CE) in his Venetian workshop. A contemporary apprentice was another future star, Giorgione da Castelfranco (1475-1510 CE). Titian and Giorgione influenced each other greatly and even worked directly together, notably on the facade of the Fondaco dei Tedeschi palace c. 1504 CE. When Giorgione died in his mid-thirties, Titian finished off some of his remaining paintings. One example is the Sleeping Venus now in the Gemaldegalerie of Dresden. There are also some works which art historians continue to disagree over just who created them, Titian or Giorgione, notably the Pastoral Concert now in the Louvre, Paris. Works identified as purely Titian's in this early stage of his career include the Saint Mark Enthroned altarpiece, now in the Academia Gallery of Venice, and The Gypsy Madonna now in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

Continue reading...

[mybeingthere]

The Pioneering Pottery of Lucie Rie

by Robin Cawdron-Stewart.

"Very few people in this country think of the making of pottery as an art" – so wrote Bernard Leach in May 1940. Yet the pottery that Leach wrote of – with "its own language and inherent laws"- had a presence within the broader British Arts scene since the beginning of the century through the likes of the Omega Workshops and the Seven & Five Society.

Today ceramics are held in equal esteem to the mediums of painting and sculpture, and clay celebrated for its great breadth and versatility. And whilst no single potter alone can be credited with this great accomplishment, the work of Lucie Rie has done much to promote studio ceramics, presenting them to a truly global audience.

Born in Vienna in 1902, Rie grew up in an environment steeped in the style and elegance of Viennese Modernism and enrolled at the Vienna Kumstgewerbeschule in 1922 where she learnt to throw. It was also whilst a student that she began to develop her in-depth scientific understanding and fascination with glazes – something which stayed with her throughout her life. Rie established a name for herself on the continent, winning prizes for her work at the International Exhibition in Paris in 1937 but following the Anschluss and the union of Austria with Nazi Germany she fled Vienna and, together with her husband, arrived in London.

The Britain that Rie arrived into was a world away from Vienna, both socially and in terms of the artistic environment and the ceramic scene. British studio pottery was dominated by the work and writings of Bernard Leach, who looked back to the historic craft tradition or further afield to the Japanese aesthetic. Rie grappled with this very alien approach, and despite her efforts, could not divorce herself from the European and Modernist ideals that she had learned on the continent."

Continue https://www.sothebys.com/.../art.../lucie-rie-pioneer-potter

[gacougnol]

Regina Relang (German, 1906–1989)

Painted wooden toys from workshops in Vienna: women figurines with movable arms and paper umbrellas - 1943 -

[krakrava]

[abwwia]

Freidl Dicker-Brandeis, Portrait of a young woman with a lace collar," 1940-1944. Courtesy Jewish Museum, Prague.

Frederika "Friedl" Dicker-Brandeis (30 July 1898, Vienna – 9 October 1944, Auschwitz-Birkenau), was an Austrian artist and educator murdered by the Nazis in the Auschwitz-Birkenau extermination camp. From 1919-1923 she was involved at the Weimar Bauhaus in textile design, printmaking, bookbinding, and typography workshops. via Wikipedia

See also https://palianshow.wordpress.com/2024/01/27/9-women-artists-lost-during-the-holocaust-remembranceday/

[mariacallous]

When people say that music can change the world, they don’t usually mean songs that capture with bright, sharp intimacy how girls feel.

They mean protest songs, political songs, anthems against the Vietnam war; not the soundtracks to aching teenage summers or to eight-year-olds’ dance routines in the playground. They don’t, in short, mean Taylor Swift songs. But that was what Malala Yousafzai, the Nobel peace prize-winning campaigner for women’s right to an education, used to sing with her friends growing up in Pakistan. Music, she posted on Instagram,after attending one of Swift’s London gigs this summer, “made me and my friends feel confident and free���. Which is why, in Afghanistan, the Taliban bans it.

This weekend, Swift was in Miami, starting the final leg of an Eras Tour that coincides neatly with the final leg of the most consequential US election in decades. Already an economic juggernaut, unleashing enough fan expenditure in its wake to have a measurable impact on local GDP wherever it rolls into town,the tour is increasingly a political vehicle, too.

