#after Manet

[thinkingimages]

Robert Longo. Untitled (X-Ray of A Bar at the Folies-Bergère, 1882 after Manet), 2017 (detail). Courtesy Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac London · Paris · Salzburg. Photograph: Artist Studio.

[mangle-my-mind]

i had a doctor's appointment uptown so I took the day off and had SUCH a great time hanging out by myself. I went to the Museum of the City of New York, which I've never been to bc I never go that far uptown, and saw their exhibit on 100 years of NYC in art and culture, and it was EVERYTHING I could've hoped for. And the weather's nice so I walked the 20 blocks to the Met and saw the Manet/Degas exhibit which was so interesting bc I had no idea about their overlaps and friendship. And I saw some iconic paintings that I saw last five years ago at the D'Orsay which was neat. And now I'm having tea in a cafe that's playing the Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel. Very good vibes.

And the whole thing (aside from the doctor) was impromptu! I wasn't sure what to do with my day and it ended up being so lovely and I caught two exhibits that I wanted to see but hadn't made plans for.

Now heading back home and maybe I'll hit up my friend's birthday party. Life is good!

[alicedrawslesmis]

that is crazyyyy imagine convincing your mistress to marrying your younger brother so you can keep her around

[sepdet]

So after spending all week in migraines, calling Congresscritters in vain, dealing with medical red tape, dealing with medical issues, and putting one or two starfish back in the ocean, I went to the art studio tonight and

FINISHED A VAN GOGH STUDY WHAT LOOKS LIKE A FUCKING VAN GOGH.

original reference photo of van Gogh's 1878 self-portrait I was using; plus a couple process photos below the cut to prove it's not AI. The goal is not to make a perfect copy, but to learn as much as we can by doing.

(yes, I know van Gogh started with a white untinted background; I've been having a argument with my instructor about this because our in-studio technique based on impressionists like Manet is to tint the background with a neutral complementary color, rough in a low-saturation version of midtones/lights/darks as the painter's equivalent of a sketch, and refine.)

[lollobarcollomanonmollo]

women artists that you should know about!!

-Judith Leyster (Dutch, 1609-1660)

During her life her works were highly recognized, but she got forgotten after her death and rediscovered in the 19th century. In her paintings could be identified the acronym "JL", asually followed by a star, she was the first woman to be inserted in the Guild of St. Luke, the guild Haarlem's artists.

-Artemisia Gentileschi (Italian, 1593-1656)

"... Si è talmente appraticata che posso osar de dire che hoggi non ci sia pare a lei, havendo fatto opere che forse i principali maestri di questa professione non arrivano al suo sapere". This is how the father Orazio talked about his nineteen year old daughter to the Medici's court in Florence.

In 1611, Artemisia got raped, and she had to Undergo a humiliating trial, just to marry so that she could "Restore one's reputation" , according to the morality of the time. Only after a few years Artemisia managed to regain her value, in Florence, in Rome, in Naples and even in England, her oldest surviving work is "Susanna and the elders".

-Elisabeth Louise Vigèe Le Brun (French, 1755-1842)

She was a potrait artists who created herself a name during the Ancien Règime, serving as the potrait painting of the Queen of France Marie Antoinette, she painted 600 portraits and 200 landscapes in the course of her life.

-Augusta Savage (Afro-American, 1892-1962)

Augusta started making figures when she was a child, which most of them were small animals made out of red clay of her hometown, she kept model claying, and during 1919, at the Palm Beach County Fair, she won $25 prize and ribbon for most original exhibit. After completing her studies, Savage worked in Manhattan steam laundries to support her family along with herself. After a violent stalking made by Joe Gould that lasted for two decades, the stalker died in 1957 after getting lobotomized. In 2004, a public high school, Augusta Fells Savage Institute of Visual Arts, in Baltimore, opened.

-Marie Ellenrieder (German,1791-1863)

She was known for her portraits and religious paintings. During a two years long stay in Rome, she met some Nazarenes (group of early 19th century German romantic painters who wanted to revive spirituality in art),after becoming a student of Friedrich Overbeck and after being heavily influenced by a friend, she began painting religious image, getting heavily inspired by the Italian renaissance, more specifically by the artist Raphael. In 1829, she became a court painter to Grand Duchess Sophie of Baden.

-Berthe Marie Pauline Morisot (French,1841-1893)

Morisot studied at the Louvre, where she met Edouard Manet, which became her friend and professor. During 1874 she participated at her first Impressionist exhibition, and in 1892 sets up her own solo exhibition.

-Edmonia Lewis or also called "wildfire" (mixed African-American and Native American 1844-1907)

Edmonia was born in Upstate New York but she worked for most of her career in Rome, Italy. She was the first ever African American and Native American sculptor to achieve national and international fame, she began to gain prominence in the USA during the Civil Ware. She was the first black woman artist who has participated and has been recognized to any extent by the American artistic mainstream. She Also in on Molefi Kete Asante's list of 100 Greatest African Americans.

