#a crippling canva addiction | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thedistrictroleplay · 4 years ago

Photo

ID:

TRIGGER WARNINGS: car accident tw, death tw, disability tw, drugs tw, alcohol tw, DUI tw, trauma tw, child endangerment tw

TIMELINE:

1985- Chandler Walt Rawlins is born in Los Angeles, California to Kathy and Kevin Rawlins. He is their only child

2000- Chandler’s father dies in a car accident. His mother is permanently disabled from the accident. She and Chandler move to her hometown of Baltimore, Maryland to be close to family.

2002- Chandler begins selling his artwork and is featured in small, local galleries in Baltimore.

2004- Chandler graduates from high school

2008- Chandler graduates with a Bachelors in Fine Art from Brown University in Providence, RI.

2010- Chandler graduates with a Masters in Fine Art from Boston University in Massachusetts before being accepted into a PhD program at Ecole Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts in Paris. He moved to France in the fall. His work is quite popular and sells well there.

2012- Chandler graduates with a doctoral degree in Fine Arts but chooses not to stay abroad. He misses his family, so he moved back home to the states.

2014- Through a mutual friend, Chandler meets Elodie’s mother. She becomes his muse for a time, but their relationship isn’t stable.

2015- Elodie is born. Shortly after, Chandler and Elodie’s mother break up. Before Elodie’s first birthday her mom is arrested and Chandler assumes primary custody. Chandler buys a house in Deanwood for himself and Elodie.

2016- Chandler meets Carolina Weiss at one of his exhibits. They go on a few dates. The timing is bad for them. Carly is only visiting town and Chandler isn’t able to commit to her wilder lifestyle. They break up. He is still inspired by their brief connection and incorporates her into several pieces of his work.

2020- Chandler has a piece hung in the National Gallery of Art in D.C. His daughter begins Kindergarten.

2021- While teaching at Georgetown, Chandler realized his ex-fling and former muse, Carly, is in his class. At the end of the spring semester he asks her on a date.

BIOGRAPHY:

The Rawlins only had one child. A son they named Chandler Walt. Walt after the infamous Walt Disney, for whose company his father worked. Chandler’s dad was an animator, and the beginning inspiration for the young Rawlins boy’s artistic passion. Even before he could write his own name he was painting. Colors on canvas without rhyme or reason that just felt right. His father tried to push him into animation too, but Chandler didn’t want to make art for anyone but himself. Quickly his aspirations blossomed far beyond the achievements of his father, and his wide blue eyes drew wonder from the likes of Picasso, Kandinsky, Dalí, and Duchamp. For the first time in his life he thought he’d found himself, only to lose his dad. Mr. Rawlins didn’t understand Chandler’s work. It was very avant-garde, and quite often pushed the boundaries of what was appropriate or made people comfortable. You’ll never sell a single piece, his old man had said, and I’m okay with that Chandler retorted back.

In the summer before his first year of high school, on a family road trip to the Redwood’s of California, Chandler and his parents were in a car accident. His father died on impact, and his mother was permanently disabled by the accident. Chandler’s father’s passing away was a difficult loss for the teenager. There were many unresolved feelings towards his father, both as a boy and as an artist. All his grief came out in his art that would, later, go on to be the first piece of work Chandler ever sold. Shortly after the accident and his father’s passing, his mother moved them back to her hometown of Baltimore Maryland to be close to her side of the family. It was the first time in his life he’d ever experience some semblance of siblings in his cousins. They made life in a new place fun, and a brooding, loss stricken boy a little less so.

For college Chandler majored in Fine Arts at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. It was like a dream. All day, every day, engrossed in his work. Studying the creations of great artists, past and present, while honing his own craft. His work continued to remain unique, although not unsellable like his father had forecast. Chandler sold a lot of his work. After obtaining his masters in Fine Arts from Boston University, he used the funds to move to Paris and begin a research program at Ecole Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts. For as hard as he worked he had way more fun. Both in art and in love. His life a revolving door of woman who continually inspired his work. Until they didn’t anymore. His mother would be disappointed to see her well raised son a womanizer, but she was many thousands of miles away, and he was a slave to his art. Which demanded a muse.

However much like a home away from home Paris felt, Chandler missed his family. His mother was getting older. Many of his cousins had begun to start their own families. He wanted to be there to see it, so after obtaining his PhD he accepted a teaching position at Georgetown in Washington D.C. as an associate professor in their fine arts department. The university provided him funds and a space to continue his work. During a model call for the university he met the first American woman to really inspire his work. A spitfire named Brooklyn whose chaos was a crippling kind of addiction. She brought out the worst in Chandler, yet the best in his work. Their nights together were a blur of drugs, alcohol, and sex. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone but them when Brook ended up pregnant. A baby changed everything for Chandler. He immediately straightened up and did his best to keep the mother of his child on the same path.

Although, his best would not be good enough. A month after their baby’s birth, a daughter named Elodie, Brooklyn was off the wagon again. Her reckless behavior coupled with a newborn and work was exhausting, but Chandler never gave up on her. Not until she was arrested. It was the worst night of his life. Brook had their daughter for the night while Chandler attended a campus event, but she drank too much and chose to drive. The pair crashed into a utility pole. When he heard the news he was instantly taken back to his own car accident, and what it had cost him. Immediately, he cut all ties with Brook and sought full custody of their daughter. The courts granted it to him. With Elodie’s mother in rehab there wasn’t much of a fight, and even after she got out. She at least knew Chandler was what was best for their daughter. He bought a house for himself and Elodie in Deanwood. A modest home in a neighborhood full of other families. It’d been a long time since he’d lived in suburbia, but he found a way to acclimate. For her, for his daughter, for Elodie.

Life as a single father and full time professor didn’t allow Chandler the opportunity to date. Not that he really wanted to, anyway. His ex left the worst kind of taste in his mouth. So, despite all of his mother’s many attempts to set him up, Chandler stayed single. Until he met a woman, Carolina Weiss, at one of his art galleries. He should’ve known better the moment he saw her, the moment his brain started turning over portrait after portrait of her, but something in Chandler couldn’t control it. The way a new muse took hold of him was powerful, and he pursued her for weeks. They were all passion and paint. In their short time together, Chandler churned out an entire collection, but she was wild and free. Not at all like the chaos Brook brought into his life, but something entirely different. Something more potent and addicting, and Chandler got scared. The relationship ended and Carly left the city, but he still thought of her often.

In the fall of 2020, Chandler’s daughter began kindergarten. They hadn’t heard from Brooklynn in several years. With the help of his mother and immediate family the absence was well filled, and they considered themselves happy. It didn’t even occur to Chandler how lonely he was until he saw her again. The woman from the gallery, Carolina Weiss, now a student in one of his Spring classes. It complicated things immensely, but it felt like kismet. After all the time that had passed. He wasn’t afraid anymore and bided the semester before asking Carly on a date. Just being around her has reinvigorated his muse, and Chandler is back to popping out paintings left and right. He can’t get enough of her, but she’s also not the only woman in his life that requires his attention.

Chandler is written by Ash.

#car accident tw #death tw #disability tw #drugs tw #alcohol tw #dui tw #trauma tw #child endangerment tw #district character bio.#c; chandler rawlins #ben barnes fc #pronouns; he/him #residence; deanwood #writer; ash

6 notes · View notes

nukyster-blog · 5 years ago

Text

Changing course, chapter 1:

I started writing this story because I love Ivar, but disliked what he became. I loved him up to where Ragnar died, after that he became more of a villain than an anti-hero. For that, I wanted to give him a good hit of karma and figured making him a slave for Christians would be his worst nightmare. Before you continue reading, I’d like to address that the story will be graphic in the blood/guts/death/violence sense. I’m also aiming to get things as historically accurate as I can, but this is my hobby so if I make horrible mistakes, bear with me.

Chapter 1) Changing Course .-.-.

Ivar had always been plagued by pain. Since the day he left his mother’s womb and drew his first breath, life had been an endless road of physical suffering. As a nursling, those insufferable muscle aches and stiff joints made him cry relentlessly. Endlessly. It would drive his brother’s up the walls; send their father overseas. He’d weep in his mother’s arms, only silenced by the warmth of her breast; his pain absorbing strength which turned him hungry. He’d endured remarkably, survived the first crucial years and eventually managed to tolerate the pain as part of his life. He learnt to see the inevitable suffering not as foe, but as an unwelcome acquaintance that needed to be ignored in order to get through the day. That mindset, combined with his stubbornness and willpower made it possible for him to keep his chin up and get through the day. It did not lessen his self loathing and envy towards his brothers. Blessed with strong and healthy bodies, their mere existence were three thorns in Ivar’s eye; the youngest son of Ragnar Lothbrok. The black sheep, the boneless; deformed from the waist down.

His handicap planted a seed deep inside his chest and it spread all throughout his ribcage like poison ivy. It was blinding hate towards the world, to all who were capable to roam free and looked down upon him. Burdened by his physical limits his rage would at times rise high above his handicap, withstanding the pain to solemnly focus on destruction.

Not a single soul forgot Ivar’s first victim. How he’d embedded his axe into the skull of another child. He remembered vividly how his tiny fist had trembled around the handle, how his mother pulled him tightly against her chest and rushed him inside. Hush dyrbare, she’d soothed him, her voice soft and warm, it’s not your fault, don’t feel regret, you are the son of Ragnar Lofthbrok, it’s only right for people to fear you. Her response was the only validation he needed. Ivar took the reassuring words of his mother to heart and smothered all forms of empathy. He was entitled to lash out to others and from that very young age Ivar found a coping mechanism; hurting the less fortunate. It wasn’t physically torture per se; his mother’s smothering grip enabled him to actually torture their thralls and peasants. He might be a useless prince, but he was a prince. His royal blood burdened him to keep their name up to certain standards, so purposely torturing their slaves was inexcusable.

