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nicolewoo · 5 years ago

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The Party

Jensen Ackles X Reader

Genre: smut, BDSM

Warning: blatant spanking and fucking.

He'd been wound so tight lately. Work had been especially stressful. He would come home on edge and exhausted every single night for a month, usually with a pile of paperwork to do.

I was getting edgy from being horny, but I didn't dare press him. Instead, I did everything I could to make him happy, to relieve his stress, but the worse he got, the farther he pulled away from me.

It was time to re-up our contract, and I felt like he was done with me. That's why I did it. I needed him back. I needed my Jensen back.

He had gone to so much trouble to pick out the perfect dress for me, but I couldn't let him know how much I appreciated it.

“Open it.” Jensen said while setting the large box down on the bed. He had such a short fuse lately, I dreaded what I was about to do, but it was necessary.

I intentionally fumbled around while opening the big box; trying to let him think it was just my innate clumsiness. Jensen started fidgeting; which was never a good sign. Usually, he was in complete control of his body... and mine. “C'mon!” he barked.

I opened the box and nearly gasped in pleasure. Stifling that impulse, I looked at the big box. In front of me was the most beautiful Jade green gown I'd ever seen. I could imagine how it would feel brushing against my body as I moved. There were 2 stunning silver shoes in the box, and a classy green clutch. He knew me so well, and he had chosen everything with great care. Especially given his recent mood, this warmed my heart. It was so kind of him. I hadn't seen any kindness for weeks. What I was about to do was going to break both of our hearts.

“I.....” I started, but had to take a breath before I continued. I steeled myself. “This is really nice, Sir, but I wanted to wear my silver dress tonight.”

The glare he sent my way was painful to look at. “Excuse me?” he almost roared. “I go through all this trouble, and you don't appreciate it?”

And there it was. The anger was so immense it became a presence in the room. I resisted the urge to recoil away from him. “I need to do this. He needs me to do this. Be strong Y/N.”

“Sir, I don't mean to be ungrateful. I just love the silver dress.”

I saw his hand twitch at his side as waves of anger rolled through the room. I was defiantly going to pay for this. “Sorry body.” I said to myself.

Jensen was no longer able to control the anger in his voice. “I don't give a flying fuck what you want to wear.” He roared. “I went to a ton of trouble to get you this, and you would prefer to wear that slutty silver dress instead? You WILL wear this tonight.” He stared right into my eyes. “Do you understand me?”

That was as far as I wanted to push this, but I needed him to lose his control. I turned my eyes downward. “Yes, sir” I said far too quietly for his liking.

“Excuse me! I can't hear you!” He yelled.

“Yes, sir.” I said firmly.

Jensen opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself. He walked out of the room as he said, “I don't have time for this shit. You've got 30 minutes to get ready, and not ONE minute more.”

I had failed. After 6 months together, I thought I knew how to push his buttons, but everything I'd done fell short of getting him to snap. “and now you'll lose him.” Tears began to fall. I sat on the edge of my bed looking at the beautiful gown, the shoes, the purse. As I started to remove the contents of the box, I found a stunning lingerie set under the dress. He had really gone all out for tonight. “I couldn't get him to lose control, but I can try to make him happy now.” I removed the dress and hung it up. I grabbed hanger and dress and put them in the bathroom. Turning on the shower with hot water, I prayed that there was enough time to steam any wrinkles out of the dress.

I slid on the gorgeous green silk camisole and the green lace underwear. They were truly stunning. I looked in the mirror. Yes. Yes he'd like this. As I sat at my makeup table, there was a light knocking on the door. “It's Julie,” a reassuring voice called. Julie was the housekeeper here, and had quickly become a friend of mine. We had both been worried about Jensen.

“Come in.” I called, half relieved it wasn't him and half dreading that it wasn't him.

Julie didn't say a word. She came to the makeup table and hugged me from behind. “Did it work?” she questioned. My tears started falling again. I tried to answer, but I couldn't. “No. No. No.” she soothed as she grabbed a tissue to wipe my face. “Don't start crying.... You can't have puffy eyes and a runny nose tonight.” She was right, of course. She always was. “I'm not giving up on this yet.” she assured me. “We still have time. Now you just have to be perfect tonight, and I know you can do it.” She grabbed a brush and started brushing my hair. It was a kind motherly gesture that really did calm me.

“I'm out of ideas.” I whimpered. “This is going to be the end. I just know it.”

Julie stopped brushing and knelt beside me. She gently took my hands. “No. I don't believe it.” She used the tissue to wipe away some tears. “He loves you. I know he does.” she said gently. “Let's get you ready, and think of how we are going to handle this. I brought the steamer for the dress.” That calmed me a bit. I may not be able to fix this, but at least I'll look great for our last big outing together.

Julie and I talked while I did my hair and makeup and she steamed my dress and helped me get ready. Before I left the room, Julie gently hugged me again and quietly whispered “He won't be able to keep his hands off you in this dress.” As she handed me my clutch, I prayed that she was right.

I came down the stairs 4 minutes early, and found Jensen in the foyer reading an email on his phone.

He turned to me, and I had to stifle a gasp. Jensen, in a tuxedo. I knew I'd never get tired of seeing it, but my awe was squashed when I realized, this may be the last time I saw him in a tux. He had a pleased smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes. “You look beautiful,” He said as he met me at the bottom of the stairs. “I need you to be on your best behavior.” He crooked a finger under my chin and made me look into his eyes. “Will you be good?” His eyes.... His stunning green eyes... Normally they calmed my soul... Tonight, there was no kindness in them... He was strictly business tonight.

“I will, sir.” I stated.

“You better,” he said as he released my chin.

Jensen had hired a car to take us to the party. The driver's kind manner was met with nothing but silence and a glare from Jensen. I offered a couple of smiles in apology for Jensen's behavior.

After we climbed in and got situated, I decided to try one more time. “May I ask what this party is for?”

Jensen turned his head toward me with spite in his eyes. “No.” He turned away. We spent the rest of the ride in silence.

The house we drove up to was impressive. Not only was it giant, it was beautiful. It reminded me of a Baroque cathedral. Being Jensen's sub had introduced me to many of life's finer things, but this house stunned me. It was a house? Wasn't it? As the driver came around to open my door, I thought that I might be walking into a museum.

Jensen thanked the driver and took my arm. “Let's go!” Jensen spat out quietly, but not without anger.

I didn't even bother to answer. I simply matched his stride.

The mansion we entered was even more amazing inside. Fine works of art hung on the walls, chandeliers twinkled. Marble floors tapped as my heals touched them. Wood practically shined from polishing. A string quartet played from another room. It was palatial. I was in complete awe. My eyes tried to drink in every work of art, but there wasn't time. Jensen let out a soft chuckle. “I thought you'd like the art.” he said.

Was he softening? I could only hope. “Yes, sir.” I replied.

It was then that I saw our hostess, Alanna, headed our way. “Jensen, Y/N. Thank you for coming.

“We wouldn't have missed it for the world.” Jensen sounded downright happy, and I turned to see a huge, warm smile on his face. “Fucking actor.” I thought to myself. “Thank you for inviting us.” I smiled as Alanna and I leaned in to kiss each other's cheeks.

Alanna was a tall, beautiful blonde in her 50's. She was rumored to be the harshest Dom in the country, and this reputation, as well as her age, meant she was a mother figure to many subs, myself included. If a dom was unhappy with a sub, it was ofte Alanna who contacted the sub to discuss our behavior. In return, she kept the doms in line, although I suspected part of that was to uphold her title as the harshest.