-Marie Gulliemine Benoist (French, 1768-1826)

Daughter of a civil servant, Marie was A pupil of Jaques-Louis David, whose she shared the revolutionary ideas with, painting innovative works that have caused whose revolutionary ideals he shared, painting innovative works that caused discussion. She opened a school for young girl artists, but the marriage with the banker Benoist and the political career Of the husband had slowly had effect on her artistic career, forcing her to stop painting. Her most famous work is Potrait of Madeline, which six years before slavery was abolished, so that painting became a simbol for women's emancipation and black people's rights.

-Lavinia Fontana (Italian, 1552-1614)

She is remembered for being the first woman artist to paint an altarpiece and for painting the first female nude by a woman (Minerva in the act of dressing), commissioned by Scipione Borghese.

-Elisabetta Sirani. (Italian, 1698-1665)

Her admirable artistic skills, that would vary from painting, drawing and engraving, permitted her, in 1660, to enter in the National Academy of S. Luca, making her work as s professor. After two years she replaced her father in his work of his Artistic workshop, turning it into an art schools for girls, becoming the first woman in Europe to have a girls' school of painting, like Artemisia Gentileschi, she represent female characters as strong and proud, mainly drawn from Greek and Roman stories. (ex. Timoclea Kills The Captain of Alexander the Great, 1659).

[saintjudasi]

after manet's dead christ with two angels

[jareckiworld]

René Wirths — The Fifer (after Édouard Manet) [oil on canvas, 2024]

[noirscript]

06; the becoming

Pairing: Yandere!Artist x Reader Description: You were never meant to be worshipped, but Kai Mercer saw divinity in your every breath. And now, as his devotion burns brighter than reason, you begin to understand what it means to be become someone's god. Warning/s: Yandere | Dubcon | Self-harm (flagellation) | Obsession | Non-consensual worship | Emotional Manipulation | Religious Themes | Power Imbalance | Stalking | Possessiveness | Burning of Artwork??? Note/s: Apologies for the delay. Took a break yesterday. Will be uploading Sanctum later. I don't want to overwhelm everyone but three updates today. Enjoy reading! ALSO! I will not be updating on Tuesday for a job interview.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% Off

Kai was a genius.

You never cared much about art. Galleries felt stiff, full of people nodding too seriously at things that didn’t speak to you. You couldn’t paint, couldn’t sculpt, couldn’t even stay inside the lines in a coloring book. But Kai’s work...

His paintings didn’t just hang. They breathed. They pressed into you, soft and suffocating all at once. His strokes weren’t just skill—they were obsession. And even someone like you, someone who couldn’t tell a Monet from a Manet, could feel it.

You didn’t know you had already been chosen.

It had been years ago. A gallery visit on a quiet weekday. You were just wandering, killing time, walking through marble halls that smelled faintly of wood polish and dried oil paint. You weren’t expecting anything. You never did.

But Kai was there, standing half-shadowed behind a sculpture of a grieving saint. Watching.

He said later that the world came into focus the moment you stepped into the room. That everything before you was gray and everything after was too much color all at once. He didn’t know your name, didn’t even know what kind of voice you had. But the way your fingers brushed the frame of a painting, the way your shoulders shifted when you tilted your head… it was enough.

He went home and painted until his fingers split. He didn’t stop for sleep or food. Just sketch after sketch. Canvas after canvas. Your face from memory. Your body in light he imagined. Every part of you interpreted through devotion and hunger.

You lived your life unaware. Meanwhile, Kai watched. From galleries. From coffee shops. From the corner of a park bench as you passed with your headphones in. Every glimpse fed him. You didn’t know it, but you were inside every one of his pieces.

Until a certain Saturday morning.

You hadn’t planned on being at the gallery. A friend had canceled on brunch, and it was on the way home, so you ducked inside. Familiar scent. Familiar hush. But this time, it was different. One painting pulled you in like a magnet.

You stopped in front of it. A woman in silk, head bowed, eyes shut like she was praying. The resemblance made your chest tighten.

“It suits you,” came a voice at your side. Quiet, reverent.

You turned. He was standing uncomfortably close. Tall, pale hands still smudged with graphite, folded neatly in front of him.

“I’m not really… into art,” you said, unsure why you were explaining yourself. “I just stumbled in.”

He smiled, just a little. “You don’t have to be into it. You are it.”

“That’s dramatic,” you laughed.

“So is beauty.”

There was something in his eyes that made your smile falter. Not threatening. Just… intense. Like he was seeing things no one else could.

From that moment on, Kai made himself part of your life.

Little things at first. A coffee shared after a chance run-in. A link to an art exhibit you mentioned liking. He never pushed. Just listened, watched, remembered. Every word you said became sacred scripture. He soaked it in.