That did not mean Ivar would let any change go by to destroy the little belongings their thralls valued, pinch his nursemaid up to the point it left bruises, sink his teeth into ankles and throw a fit over the littlest of things. It was interesting to see that over time, he became quit infamous to the poor and powerless population of Kattegat. They saw him as a monster and that was much better than to be perceived as a crippled. So Ivar willingly took on the role of something dark and disgusting, he embraced being a monster.

His second act of bloodthirst happened during his pre pubescent years. The Seer had condemned a Christian to death by starvation.

Curiosity made him crawl to their city centre in the middle of the night where he first observed the haggard form of a man, fiercely praying to it’s false God.

It was an offense, openly performing such devotion for it’s Christian God. Although the slave never laid an eye on him, Ivar resented the man with every fiber of his being. It wasn’t the poor man per say, that set him off, the poor thing simply represented defiance; praying to it’s Christian God in the centre of their town. What he later claimed as hate for the Christian, had simply been an excuse to unleash his rage. The wrath towards the entire world had been sprouting all throughout his chest and some of the roots must have reached his brain. Because what he did with his bare hands was inhuman. He destroyed the Christian, with his bare hands, knuckles and teeth. Like a meek lamb the man, awaited his death and did not fight when he was being slaughtered. It had been Ivar’s first intentional murder and it was hypnotic, addictive. Without empathy, it was easy to perceive the human body as a gigantic canvas; with endless possibilities. Destruction and pain was the purest form of art, of life itself. By ending it. Ivar loved every moment, every hair, teeth, every fiber of it. The iron taste of warm blood, the warmth of it running down his hands, chin and chest. He welcomed it, all of it and bathed in it. All for glory, all for Odin. All to make the world forget the crippled boy that wept for his mother’s warmth and see him for what he wanted to be. A monster, because he failed to perceive himself as a man, as an equal to his brothers. No, his weak legs would never place him in the same line as his brother’s. So, a monster then, was the second best choice.

Ivar showed Kattegat another form of Boneless. At the first lights of dawn, the centre filled itself with exclamations of horrors and awe. The cobblestones were painted crimson and a flock of chickens were pecking at the intestines of the Christian. They lay spread throughout the centre, attracting flies and more bystanders. Ivar had just ripped out the tibia bones, leaving the muscles and skin lay wobbly and in a strange angle now that it’s inner skeleton had been removed. Ivar had been scraping the last bits of flesh from the bones with his fingernails when his mother appeared from the crowd and cried out in horror, falling down on her knees.

From that day, his brothers looked at him differently. With disgust, yes, because he mauled the body of the Christian like a starved wolf. Which wasn’t far from the truth, honestly, he’d been hungry. Hungry for blood. And validation.

From that day on, there was a hush whenever Ivar entered the Great hall, or any other place. Folks turned their head, acknowledged his presence. It was enough clarification for Ivar that being ruthless and malevolent paid off. Instead of being the handicapped son of Ragnar Lothbrok, he was the Christian slaughterer. Ivar the Boneless, now he was able to wear that byname with pride.

He’d carved pawns from the Christian’s bones and used them for his tafle game. During a game, he jokingly commented that he should’ve taken a knee bone too, it would have made an excellent king. Hvitserk chuckled uncomfortably, Sigurt’s eyes widened and Ubbe walked out. He’d loved it, pressing everyone’s buttons, making them uncomfortable and on edge. But eventually, his prepubescent act of monstrosity faded.

That was why he felt blessed when their father asked him to join his raid in Wessex. Him, only him; Ivar the Boneless, joining their father on a raid. The Gods never favoured him and instead of glory, Ivar found despair. Their father, Ragnar Lothbrok willingly walked into the belly of the beast, with his hands raised high, unarmed and broken. Like a loyal dog, he’d crawled after his father, knowing full heartily in the castle of Wessex lay nothing but doom. Still, he’d rather die by his father’s side then end up dead in a ditch, from hunger and thirst. His father broke his promise, or rather King Egbert’s son did. The safe passage back home, which had been arranged turned out to be a lie. When he was dragged away from his father’s cell, a blunt object collided to the back of his head and pain temporarily blinded him. Quite helplessly, he’d been listening to Prince Aethelwulf arranging his deposit. The pain in the back of his head was severe. Pain throbbed so violently around in his skull that he wondered why it didn’t just crack open.

For the first day, the nausea was overwhelming, he could not keep anything down. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he lost track of time and place. Curled up, cradling his damaged skull he wished for his mother. Any form of light ravaged his brain, pounding, throbbing, like a rotting tooth right between the eyes. It took his sanity away, his coordination. The few altercation he had with Saxxons made him whimper and plead for salvation. But no relief came to his pain. Without power to fight back, Ivar found himself tossed into a ship hold, as if he were a sack of potatoes; nothing more than damaged cargo. The circumstances below deck were horrendous; human cattle packed up and wedged together as tightly as the overseers could cramp in. Ivar, half aware of his surroundings and halfway sliding into a deep pool of endless nothingness, flinched when fingers reached for his oath ring. A fist formed itself around his wrist like a bear trap and with that, the last bits of his hereditary was ripped off of him. The leather protecting his fragile lower limbs, gone, taken too. His necklace, also gone. Even his shoes and tunic were worth taking. The overseers sniggered at the sight of Ivar’s weak attempt to intervene and shoved him aside, like a thing. Like a nothing.

Their journey overseas started although Ivar wasn’t aware, which in his case was a good thing. The onerous space was filled up to the max, with minimal resources. There was barely any light, no personal space. Water was scarce and so was food. Hygiene became a problem after the ship set it’s sails and some of the unlucky ones got seasick. It did not take long for the cramped out area to turn into a sewage; the stench and heat insufferable.

Ivar withstood the trials in silence, cradling his head in a fetal position. The pain in his head was all consuming. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the pain to go away. Over and over, until in the end, the rest of the world became detached.

He could barely hear the people around him. Some prayed in foreign tongues, others whimpered. Somewhere afar, a young child cried.

Eventually, he drifted into sleep, waking up by a sudden toss aside. Cries were lost beneath the thunder that rolled overhead. Their cage of wood and sails was mercilessly thrown into a storm. The waves resolutely grew in size. Their vessel rode the mighty swelling sea like a child’s toy, no longer controlled by the hands of men.

The inhabitants below deck were violently thrown from the far end of the hold to the other. Bodies were being trampled, panic spread like the plague, festering into each and everyone’s head. Violence roamed among the poor souls in captivity in order to breathe.

At one point, Ivar found himself suffocating. Never had he wished more for land, to feel the sweet green grass of his home against the palms of his hands. The sea, it felt like his rage from within. Like punishment, ready to tear itself through the wooden construction to claim their souls. His mother’s prophecy would come true. He would drown and never enter Valhalla, because there was no honour in this poor death. To be dragged down to the bottom of the sea with countless slaves. There was nothing heroic nor royal about this death. This was not the end of a Prince, yet it seemed inevitable. And although he fought the feeling with every last bit of strength he could muster, Ivar was petrified. For the cold water to seize his body, for his lungs to fill up with water, to feel his life slowly ebb away.

In between the lightning, darkness prevailed. In between the darkness there were flashes of his fellow unfortunate souls, their faces overcome with terror.

‘Is it Odin’, Ivar thought, ‘fighting with the Christian God?’ Was this his fault, for it was him who’d coldly, bloodily mauled a defenseless Christian?

‘Please Odin, the All-father, do not allow a Viking prince to die such an unworthy death,’ Ivar pleaded, ‘if I survive this storm I promise you, I will make it worth your while.’

As sudden as the storm erupted, it disappeared. Along the dawn of morning, the ship anchored ashore.

Sunlight burned his eyes, blinding Ivar momentarily as the portholes were pulled open by the overseers. Orders were being shouted in unfamiliar tongues, for those who weren’t familiar with the language, there was the beating of a whip. The human cargo was expected to exit the ship, rather sooner than later.

Few bodies remained lifeless, passed away due to suffocation. One by one they were removed by the overseers; by simply being thrown off the ship. There was no honor, nor time to bury a slave.

When one of the overseers took hold of Ivar’s curled up body, he was surprised to find the slave to be alive. Surprise was rapidly replaced by irritation. Lashing his whip he struck Ivar across the face, making the poor young man hiss and hide his face.

The overseer signaled another member of his crew to lend out a helping hand. Both grabbed Ivar underneath his armpits and dragged him up his feet.

Both men grunted in annoyance when their slave immediately dropped back on the floor. One chuckled and nudged against Ivar’s deformed legs. The other one let out a long impatient sigh and kicked Ivar’s arms right from under him.

Ivar’s chin merely had time to hit the wooden floor, before a familiar boot planted itself onto Ivar’s spinal cord, taking his breath away.

The other overseer sank down on his knees, a knife playing between his fingers. Though rust had set on the handle and blade, it was strong and jagged, enough to cut a throat.

The tip of the knife pressing against Ivar’s Adam’s apple prevailed the pain in his head, the stiffness of his limbs and the heavy weight on top of him.

“I can crawl you croaked-nosed bastard,” Ivar snarled, his hands bracing to carry his upper body. The overseers must have found it amusing, seeing him squirm on the floor like a spider being squished. To exaggerate Ivar’s deride, the boot placed on his back moved up to in between his shoulder blades, pressing him down firmly.

The boiling rage inside of him, swept through his system, like an old favoured friend patting him on the back.

In effort to remain silent Ivar gritted his teeth, his knuckles turned white from clenching his fists too hard. His eyes squeezed closed as his face contorted and he placed his palms down onto the splintery floor. Arching his back, the pain rushed through his body like an igniting fire, but he would withstand it, even if it was the last thing he’d do. Inch by inch, he pressed himself up while another man’s weight pressed him down. With every inch, his demolished resilience sparked back up and inwardly he roared when the overseer took the boot off his back, allowing him to carry his crippled arse out of this hellhole.