“You look beautiful.” She smiled warmly at me. “Go get some drinks and appetizers,” She led us to a large living room off the foyer.

I looked through the rooms. Beautiful people everywhere. Beautiful gowns and Tuxedos. I was still amazed that Jensen thought I belonged in this posh life, and I was grateful for the beautiful dress he'd give me to wear. As Jensen was greeting people, I thought to myself how funny it would have been to show up in that slutty silver dress. I can't believe he thought I was actually going to wear it. The jovial thought died when I remembered that this would probably be my last party with him. I tried desperately to sear the memory of this moment into my head. Jensen looking so happy as he greeted others.

As we walked through the foyer greeting people, I started realizing that everyone I knew in the room was part of the BDSM lifestyle. What the heck was this? Some sort of kinky sex party? My stomach turned at the thought. Oh good golly. Another realization started blooming in my head. MANY of the guests were TV and Movie stars. The more I looked around, the more stars I saw.

For a fleeting second, I thought that this party may be to end contracts and re-sign with other doms. Could Jensen have brought me here to get rid of me and find a new sub? I started to feel dizzy.

“You ok?” Jensen asked. I must have gone pale, because there was genuine concern on his face.

“Yes, sir” I answered. Surely, a party this fancy wasn't some sick sex party. “Get a hold of yourself” I thought. A couple of deep breaths later I had re-gained my composure.

Jensen led me into a huge living room. Guests were everywhere; sitting on couches, standing in groups scattered about and even ordering drinks at a makeshift bar. A server approached us with flutes filled with champagne. Jensen grabbed 2 flutes and handed one to me. I don't know how he could keep that fake smile on his face as he practically pushed the drink into my hand and told me to drink.

Not only was I done trying to argue with him, the idea of taking the edge off my tension had me sipping too quickly. As guests came and greeted us, and Jensen started to relax seeing so many of his friends, I downed half of the glass of champagne quickly. It started working; soothing my tense muscles and calming my nerves.

Eventually, I heard the ting of a butter knife on a glass. Everyone quickly quieted, Alanna, standing with a stunningly handsome man was announcing dinner. We filed into a grand hall filled with round tables. There were flowers and candles everywhere. Salads were already on the table, and servers gathered our drink orders as we sat.

Dinner was lovely. Jensen was relaxing with every minute, and started acting like himself again. We had the honor of sitting with Alanna and her gentleman. I complimented her on the success of the party, and she warmly thanked me. Jensen even looked over and gave me a slight nod to praise my compliment. Ok. Maybe the dress and the party were working. Maybe I could get MY Jensen back. “Don't get your hopes up.” I warned myself. The past few months with him had been wonderful, but I was certain it was over. I needed to just be happy to have the great memories.

As dinner wrapped up, the guests went back to mingling. Everyone was having a great time, and as I adjusted the way I thought about our time together, I started enjoying myself too.

About a half an hour after dinner, I noticed a few of the gentlemen excusing themselves. Liam came to tell Jensen it was time. “Time? Time for what?” My mind flashed back to the thought that this was some sort of sub swap party. If Jensen thought I was ready to get a new Dom, he was wrong. If he wasn't willing to up my contract, I'd take some time off. I didn't want anyone else. Jensen left with the other men, leaving me alone.

It was then that the other subs approached me. Karen, Anna, Jen, Kelly, Stephanie and Stacey had all lost their dates to whatever the meeting was down the hall. “What the hell is going on?” I asked quietly to the ladies assembled around me.

“You don't know?” Anna asked me. “We don't know either.”

I hesitated as I asked, “Do... Do you think this could be.... some sort of.... swap party?” I asked.

That warranted a round of laughter from the women.

Despite my attempt to be quiet, Alanna was walking by and heard my question. “That's not our style.” she placed a reassuring hand on my arm. “Tonight is all about having a good time, but our group doesn't swap. Not in my house anyway.” That calmed me, but it didn't answer the larger question. Why were we here? Before I could ask, Alanna left, going to join the men who'd left the party.

I resigned myself to waiting. I listened as the others talked about their jobs, their doms, their families. Stacey was proud to show off the bracelet she'd gotten when Brad had re-signed their contract last month. It was quite stunning, but then she'd been with Brad for years.

“Why doesn't he just marry you already?” Kelly asked Stacey.

“It's not like we don't know you two will stay together forever.” Jen said.

Stacey blushed a bit, “Well, we have started talking about it” she admitted earning her a round of congratulations.

I listened and answered when appropriate, but I couldn't get my mind off the meeting where our men and Alana were. Each minute that passed made me more tense.

“Are you ok,” Stacey asked me.

I said yes, but Kelly was quick to say “Bull! What's going on?”

“I just....” I stopped taking a breath to keep myself from crying. “It's time to re-sign our contract, and I don't think Jensen wants to.” That warranted a round of sad looks from the women around me. “He's been so stressed out from work lately. He's terse and angry all the time.” I admitted. All of the women tried to comfort me, but we all knew what it was like when a contract ended before we were ready. I would be discarded like yesterday's mail, and left to deal with a broken heart.

“Ok,” Stephanie said, “Enough of the sad talk. He's going to do what he's going to do, and we shouldn't ruin our night because of something that MIGHT.....” Stephanie was cut off by Alanna joining our group.

“Come with me,” she said to me, giving no clue of her mood or what was about to happen. As we walked away, a couple of the women patted me on the shoulder to show their support.

“Oh no! Tell me he's not going to dump me here....at the party.... in front of his friends.” Every step toward the room crushed my hope even more.

The room I entered was a monument to masculinity with its dark wood walls, oversized brown leather furniture and even a deer head on the wall. I found Jensen and a handful of other men lounging on huge leather chairs and couches smoking cigars and drinking what I guessed was brandy.

“Come here!” Jensen barked at me. I came to stand by his side like a good sub. I may not like how tonight was going, but I certainly wasn't going to embarrass him by not behaving as asked... unless....

I didn't have time to even finish my thought before he placed his hand on my hip close to my ass very gently and started brushing his thumb over my silk gown. “Gentlemen, can we have the room?”

None of the men were even slightly surprised. “Fuck! This is it.” I thought. Alanna shot me a gentle look as she ushered the other men from the room.

Jensen stood, not looking at me. He was moving and behaving as if he was ready to dominate me. My first instinct was to kneel, but I didn't want to wrinkle the beautiful dress. I bowed my head and looked at the floor. He walked over to a closet and took off his suit coat and tie and hung them up. The wait was torturing me, and he knew it. He enjoyed it. “Bastard” I thought.

He walked up behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body. “Do you know why I called you in here?”

“I'm... I'm not sure, sir” I replied. Shit! I had stuttered. He hated stuttering.

I heard him sigh disappointed. I expected him to explode, but instead, his voice was low and calm. In some ways it was worse. “I'll ignore the stutter given the situation.” He leaned even closer so I could feel his breath on my ear. “Do you know why I'm upset with you?” His hot breath in my ear and his dominating tone of voice sent a shiver down my spine and right to my core. I was turned on and scared at the same time. Was he planning on disciplining me HERE? I was partially excited. A discipline meat we could relieve some of his stress and show him why we were so good together.... as well as relieving my frustrations, but what if he didn't? What if he was about to tell me he's done with me?

“Yes, sir.” I said steadily.

Jensen walked around me until he was in front of me. “Look up!” he barked as he lifted my chin with his finger. “Why am I mad at you?”