He was kind. Gentle. Soft-spoken. It was easy to let him in without realizing how deep he'd already burrowed.

You didn’t notice the shift until it was too late.

Until you started feeling like your days were being watched.

Until your smile started feeling like a promise.

And then, quietly, you began to pull away.

You told yourself it was just space. You’d text less. Visit his studio less. But he noticed. He always noticed. The distance bloomed like rot in him.

So one night, you went to talk.

You didn’t want a fight. You just wanted clarity. Distance. Something honest.

But the second you stepped into his studio, the air changed.

The door clicked behind you like a final decision. Paintings watched from every wall. Some half-finished. Some of you.

Kai stood near the center of the room, staring at you like you'd just torn open his ribs.

“Don’t leave,” he said quietly.

You hesitated. “Kai… we need to talk.”

“You can’t leave me.”

His voice wasn’t loud. Just broken. He crossed the room slowly, step by step, like each one cost him something. His hand reached up to your face, trembling.

“You made me human,” he whispered. “Don’t take that away.”

You tried to breathe, to say something soft—but he kissed you before the words could form. Not sweetly. Desperately. Like he thought kissing you might keep you from disappearing.

You could have stopped it. Maybe. But you didn’t. Or couldn’t.

He claimed you, right there in the studio. Over and over. Rough, unrelenting, worshipful. His mouth never stopped praising. His hands memorized. His voice broke when he said your name like it was a prayer. You lost track of time, of thought, of why you’d come. When you finally collapsed against him, your body trembling, your voice hoarse, he just held you.

And then, something in him changed.

He slipped away from you, quietly. You heard him rummaging through the far corner of the studio. When you managed to sit up, your skin sore and flushed, you followed.

He was kneeling at the altar you’d never noticed before. A mess of broken brushes, burnt-out candles, wax puddled like bloodstains. He stripped off his shirt. Picked up a cord.

“Kai—what are you—?”

The first lash struck hard.

Your breath caught.

“Stop it,” you said, rushing to him, but he didn’t even look at you. The cord came down again, and again. Each strike left another red trail. His skin opened. Blood mixed with old paint on the floor.

“I touched divinity,” he muttered. “With hands that weren’t clean.”

“Kai, stop!”

Your voice cracked. He finally turned to you.

You were standing there wrapped in the sheet from his bed, the moon lighting you like some kind of spectral saint. Your eyes wide. Your voice shaking.

He smiled, dazed. “You came back.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

Weeks passed.

You never brought up what you saw that night. But something shifted. You stopped trying to leave. Maybe out of fear. Maybe guilt. Maybe something else. You and Kai made an unspoken agreement: he could have you, as long as you could still have your world.

You moved into his apartment. You went to work. You went out for groceries. He let you. But every evening, he was there, waiting by the window. He didn’t ask what you did or who you spoke to, but you could feel the questions thick in the silence.

Then came the grocery store.

You were in the frozen aisle looking for your favorite brand of dumplings. Kai had stepped away to grab tea. That’s when you heard your name.

“Hey! I thought that was you.”

You turned. A coworker. Harmless. He laughed about running into you, asked how your week was going. You smiled. Responded politely. Nothing inappropriate.

But Kai saw it.

From across the store. Just your face. The way you tilted your head. The way the guy laughed too hard.

He didn’t approach. He didn’t make a scene. He didn’t bleed.

Because you had asked him not to.

That night, you were in the bath, humming softly, steam curling up around you. The water muted the world.

Kai slipped into his studio barefoot. He walked to the far wall where he’d hidden a canvas under cloth.

He’d painted it months ago.

You, in mourning silk. Surrounded by candlelight. Lips parted, eyes closed like you were dreaming something holy. He’d planned to show you one day, maybe light candles for real, present it with flowers and trembling hands.

Instead, he dragged it out back into the cold.

The fire pit was still black from last winter.

He laid the painting down carefully, like it was a body. Then struck a match.

It caught fast.

The flames devoured you—your painted form. The silk, the curve of your mouth, the skin he’d studied for years. The fire made it twitch and melt. Made you scream silently in oil and canvas.

He watched. Not blinking. Not breathing.

You smelled the smoke first.

Towel around your shoulders, you stepped outside, confused. The flames were high. You rushed toward them, heart pounding.

“Kai?” you shouted. “What are you doing?!”

He didn’t turn right away.

You got closer. Saw the painting—what was left of it. You froze.

“I never saw this one…” your voice cracked. “Was this—was this for me?”

He finally looked over his shoulder. His eyes were empty.

“It was,” he said. “It was my favorite.”

You stared, confused. “Then why…?”

“Because I let you smile at him.”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t bleed this time,” he added. “You said you didn’t want that. So I burned instead.”

“Kai…” you whispered, stepping closer. His hands were covered in soot. His hair smelled like smoke. His expression didn’t flicker.