On Friday night, Swift posted an Instagram reel, captioned “back to the office”, of herself exploring the stadium before the show, dressed in jeans and carrying her beloved cat – a pointed choice, given the Republican vice-presidential pick JD Vance’s dismissal of Kamala Harris as a childless cat lady.

The Democrats are piggybacking furiously on Swift’s endorsement of the Harris/Walz ticket to make a push for the younger voters they desperately need, with billboards around the stadium carrying ads proclaiming “I’m in my voting era”, and activists dishing out Kamala-themed friendship bracelets (trading bracelets is a Swiftie ritual).

No swing voter is swung by screaming along to Cruel Summer, but that’s not the point: this is a get-out-the-vote exercise. Her fanbase is young, mostly female, with a sizeable contingent of gay men, and thus liberal-leaning. The more of them she can motivate to actually vote in a highly gendered election, the worse for Donald Trump. Faintly surreal as it sounds, Swift has become a powerful rallying point for liberal resistance to “alt-right” misogyny in an election that has the free world holding its breath.

Taylor Swift isn’t just a pop star now. She is the convergence of celebrity with the kind of soft power – who else could get Yousafzai, two future kings and what feels like half the British cabinet to her London gigs? – that has acquired harder edges this summer.

For power like this has consequences. She had enraged the Maga movement long before formally endorsing Harris/Walz and praising their stance on abortion and LGBTQ+ rights. For months, she’s been the focus of increasingly deranged deep state conspiracy theories, suggesting she’s a front for some kind of fiendishly complex plot to rig the election that, like all conspiracy theories, is funny only until some lunatic believes it.

The office has not always been a comfortable place for Swift lately. In the middle of July, an American man who had allegedly made threats against her on social media was arrested in the German city of Gelsenkirchenon his way to her show, for which he had a ticket.

Less than a fortnight later, three little girls were stabbed to death at a Taylor Swift-themed dance workshop in the English town of Southport, in an attack whose motive remains unknown. (Swift met some of the survivors privately in London this summer.) In August, the singer cancelled three concerts in Vienna, after Austrian police disrupted a suspected Islamist terror plot to kill what they called “a huge number of people”. It was a grim echo of the 2017 bombing at an Ariana Grande gig in Manchester where 22 people died.

Frankly, I don’t blame her mother-turned-manager for getting spooked in London, and reportedly insisting on the kind of blue-light police escort between hotel and stadium normally reserved for heads of state. Nor do I think it was simply the lure of free gig tickets that prompted the home secretary, Yvette Cooper, and London mayor, Sadiq Khan, to take an interest in Swift’s protection and the viability of an event worth around £300m to the capital.

Still, the resulting deeply silly row allowed editors to run huge pictures of Swift in spangly knickers for days on end, only finally jumping the shark whenBoris Johnson(of all people) used it to accuse Keir Starmer of looking corrupt.

Had the prime minister secretly hoped a bit of her stardust would rub off on him, when he was photographed at a Swift gig? Probably. Will he be trying that sort of thing again now? Almost certainly not. If Taylor Swift gets a peerage or a PPE contract, I’ll let you know. Sometimes, we seem like a very, very small island. Meanwhile, Swift is back at the office, temporarily boosting Florida’s GDP and trying to get a black woman elected as president.

When Time magazine chose the 34-year-old singer-songwriter as its Person of the Year in 2023, its profile suggested her power lay in giving women and girls “conditioned to accept dismissal, gaslighting, and mistreatment from a society that treats their emotions as inconsequential” permission to believe those feelings actually matter, through her songs. A year later, she is asking them to make their feelings matter through their votes. A gentle reminder that if music is to change the world, it’s never going to do so by itself.

[labuenosairesfrancaise]

Colon Theatre

The Teatro Colón in Buenos Aires is one of the most important opera houses in the world. Its rich and prestigious history, as well as its exceptional acoustic and architectural conditions, place it on par with theaters such as La Scala in Milan, the Paris Opera, the Vienna State Opera, Covent Garden in London, and the Metropolitan Opera in New York.