Looking in his eyes when he was being dominate was difficult, but I had to do everything right if I was going to salvage this relationship. I steeled myself and answered. “I was ungrateful, sir.” I said. “You went to a lot of trouble to buy me this beautiful dress, these shoes and the amazing lingerie, and I didn't appreciate it, sir.”

Jensen paused, looking deep into my eyes. It felt like he could see all the way into my core. “You! Were! Ungrateful!” He spit out the words. I saw him take a breath to calm himself, but out of the corner of my eye, I also saw his hands shake a bit. “Look down!” he comaded, and I obeyed. “Now, that we are here, at this party, would you like to say anything about the situation?”

“Sir!” I said firmly. “I now see that you were right. The other dress would have been inappropriate here. I should have known that you knew better, and even if I didn't, I should have been grateful for your gifts.”

I waited a few seconds. “Yes.” he said curtly, but then he reached up and started unbuttoning his shirt. Was this it? Had I FINALLY gotten him to snap? “Please, please, please let me be right.” He untucked his shirt and finished unbuttoning then slowly walked over to the closet and hung the shirt up. He walked up behind me and began to unzip the back of my dress. I was over the moon. He intended to play. He intended to punish me! Although this wasn't confirmation of his intention to re-sign me, it was a great start, and I really was dying to fuck him. I could feel my core begin to grow wet and warm as he hung my dress up.

He returned to stand in front of me and surveyed the lingerie. “I chose well,” he admitted. You look lovely in this.” He reached for a strap on my shoulder and ran his finger between the strap and my shoulder. “But you are still in trouble.” He walked away, leaving me wet and horny and scared. He took a seat in a chair. “Stand in front of me.” He said sternly. I did. “Turn around” he indicated that I should have my ass in his face. His hand brushed over one of my cheeks softly, then he reached with both hands and yanked my underwear off. “Kneel on the coffee table.” He gently pushed me forward. I did as asked and expected a spank.... instead he leaned back in the chair and sat. My ass, my pussy was all right there in front of him. “Are you wet?” he asked. Fuck yes!

“Yes, sir.” I agreed.

“Of course you are. You're my little slut.” He said. “My bad little slut.” He stood and took no time to warn me. His hand came down on my ass harder than it ever had before. Normally, he would follow with a slight massage, but not tonight. Tonight, he continued spanking. One cheek, the next cheek, each hit harder and harder. I was well past it feeling good and into intense pain. He kept going. Grunting as he spanked. He moved slightly to the side to get better aim. He hit even harder after. I was reaching my limit.

I knew he needed this release. I knew he needed to get his stress out, but I wasn't sure how much more I could take of this. I held out as long as I could while he pounded my ass with the hardest hits he could manage. “Yellow” I squeaked. He stopped instantly. I could hear him breathing heavy as if he'd just finished running. The break was almost worse, because the pain in my ass turned to a sharp sting. One tear rolled out of my eye and onto the table.

“I'm sorry,” He gasped as he saw the tear. I expected him to massage my ass, but instead he came behind me and began to fuck me as hard and as fast as he could. He was like a wild dog rutting into me. I reveled in the feel of him filling me up... one hand pulling my hair as he fucked all of his frustration away. It didn't take him long to finish, and I had yet to cum, but he didn't seem to care, and honestly, I was just grateful that he had finally gotten his frustrations out.

He dug his fingernails into my hips and yanked my hair as hard as he could when he came with a loud grunt. It was then that I began to get a glimmer of hope. He released my hip and my hair and began to rub my back and my ass for a minute before pulling out of me. I had not been given permission to move, so I stayed in place. He sat back down in the chair and watched as his seed dripped out of me. My ass hurt so bad it took all of my willpower to stay still. I just wanted to cry. The pain was blinding and for a minute, I couldn't even think about the contract. All I could think about was the pain.

“There's a bathroom through the door on the right. Go get cleaned up.” He was still curt, but he did sound more relaxed. I did as he asked.

When I returned to the room, I saw he had put his shirt back on and was holding my underwear and my dress. I took the underwear and slid them back on. He held the dress as I stepped in. As he stood up, he held one of my hips and began peppering my torso with soft kisses. He stopped at my neck where he placed one kiss and took a quick bite. “Are you ok?” He lifted my chin so I faced him again. “I was very rough.” he hung his head a tiny bit as he asked.

How the fuck was I supposed to answer that? I was so NOT ok. My ass burned, my pussy had been pounded, I was still incredibly horny and I didn't know what his plans were for me. He seemed to have gotten his answer from the look on my face.

He started to walk away from me toward a huge dark wooden desk. He slid a drawer open as he said, “I've been a royal prick this month.” He admitted and I cocked an eyebrow out of habit before I contained my emotions. “You don't have to answer. I know I've been hard to live with. Not to mention, I haven't given you any outlet to release your frustrations.”Damn right.” I thought. He came up in front of me, hiding whatever was behind his back. “You've been incredibly patient and understanding, more than I've deserved.” I couldn't disagree, and when I remained silent he lifted a sealed manila envelope. “I hope this will start to make up for it.” He said as he opened the flap.

He took a deep breath, “You have pleased me tonight.” My heart breathed a sigh of relief. “You have always pleased me. I've never found another woman who can read me the way you do. Who gives me exactly what I need like you.”

I felt tears begin to well in my eyes. The relief of hearing what he said was just too much to handle. One tear ran down my cheek, and he quickly reached to brush it away, then reached into the envelope and pulled out a thin black box. Jewelry? Jewelry? Jewelry usually was reserved for long-term subs who were going to spend the rest of their lives with their dom.

I gasped as he opened the box. Jewels sparkled from inside. There, in front of me was a necklace, a bracelet and earrings... all with a beautiful emerald circled with diamonds. I.... Was.... Astounded.

“This gift is for you.” He handed me the box. “No matter how you answer my next question, I want you to keep the outfit and the jewelry. Do you understand?” I nodded in agreement. I was still not able to compose myself enough to speak. He handed me the earrings, and I put them on. He handed me the bracelet, and I put it on. Then he helped put the necklace around my neck and gently brushed my hair away as he closed the clasp. My hand automatically reached up to the necklace feeling it's cold metal against my skin. I was not a fan of jewelry, but knowing he had gone to so much trouble touched me deeply.

He stood back and looked at the completed look. The dress, the shoes, the jewelry, the lingerie had all been carefully chosen to match each other, and I was overcome by the idea that he had gone to so much trouble. “Perfect.” he said with a little smile.

“Would you like to sit with me?” he gestured toward the couch.

Panic ran through me. Sitting was going to hurt! He saw the look on my face. “I'm sorry.” he said. He wrapped his arms around me and gently rubbed my ass through the silk. “We'll stand.” He said, and I giggled a bit at the whole situation.

“So, now the question.” he began. He reached in the envelope again and pulled out a small stack of papers. “I took the liberty of drawing up a new contract.” I couldn't hide my smile at his words, and he smiled when he saw it. Ohhhhh his smile... a smirk that stretched across his whole face. There was something else in his eyes too. What was it? Relief. I realized he was relieved that I was happy to see the contract. “I'm going to ask you to re-sign with me, but this time, I'd like to extend our contract to 2 years.” He brushed my cheek with his thumb again. “Will you please say yes?” He asked.

I couldn't even talk. I just began nodding yes like a child. The tears spilled out of my eyes as the relief flooded me. I continued nodding until I could find a bit of my voice.

“Yes,” I cried. “Yes.”

He pulled my face closer to his and began to kiss me, hard, passionate as if I was water in front of a dehydrated man. “Thank you!” He said sincerely with his lips still against mine. “Thank you for your patience and understanding and love.” He hugged me tight and kissed me again. “Thank you!” We stayed looking at each other for a moment, smiling like silly schoolchildren. “I don't deserve you.” he said.