He reached out and cupped your face gently, like he’d done the first time.

“Tell me it’s mine,” he said. “Your smile. Your voice. Tell me I don’t have to burn again.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you weren’t sure anymore if you were still whole.

Or if part of you had already burned with the painting.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya

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[leedlebeetles]

Lily Pond

Ive been experimenting a lot with procreate brushes lately! Im really into brush strokes and texture right now. I just want to bring that traditional art vibe to my digital art. I also want to lean more into some of my artist inspirations, since my old work didn't really allow me to (in my brain at least, its art, i could do whatever i wanted but my brain just wouldn't let me lol).

Ive always been a big fan of the impressionist movement. Ever since i was young. I remember my mom used to have a couple art prints in our bathroom, one by Monet and one by Manet. (I always found the similarity of their names quite funny, and finding out much later in life that they were actually friends/playful rivals in the art critic world was even funnier). But monet's work always stuck out very strongly to me. I love his use of colors and brush strokes to convey ideas. The lack of distinct realism made his work especially beautiful. He was truly a master of capturing the vibe of a moment. One day those prints in the bathroom disappeared (we redid the bathroom in a different theme) and i never knew where they went. They'd been there for about 15 years at that point. I didnt find out until after the bathroom was redone that my mother hated Monet's work and found it boring and messy (she always hated those prints apparently, but i guess they were a gift from my grandfather maybe??? So she put them in the bathroom since the colors matched). I think she preferred Manet, but not by much. I dont even remember which prints they were tbh, it was so long ago now, just that one of them had a boat on it. I hope we still have them, but she mightve given them away haha. Oh well.

[kaizokuou-ni-naru]

the official one piece channel released a music video to promote volume 109 much like how they did with volume 106 and the start of egghead:

and i watched it and i started bawling almost instantly. below the cut is the rough (very rough, i'm not great at translating music) translation i did of the lyrics, so you all can cry along with me.

例えば誰か一人の命と/tatoeba dareka hitori no inochi to 引き換えに世界を救えるとして/hikikae ni sekai wo sukueru toshite 僕は誰かが名乗り出るのを待っているだけの男だ/boku wa dareka ga nanorideru no wo matteiru dake no otoko

if, for example, by saving the life of one person i could save the whole world i would be a man who only waits for that one person to declare himself

愛すべきたくさんの人達が/aisubeki takusan no hitotachi ga 僕を臆病者に変えてしまったんだ/boku wo okubyoumono ni kaete shimattanda

to all the many people dear to me i sadly became a coward

小さい頃に身振り手振りを/chiisai goro ni miburiteburi wo 真似てみせた/manete miseta 憧れになろうだなんて/akogare ni narou da nante 大それた気持ちはない/daisoreta kimochi wa nai

the gestures i learned when i was small i've showed you how to copy and i've come to yearn for something no grand ambitious feeling

でもヒーローになりたい/demo 'hero' ni naritai ただ一人君にとっての/tada hitori kimi ni totte no つまずいたり転んだりするようなら/tsumazuitari korondari suru you nara そっと手を差し伸べるよ/sotto te wo sashinoberu yo

but i want to become a hero if only to you alone if you ever stumble or fall i'll quietly reach out a hand

駄目な映画を盛り上げるために/dame na eiga wo moriageru tame ni 簡単に命が捨てられていく/kantan ni inochi ga suterareteiku 違う　僕らは見ていたいのは/chigau, bokura wa miteitai no wa 希望に満ちた光だ/kibou ni michita hikari da

for the sake of bringing this no-good movie to its climax lives were simply thrown away but no, what we dream of seeing is the light that has fueled our hopes

僕の手を握る少し小さな手/boku no te wo nigiru sukoshi chisana te すっと胸の淀みを溶かしていくんだ/sutto mune no yodomi wo tokashiteikunda

that small hand gripping mine all of a sudden melts all the hesitation from my heart

人生をフルコースで深く味わうための/jinsei wo furucosu de fukaku ajiwau tame no 幾つものスパイスが誰もに用意されていて/ikutsumono supaisu ga daremo ni youi sareteite 時には苦かったり/toki ni wa nigakattari 渋く思うこともあるだろう/shibuku omou koto mo aru darou そして最後のデザートを笑って食べる/soshite saigou no dezaato wo waratte taberu 君の側に僕は居たい/kimi no soba ni boku wa itai

so that you might deeply savor life as a full-course meal with all its many spices laid out for everyone though at times it may be bitter and full of sour thoughts and at last you'll eat dessert laughing i want to be by your side