Crawling like a worm from a bird, he climbed up the steps, one by one, while sweat trickled down his face and his right eye twitched from the explosive pain inside his damaged skull.

On the upper deck, he briefly sank against a barrel, allowing his lungs to fill up with the salty fresh breeze. Grey clouds roamed freely above – hindering the sun and its warmth.

Once Ivar caught his breath and expelled the headache to the far end of his brain, he risked a peek over the railing.

Dejection curled around his chest with the grip of an iron straight jacket. The ship had anchored at a small harbour, bedded near a murky dirt road. A long line of future slaves were staggering towards carts pulled by mules. One man’s sanity must have drowned during the storm, the poor bastard broke the line and made a run for it.

He did not get far, an armed horse rider strode after him, stabbing a spear through his neck. There was no escape, at least not now.

And so Ivar the Boneless, son of King Ragnar Lothbrok, found himself obeying the commands of Christians, lost in a faraway land while his father was at the mercy of a mendacious king. His mother presumed him to be dead, lifeless at the bottom of the sea. So there wouldn’t be a soul looking for him.

He came to Essex as a Prince, for fame and glory; yet resurrected as a nameless, crippled slave. Oh, the Gods played him the most lousy cards of all.

.-.-.

A/N: So this was chapter one of my Ivar fanfiction, I’m thrilled to hear what you think of it so far. As I’m still very much on Ivar’s side, I’d like to point out that yes he murdered a person in a gruesome way, but he basically did it for validation. Ok, yes that fact might make it even worse, but the way I see it is that Ivar desperately wants to become ‘something’, that he’d rather be a monster than be the person he is.

And now he’s not even a monster anymore, now he’s just a slave, that’s karma baby.

Xoxox Nukyster

#ivar fanfic #ivar the boneless #viking fanfic #ivar as a slave #karma

51 notes · View notes

k1llr0y-4rt · 5 years ago

Text

KO-FI PAGE

Aside from my crippling addiction to caffeine, I also need a new drawing tablet to replace my old busted one from high school! If you can spare the $3 bucks and want a small token of my appreciation in the form of a smattering of pixels on a virtual canvas, I’d really appreciate it if you stopped by!!

CLICK HERE FOR [REDACTED]

#donation #ko-fi #ko-fi donations #seriously... I'd actually owe you my life

2 notes · View notes

thesleeplesslegion · 5 years ago

Text

point of view

I am the broken, The unwanted, the unloved. I am the compilation of anxieties you feel mix together in your gut when you feel loneliness and think of dying alone. I am the abandoned, The forgotten, I am an echo reverberated off of a life that once was beginning, that faded before it could. I am hopelessness clinging to a remnant of it that it once saw in a magazine article stored on some shelf at a doctors office while waiting for a diagnosis. I am shame from your failed attempt at college, The regret of missed opportunity never finding the courage to ask her out before it was too late. I am the son you molded to be a protector, the brother that taught you to fight your school bully. I am your friend when you were younger that never had time to hang out, you didn't realize was working two jobs while going to school to cover the mortgage payments left on his shoulders by an abusive, drug addicted, alcoholic, father who suffered from dissociative personality disorder when he was arrested and sent to prison. I am pity felt of stollen opportunities that cripple and leave its victims too far behind to ever catch up. the wasted life you empathise with but it's sorrow can never really be understood because it is not your own. the concept of an experience foreign to you because you have never felt it. I am societies failed attempt at a kindness filled utopia ruined by greed, materialistic desires to own everything, and loss of compassion for a forgotten part of itself it does not recognise. I am anger. I am rage. I am the emptiness left inside after you've given everything only to be left behind. I am bitterness. I am the grey streaked scratch left on a canvas made from the metal edge of a paintbrush that was angled too far. I am all of the feelings you feel, i am the totality of your life's emotions, I am you. and yet you cannot see it, because you focus so much on what you perceive and the emotions in resolution. I am judged. and you have been the jury placing its sentence.

1 note · View note

swissmissficrecs · 6 years ago

Text

Highbrow fics

This is the other set of recs I wanted to put together for @ghislainem70 to ease her recovery. (The first list of BDSM-themed fics is here.) These are fics with a slightly more intellectual edge, inspired by ghislainem70′s many excellent and thought-provoking fics, such as The Omega Sutra, On the Side of the Angels, The Indestructibles, and Mad, Bad and Dangerous.

A Broken Engagement by ButterscotchCandybatch (18K, Explicit, Johnlock) Sherlock Holmes, the younger son of the Baronet Siger Holmes, is forced to break off his engagement to the commoner, young Navy Lieutenant John Watson. He retreats into cold isolation and a laudanum addiction and it appears he may never have another offer of marriage. When the rich and dashing Captain Watson returns eight years later, he is now courting a family friend, Mary Morstan. Can Sherlock win back his John? Regency period AU.

A Dangerous Liaison by Holly Sykes (89K, Explicit, Johnlock) Sherlock Holmes is married to crippled aristocrat Sir Victor Trevor and he has shunned the life of the flesh in favour of that of the mind. But what happens when he meets rugged gamekeeper John Watson, a disillusioned ex soldier with a murky past? Love and physical passion come up against the class divide, but there’s also a murder, the high society of 1920s London and Sherlock in costume.

All Things Will Die, Nothing Will Die by Holly Sykes (109K, Explicit, Johnlock) Time: January, 1831. Something suspicious is happening at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital: corpses are brought in and sold to the surgeons, but Sherlock Holmes suspects foul play. He’s not alone: at Guy’s Hospital, Doctor John Watson refuses to pay twelve guineas for a body that he fears has been tampered with. The lives of the two men collide one frosty winter night and from that moment on, they will never be torn asunder.A macabre AU story of grisly murders, passion, sex and mystery, with an unambiguous happy ending; inspired by the London Burkers crimes, by several short stories written around that period and by the book The Vampyre Family by Andrew McConnell Stott. Also, a very big help was the Italian Boy by Sarah Wise, which chronicles grave robberies in 1830's London.

Attribute Nothing to Fate by recreational (37K, Explicit, Johnlock) A journey to Italy calls up old desires, but John Watson, trapped by the social conventions of his time, is not prepared to give in to temptation and change his life forever. It takes someone else to do that for him.

Bel Canto by bendingsignpost (127K, Teen, Johnlock, Adlock, and Irene/Kate) After years of waiting for wealthy patrons to faint, Dr John Watson discovers a far more interesting patient in the opera house basement.

Books of Mystery by fresne (58K, Johnlock) Sherlock Omegaverse written as a medieval Romance. In this lai, I set forth the adventure that relates how the good knight Jean Lanval came to cleave with Mystery, and how though an ever leftward turning path he and his Lord chose, still they came to the right.

Lightning and Sea Glass by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for (18K, Explicit, Johnlock and Mollrene) The mad Professor Moriarty and his reluctant assistant John Watson have reanimated the dead – and the results are beautiful. At least John thinks so. When Moriarty rejects his creation, John disappears with the creature to protect it, sealing their fates together.

One Night in December by Holly Sykes (126K, Explicit, Johnlock) London, 29th December 1940, 8 pm. The London Blitz reached its nadir with the bombing of the City of London and the area around its most beloved landmark, St. Paul’s Cathedral. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes meet as the flames blaze and roar all around them. But who is that dark-haired young man and why is he risking his life in such a careless manner? This is what Doctor Watson is wondering, as he eventually becomes enmeshed in a mystery that will take him away from his dreary, hopeless life and plunge him into the secret life of wartime London.

Sketchy by serpentynka (629K, Explicit, Johnlock and Mycroft/OMC) What (and who) will be left when nobody cares about your Work? A slow-burn fic with cases, places, mistaken identities, unfair choices, essential changes, violent feels, blatant lies, fearless portraiture, family secrets, high-risk bespoke gifts, durable friendships, bedtime stories, foreign travel and tongues, sickness (and health), and the significance of things which are slow to unfurl -- but cannot be ignored. Oh, and...porn.

SPQR by hoc_voluerunt (156K, Teen, Johnlock) The year is AD 68. Emperor Nero is on the throne, the Judaean Revolt is nearing its end under the firm hands of Vespasian and his son Titus, and Marcus Caelius Piso Vannus, son of a British freedman and former surgeon to the Fifteenth Apollonian Legion, has just returned from the provinces with an injured shoulder and no veteran's benefits to rent a shabby room in the shadow of the city wall. Thrust into his life, however, comes Amulius Cornelius Celatus -- a noble man from an ancient family, with good hair, a better toga, and the biggest ego this side of the Tiber. You wouldn't think they'd end up living together, let alone fighting crime; but then, neither would you think that one shadowy criminal figure orchestrated the fire of 64...

Stars in a Phrygian Sky by fresne (60K, Explicit, Johnlock, Adlock, Viclock, Mollrene, and others) Sherlock got rid of everything that he had ever known about the stars when he was nine years and five months old, which given his plans to be a pirate in the West Indies, the importance of astral navigation for a pirate, and given that he was him, that had been quite a lot. He didn't give away his mariner's astrolabe until much later.When Irene was ten years old, she fell in love with the most beautiful, perfectly-perfect amoral Omega woman ever. Which is to say, she read Steinbeck's "East of Eden".John stayed up one particularly nasty March night until 2:32 am reading "The Seven Pillars of Wisdom". Hail rattled against the window. To John, it was the sound of desert sand on dry canvas.

Tanto Monta by fresne (62K, Explicit, Johnlock, Sheriarty, Sherlock/OMCs, John/OCs) Sherlock began to turn into a desert when he was nine. Desertification took years, but grain by grain his Memory Palace turned from a primordial forest into scrub brush and sand. Only mad dogs and Englishmen could love the desert that he'd made of himself.When John was fourteen, he stayed out late one particularly nasty March night at the rec centre reading a book. The results of that choice left him feeling like an ill fitting cog the rest of his life.Or equal opposites in balance.