“Yes. Yes you do,” I answered softly and leaned in to kiss him again. “You've just had a tough month.”

“You're too good to me.” He answered. “Aaannnd I'm sorry you haven't cum yet. I promise to fix that when we get home.” I beamed at him with glee.

“Will you sign, then?” He asked, and we went to the desk to sign the papers.

We left the office and went to re-joined the party. Alanna was hanging at the edge of the party close to the hallway we were in. It only took her a second to notice the jewelry and see the smiles on our faces.

“Welcome back,” her smile lit up the room. “I'm glad everything went ok.”

Jensen leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you for the use of your home.” He was fully himself again, and he squeezed my hand as he looked around the room. “I need to talk to someone before we go home. Will you excuse me?” he asked me. I nodded.

“I'm so glad you said yes” she whispered in my ear as we hugged.

“How did you.....” I asked.

She looked quite satisfied. “Darling, I've seen how he's been, and I told him to get his head out of his ass before he lost you.” I was so stunned, my jaw dropped.... not the most lady-like thing to do, and I quickly closed my mouth when Alanna stared at it. “I sat down with him last week. He told me that you had been strong and kind this past month. He told me how proud he was of you, and he told me he wanted to ask you to do a long term contract. We discussed how to make the evening special for you.” She gestured around to the party, “and here we are.”

“This whole party is for us?” I asked in awe.

“What better reason could there be?” she smirked. “I'm guessing throwing the party was the easy part....” she had a glint in her eye. “I think what happened in that room was more needed than anything. You really took a bullet for him, didn't you?” She hinted.

I didn't know how to answer. “I......uh....”

“You're a truly wise woman to go through that for him.”

“What do you mean?” I tried to look confused.

She just grinned, “You knew he needed to release stress, and how to get him to. The silver dress? Really?” All I could do was smile and chuckle. “You did very well.” she said and placed a hand on my shoulder.

By then, the other doms and subs were all staring at the new jewelry. They started to work their way over to us, congratulating me on becoming a long term. Jensen watched me from across the room with a huge smile on his face. “Does everyone here know?” I asked Alanna.

“No. No dear. Not every guest is part of the life, but they all love free food and drinks.” she chuckled. Alanna urged everyone to get back to mingling, but before she left my side, she leaned in and whispered in my ear. “There are some Ibuprofen and a CBD cream that will ease pain in my personal restroom. Would you like to go in there for a few minutes?” I heartily agreed.

When I emerged a couple of minutes later, I found Jensen standing gallantly at the door. “Can I ask for one dance before we go home?” He held out his arm to lead me to the dance floor.

“Yes, yes you can.” I took his arm. He held me softly as he led a slow dance. When the song ended, he leaned in to whisper in my ear. “Are you ready to go home?”

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noveltylsland-blog · 6 years ago

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Our 2019 First Quarter Roundup

thank u, next - Ariana Grande

(Republic)

Ariana Grande has followed up last year’s charming Sweetener with a more consistent, more confident and more moving record; thank u, next. As usual, Ariana’s voice is really something to behold, hitting every note perfectly as she delves into her own heartbreak, loss and guilt following the death of her ex-boyfriend, Mac Miller. Ariana bravely goes into this with no features, which proves to be a powerful decision, as there are no obnoxious Pharrell additions or out-of-date Lil Wayne verses, making for an appropriately personal record. As if to ease us away from the lack of rap features, we are treated to a Wendy Rene sample on ‘Fake Smile’, which will put a real smile on the face of any hip-hop head. The juxtaposition of deep lyrical themes with the positive, playful instrumentation is rather refreshing, and it’s good to see Ariana excited about life and this new chapter in her life. -M

Gallipoli - Beirut

(4AD)

Zach Condon’s Beirut project has buried Balkan folk deep in the hearts of the Western indie fanatics ever since the release of its first three albums. He’s had us enamoured with the sound ever since, and while Beirut’s work has seemingly gotten ever more formulaic and poppy, that folky, worldly manifesto has never really left Condon. Compared to 2015’s No No No, the most recent Beirut project Gallipoli actually sees him taking it in a more varied and independent direction, and you’ll be hard-pushed to find anything objectionable as Beirut traverse their usual pastures of percussive ukulele and various organs and synthesisers. Gallipoli isn’t short of entirely new sounds for the band either and, indeed, it’s hard to see it as anything but a solid record. Condon might not be making the same impact on the musical landscape as he was thirteen years ago but this is his most consistent release in a decade. Gallipoli proves there are indie bands in far worse form than Beirut; an admirably fresh and progressive release for a band who probably don’t particularly need to be either of those things. -E

Assume Form - James Blake

(Polydor)

Even if it isn’t quite the musical landscape-defining, career-best record that James Blake seems inevitably destined to produce, Assume Form goes quite some distance to confirming him as one of this era of popular music’s defining and most influential figures. And that means a lot, considering no one else is really quite like him. There’s a very particular beauty to the combination of Blake’s music style and his love-themed lyricism, and Assume Form sees both assemble for an impressive, career-best effort. More checked for excess than The Colour in Anything but more stylistically developed than Overgrown, the niche Blake has found treads a fine line between hip-hop and sparse, soulful electronica. Assume Form shows what he can do with both, seeing the likes of Travis Scott and Andre 3000, but also Moses Sumney and Rosalía, make impactful and appropriate appearances alongside Blake’s own plainly romantic lyrics. He’s refreshingly obsessive and open but never too doting or unrelatable, and tracks such as ‘Assume Form’, ‘Can’t Believe the Way We Flow’ and ‘I’ll Come Too’ clearly reveal this untethered romantic happiness. Whether you like his newfound bessottedness or not, one can’t deny Blake has carved himself a distinctive aesthetic, to such an extent it’s no wonder his collaboration is so sought-after by hip-hop artists. Even more exciting is that there’s probably much better to come from Blake, and he remains (as he has for the last ten years) one of the most interesting and exciting artists in popular music. -E

Liv - Daniel Blumberg & Hebronix

(Mute)

Apparently a collaboration between Daniel Blumberg and himself (an endeavour I’m still not sure is artistically innovative or a bit pretentious) Liv builds on Blumberg’s 2018 release Minus with impressive amounts of abrasive noise and more chaotic baroque instrumentation. Hebronix is supposed to be Blumberg’s own psych-pop project, predating his releases under his own name, but on Liv it seems like he’s used it to fill out his own sound. His lonely vocals are more like Phil Elverum on the louder Microphones/Mount Eerie records, while the scrawls of anxious feedback that underly the majority of Liv endlessly build to lengthy, haunting finales; entirely validating the record’s lack of drums. The fact that Liv was recorded in only one take is a feat unto itself, never mind the consistency and coherence that it gives the record. Despite seeing releases on the infamous Mute Records, Blumberg continues to be overlooked by pretty much everyone – and as he’s putting out exceptional, genre-bending experimental music like this he deserves far, far more attention than he currently enjoys. -E

Careful - Boy Harsher

(Nude Club)

Despite “minimal wave” having seemingly ran its course, Boy Harsher provide another argument for it being the perfect time to rework the genre. On Careful, inspiration is clearly drawn from the likes of Depeche Mode and New Order, but whereas these bands created colourful, dynamic dance tracks, Boy Harsher do the complete opposite; as if they’ve been booked to DJ a funeral. Ghostly vocals speak of abandonment and loss over layers of cold, pounding synths and minimal drums – fit for any cyberpunk movie. Dotted throughout the record are a handful of quieter, atmospheric moments which add to this cinematic feel; intensifying the anxious, dark nature of the project. This is a synthpop record which truly reflects the times. –M

Trust in the Lifeforce of the Deep Mystery - The Comet is Coming

(Impulse!)