残酷に過ぎる時間の中で/zankoku ni sugiru no naka de きっと十分に僕も大人になったんだ/kitto juubun ni boku mo otona ni nattanda 悲しくはない　切なさもない/kanashiku wa nai, setsunasa mo nai ただこうして繰り返されてきたことが/tada koushite kurikaesarete kita koto ga そうこうして繰り返していくことが/sou koushite kurikaeshite iku koto ga 嬉しい　愛しい/ureshii, itoshii

i certainly came to adulthood in the midst of these times that are far too cruel but i'm not sad, and i'm not in pain although things have just repeated like this yes, although things will repeat like this i'm happy, my dearest

ずっとヒーローにありたい/zutto 'hero' ni aritai ただ一人君にとっての/tada hitori kimi ni totte no ちっとも謎めいてないし/chittomo nazomeitenai shi 今更もう秘密はない/imasara mou himitsu wa nai

i always want to be a hero if only to you alone without any mystery left after everything, i have no secrets anymore

でもヒーローになりたい/demo 'hero' ni naritai ただ一人君にとっての/tada hitori kimi ni totte no つまずいたり転んだりするようなら/tsumazuitari korondari suru you nara そっと手を差し伸べるよ/sotto te wo sashinoberu yo

but i want to become a hero if only to you alone if you ever stumble or fall i'll quietly reach out a hand

[burtontracks]

CUP 41  250220aj

poison cup, table, gothic windows and reclining figure (Olympia), after Manet, reworked

[vorfreudevortex]

a portrait of us - eight

a nanami x reader smau

masterlist

warnings: angst lol, slow burn, swearing, a little ooc, a typo or two

notes: ngl i am starting to hate this story but it's okay!! also I'm drunk but I'm posting this anyways idc. also - written portion - 1.3k words (?!!). i'm finding it impossible to not write long ass parts. also pls feel free to request or ask me anything bc i don't like this smau and need something to distract me in between writing it <3 love u bye

as the car pulled up to the museum’s front entrance, you shakily smoothed your hair and dress with one hand, the other clutching a crumpled sheet of paper with your speech.

you couldn’t decide which was more pitiful. the frizzy flyaways escaping your hastily curled hair? or the piece of stationary, painstakingly flattened but still creased, one of the thirty-two drafts you’d written, retrieved reluctantly from the hotel floor?

the driver parked as an attendant opened the door, offering a hand to help you out. the museum director approached with a reassuring smile, and a suit probably worth more than thirty of your paintings combined.

the driver parked an attendant opened the car door and offered you a hand to help you out. the director approached you with a comforting smile and a suit that probably cost more than 30 of your paintings combined.

“welcome! how are you feeling?”

“to be honest,” you replied with a nervous smile. "I'm terribly anxious.”

he chuckled, holding the front door open for you. “that’s perfectly natural. don’t worry! the patrons will love you and your work. anyone would be foolish not to.”

“thank you, director…” you murmured, his words doing little to calm your trembling hands.

the head assistant joined your walk to the gallery hall, peppering you with one question after another.

“the catering service has just finished setting up. would you please take a final sample of the gyoza and ohitashi? they don’t look quite the same as they did during the original tasting…”

“we have a very important guest from malaysia… would you like me to introduce you two when she arrives? it would be a shame if you didn’t at least find time to say hello…”

“are you absolutely certain about the painting for the final reveal? i know you said it’s special to you but the other assistants and i agreed that the other one would-”

“alright, that’s enough questions,” the director interjected as you neared the gallery hall. you let out a small breath of relief. you thought you might burst if another word came out of the assistant’s mouth. “please go make sure the waiters have the champagne chilled and poured.”

“thank you,” you whispered to the director as the assistant walked away.

“please, don’t thank me. they can be so overbearing. sometimes, it’s better to just let things flow as life means them to,” he replied with a smile.

“yeah…” you replied, glancing at your paintings, their eyes seemingly judging you.

“i can see you’re terrified, and that’s okay. you’ve never done this on such a big stage before!” he laughed. “but truly, it’s not all that different than a smaller exhibition.”

“i don’t think i deserve to be here.”

“if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be.”

you looked at the director, letting his words calm your nerves a bit. your gaze wandered to one of your paintings, a vibrant reinterpretation of jeanne: spring by édouard manet, now alive with bold reds and yellows. 

it was both different and familiar, evoking nostalgia even in those who knew the original. the abstract strokes depicted a striking dark-skinned woman you had met in the park, with bright orange braids cascading down to her waist, her skin glowing against the polka-dotted umbrella she carried.

upon meeting her, you had eagerly asked to paint her, offering what little savings you had left in return. she had given you a sideways smile and agreed, letting you capture her portrait for free.

over the next week, you posed her in your small apartment, finding moments between both of your busy schedules. when you finally showed her the finished piece, she grinned again and said, “oh sweetie, you’re gonna be big one day.”

though she couldn’t be here in tokyo, her spirit was with you, embodied in the painting with that sideways smile even the umbrella couldn’t overshadow.

"onee-san!"

your attention shifted from the painting to the other side of the room, where a group was led by itadori yuji and his toothy grin.

"itadori-kun!"