The Beast of Baskerville by mildredandbobbin (74K, Explicit, Johnlock) 15th Century/fairy tale AU. An invalided John Watson comes to the isolated village of Baskerville seeking shelter with his sister, only to become embroiled in a grisly murder. As the villagers point to a local werewolf legend, the odd but brilliant friar, Brother Sherlock, disagrees and soon he and John are on the the trail of a murderer. Captivated by the enigmatic friar, John finds himself struggling with his illicit feelings for the celibate man of God.

The Desire and Pursuit of the Whole by Holly Sykes (90K, Explicit, Johnlock) Britain, 1925. Sherlock Holmes – young detective, violin player and virtual misanthrope – has been hired by a mysterious and immensely wealthy man to find the missing manuscript of a contentious novel. John Watson - doctor, ex soldier and widower - is older and disillusioned. They meet on a rainy night in Sussex and from then on both their lives are changed forever. As their tentative friendship turns into a more intense relationship, Sherlock and John’s big adventure sees them end up in Venice, where the mystery is finally solved.

Underneath the Veil by Holly Sykes (73K, Explicit, Johnlock) Lord Sherlock Holmes is a wealthy aristocrat who lives almost like a hermit and indulges in opium-eating and sporadic crime solving. One evening, in the throes of a drug-caused hallucination, he stumbles upon Doctor John Watson. It’s love at first sight for the still-virgin Sherlock, but he’s convinced the other man could never feel the same. When a renowned painter is killed, Sherlock convinces John to help him with the investigation and their friendship takes an unexpected turn.

Unreal Cities by breathedout (312K, Explicit, Johnlock, John/OMCs, Irene/OFC) Sherlock, John, and the Bloomsburies, gallivanting across Britain and the Continent in the early twentieth century. In 1920, two years after the end of the Great War, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson investigate two disappearances, eerily similar but separated by 80 years. In the process, they make enemies (and friends) of Bloomsbury intellectuals; travel to Sussex; deal with the aftermath of John's past in the trenches; read Victorian pornography; drink copious amounts of tea; and, of course, fall in love.

Watson’s Folly by Diana Williams (299K, Mature, Johnlock, Mystrade, and MorMor) John Watson, the new Earl of Saughton, is madly in love with the beautiful Mary Morstan. But he has returned from the Peninsular War to find his family on the brink of ruin and his ancestral home mortgaged to the hilt. He has little choice when he is introduced to Mycroft Holmes, a civil servant of apparently unlimited wealth and no social ambitions for himself - but with his eyes firmly fixed on a suitable match for his only brother, the unorthodox and irascible Omega Sherlock Holmes. Can John forget the woman he loved and find happiness with a man so very different from his lost love?

#rec list

201 notes · View notes

tadomodoka4-blog · 6 years ago

Text

from I am to see to it that I do not lose you. https://ift.tt/2uAW6mP via IFTTT

Highbrow fics

SPQR by hoc_voluerunt (156K, Teen, Johnlock) The year is AD 68. Emperor Nero is on the throne, the Judaean Revolt is nearing its end under the firm hands of Vespasian and his son Titus, and Marcus Caelius Piso Vannus, son of a British freedman and former surgeon to the Fifteenth Apollonian Legion, has just returned from the provinces with an injured shoulder and no veteran’s benefits to rent a shabby room in the shadow of the city wall. Thrust into his life, however, comes Amulius Cornelius Celatus – a noble man from an ancient family, with good hair, a better toga, and the biggest ego this side of the Tiber. You wouldn’t think they’d end up living together, let alone fighting crime; but then, neither would you think that one shadowy criminal figure orchestrated the fire of 64…

Stars in a Phrygian Sky by fresne (60K, Explicit, Johnlock, Adlock, Viclock, Mollrene, and others) Sherlock got rid of everything that he had ever known about the stars when he was nine years and five months old, which given his plans to be a pirate in the West Indies, the importance of astral navigation for a pirate, and given that he was him, that had been quite a lot. He didn’t give away his mariner’s astrolabe until much later.When Irene was ten years old, she fell in love with the most beautiful, perfectly-perfect amoral Omega woman ever. Which is to say, she read Steinbeck’s “East of Eden”.John stayed up one particularly nasty March night until 2:32 am reading “The Seven Pillars of Wisdom”. Hail rattled against the window. To John, it was the sound of desert sand on dry canvas.

Tanto Monta by fresne (62K, Explicit, Johnlock, Sheriarty, Sherlock/OMCs, John/OCs) Sherlock began to turn into a desert when he was nine. Desertification took years, but grain by grain his Memory Palace turned from a primordial forest into scrub brush and sand. Only mad dogs and Englishmen could love the desert that he’d made of himself.When John was fourteen, he stayed out late one particularly nasty March night at the rec centre reading a book. The results of that choice left him feeling like an ill fitting cog the rest of his life.Or equal opposites in balance.

Unreal Cities by breathedout (312K, Explicit, Johnlock, John/OMCs, Irene/OFC) Sherlock, John, and the Bloomsburies, gallivanting across Britain and the Continent in the early twentieth century. In 1920, two years after the end of the Great War, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson investigate two disappearances, eerily similar but separated by 80 years. In the process, they make enemies (and friends) of Bloomsbury intellectuals; travel to Sussex; deal with the aftermath of John’s past in the trenches; read Victorian pornography; drink copious amounts of tea; and, of course, fall in love.

#IFTTT #I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

2 notes · View notes

gravestonejones · 6 years ago

Text

Is it okay to want you still?

To have love for you after it all?

I miss your touch

Your laugh

Your smell

A kiss from your lips was life to a dying man

I needed oxygen and you supplied it

Filling me up

Keeping me alive

Sustenance so futile

Pain crippled my heart the day you left

I never knew of such before

To see you so full of glee

While I with despair

You cut me off

My supplier

An addict, I was

For lust? Maybe

I believe it to be for the mere reason of your existence

I thrived on your love and affection

But you left me with nothing

Empty handed

Even the thought of you casts shadows in my mind

You are but a blank canvas

And I, well, I am an artist

I paint you how I want you to be perceived

A lover or a liar?

Both in this instance

But I loved you

And somehow I still do

Although...

... Is it the painting or the colors?

3 notes · View notes

animefandomshipper · 7 years ago

Note

hey babe! for the suggestive sentence starters could you maybe do, “i can tell you’re hot and bothered from all the way over here.”

@catwoman10001

Suggestive Starters Meme (NSFW)• I can tell you’re hot and bothered from all the way over there •

I decided to make second chapter (which is why I stubbornly refused to not post this until it was done) so those who are interested for what happens after can find it on ao3.

There were eyes everywhere here, bolted to the windows of their soul inside out, their stories behind, beyond his understanding. Such as to them in this dimly lit, shallowly depressed room, him the same.

The ice sunk to the bottom, bubbles rising to the surface to take one last breath.

He huffed a laugh, the ends of its tune crackling with a dryness that was once foreign.

They didn’t know, they didn’t know a damn thing.

The drink sloshed slowly with nimble fingers, a smile no longer true crawling to the corners like pinned needles, stuck in place and in no favor of delicacy. He briefly pondered his appearance as he downs the liquid down, the mirrors in his flat no longer in use. Was it as bad as how he felt? Even so, it didn’t matter. Nothing did.

His smile widened, so bitterly and big, he could feel the old bigoted man inching to him in the last few minutes recoil backwards. The thick odor of cigarettes and rat shit whifting away from him. Good, his claws are no longer in his control.

Wordlessly, he gestures the man behind the bar for another refill, a bitter eagerness for his one and only welcomed company. The sweet formula for another ten minutes of forgotten pain.

He situates himself comfortably in his seat, his bottom long going numb and now, with the drink slid into his view, so will his heart’s heartbreak.

With enclosed precision, the burn meeting the back of his throat is a divine poison so sweetly spiced, the flickering image of a face is gone for a for a few eternally grateful, silenced seconds.

But never is time ever so kind to stop its race with pain.

He’s back with another pulse of quickened breath, memories he thought he burned in the fire of hatred and betrayal coming back in form of whispering ashes. In a single moment, everything they had was gone. And for what? A night with the bitch he’d been eyeing.

Oh, Mikaela. Why oh why had you not seen it? Their growing distance in the many months before the cheating bastard’s departure was now, through the new Mikaela’s eyes as clear as day. His boyfriend’s disinterest in him batted away for tiredness of a long day as he unknowingly veiled himself from the many clues littering their home. Now dubbed his home once again after he kicked him out.

His hand cradled his face, the other dug into a fist. ’Do you miss him?’ His mind coldly inquired, forcefully wisened to a fault.

’No,’ he reminds himself, ’I no longer miss him, I merely miss every moment with the me I no longer remember.’

The one he loved to be. The one that stood so strong and unreachable for the hands of mortals with lecherous intentions. He had fallen from that height, and now his wings have singed to dust. How dare he take that Mikaela away, leaving only a bleeding heart and a crippled stranger in his own skin?

A stranger, left behind and unsatisfied with every moment after.

He clamps his quivering mouth shut at the thought, the curled fist dropping into his lap to swipe softly yet unsatisfactory to his shaking thighs.

Unsatisfied. What a lenient description.

As much as he wants to deny it, he’s grown desperate. Desperate for a caring hand ready to please, a hot mouth worshipping his starving body with praises. Of soft kisses not asked to be given, gifted by their own will.

Is that so wrong to want? A passionate lover who he could trust his frail heart with, no worries for it to be thrown back, disinterested and one only capable of loving it as strongly as he?

Passion fueled nights died as quickly as it started. And him with it.

But that might not be the case anymore.

”Another drink for the beautiful blond, on me.” He perks in suspicion, discreetly narrowing into defense as a man plops into the seat beside him.

His muscles simultaneously bunch in tension and soften to quiver when those bewildering and gorgeous green eyes lock onto his in a dominating stare. A gasp, so frail and small is stolen from his lips.