The sophomore offering from The Comet Is Coming is the latest outstanding British jazz record, taking the reins from from Sons of Kemet’s 2017 offering Your Queen is a Reptile (incidentally another project with the involvement of Shabaka Hutchings), with more of an electronic, rock fusion. Fusion of the last twenty years has usually been the result of influence the other way, injected jazz into electronic, funk or rock music; but Trust in the Lifeforce of the Deep Mystery appears to have come the opposite way. Foremostly a jazz record but enhanced and driven by elements of other genres, it’s catchy and passionate spiritual jazz, topped off with harks to Sun Ra and an inventive space-age theme. The Comet is Coming are yet more evidence of the burgeoning, world-leading London jazz scene and this is easily one of the year’s most striking and innovative releases. -E

Czarface Meets Ghostface - Czarface and Ghostface Killah

(Silver Age)

The follow up to the much-anticipated and mostly-forgotten Czarface Meets Metal Face, Czarface Meets Ghostface proves to be an enjoyable return to form for both Czarface and Ghostface Killah. As usual, all beats are produced by The Czar-Keys (7L and Jeremy Page) and are an electrifying mix of updated, gritty boom-bap, and futuristic beats reminiscent of early-morning superhero cartoons. Lyrically, the emcees really entertain, bringing the right amount of corniness needed for a project based around comic book superheroes, but still manage to sound imposing and even threatening when necessary. A specific standout moment is Esoteric’s verse on ‘The King Heard Voices’ in which he moves his way between four different flows with such ease. Comparisons with the collaboration with MF DOOM were always going to be drawn, and, for this album, that is a good thing. I’m not sure it would have been able to stand on its own, but in comparison, it shines. –M

Remind Me Tomorrow - Sharon Van Etten

(Jagjaguwar)

Sharon Van Etten’s most lyrically and instrumentally developed record yet, Remind Me Tomorrow continues to carry Van Etten’s reputation for impressive songwriting and great capacity for reinvention. Her vocals are emotionally resonant and forthright and, helped by super-producer John Congleton, her instrumental developments clearly exceed that of her previous contemporary folk. Often the instrumentals here are moodier and heavy, even descending into lower-key, electronica-influenced, more Annie Clark-esque sound. Contrasting with that are lead singles ‘Comeback Kid’ and ‘Seventeen’, which have a Springsteen stomp to them, but mostly Remind Me Tomorrow’s tracks are of a more sullen quality. Well written, well produced, well performed, there isn’t much more one can ask of an indie album – and though Van Etten doesn’t pull out anything spectacular out of the bag on Remind Me Tomorrow, it’s one of the year’s strongest releases and a progressive release for her artistically. -E

This Is How You Smile - Helado Negro

(Rvng)

Robert Carlos Lange takes a step back from his usual focus on race and politics to reflect on his life and hone in on his musical soundscapes. Latin folk and atmospheric synths are mixed beautifully to create a cathartic listening experience which Lange guides us through with his gentle vocals, switching back and forth between English and Spanish. Lange’s hauntological influences are evident more than ever on Smile. Beneath the cosy, relaxed instrumentals there are field recordings and unnerving samples which give the nostalgic feel of a Caretaker project, with some of its dejectedness too. The perfect example of this is ‘Fantasma Vaga’, which directly translates to “Ghost Knife” in which Lange describes a supernatural figure over droning synths and sparse steel drums. The triumph of Smile is this ability to overlay and mix these tranquil folk songs, with a hint of discomfort, giving it just the right amount of edge. –M

Crushing - Julia Jacklin

(Polyvinyl)

The 2010’s have become synonymous with female singer-songwriter indie folk; Sharon van Etten, Angel Olsen and Courtney Barnett are just some of the artists who have really championed the genre. It has, however, become rather saturated in the past couple of years, making it that much harder to standout and make a name for oneself. Julia Jacklin has a lot to say, however, and is determined to be heard. Themes of betrayal, loneliness and acceptance are touched upon in a mature and articulate way. Jacklin stands out because she really gets into her subject matter; she intensely scrutinises herself and her surroundings in order to find answers to her questions and solutions to her problems. It is empowering and refreshing to hear an artist not only acknowledging their struggle with humanity and empathy, but so confidently confront and explore it. –M

Love Is - Jungstötter

(PIAS)

Gaining some buzz from his tour with Soap&Skin this spring, Fabian Alstötter’s debut album under the name Jungstötter is a gloomy affair. The name Jungstötter is a mix of his family name and the German word ‘jungstoter’, which translates to ‘young dead’, which perfectly embodies the overall theme of this record. The general slow pace of the album is occasionally disrupted by more intense and chaotic moments, creating some really dynamic and striking tracks. On listening to this record, a barrage of familiar sounds will flood your ears. From the intense baritone ballads of Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds to the androgynous vocals of ANOHNI, there is a wealth of alternative art rock influences dotted throughout. Though, at times, Alstötter does seem reliant on his influences, it is a marvellous debut from the German, obviously keen to form his own signature sound. –M

[X X] - 이달의 소녀 [LOONA]

(BlockBerryCreative)

Loona’s reissued EP is a modern and fashionable set of pop tunes pretty typical of K-pop but with some characteristics Western listeners might find in the work of Grimes or, to a lesser extent, other electro-pop artists like SOPHIE and Charli XCX. Considering there are twelve members of Loona, [X X] is a watertight release, even if it stylistically varies a bit between tracks. Opener ‘X X’ combines electronic chillwave with dubstep in an interesting way, followed by the very modern album highlight ‘Butterfly’; and while many of the rest of the tracks aren’t particularly memorable, they certainly aren’t dull – ‘Colors’ even seems overtly influenced by American R’n’B. With all its similarities to Western pop, it’s easy to see [X X] as a record that could be a gateway into Korean pop music for Western listeners; with the added bonus of being of slightly more substance than your usual idol group. -E

Elephantine - Maurice Louca

(Northern Spy)

A by-product of the Arab Spring in 2011 was the development of a flourishing music scene in Egypt. Cairo-born composer and performer, Maurice Louca, is one of the most exciting names to have risen from this scene. On his third project, Elephantine, Louca explores native Egyptian jazz, surrounding them in the avant-garde. On the track ‘One More for the Gutter’, outbursts of free jazz are complemented by the intensity of guitar-led post-rock. Whilst the finale, ‘Al Khawaga’ is a powerful, repetitive groove littered with swinging horns and hectic drum fills. Elephantine is an inventive exploration, covering immense musical ground throughout its six compositions. –M

Malibu Ken - Malibu Ken

(Rhymesayers)

Aesop Rock has always kept a low profile and doesn’t seem too fussed about reaching the mainstreams. This collaboration with Tobacco of Black Moth Super Rainbow fame certainly doesn’t’ change that as his infamously lengthy and challenging bars have finally found a match. Tobacco’s own brand of neo-psychedelia and indietronica is so out of skew with traditional hip-hop beats that it gives Aesop an edge which he has certainly been missing in the past couple of years. Aesop revisits old themes and is as introspective and philosophical as ever, and opener, ‘Corn Maze’, and ‘Suicide Big Gulp’ showcase some of the best flows of his career. Tobacco’s production is faultless throughout the entire ten tracks, which is good to hear after last year’s lacklustre BMSR effort. Aesop Rock’s dry, esoteric style finds a new home in Tobacco’s weird world of psychedelia. –M