In its first location, the Teatro Colón operated from 1857 to 1888 when it was closed for the construction of a new venue. The new theater was inaugurated on May 25, 1908, with a performance of Aida. Initially, the Colón hired foreign companies for its seasons, but starting in 1925, it had its own resident companies - Orchestra, Ballet, and Choir - as well as production workshops. This allowed the theater, by the 1930s, to organize its own seasons funded by the city's budget. Since then, the Teatro Colón has been defined as a seasonal theater or "stagione," capable of fully producing an entire production thanks to the professionalism of its specialized technical staff.

Throughout its history, no significant artist of the 20th century has failed to set foot on its stage. It is enough to mention singers such as Enrico Caruso, Claudia Muzio, Maria Callas, Régine Crespin, Birgit Nilsson, Plácido Domingo, Luciano Pavarotti, and dancers like Vaslav Nijinsky, Margot Fonteyn, Maia Plisetskaya, Rudolf Nureyev, and Mikhail Baryshnikov. Esteemed conductors such as Arturo Toscanini, Herbert von Karajan, Héctor Panizza, and Ferdinand Leitner, among many others, have also graced the theater. It is also common for composers, following the tradition initiated by Richard Strauss, Camille Saint-Saëns, Pietro Mascagni, and Ottorino Respighi, to come to the Teatro Colón to conduct or supervise the premieres of their own works.

Several top-notch maestros have worked consistently here, achieving high artistic goals. They include Erich Kleiber, Fritz Busch, stage directors like Margarita Wallmann or Ernst Poettgen, dance masters like Bronislava Nijinska or Tamara Grigorieva, and choral directors like Romano Gandolfi or Tullio Boni. Not to mention the numerous instrumental soloists, symphony orchestras, and chamber ensembles that have offered unforgettable performances on this stage throughout over a hundred years of sustained activity.

Finally, since 2010, the Teatro Colón has been showcased in a restored building, resplendent in all its original splendor, providing a distinguished setting for its presentations. For all these reasons, the Teatro Colón is a source of pride for Argentine culture and a center of reference for opera, dance, and classical music worldwide.

__________________________________________________________

You will need a 64x64 lot and the usual CC from TheJim, Felixandre, Harrie, Sverinka, SYB, Aggressivekittty, and other marvelous creators! 

DOWNLOAD TRAY: https://www.patreon.com/user?u=75230453

(free to play 7/17)

[anotherdayinbliss]

Cover of program of Cabaret Fledermaus by Carl Otto Czeschka, 1907.

Illustration for the first program of Cabaret Fledermaus by Bertold Löffler and Carl Otto Czeschka, 1907.

Illustration for the second program of Cabaret Fledermaus by Moriz Jung, 1907.

Cover of the second program of Cabaret Fledermaus by August Chwala, 1907.

Draft of a poster for Cabaret Fledermaus by József Divéky, 1907.

Folding fan for Cabaret Fledermaus by Bertold Löffler.

In October of 1907, on the corner of Kärntner Straße 33 and Johannesgasse 1 in Vienna, a new kind of club emerged in a converted basement of a residential building. Cabaret Fledermaus was conceived as a place where the ‘boredom’ of contemporary life would be replaced by ‘ease, art and culture’. It was created by the Wiener Werkstätte (Vienna Workshop), a group of artists and designers founded by architect Josef Hoffmann, artist Koloman Moser and businessman Fritz Waerndorfer. Their aim was to stimulate the senses through a synthesis of modern architecture, painting, poetry, music and dance creating a space where ‘none of the arts were excluded’ and craftsmanship was championed. [...] Live performance was at the cabaret’s heart: it hosted short satirical plays, evocative shadow theatre, avant-garde dance, poetry readings and musical performances ranging in tone from humour to decadence. In particular, the stage offered a platform for epoch-defining female performers such as Grete Wiesenthal and Marya Delvard, supported by extravagant sets and elaborate costume designs. [...] Cabaret Fledermaus closed its doors in 1913 due to financial difficulties and there are only a few records that remain of what this dazzling club space would have looked like. There are three surviving photographs, postcards by the Wiener Werkstätte, and floorplan and elevation sketches by Le Corbusier from 1907, when he was in close contact with Hoffmann while staying in Vienna. source