Who is this beautiful man?

He’s convinced the second those dazzling emeralds lid over dark lashes he’s been put under a spell.

”Please,” he grips his thighs helplessly together, that purring voice a baritoned choir, ”a gift, take it.”

He’s defenseless, shaking a small thank you passed surprisingly in a steady voice, ”I appreciate it.”

The mysterious man grins brightly and Mikaela internally swoons, why did he look so accomplished? His gratefulness was expected, it would be rude to not say a thing.

”I’m glad. Oh!” He chuckles, white teeth reflecting another perfect aspect of him, ”my apologies, my name is Yuuichirou but you can call me Yuu.”

”Ah um… my name’s Mikaela…” he chided himself, was it wise to tell this gorgeous- though still unknown- man his name?

”Angelic.”

”What?” He jumped, uncharacteristically blushful at the strange word, even more so at his unwavering stare, his soul bared for him to see. What was angelic precisely?

”Your name.” He explains. ”I’ve never heard such a beautiful name.”

”Th-thank you,” he stutters, the steadiness from before waining the more he interacted with the man- Yuu, he corrected.

”I can’t help but notice that you’ve always come here alone.” He carefully treads to the topic Mikaela would rather forget about, his reasoning for being here. To drown his sorrows like the coward he’s associated himself with.

”Oh.” He dipped his head to his lap, lips scrunched and hands nervously playing with each other.

”No it’s alright you don’t have to elaborate.” He hurries to clarify, ”wrong conversation starter huh?” He chuckles and Mika can’t help but appreciate his turn of humor.

He shifts the conversation to talk about himself, Mika leaning more and more interested the more he rants and jokes.

Strange. He can’t help but sober up and join in, the aching that persisted his heart for month tampering down with every new piece of information Yuu allows himself to give.

He laugh, loud and strained with unuse as Yuu accidentally spills a drink to his attire and all he does is curse, never chastising Mika for laughing and joining in just as easily after grabbing a handful of napkins given to him by the bartender.

He’s free or whatever is close to that and lets himself go with Yuu and comes to a decision when he sees the raven struggle to find something else to talk about. He squashes the buzzling echoes of warnings away and began to retell his story, catching him of guard to quiet down.

He’d be a fool and a liar to not notice his predatory eyes when he mentions the unveiling attraction that led to him here.

”It’s his loss.” He spears his opinion out of clenched teeth so strongly Mika is left breathless by its unquestioned honesty, ”if he let go of such an angel of a person so willingly then I can’t help but think there’s something wrong with him.”

They’ve gotten closer somehow in the past hour, their legs touching and hands briefly coming to connect only to separate with the territory unknown just yet. But now, Mika wants nothing more than to drown in his arms and cry, those words having never been spit so strongly and venomously before in any situation in his twenty-two years of life.

He almost can’t take it.

”Yuu-chan…”

”No wonder I could tell you were all hot and bothered from all the way over there. You haven’t been taken care of like you should have been.”

He freezes and so does Yuu, him in a bashful liquid of embarrassment and Yuu, like he’s just been cornered by a pack of lions.

”Oh God tell me I didn’t say that out loud.” He stumbles out with a hand suspended in mid-air to his horrified face, shooting daggers at the silently dying pink-haired bartender kneeling down the floor.

Mika can’t compute, ”what?”

”Forget it forget everything I said-”

”No no no,” his heart hammers against his ribcage, something foreign squeezing inside that wills him to catch Yuuichirou’s shoulder. ”What did you mean by that? ’Haven’t been taken care of like you should have been?’” he hastily requotes, a moan pressing his tongue as he does.

”I…” he sees his chances of bolting away has lessened with the pale hand gripping his still, ”I just mean that…” he doesn’t want to say it if it causes Mika to run away, that wasn’t his intention.

”Its okay, you can tell me.” Mika softly runs his tongue to swipe at his quickly chapping lips, ”I won’t be mad.” No, he won’t, and the coiling embers so close to the match agrees.

”I wanted to take my chances with you when I saw you all those weeks ago but never had the courage until now and all that time you looked so sad and needy and I… I don’t know I just really wanted to talk to you?? I don’t know you’re pretty and I can’t think right now with you so close.” Yuu gasps out every word and Mika can’t say he isn’t flattered.

Mika blinks and snorts, ”you’re secretly a dork.”

”Is that a bad thing?” He twiddles his thumbs without looking back to Mika, ashamed and more than a little embarrassed.

”No,” he breathily rasps, shuffling his legs to make contact with Yuu’s, ”it’s not a bad thing at all.”

Yuu catches on and slithers a hand to his leg. ”Careful Mika,” that tone ripples a tremor, rapidly smoothing him into an addiction with how he practically purrs his name, ”I’m still a hunter.”

”From what I got I don’t have to worry,” Mika chuckles, a mischievous smile (true and real he can’t believe-) coming to tempt his hand to discover new places, loving the bewitched effect he seems to have on Yuu. ”Would you really let me go?”

”That’s the last thing I want to do.” His growl is low-pitched and Mika instinctively offers his unmarked canvas of a neck as a peace offering. And he doesn’t have to wonder if it works, Yuuichirou’s pupils dilating into black rings brimming with unquenched lust.

”Mika, let’s go.”

With a smirk of triumph, he does as told and when he leaves the bar with a hot mouth chasing his, and the next time he walks in here, he will no longer be alone.

#yuumika #mikayuu #owari no seraph #seraph of the end #inbox meme #askbox meme #ask box meme #prompt

12 notes · View notes

dargeereads · 4 years ago

Text

FROM EVIL: Box Set

Release Date: Dec 29, 2020

AMAZON | APPLE | B&N | KOBO | GOOGLE

Also coming in print and audio

The Deliver Series continues with three dangerous romance thrillers from New York Times bestselling author, Pam Godwin: Devastate, Take, and Manipulate.

Time to meet your next book boyfriend.

Tiago Badell might be the scariest villain you’ve ever encountered, but he’s also the sexiest. The notorious crime lord worships his new captive as deeply as he hurts her. She can run, but there's no escape from a bond carved in scars.

Each standalone is a different couple with its own dark love story, all interconnected in a dangerous underworld of murderers, kidnappers, and cartels. You’ll be glad there are over 1000 pages of addictive romance and vigilante bad boys.

Are you ready to binge the continuation of the Deliver series?

More than 200,000 copies sold and thousands of 5-star reviews. No cliffhangers. Available in digital, print, and audiobook.

DELIVER US Box Set includes Books 1-3: Deliver, Vanquish, and Disclaim

Each book is a different couple (HEAs / no cliff-hangers), but they should be read in order.

DELIVER, Book 1

His name was Joshua Carter. Now it’s whatever she wants it to be.

She is a Deliverer.

She lures young men and delivers them to be sold. She delivers the strikes that enforce their obedience. She delivers the sexual training that determines their purchase price.

As long as she delivers, the arrangement that protects her family will hold.

Delivering is all she knows.

The one thing she can’t deliver is a captive from slavery.

Until him.

And her stubborn slave thinks he can deliver her…from herself.

VANQUISH, Book 2

Her life is like a prison cell. A self-made, to-hell-with-the-free-world existence that locks from the inside. Stop judging. Her agoraphobia doesn’t define her. It simply keeps her safe.

He belongs in a prison cell. The 6x8, make-me-your-bitch variety that locks from the outside. But he’s free. To hunt. To take. To break. And he just found a sexy new toy.

Capturing her is the easy part. Her fucked-up mind, however, makes him question everything he does next. But he’s a determined bastard. If all goes his way, this will hurt like hell.

DISCLAIM, Book 3

Camila was seventeen when Van Quiso kidnapped her. Ten years after her escape, the shackles refuse to release her. Not while there are still slave traders preying on her city. She will stop at nothing to end them. Even if that means becoming a slave again.

Returning to chains is her worst fear—and only option. They won’t know who she is or what she intends to do. She’s prepared for every complication. Except him. The one who decimated her sixteen-year-old heart.

Matias is charming, gorgeous, and dangerously seductive. He’s also untrustworthy and enshrouded in secrets. After years of no contact, he finds her—on her knees, wrists bound, in the clutches of her enemy. Will he sabotage her mission by needlessly saving her? Or will he keep her in chains and never let her go?

FROM EVIL Box Set includes Books 4-6: Devastate, Take, and Manipulate

Each book is a different couple (HEAs / no cliff-hangers), but they should be read in order.

DEVASTATE, Book 4

“What is the price you’re willing to pay?” “Money isn’t an issue.” “I’m not talking about money.”

Tate is on the hunt to find his best friend’s sister. Eleven years ago, Lucia Dias was abducted. Presumed dead. He never met her, so why does he care? Some might call his efforts noble, but his motivation is more perverse, bordering on obsession.

When he follows a chilling lead to Venezuela’s Kidnap Alley, what he finds is neither a corpse nor a captive.

Amid poisonous lies and crippling depravity, the price of love is devastation. And he pays. With his body, his blood, and her life.

TAKE, Book 5

He’s a notorious crime lord, a kidnapper, and an artist. Scarification is his outlet, and he just captured a new canvas. Kate refuses to surrender beneath his blade or the cruelty in his beautiful eyes. But she’s drawn to the man inside the monster. A man who makes her ache with his touch. Who owns her with his kiss. A man who worships her as deeply as he hurts her. She can run, but there’s no escape from a bond carved in scars.

MANIPULATE, Book 6

Tula Gomez is in the most ruthless prison in Latin America.

She only drove to Mexico to help her sister. She did nothing wrong. But her quiet life changed in an instant.

To survive the violent, cartel-controlled prison where men blend with women, she pledges her loyalty to the notorious leader in exchange for the one thing she needs most. Protection.

When she agrees to seduce the suspicious new inmates, Martin Lockwood and Ricky Saldivar, she doesn’t expect to enjoy it. Sure, they’re gorgeous, irresistibly alpha, and insanely talented with their hands and mouths. But they’re the enemy. She can’t fall for them.