“and me! hello?” satoru added playfully.

“of course, you too,” you smiled. “thank you for coming, i'm so thrilled you’re here. you all look amazing!”

“no, you look amazing. and i wouldn’t miss this for the world,” satoru said, hugging you. "onee-san, i want you to meet all my students!”

as he finished introducing you to the first and second years, a warm hand rested on your shoulder. you turned to see an old classmate, now with long hair and a familiar pair of boots.

“shoko ieri, take my shoes off right now!” you laughed, throwing your arms around her.

“um, no way. you never even wore them when you had them,” she teased.

shoko's expression softened as she noticed the tears welling in your eyes. she looked just the same, but you couldn’t help noticing the worry lines between her brown, evident even with her smile.

“i didn’t think i'd see you again,” she said quietly.

“me neither… i'm so-”

“-stop talking,” she interrupted. “we brought gifts for you!”

you let go of shoko while yuji held out a large bouquet of blue and pink daisies.

“oh, stop it!” you exclaimed, taking the flowers. “they’re beautiful. thank you all so much!”

“we’re not done yet! there’s more,” satoru said slyly, holding out a small black box.

your heart nearly stopped when you pried the lid open to reveal a large pearl pendant on a gold chain.

“you-”

“-there’s more. look under the velvet,” shoko urged. you carefully lifted the padding to reveal a check with the note “a commission for the staff and students” made out for…

“ten million fucking yen?!”

“whoa, language!” satoru laughed. “kids, go run and play or something.”

“shoko, did you know about this?” you panicked as the students filed away with quiet giggles. “i seriously can’t accept this!”

“yes, you will,” shoko retorted, crossing her arms.

“a commission for what?”

“girl, did you even read the check?” satoru huffed playfully. “you’re gonna paint a portrait of the staff and students at jujutsu high. and hopefully, instead of ignoring us, it’ll cover a plane ticket back so you can visit us next year.”

tears welled up in your eyes again, spilling down your cheeks.

“no. seriously. i-no! i can’t accept this! this is an insane amount of money for a commission like that. i'll paint for you guys for free. and you’ll return this necklace because i know you spent too much money on it, too.”

“stop talking and just accept the gift,” shoko urged.

“but i don’t deserve it.”

“now you’re just spouting nonsense,” satoru said as he placed a hand on your shoulder and turned you toward the gallery entrance. he pointed at the large banner bearing your gallery information. “what does that banner say?”

“it says my name,” you sniffled, still clutching the flowers and box.

“no, idiot. i'm talking about the quotes.”

“um…” you blinked away tears. “someone truly exceptional…?”

“and?”

“a modern-day van gogh…?”

“one more.”

“art that every being should hope to be privileged enough to experience.”

“good job, you can read!” satoru smiled, giving your shoulders a slight shake. “some snobby rich art critics said that about you. now, stop feeling fucking sorry for yourself and make sure everyone has their attention on you tonight.”

“and deposit the check when you get home,” shoko added.

“yes, please deposit the check,” satoru agreed. “if you lose it, i'll be pissed.”

you wrapped your arms around satoru and shoko, squeezing tight in tearful appreciation. they had no idea… the check would cover over a year’s worth of rent, premium canvases, all fine-haired brushes you could ever want, and even a payment on a car. you swore to yourself that you’d pour your soul into painting them a fucking masterpiece.

“now let go,” satoru said, pushing you away. “and go impress all these high-class art people.”

“okay, okay, i'm going!” you smiled with a sniffle.

wiping your tears away, you waved at your classmates as you walked further into the gallery to greet the small crowd that had arrived. sometime during your conversation, your hands must have stopped trembling.

“you’re gonna be just fine,” you thought to yourself with a grin.

next: part nine

tag list // @bubybubsters @sad-darksoul @corvid007 @kenqki @ikon-teen

© vorfreudevortex | all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, repost, or otherwise share my work.

[artandthebible]

The Dead Christ with Angels

Artist: Edouard Manet (French, 1832–1883)

Date: 1864

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, NY, United States

Description

Manet identified the source for this painting, the first of several religious scenes, in the inscription on the rock: the Gospel according to Saint John. However, in the passage cited, Christ’s tomb is empty except for two angels. After Manet sent the canvas to the 1864 Salon, he realized that he had made an even greater departure from the text, depicting Christ’s wound on the wrong side. Indeed, critics denounced the picture, particularly the realism of Christ’s cadaverous body.

[iwtvfanevents]

Rewind the Tape —Episode 2

Art of the episode

Just like we did for the pilot, we took note of the art shown and mentioned in the second episode while we rewatched it, and we are sharing our findings with you. Did we miss any? Can you help us put a name to the unidentified ones? Do you have any thoughts about how these references could be interpreted?

Unnamed painting by Marius de Romanus

Created for the show (uncredited artist).