Girl With Basket of Fruit - Xiu Xiu

(Polyvinyl)

Even for Xiu Xiu, Girl With Basket of Fruit is a wild release. Post-pop, post-industrial, post-punk and post-everything, there’s nothing comfortable or light about it – especially compared to the Arcade Fire-cum-lunatic style of 2017’s Forget. So much of this record is unsettled and eerie, isolating and unpredictable. There’s bits of Swans (Thor Harris showing through), some Einstürzende Neubauten, some Suicide, some drone, some Baroque. There’s no belittling Xiu Xiu’s ability to entirely manipulate mood, and here demonstrates again the emotive uniqueness of Jamie Stewart’s exulting, uber-dramatic vocals as well as a new, unsettling sound that includes a pretty vast array of instruments from upright bass to electronic percussion. I’ll be listening to this for years before getting anywhere close to actually dissecting and understanding what Xiu Xiu are doing here, but that’s what makes it so compelling. There’s nothing else like it, an album of intriguingly formless music that’s worth hearing just to for the experience of being so entirely, helplessly intrigued. -E

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yoakkemae · 2 years ago

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kuina replacing zoro: character differences/similarities i can think of off the top of my head [specifically romance dawn & orange town arc]:

kuina would have also been pissed if zoro died from falling down the stairs literally the night after their duel , and she would continue to have the determination to be the best for both herself and for zoro.

kuina would have left the dojo once her father had the idea of marrying her off because she shouldn’t/couldn’t become a swordsman any longer. she leaves without his blessing and with wadō ichimonji.

kuina would also collect bounties for money and also to train herself to get stronger. unlike zoro , she would only work alone and wouldn’t travel with johnny or yosaku. like zoro , because of her reputation , she’d be given the offer to join baroque works and like zoro , she’d refuse ( although , not for the same reason -- it’s not that she’d only join if she’d become the boss , she just doesn’t want to join any organisation at all ). and kill mr. 7 in self defense.

in shells town , kuina would kill helmeppo’s wolf , helmeppo , and captain morgan because ... she doesn’t really care about her reputation with the marines , and if she kills them , then they can’t hurt rika , so ....

she does join luffy in shells town because ... plot reasons ...

kuina actually has navigational skills , so they wouldn’t get lost , but they’d definitely still search for a navigator anyway because it’s not one of kuina’s main skills and ... she doesn’t want to be a navigator anyway.

i actually genuinely don’t know if kuina would get stabbed by buggy because i feel like she wouldn’t let her guard down and could feel the facty that buggy wasn’t sliced. but , i could also see her not expecting his hands to move on his control , so maybe her side gets cut up , but it wouldn’t be as deep of a wound as zoro got. ( plus , she’s faster than zoro ).

kuina at this point can already cut steel and iron , so kuina just cuts the bars to luffy’s cage. so , it’s not as if they meet the mayor and just have the confrontation with buggy and his crew then. nami also joins the crew because ... plot reasons ...

#⤷ kuina.【 ❝ the primary thing when you take a sword in your hands is your intention to cut the enemy. ❞ 】analysis.#sb: why is k//uina going to be stronger than z//oro when she replaces him --#me: bc she defeated him 2001 times and probably only got better from there?? next question

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chriskarrtravelblog · 4 years ago

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Keep Calm and Carry On: Britain’s stately homes on lockdown

Britain’s stately homes were forced to close their doors during the recent lockdown. These ancient walls are used to surviving against the odds – but how have they coped in the current crisis?

On 3 May 1950 Alnwick Castle opened its doors to visitors for the first time, and 100 eager tourists queued up to buy a ticket in the first hour. Britain’s second-largest privately inhabited castle (after Windsor), home to the Duke and Duchess of Northumberland, it has come a long way since, with soaring visitor numbers boosted by appearances in the Harry Potter films.

But this year on the 70th anniversary of Alnwick’s opening, the famous gardens lay quietly deserted and the castle’s 150 rooms were eerily empty of visitors. High above the historic battlements a blue NHS flag fluttered from the flagpole.

Alnwick has stood for over 900 years, witnessing wars, famine and disease. But like Britain’s other castles and stately homes it was abruptly forced to close its doors to the public this spring due to the coronavirus pandemic.

Alnwick Castle in Northumberland

Most of Britain’s best-known ‘statelies’ are owned and cared for independently, rather than by government or national charities. They are hugely expensive to run, and in most cases, visitor numbers are the key to survival. In response to the pandemic, tickets and tours were hastily cancelled, tearooms and gift shops closed. Income for these historic houses was reduced to zero overnight.

Day-to-day management was another complication. In bygone times, a vast team of ‘downstairs’ staff would have bustled upstairs at the ring of a bell to attend to their master’s and mistress’s every whim. Chambermaids and scullery girls are hard to come by these days, but modern-day stately homes still have an army of staff. Their job, by and large, is to look after the house rather than the family within – from gardeners that tend the prize roses and farmers working on the estate to the curators that look after precious art collections.

The striking Knebworth House and its glorious gardens. Credit: Chris Orange

With staff sent home, in many cases owners found themselves managing vast estates single-handedly, and in sole charge of houses with hundreds of rooms. Despite the challenges, the ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ spirit prevailed. The houses united to show their show support for NHS key workers: as the nation joined in with the weekly ‘clap for carers’ from their doorsteps, stately homes and castles lit up their facades in blue, hoisted NHS flags from historic battlements or planted avenues of blue lavender in their gardens.

Chatsworth House, in the Peak District, rose to the challenge by supporting local communities. Following the house’s closure in late March, the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire donated 240kg of chocolate eggs intended for the annual Easter egg hunt to local food banks. The house also offered holiday cottages on the estate to frontline NHS workers to stay in for free, while the chefs in the restaurant kitchens turned their hands to preparing meals for those in need in the community.

Down in rural Berkshire, Highclere Castle – unmistakeable, of course, as Downton Abbey of the ever-popular TV series – serenely surveys 1,000 acres of Capability Brown parkland as it has done for centuries. Ordinarily, the arrival of warmer weather would see streams of visitors, but this spring, when the wildflower meadow and ornamental Monk’s Garden burst into bloom only the lord and lady of the manor were there to see it.

Lady Carnarvon, chatelaine of Highclere Castle in Berkshire

Hosting visitors being out of the question, technology gave Highclere other ways to connect. “We were 100 per cent not virtual,” says Lady Carnarvon. “We’ve tried to turn ourselves around.” Lady Carnarvon’s new podcast (with her husband the Earl as the first guest) is now available, while the Highclere Instagram account shared glimpses of lockdown life with its legion of fans; posts have included Lady Mary the lop-eared pig’s new litter of piglets, daily walks with the dogs, virtual cocktail parties and cookery lessons from Lady Carnarvon’s kitchen.

In Scotland, on the shores of Loch Fyne, romantic Inveraray Castle stands in spectacular isolation – a state shared, during lockdown, by the family that live there, the Duke and Duchess of Argyll and their three children. Overnight, the Duchess tell us, she became “the cleaner, mender, teacher, gardener, tidy-er.. Same as most people but probably in a bigger house!” The castle is part of a small remote community, which pooled resources during lockdown. “I have been growing lettuce and herbs, someone else has chickens, someone wants flour…”

Inveraray, whose architecture mixes Baroque, Palladian and Gothic styles, is the seat of Clan Campbell. It is full of treasures, and the castle’s closure gave the family a chance to explore its hidden corners: “For the first time since we inherited the house we’ve had time to go into every nook and cranny. Find the damp patches and leaks for ourselves, clear attics and find some historical gems, from a piping banner that would have been carried into war to letters from various generations.”