Torn between her cartel loyalties and two men who want her as deeply as they want each other, she questions who is manipulating whom. Her search for answers leads to a passionate ménage, a soul-crushing secret, and an impossible choice.

Preorder FROM EVIL: Books 4-6

AMAZON | APPLE | B&N | KOBO | GOOGLE

PAM GODWIN

New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author, Pam Godwin, lives in the Midwest with her husband, their two children, and a foulmouthed parrot. When she ran away, she traveled fourteen countries across five continents, attended three universities, and married the vocalist of her favorite rock band.

Java, tobacco, and dark romance novels are her favorite indulgences, and might be considered more unhealthy than her aversion to sleeping, eating meat, and dolls with blinking eyes.

Instagram

Facebook

Amazon

Bookbub

Twitter

Goodreads

BOOKS BY PAM GODWIN

Trails of Sin Series KNOTTED (#1) - FREE BUCKLED (#2) BOOTED (#3)

Tangled Lies Series ONE IS A PROMISE (#1) - FREE TWO IS A LIE (#2) THREE IS A WAR (#3)

Deliver Series DELIVER (#1) - FREE VANQUISH (#2) DISCLAIM (#3) DEVASTATE (#4) TAKE (#5) MANIPULATE (#6) UNSHACKLE (#7) DOMINATE (#8) COMPLICATE (#9)

Trilogy of Eve HEART OF EVE - FREE DEAD OF EVE (#1) BLOOD OF EVE (#2) DAWN OF EVE (#3)

Stand-alones DARK NOTES BENEATH THE BURN DIRTY TIES INCENTIVE SEA OF RUIN KING OF LIBERTINES - FREE

#Pam Godwin #Cover Reveal #Deliver series #book love #book blogger #bookworm #bookaholic #book obsessed #book buzz #book world #must read

0 notes

am-flying-solo · 8 years ago

Text

Where did you get those big eyes? My mother. And where did you get those lips? My mother. And the loneliness? My mother. And that broken heart? My mother. And the absence, where did you get that? My father.

— Warsan Shire, Inheritance

When he was six, he went up to his mother, with trembling hands and a quivering lip asking,

Did he hurt you?

He watched her writhing under Gregory Flint, white knuckles holding onto the desk as if he were a hurricane, and she was holding on to the boat like a lifeline. Solomon heard her whimper and moan and sob - a wretched sound, desperate for relief, and between her trembling knees, his father moved like a force of nature. He watched them, transfixed, heart pounding in his chest, too young to understand and too old to ignore, swelling with righteous anger and confused by thousands of years weighing down his genes, an instinct as old as man himself compelling him closer. Words died on his lips, pouring down hers instead, a litany of promises as she embraced Gregory, mouth curling around the word love like it was a knife, and she couldn't have enough of pain.

No, sweetheart, he didn't hurt me, she'd say.

But her eyes told a different story. She had bruises for every one of Gregory's digits under her servant's uniform, blossoming like flowers on the pale canvas of her skin, but those faded with time. Her scars went deeper, and she touched the finger where a ring should have been, softly, almost like a reminder of her own place. He didn't understand then why she bowed to an invisible weight, narrow shoulders arched under bloodline chains. Her mother had been a servant before her, and so had her grandmother - generations upon generations of unhappy women, walking hemorrhages, bodies like burnt houses and legs like creaking doors, welcoming ghosts in. And every one of them had vowed not to be like their mothers, but here was Allegra Renfield, and her eyes spoke of pains he couldn't yet comprehend. Her mouth was the shape of his quiet name in the dark, whispering Greg like a prayer that could get her through the night.

"I am so happy," she murmured, "that you were born a man," and touched his face softly. Years later, he wouldn't remember her face or her voice anymore, but he would remember that touch, the soft warmth of her fingers lingering on his cheek, the quiet safety that meant home.

He didn't understand then, but in a few years he’d watch Gregory search for her in the shape of his lips before turning his face away, and Solomon would be floored by a new kind of shame.

II.

When he was fourteen, he sat in front of the mirror and looked for her too, beyond the distinctive Flint cheekbones and the faint suggestion of hair on his chin. He had inherited her nose, her lips; and if he parted his hair just so, it would almost look like hers. But Allegra was still a memory, still a blood stain on the carpet, still a few belongings packed in a small box, hidden in the dark of his closet. So he brought her out - all that was left of her, the few things he'd managed to save, telling himself they still held her smell. A time machine that fit between his trembling hands.

And like a soldier gears up for war, Solomon put on her armour for the first time.

The long coat she used to wear the few times they visited Knockturn Alley on her rare days off and the pantyhose, soft against his skin. The perfume she used, almost completely gone, her favorite earrings and the one pearl necklace she cherished like a treasure - a lover's present she'd once said, and he immediately knew from whom it had been. Not sure of what to do with most of her make-up, he made his lips dark red, and painted his eyes smoky black, too heavily, staring at the mirror like he could find her there somewhere, just inches away from his earnest hands.

"Greg," he whispered, heart pounding against his chest like a war drum. There he sat, the last in a long line of dead women. Allegra, who took a dive down the stairs; Audrina, who fell asleep in the river; Calpurnia, who swung from a tree. There he sat, juvenile enough to look just like her under his Flint cheekbones, feeling the same invisible chains tugging him down. Allegra, who had cried of relief as she held her baby boy, had only ever wanted him to follow a different path - but Solomon had inherited the mischievous arch of her mouth and her heavy heart, seeking the sharp edges, the abrasion. He loved men with nervous fists, men who held you down, face in the mattress, men who left you bloody and sore. "My love," he said, watching as the words curled around his tongue, squeezed between red lips like a death sentence.

It brought him a strange sense of peace, to wear her like a second skin.

III.

When he was sixteen, strutting down the corridors of the Flint Manor, bruises still fresh on his neck from this bloke he met in London, Gregory grabbed him by the arm and pushed him against the wall hard enough to rattle his bones. "You should be ashamed of yourself," he said, voice low like a threat, and Solomon, who always held his head high, felt himself tremble under an iron grip. "Look at you. Look at the things you do. You're not even a real man." It was the closest he'd ever gotten to acknowledgement from his father - his fingers traced the marks left on his arm long after Gregory was gone, and just like his mother before him, Solomon took it quietly.

If love was a dagger, he'd cut himself open just to bleed out.

Weeks later, in a room that wasn't his, he laid beside a girl - blue eyed and soft, with lips made for kissing and hands made for holding. He studied her sleeping form, naked chest rising and falling slowly, hair cascading over a pillow in jet black waves, and remembered his mother. "Stay,” she pleaded as he got up and grabbed his jacket. "I'm sorry, love," he said, closing the door, "I'll call." Behind him, like a procession of ghosts, were the shadows of generations of scorned women, who'd left him shame as a family heirloom, etched deeply in the stars they shared. Like the wolf in a child's story his mother used to tell, they'd sewn him shut with stones inside. Breathing in smoke to fill his lungs, he, too, felt relieved for being born a man - sometimes he looked too much like his father, with the sharp cheekbones and the lips full of lies.

"I am a man," he said one day, looking into Gregory's eyes just like Allegra used to, a silent plea behind the fire. But Gregory looked away. He always did, like Solomon was somehow haunted, the spirit of his mother inhabiting the soft arch of his mouth, the warm tips of his fingers. "Look at me," he roared, "look at me!" But Gregory didn't look. He never did, as if trying to escape accusing eyes. "Greg--" came as a whisper, that same hushed tone Allegra would breathe out in the dark of his father’s study, with legs spread over his mahogany desk. "That how you like it?"

Not even the slap that knocked him backwards wiped the grin off his lips.

IV.

He’s seventeen when he walks the streets of Knockturn Alley with a purpose.

It burns at the tip of his spine, spreading down his legs like liquid fire; it blazes behind his eyelids like he’s got a fever, some sick sort of restlessness settling down his bones. His mother walked these streets one day - this very same cobblestone streets. She knew its steep turns and its dark corners, and she’s lost herself behind bar counters and under cheap sheets here, there, and everywhere - that shop and this pub, under those streetlights and into the darkness, losing herself among the shadows of brick walls and dirty alleys; letting lovers paint her body with blooming bruises, marks made of teeth and tongues. Tales of her wild years sometimes get lost among the desperate figments of his imagination; she is a blurry figure at the corner of his eyes, walking these same familiar streets like a sailor that comes home after a year at the sea, smelling of wild lilies and disappointment.

She used to pick lilies at the garden; white lilies.

They were her favorite, she’d say, fingers running down delicate petals with a longing beyond Solomon’s years: “Look at them, love. Ain’t they beautiful?” He understands that longing now:

Solomon hates flowers with a childish passion.

They are too beautiful, too fragile, like Allegra in her dark servant dress, standing at the top of the stairs - a crumbling monolith of beauty and hopelessness, a blooming lily picked in its prime. He can never hold things that delicate in his hands without ruining them, as if his fingers aren’t made for crystals and porcelain; for flowers and brocade; for pretty girls and pretty hearts, that love too earnestly, that forgive too soon. Like his father before him, and his grandfather before them, he’s a bull in a china shop: he loves like waging war. Solomon got cruel hands from his father, but he has legs that creak open easily like his mother’s and her same weighty heart - he’s an amalgam of pain, the open wound at the end of two long lines of agony.

But he smiles, like she smiled whenever she lied: I’m alright, love. Don’t you worry.

It never quite reaches his eyes.

“I need the money,” he says, as he takes off his shirt. He thinks of August and his trembling hands, his quivering lips, his bloodshot eyes and the threat of an early grave boiling just under the surface of his crippling addiction. The man’s fingers run across the broken arrow tattooed at his chest, and his face looks like old leather, deep creases marked by the years as if he’s been sculpted carelessly in bark. Solo never asks his age; the man doesn’t ask his either. The numbers get lost sometime around midnight, when there are clothes crumpled on the floor and sweat running down the small of Solomon’s back, where the man’s fingernails dig deep into the skin.