Armand (still "Rashid") tells Daniel that Marius was a contemporary of Tintoretto (1518-1594).

Transformation

Ron Bechet, 2021 [Identified by Gizmodo's Linda Codega, here.]

Bechet is a New Orleans-born visual artist. He's a relative of the early jazz pioneer Sidney Bechet. Exhibition Prospect.5 says about the collection this piece belongs to: "Bechet carefully renders the ways vines wrap themselves around trees for support and access to sunlight. At times, this relationship serves both the vine and the tree. Works such as Transformation depict a harmonious symbiosis, as tree and vine both flourish. (...) Through his immersive compositions, Bechet invites us to see history and ourselves in relationship to the beauty, power, and violence of the natural world." And, from Xula Gallery: "Here, we are gifted with the physical proximity of life and death – How they share the same organic space, how they sleep together as equals. The flora of South Louisiana's natural landscape is cleaved open to expose its roots. (...) Here is botany that has every potential of becoming monstrous. All of these meanderings are used to symbolize the deep historical roots of a family home and exhibits the precariousness of nature, both human and environmental, with all of its nurturing and destructive potential. (...) It is a diaspora body, skin folded back to reveal its elegant and resilient backbone."

Untitled photographs

Vivian Maier, undated

Maier was a street photographer whose work was discovered and distributed after her death —she took more than 150,000 photographs during her life, and never printed or circulated any. You can learn more about how her work came to light here. We don't actually see the self-portrait in the third picture, which hangs to the left, until episode four.

Dancers

Edgar Degas, 1899 [Identified by @nicodelenfent, here.]

Degas produced countless paintings of ballerinas throughout his career. While he is often considered an impressionist, he himself saw himself more as a realist and preferred harsh gritty subjects of working class backgrounds. Ballerinas at the time often came from working class or poor families and worked intense grueling hours.

Berthe Morisot with a Fan

Edouard Manet, 1872 [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

Manet was one of the first 19th-century artists to paint modern life, as well as a pivotal figure in the transition from Realism to Impressionism. The portrait in this scene shows his close friend, painter Berthe Morisot, wearing mourning blacks after the death of her father, but wearing a wedding ring —she was engaged to Manet's brother.

Portrait of Erich Lederer

Egon Schiele, 1912 [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

The Schiele depicts a young Erich Lederer, son of art collectors Serena and August Lederer, whose collection was looted by the Gestapo.

Paddy Flannigan

George Bellows, 1908 [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

The Bellows depicts a young impoverished boy on the streets of New York.

A Doll's House

Henrik Ibsen, 1879

Lestat tells Louis "They'll seat us late, and we'll miss Nora's entrance with the Christmas tree," which quite a few fans soon identified as a reference to this play, in which a housewife becomes slowly disillusioned with marital life and eventually leaves her husband. This conclusion led to the play being banned in certain countries, such as Germany and Britain, and Ibsen was compelled to write an alternative ending, in which Nora's husband forced her to stay. In the two stage productions pictured above, you can see Kelsey Brennan and Nate Burger on the left, and Assad Zaman and Anjana Vasan on the right.

Unnamed paintings of Papa du Lac and Paul

Created for the show (uncredited artist).

Unidentified painting*

* The running theory is that the woman in this painting is Gabrielle, Lestat's mother; which would mean this is another uncredited prop painted for the show.

Woman in A Fur Coat

Edouard Manet, 1879

Additionally, on the bottom left corner of the frame you can catch a glimpse of another unidentified painting, but we couldn't get any clearer looks of it either.

Autumn at Arkville

Alexander H. Wyant, 1909 [Identified by @vfevermillion.]

The one in the mirror and the one on the other side of the door are too blurry, but we managed to place the one on top of the couch!

The Lone Tenement

George Bellows, 1909 [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

The National Gallery of Art says about this painting: "Bellows has imbued the composition with a sense of eerie wistfulness, recording the precarious positions of those who were being displaced to make way for the future."

Don Pascuale

Gaetano Donizetti, 1842

The opera that Louis and Lestat go to at the end of the episode follows an elderly bachelor, who gets conned by his nephew Ernesto and his friend Malatesta into marrying the nephew's lover, Norina, under false pretenses. You can find a complete synopsis here.

The Storm On The Sea Of Galilee

Rembrandt van Rijn, 1633 [Identified by Gizmodo's Linda Codega.]

Rembrandt van Rijn, Dutch Baroque painter and printmaker from the 17th century, is best known for his biblical and allegorical pieces. Rembrandt's only seascape was stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston on March 18th, 1990, alongside other 12 works of art. The case remains unsolved.

If you spot or put a name to any other references, let us know if you'd like us to add them with credit to the post!

This week, we will be rewatching and discussing Episode 3, Is My Very Nature That of a Devil. We can't wait to hear your thoughts!