Down in Hertfordshire, Knebworth is a lavish Tudor manor, home to the Lytton family for over 500 years. If it looks familiar, it may be because Knebworth appeared as Balmoral in The Crown – though its facade, covered with turrets, domes and gargoyles, may trump even the Queen’s Highland home for architectural splendour.

Playwright and politician Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton – author of the ominous line “It was a dark and stormy night” – lived here in Victorian times; the pandemic has surely been Knebworth’s ‘darkest night’ of all.

“Having to shut our House, Park and Gardens was devastating to us,” says Martha Lytton Cobbold, who lives at Knebworth with her husband Henry. The house is particularly in demand as a film location and is world-famous as a festival venue – a reputation cemented by the Rolling Stones’ iconic concert here in 1976. Most of this summer’s events had to be cancelled in light of the coronavirus crisis.

Happily, Knebworth and other historic houses, symbols of permanence and resilience in a topsy-turvy world, have weathered the storm, recently reopening their doors to the public.

“It was very strange being closed,” says Martha. “It’s not what [the house] was designed and built for, and we felt much happier when visitors were able to come back.” For now, visitor numbers are capped and a one-way route has been devised around the house, in accordance with government guidelines.

“We have to adapt to survive,” she adds, “and this is what we have done for centuries.��

All of the historic houses mentioned reopened after the UK’s first lockdown, though some may now have closed once again as the pandemic continues. You can check current details at the houses’ websites:

Alnwick Castle www.alnwickcastle.com

Chatsworth House www.chatsworth.org

Highclere Castle www.highclerecastle.co.uk

Inveraray Castle www.inveraray-castle.com

Knebworth House www.knebworthhouse.com

The post Keep Calm and Carry On: Britain’s stately homes on lockdown appeared first on Britain Magazine | The official magazine of Visit Britain | Best of British History, Royal Family,Travel and Culture.

Britain Magazine | The official magazine of Visit Britain | Best of British History, Royal Family,Travel and Culture https://www.britain-magazine.com/features/inspiration/stately-homes-lockdown/

source https://coragemonik.wordpress.com/2020/11/11/keep-calm-and-carry-on-britains-stately-homes-on-lockdown-2/

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franciscretarola · 5 years ago

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Amatrice: how the L’Aquila earthquake predicts its future

(Poggio Picenze, near L’Aquila... all photos by Francis Cretarola) (from 2017) The day after the August 24th central Italy earthquake, we received numerous messages from Le Virtù customers, friends from all over North America, and friends in Italy. People on this side wanted to know how to help and those in Italy, especially those around L'Aquila, Abruzzo - which is very close to Amatrice and knows more than it cares to about this type of event - were telling us that, this time, they were okay. As we started to put together our relief efforts, we wondered if Amatrice, Accumoli, the villages in Marchè along the Tronto river, and the other badly damaged towns would ever be rebuilt, if life in them would ever be the same. Our knowledge of L'Aquila and the aftermath of its 2009 earthquake didn't make us very sanguine about the future.

But on the second day after the quake, I saw a Facebook post made from Amatrice by a friend of ours from Paganica (a small village just outside of L'Aquila). She was in Amatrice volunteering to help the victims. And seeing the post made me think about the last time we'd seen her. It was last summer, in her home village. She had wanted us to see how things were, many years post-earthquake, in Paganica.

What follows is reconstructed from my notes from and photos of that visit.

__________

Cathy and I park beneath the church of Santa Maria Assunta, in Piazza della Concezione, just off the main road that snakes through Paganica, a satellite town of L'Aquila. Like many of the villages around Abruzzo's capital city, Paganica suffered terrible damage during the April 2009 earthquake. It was at the epicenter of the event. Across the road from us, the baroque facade of Santa Maria della Concezione is scarred by fractures. Directly in front of our car, Paganica's monument to "ai caduti," those fallen in Italy's two world wars (a squat, massive rectangle of stone inscribed with the names of the dead), is rotated about 10 degrees counterclockwise on its base. The shaking had been fierce.

It's July of 2015 - six years after the quake - and our friend Germana Rossi, a native of Paganica, has promised to take us inside the zona rossa, the forbidden "red zone" protected by chain-link fence that's deemed too dangerous for habitation or visit.

In 2001, we lived up the road in the village of Assergi, also part of the extended city of L'Aquila. On days when we didn't want to drive the twenty minutes into the city to shop its daily market, we did our food shopping at a little mom-and-pop store in Paganica. We ate often just up the road at the Villa Dragonetti, a fresco-covered, 16th-century palace where the cuisine was as simply elegant as the hospitality was easy and warm. We met Germana later, in 2006 in Philadelphia, when she came over as part of the Abruzzese folk group DisCanto. We gave the group the keys to our row home in South Philly during their stay (and we crashed down the street on my brother's floor). In 2007, Germana returned the favor and offered us the use of her late grandmother's home in the oldest section of Paganica, the part of town now locked behind the fence.

Few people walk the piazza. The faces of those we do see seem preoccupied and drawn. And a little suspicious of us. In the weeks and months immediately following the quake, L'Aquila and its surrounding areas became destinations for "disaster tourism." Though we know this place well and are here by invitation, it's hard not to feel awkward and inappropriate.

After a short, uncomfortable wait, Germana arrives. She wears a brightly colored summer dress and greets us happily. Everyone in Paganica knows her and the other Rossi family members, which puts me at ease.

Germana wastes no time and we move toward the old town, the entrance to which is blocked by the fence. As though swinging open a garden gate, Germana moves part of the fence and enters the zona rossa. We follow closely behind her.

We walk up into the oldest part of the town along alley-like medieval streets. Many buildings are braced with wood or steel supports. Cracks web across facades; some interiors are exposed and visible from the street; the early evening sun shines through gaping holes in roofs. Germana points out - almost dispassionately - damaged architectural treasures, broken monuments of the town's ancient culture and history. And I am reminded of the tour she gave us in 2007, when she proudly pointed out some of these same details, the elements that gave Paganica part of its character and specific beauty. Nature has invaded the streets. Weeds rise chest-high, grass bursts from the cobblestones. At one tiny square, a man - also defying the authorities - appears from nowhere. Germana smiles and they exchange brief but warm greetings, speaking in a shorthand understood only by terremotati (earthquake survivors). She introduces us to him. He smiles wanly, but then walks over to a slim fig tree which has taken root in the street in the six years since the quake, plucks two pieces of fruit and gives them to Cathy and me.

We arrive at Germana's home. She pushes open the narrow wooden door and we enter. I remember the space well, even through its debris-covered chaos. All around us, the broken and dust-covered relics of a family history lie waiting to be reclaimed. We climb the steps to her parents' room. Their bed is exactly as it was immediately after the earthquake. Large chunks of masonry, which at 3:32 in the morning fell onto the sleeping couple, still cover it. It's terrifying. Nothing has been done since the quake. The Rossi family was allowed to return to take whatever articles they could, but no restoration has been attempted. The government has not acted and it will not allow the family to begin its own work.

It's tough to know what to say. Nothing comes to mind that wouldn't be said merely because I feel like I should say something, anything. Cathy and I returned here shortly after the quake in 2009. We visited all we could of L'Aquila, most of which was and remains cordoned off behind fencing, and met with Germana. Her parents, who were living in one of the many tent cities inhabited by the survivors, came to meet us at the Villa Dragonetti, which had miraculously escaped severe damage. They sat at our table and apologized for being disheveled, for not being better able to welcome us. The father's face was still scarred from the fallen masonry. We've come back to L'Aquila every year since, but this is our first time behind Paganica’s fencing.