He tastes like cigarettes and cheap, bitter beer.

Solomon’s had worse.

He’s done this before, he tells himself, scraping his knees on the floor. He’s done this before: for a place to spend the night during those cold winters away from the Flint Manor’s oppressive walls; for a friendly discount at a muggle party once; for this and that - a million reasons locked away at the back of his mind like an afterthought. But this is the first time he says it, words heavy on his tongue: for the money.

He counts the cracks on the ceiling, and then he counts the galleons.

“What did you say your name was again?” the man asks, offering him a cigarette after they’re done. Solo takes the cigarette, but doesn’t taste it. He looks down at his thighs, littered with small round scars of past fags like minefields, and he feels the burning compulsion of adding to it, dropping yet another bomb among the ruins of his flesh. He hesitates, and the shame is worse than the vague, familiar pain running up his body: he’s never let shame lock up his tongue before, but here he is, fading into the background, looking away as if he can disappear into himself. It takes seven years to build up a man, but only one night to unmake him.

“Solo,” he blurts out before it burns through him completely. “Solomon Renfield,” and shame is not the worst thing he swallowed that night.

The man lets out a booming laughter, smoke and truth spilling out his mouth: “Like mother, like son, eh?” and Solomon freezes, cigarette burning away between his fingers. There’s a place for it in the tender skin between old scars on his thighs; a marked grave.

I’m so happy that you were born a man, Allegra says, somewhere in his memories.

Solomon wears his mother’s smile, forces himself to take a long drag: I’m alright.

He gets up to leave, and the man throws an extra coin his way - the first time anyone has ever paid him for being a Renfield. It sits in his pocket, heavy like lead. He bites into the cigarette, tasting ashes.

And, for just a moment, Solomon thinks he can smell lilies under the acrid smoke.

#writings #a character study about inheritance #and about the makings of a man #and of a woman #and all the blurry lines in between #it ties in closely to solo's current plot #tw: abuse #there's probably about a million squicks in it #i'm sorry #[runs in the family]

5 notes · View notes

classicallymusicallyminded-blog · 6 years ago

Video

youtube

Sound and Score: The Rachmaninov Piano Concerto No. 2

This is the piece that the protagonist, Carly Chu, will be practicing for the concerto competition. It has historically been considered one of the most passionate concertos ever written. To perform well it requires extreme technicality and flexibility from the performer, as well as an internal understanding of the passion behind the music.

The piece will also be heard asynchronously, while being used in the movie score. Since the piece showcases diverse melodies, different section will be used to represent different feelings. For example, the opening series of chords and the subsequent violin entrance (00:50 - 1:48) of the first movement would be played when Carly’s friend, Nicole, betrays her; the pointed chords giving the image of someone stabbing a knife repeatedly, and the violins representing the the sorrow Carly feels at this “Et tu, Brute” moment. In contrast, the beginning of the 2nd movement (13:08 - 16:58) would play in the background while Carly is contemplates suicide, its bittersweet melody showcasing her sorrow and wish to give up.

Paintings: Color Pallets and Emotions

Music throughout history has inspired artists to depict the emotions and feelings of the performers on canvas. These two paintings represent how music can create beautiful, dream-like qualities which addict the performer and make him/her continue to push themselves toward the performing stage.

In these paintings, colors are swirled together creating undefined boundaries and a sense of timelessness. I would wish to re-create these color pallets in the film. They would represent the ever evolving emotions and passions of the performer.

The first painting, “Klavierkonzert,” by Robert Sterl, depicts the famed pianist Scriabin as he performs a concerto in warm and dream-like tones. This painting represents how Carly Chu sees herself performing in her imagination- passionate, yet controlled.

The second painting, “Rachmaninov Piano Concerto No. 2,″ by Vladimir Vlahovic, inspired by the actual piece that Carly performs, showcases the amazing array of different colors and emotions that Carly feels as she exposes herself and her music on the stage.

The Practice Room vs. The Concert Hall: How These Settings Effect the Performers Psyche

These images show the vast difference between the two settings. The practice rooms, small and jail-like, force the artist away from people and isolate them in often times freezing rooms only lit by pale and uncomfortable lighting. In contrast, Concert Halls where the performer is finally able to showcase his/her work are spacious, beautifully designed, with warm colors and many seats for a large audience.

For Carly, the practice rooms are her work shop. Despite the rooms being unattractive, she is able to image and create a magical world with her music. However these rooms trap Carly and her insecurities together with no way of escaping. Inside these practice rooms, and closed off from reality she is faced with devastating depression, anxiety, and fear of being unaccepted.

In contrast to the practice rooms, Concert Halls (in this case Jordan Hall at NEC) represent freedom for Carly. Inside them, on the the stage she able to let go of the insecurities which haunt her while she practices. She is able to set free her true self as she performs, and create the colorful and passionate atmosphere which she envisions.

Suicide Note: Tiger Mom Culture and the Stress of Always Being Held to Such an Exacting Standard

This is one of the literary piece that inspired the idea for the film and the character, Carly Chu. Carly has always felt the need to be better and to work harder so that her family (in particular her mother) will approve of her. This has caused her much stress, and made her self doubt her worth and art. The title of the film, “Birdprints in Snow” comes from the opening cadence of the poem and represents the fragility of this sweet, Asian girl who desperately wants to succeed, but is hindered by many obstacles in her journey of self discovery.

Suicide Note, by Janice Mirikitani

. . . An Asian American college student was reported to have jumped to her death from her dormitory window. Her body was found two days later under a deep cover of snow. Her suicide note contained an apology to her parents for having received less than a perfect four point grade average. . .

How many notes written. . . ink smeared like birdprints in snow.

not good enough not pretty enough not smart enough dear mother and father. I apologize for disappointing you.

I’ve worked very hard, not good enough harder, perhaps to please you. If only I were a son, shoulders broad as the sunset threading through pine, I would see the light in my mother’s eyes, or the golden pride reflected in my father’s dream of my wide, male hands worthy of work and comfort. I would swagger through life muscled and bold and assured, drawing praises to me like currents in the bed of wind, virile with confidence not good enough not strong enough not good enough I apologize. Tasks do not come easily. Each failure, a glacier. Each disapproval, a bootprint. Each disappointment, ice above my river. So I have worked hard. not good enough My sacrifice I will drop bone by bone, perched on the ledge of my womanhood, fragile as wings. not strong enough It is snowing steadily surely not good weather for flying—this sparrow sillied and dizzied by the wind on the edge. not smart enough I make this ledge my altar to offer penance. This air will not hold me, the snow burdens my crippled wings, the tears drop like bitter cloth softly into the gutter below. not good enough not strong enough not smart enough

Choices thin as shaved ice. Notes shredded drift like snow

on my broken body, covers me like whispers of sorries sorries. Perhaps when they find me they will bury my bird bones beneath a sturdy pine and scatter my feathers like unspoken song over this white and cold and silent breast of earth.

Recurring Motifs: Birds

Inspired by the motif in the the poem Suicide Note, this picture, and subsequent film shots of birds, represent elements of Carly’s character.

Insecurities about where she stands as a woman cause Carly to view herself as fragile and weak. Smith, one of the film’s antagonists, also views her in this manner, and sees her as an easy target for sexual harassment.

More importantly however, Carly has a song hidden inside her like a bird. It is beautiful, and with her joyous performances she has the ability to mesmerize and inspire. It is this aspect of the bird which she decides to follow in the end of the movie.

0 notes

themalawiancreativeblog-blog · 7 years ago

Photo

My Creative Hero

[Online Image]

Available at: https://www.marikeherselman.com/blog/2017/10/25/respect-annie-leibovitz

[Accessed 12/04/18]

This essay will discuss the life and works of photographer Annie Leibovitz, it will talk about her life, both personal and professional. It will also look into how she progressed into different areas of photography, who she has worked for; and, finally, her publications and her current work.

Biography.com writes about Leibowitz’ life, relaying the following information: Annie Leibovitz was born on October 2, 1949, in Waterbury, Connecticut. (Annie Leibovitz 2016: Online) In 1967, Leibovitz enrolled at the San Francisco Art Institute, where (although initially studying painting) she developed a love for photography. (Annie Leibovitz 2016: Online) She then travelled in Israel for a brief period before going back to the United States where she managed to get a job as a staff photographer for the ‘Rolling Stone’ magazine. (Annie Leibovitz 2016: Online) Annie was appointed chief photographer after only two years, a title she held for the next decade. She also shot photos for the rolling stones group and went with them as their convert photographer in 1975 a position that sadly left her struggling with a crippling drug addiction afterwards. (Annie Leibovitz 2016: Online)

Some of Leibowitz’s great works include but are not limited to; photographing celebrities such as Arnold Schwarzenegger, O. J. Simpson, Patti Smith, Queen Elizabeth ll, and more. (Leibovitz: 2008: 76-180) She is especially well known for her famous and controversial images of celebrities. Demi Moore (very pregnant and nude followed by a body painting shoot), Whoopi Goldberg (half-submerged in a bathtub of milk), Sylvester Stallone (appearing nude in a pose inspired by Rodin's "The Thinker") and Caitlyn Jenner (in a corset after having publicly revealed her identity as a woman) She is known for her ability to make her sitters become physically involved in her work. Another of Leibovitz’s most famous portraits is of the late artist Keith Haring, who painted himself like a canvas for the photo. (Annie Leibovitz 2016: Online) During her time working as a photographer for The Rolling Stones, she was known for shooting the musicians and others in provocative poses, like John Lennon, naked and pink, curled around Yoko Ono, fully clothed in black, just hours before he was killed. (Scott: 2006, Online)