And, if you're just getting caught up, learn all about our group rewatch here ►

[the-paper-apricot]

'There seemed no order in these latter visions': Give My Regards to Broad Street and A Christmas Carol

The 'Eleanor's Dream' sequence of Give My Regards to Broad Street has several phases, or scenes: the boating party; the recreation of Manet's Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe; the cemetery in winter, and so on, image after image. Toward the end, the sequence takes on a Dickensian flavour.

Screen capture of Give My Regards to Broad Street, as upscaled by Kitsu.

Instantly recognisable is the English bull terrier, a dead ringer for Bull's-eye, the dog owned by Bill Sikes in Oliver Twist.

Screen captures of Bill Sikes and Bull's-eye in Oliver! (1968)

A similar image as Harry appears from a barely-lit alley, complete with wet cobbles and English bull terrier, in Give My Regards to Broad Street.

Bill Sikes in Oliver Twist (1948) attempting to drown Bull's-eye. (Don't worry, the dog gets away!)

In Oliver Twist, Sikes brings what he has stolen to the fence, Fagin. Harry is carrying the missing tape box, also presumed to be stolen at this point in the film.

For a long time I thought that was the principal Dickens reference here, other than the general smutty, foggy, sinister look which conveys that ripe atmosphere of Victorian London (in literature, in painting, but especially in film). But there's something else that I believe is more significant.

At the very end of the 'Eleanor's Dream' sequence, Paul arrives to see Harry collapse on the stone steps, as the Victorian double for Rath, and his business associates, look down. Now, here's where it would have paid to be a Londoner: it all seemed familiar, but initially I took that neoclassical façade for the Bank of England. Of course I was wrong, it's meant to be the Royal Exchange.

A debtor waits to plead with Scrooge on the steps of the Royal Exchange, in Scrooge (1951). (Filmed on location at the building itself.)

The fluted columns and steps of another location, or a set, standing in for the monumental staircase of the Royal Exchange in Give My Regards to Broad Street.

Why do I think the series of visions ends at the Royal Exchange? In A Christmas Carol, the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come brings Scrooge to this place, the ancestor of the London Stock Exchange, where he did business most days. In the time of Dickens it was abbreviated to simply 'Change.

Short extract from A Christmas Carol (1843), Charles Dickens; Harry on the steps

Rath and his partners are like the 'little knot of business men' whose unfeeling detachment is so appalling to Scrooge, and the reader. No spirit but rather Paul's mind shows him the vision, the ending of which he wants to reject or change, as Scrooge pleads for a way to change his fate:

Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me ... tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!

from A Christmas Carol (1843), Charles Dickens

If we accept this is repurposed imagery from A Christmas Carol, can we determine why it was chosen? The moment where Scrooge is forced to look at the businessmen at the Royal Exchange, and their indifference to grief? Is it a way to address Paul's feeling about the business practices around ATV's acquisition of Northern Songs, especially Dick James and Charles Silver selling all their ordinary shares in Northern to Lew Grade while Paul and John were each on honeymoon in March 1969?

Cashbox, 1969, quoted on the Paul McCartney Project website.

The group, or 'little knot' of nameless businessmen around Rath in Give My Regards to Broad Street, could suggest the Consortium, a group of London brokers that acquired 14% of the shares in Northern Songs. In May 1969, after protracted negotiation, they agreed to an alliance that essentially gave ATV control of Northern Songs. I think the Dickensian borrowing in 'Eleanor's Dream' encompasses not John's death alone, but also the irrevocable change in their friendship because of predatory business practice and the loss of control over their songs.

The redemptive close to A Christmas Carol is much of its appeal, offering that idea that we can still change the course of events to come, while there is the time to do so. Scrooge wakes and is reprieved, sends the boy for the turkey and raises Bob's salary: still-dreaming Paul finds Harry, calls Linda and brings him home. Then Paul wakes in the back of the car, and even better, finds that Harry and the music were never lost to begin with.

(Note: the quotation at the top of this post is from A Christmas Carol, as Dickens explains that the images shown to Scrooge by the spirit are disjointed and from different times. They are also unrelenting, as 'the Spirit did not stay for anything but went straight on'.)

[galleryofart]

After the Bullfight

Artist: Mary Cassatt (American, 1844–1926)

Date: 1873

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago, IL, United States

Description

Mary Cassatt chose a quintessentially Spanish subject, executing this composition of a bullfighter, or torero, in full regalia during an extended stay in Seville. Having trained in Philadelphia and Paris, Cassatt ventured to Spain to study the country’s Renaissance and Baroque works and to follow the path of French avant-garde artists like Édouard Manet. Depicting the performer at a relaxed moment, far removed from the spectacle and violence of the ring, Cassatt omitted narrative detail. Instead, with a modernist sensibility, she focused on the male figure in a casual pose, employing vigorous brushwork and rich pigment to describe the bullfighter’s costume and suggest his characteristic bravado.