In the 1980s Annie Leibovitz started to work on a number of high-profile advertising campaigns. One of the most notable of these was for American Express, she photographed portraits of notable celebrity cardholders and this won her a Clio Award in 1987. (Annie Leibovitz 2016: Online) In 1991, Leibovitz’ collection of more than 200 photographs were exhibited at the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C. She was the first woman to be so honoured. (Annie Leibovitz 2016: Online) Later that year, a book was published to accompany the show titled Photographs: Annie Leibovitz, 1970-1990. In 1996, Leibovitz worked as the official photographer of the Summer Olympics in Atlanta, Georgia. A compilation of her black-and-white portraits of American athletes, including Carl Lewis and Michael Johnson, was published in the book Olympic Portraits. (Annie Leibovitz 2016: Online)

Leibovitz met her late partner Susan Sontag in the 1980s they spent 15 years in a relationship before Sontag was taken from her by cancer in 2004. After this sad loss, Leibovitz spent months compiling a very personal body of work on her life with Sontag, (Scott: 2006, Online) Leibovitz faced a large amount of speculation and judgement for her abrasive style of work. When Annie was questioned about the book she created about Susan after her death, she said: “Let me be very, very clear about this, every single image that one would have a possible problem with or have concerns about, I had them too. This wasn’t like a flippant thing. I had the very same problems, and I needed to go through it. And I made the decision in the long run that the strength of the book needed those pictures, and that the fact that it came out of a moment of grief gave the work dignity.” (Scott: 2006, Online)

Leibovitz’s technical style is so fascinating and she explains her process well in her book Annie Leibovitz at Work where she talks about a shoot she did for Vanity Fair with Judi Dench and Helen Mirren in Los Angeles in 2006. “I had begun using a digital camera several months before the shoot, and I felt that I could get a sort of twilight feeling using digital colour. I was setting he strobes maybe half a stop under the natural light. Occasionally the strobe would lag behind the camera, and the frames that only had natural light looked better to me.” (Leibovitz: 2008: 172-175)

Annie Leibovitz is a great inspiration to aspiring artists and photographers as she has worked in such a broad area of the industry, for numerous organizations and companies. Her work reflects her personality throughout though, no matter who she is currently working for. Whether it is the Rolling Stones or Queen Elizabeth, one still sees her personality and flair in a consistent way in all her pieces. Her writing style that compliments her work so beautifully shows a reason and purpose behind the visual aspects of her work.

0 notes

fraukeadams-blog · 7 years ago

Text

Annie Leibovitz

NAMEAnnie LeibovitzOCCUPATION

Photographer

BIRTH DATE

October 2

1949

(age 68)EDUCATION

San Francisco Art Institute

PLACE OF BIRTH

Waterbury

Connecticut

FULL NAMEAnna-Lou LeibovitzZODIAC SIGN

Libra

SYNOPSIS

CHIEF PHOTOGRAPHER FOR 'ROLLING STONE'

ICONIC COVERS FOR 'VANITY FAIR'

THE OLYMPICS

EXHIBITIONS AND ADDITIONAL PROJECTS

CITE THIS PAGE

Annie Leibovitz, considered one of America's best portrait photographers, developed her trademark use of bold colors and poses while at 'Rolling Stone.'

IN THESE GROUPS

FAMOUS PEOPLE BORN IN UNITED STATES

FAMOUS FEMALE PHOTOGRAPHERS

FAMOUS PEOPLE BORN IN CONNECTICUT

FAMOUS PEOPLE BORN ON OCTOBER 2

Show All Groups

1 of 5« »QUOTES“I sometimes find the surface interesting. To say that the mark of a good portrait is whether you get them or get the soul - I don't think this is possible all of the time.”—Annie Leibovitz

Synopsis

Photographer Annie Leibovitz was born on October 2, 1949, in Waterbury, Connecticut. In 1970 she landed a job at Rolling Stone and went on to create a distinctive look for the publication as chief photographer. In 1983 she began working for the entertainment magazine Vanity Fair, continuing to produce images that would be deemed iconic and provocative. Having also worked on high-profile advertising campaigns, Leibovitz's images have been showcased in several books and major exhibitions around the world.

Chief Photographer for 'Rolling Stone'

Anna-Lou Leibovitz was born on October 2, 1949, in Waterbury, Connecticut. She was one of six children born to Sam, an Air Force lieutenant, and Marilyn Leibovitz, a modern dance instructor. In 1967, Leibovitz enrolled at the San Francisco Art Institute, where (although initially studying painting) she developed a love for photography.

After living briefly on an Israeli kibbutz, the statuesque Leibovitz returned to the U.S. and applied for a job with the start-up rock music magazine Rolling Stone in 1970. Impressed with Leibovitz’s portfolio, which included an image of counter-culture icon Allen Ginsberg, editor Jann Wenner offered her a job as a staff photographer. Within two years, the 23-year-old Leibovitz was promoted to chief photographer, a title she would hold for the next decade. Her position with the magazine afforded her the opportunity to accompany the Rolling Stones band on their 1975 international tour, though she lost herself from the experience and ended up grappling with a crippling drug addiction.

While with Rolling Stone, Leibovitz developed her trademark technique, which involved the use of bold primary colors and surprising poses, as seen with a 1979 Bette Midler cover inspired by the rock music film The Rose. Leibovitz is credited with making many Rolling Stone covers collector's items, including an issue that featured a nude John Lennoncurled around his fully clothed wife, Yoko Ono. Taken on December 8, 1980, Leibovitz’s Polaroid of the former Beatle was shot just hours before his death.

Iconic Covers for 'Vanity Fair'

In 1983, Leibovitz left Rolling Stone and began working for Vanity Fair. With a wider array of subjects, Leibovitz’s photographs for the magazine ranged from presidents to literary icons to teen heartthrobs. Leibovitz's shoots also became known for over-the-top budgets that would later be at the center of major financial challenges.

To date, a number of Vanity Fair covers have featured Leibovitz’s stunning—and often controversial—portraits of celebrities. Demi Moore (very pregnant and very nude followed by a body painting shoot), Whoopi Goldberg (half-submerged in a bathtub of milk), Sylvester Stallone(appearing nude in a pose inspired by Rodin's "The Thinker") and Caitlyn Jenner (in a corset after having publicly revealed her identity as a woman) are among the most remembered celebs to grace the cover. Known for her ability to make her sitters become physically involved in her work, another of Leibovitz’s most famous portraits is of the late artist Keith Haring, who painted himself like a canvas for the photo.

The Olympics

During the 1980s, Leibovitz also started to work on a number of high-profile advertising campaigns. One of her most notable projects was for American Express, for which her portraits of celebrity cardholders like Elmore Leonard, Tom Selleck and Luciano Pavarotti earned her a 1987 Clio Award.

In 1991, Leibovitz’s collection of more than 200 photographs were exhibited at the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C. She was the first woman to be so honored. Later that year, a book was published to accompany the show titled Photographs: Annie Leibovitz, 1970-1990. In 1996, Leibovitz worked as the official photographer of the Summer Olympics in Atlanta, Georgia. A compilation of her black-and-white portraits of American athletes, including Carl Lewis and Michael Johnson, were published in the book Olympic Portraits.

Exhibitions and Additional Projects

Widely considered one of America’s best portrait photographers, Annie Leibovitz published the book Women (1999), which was accompanied by an essay by her romantic partner, famed intellectual Susan Sontag. With its title subject matter, Leibovitz presented an array of female images from Supreme Court justices to Vegas showgirls to coal miners and farmers. The project is set to be continued in a travelling exhibition making a London debut in January 2016.

In 2003, Leibovitz published the book American Music, with an emphasis on important figures in the realm of blues, country, folk, hip-hop and jazz. Then in 2006, the Brooklyn Museum of Art presented the retrospective "Annie Leibovitz: A Photographer’s Life, 1990-2005," with a related book published as well. This was later followed by "Pilgrimage," a touring exhibition that debuted in Washington, D.C., in 2012 and focused on items associated with famous figures like Abraham Lincoln and Marian Anderson. As busy as ever, Leibovitz continues to be in demand as a photographer, working on projects that range from a 2014 Marcs & Spencer advertising campaign to the 2016 calendar for the tire manufacturer Pirelli. For the latter, Liebovitz chose to feature mostly clothed women from a variety of backgrounds and ages in contrast to the images of scantily clad models from previous calendars.

Personal Life

Leibovitz and Sontag were in a 15-year relationship that ended with Sontag's death in 2004, with Leibovitz's father passing away just weeks later. The two women traveled globally and found interconnections with their work, with Sontag encouraging Leibovitz to become more intimate with her photography.

Leibovitz is also the mother of three children. At the age of 51, she had her daughter, Sarah. In 2005, twin daughters Susan and Samuelle were born with the help of a surrogate mother.

Fact Check

We strive for accuracy and fairness. If you see something that doesn't look right, contact us!

Citation Information

Article TitleAnnie Leibovitz Biography.comAuthorBiography.com EditorsWebsite NameThe Biography.com websiteURL

https://www.biography.com/people/annie-leibovitz-9542372

Access DateOctober 19, 2017PublisherA&E Television NetworksLast UpdatedJanuary 7, 2016Original Published Daten/a

725SHARES

Ads by RevcontentAROUND THE WEB

Millions of People Are Cancelling Their Netflix Account Because of This One SiteMy Finance Today

United Kingdom: Thousands Of People Obtained An iPhone 7 For Only 1 €World News

United Kingdom: How People Get The New iPhone 7 For Only 1€World News

Scout Basic Schulranzen Buddy 38 cm - 3 Freunde99,95 € - kofferdirektde

21 Historical Photos They Won't Show You in History Bookshealthglaze.com

Born Between 1940-1982? Read This About PPIThe Finance Advocate - PPI Exp

Kate Middleton's Net Worth Will Absolutely Shock You!FitLifeStyle

Wall Street is Furious Over the New Trading AlgorithmCorrecTrade

BIO NEWSLETTER