Germana leads us back to the car and asks us to follow her to Poggio Picenze, another village inside the so-called "L'Aquila crater." It was also terribly hit. Her friend, Stefania Pace, wants to show us her home.

We pull over at a bar outside Poggio Picenze's fenced-off old town to meet Stefania. She's a blond woman in her mid-forties. It doesn't take long to understand that she's possessed of a strong wit and spirit. She's sad, as Germana’s sad, but not broken. Banked anger flashes in her eyes as she and Germana explain the bureaucracy that prevents action and the corruption and waste that informed then-Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi's original reconstruction efforts. Berlusconi had treated the earthquake as an opportunity to salvage his scandal-damaged reputation and to funnel money to his supporters. In the mountains around L'Aquila, "new towns," characterless, (as it turns out) often poorly built warrens blight the landscape. Some are positioned in such a way that their inhabitants can stare down into the fenced-off ancient villages to watch centuries of history, tradition and culture slowly rot under the weight of the seasons. The psychological effect on the population, especially the elderly, is profound. Many, like Stefania, are still living in what was supposed to be temporary housing.

Again, we walk past the fence - no one is guarding any of these places - and into the old town. The devastation is terrible, and the place, centuries old as it is, looks more like an ancient abandoned ruin than a 21st-century town. Only a car, its roof crushed by fallen masonry, reminds of the present day. Stefania's husband Mariano has joined us and leads us to their former home. Stefania can't bear to enter, but we walk in. Part of the house is fairly intact, and he points out many of the improvements he'd made shortly before the quake, restoration projects designed to highlight the home's original rustic character. He laughs grimly while recounting the plans he'd had for the space. The property immediately next to the theirs has been obliterated. A second-story door opens on a room and floor that no longer exist.

Everything is overrun by insurgent grass, weeds, and saplings. Mariano bounds up the hill to a small tree, another fig, picks some fruit, and brings it back to Stefania.

When we received word of the L'Aquila earthquake, it was just after 9:30 pm in Philly and we were winding down a pleasant Sunday dinner service at Le Virtù. We spent the next six hours calling friends and relatives in the region. It wasn't until the next day that the scope of the disaster became clear. Much of the city, particularly its medieval center, was destroyed. And some of the towns around L'Aquila - Paganica, Camarda, Fossa, Onna - had fared worse.

It was a gut punch. But our loss had been relative. All our friends and family had survived, though some had lost their homes. In the days that followed, standing in Le Virtù, our paean to Abruzzo decorated in photos, ceramics, and artifacts collected during our travels in the region, suddenly felt absurd and robbed of meaning. The restaurant was dedicated to the entirety of the region, but it simply would never have existed if not for our time spent living in L'Aquila. In a way that we acknowledge to be unearned and shallow, we considered L'Aquila our second home.

It was surreal also to see and hear L'Aquila and Abruzzo, overlooked places well off Italy's touristed path, be for a time a topic for the local, national, and international press. A place that we'd tried to promote - at Le Virtù, with culinary tours, by producing TV shows for Comcast and PBS, by bringing musicians to the U.S.- was suddenly, albeit briefly, in the public eye. But for all the wrong reasons. Journalists flocked to the city and its environs without knowing anything of what these places had been like before the event, what had been lost, or what was at risk. And for as long as there was spectacle to report - bodies and survivors pulled from the debris, images of pain and devastation, the occasional uplifting story about the courage of first responders and defiant civilians who'd thrown in immediately following the event - L'Aquila was news. And then, as invariably happens, the world moved on.

But the losses continue and the risk - to a centuries-old culture, ancient ways of life, unheralded architectural and artistic treasures, intrinsic things without calculable price - remain. Things that are soul-nurturing, essential, that have sustained a people and could offer much to the 21st century but have gone largely unnoticed by the rest of the world, struggle to survive and, in places, diminish. The area around L'Aquila, like much of Abruzzo, contains precious but undiscovered things: stunning parkland where sheep and goat herding continue, cattle forages free-range, and wolves and bear roam wooded solitudes; small farms producing heirloom vegetables and fruits, ancient grains, the finest saffron in Europe; artisanal cheese and salumi makers; tiny medieval villages with singular culinary customs and vernacular architecture; ancient religious rites that predate the Romans; jewelry making, stone- and wood-carving, and other craft traditions; and obscure artistic masterworks. The culture of shepherds and farmers persists and informs daily life. Most of the world is blithely unaware of what's at stake.

Le Virtù exists solely because the Abruzzo in its entirety had so inspired and moved us. When we opened, we were true neophytes with no real restaurant experience, ignorant in ways that now seem ridiculous and frightening. But we believed that the region had something important to offer, not only to Philadelphia's culinary discussion, but also - if we honored Abruzzese values of generosity, quality, and humility, and fostered a convivial environment - to the local community. If we've succeeded, it's owed to our commitment to Abruzzo's culture, not to our unique creativity and invention. It's painful to see our roots in L'Aquila in peril.

________

The earthquake that struck Amatrice and surrounding towns (in Lazio, Umbria, Marchè, and Abruzzo) had eerie similarities to the L'Aquila event. It occurred at 3:36 am (L'Aquila shook at 3:32 am), and we again learned of it towards the end of dinner service at Le Virtù. Amatrice was part of Abruzzo until 1927, when Mussolini redefined the region's boundaries with Lazio. It's a mountain village with a pastoral tradition and culture that would be very familiar to anyone who has traveled Abruzzo. It’s best known, however, as the birthplace of spaghetti all'amatriciana, its namesake pasta dish of tomatoes and guanciale (cured pig's cheek). Most people experience that dish in Rome, however, and all'amatriciana is usually lumped in with the capital city's cuisine. It shares this misidentification with pasta alla griscia (from the village of Grisciano, also near Amatrice) and carbonara (most likely from eastern Lazio and western Abruzzo, or possibly Napoli). Amatriciana was also popular in nearby L'Aquila.

Reports on the earthquake often made reference to the pasta dish or discussed the town as a summertime getaway for Romans. Most of the reporters going to Amatrice and the other affected towns were seeing them for the first time, and had no idea of what they'd been like before the quake. It was understandably hard for them to provide context or even understand the profundity of the event. Amatrice had only just been added to the Borghi Piu Belli d'Italia, a loose association of "the most beautiful villages in Italy." And now much of it was rubble.

Recent history tells us that the world will probably move on pretty quickly from this disaster, if it hasn't done so already. And, if history stereotypically repeats itself, it will do so without assuring that Amatrice or the other towns are restored to their former state and that their ways of life and culture can survive. In fact, it will probably do the bottom-line calculus and decide that rebuilding isn't a worthwhile use of resources, that there'll be too little return. It did this in the Irpinia region of Campania in 1980 (after a quake which also impacted Molise). And it seems to be doing this in L'Aquila. I fear that they'll be a new "Amatrice," a conglomeration of modern housing with designated shopping malls that doesn't foster community or acknowledge the ancient culture: an Amatrice amputated from its soul.

But there are some who refuse to accept this.

When Germana awoke the morning after the Amatrice quake, she drove from her Paganica home (a converted garage) to Amatrice to help with the relief efforts. She came home, slept for four hours, had a shower and drove back. She repeated this for several days. Her ancestral home is still behind chain-link fence. She fights a daily battle against bureaucracy, apathy, resignation, and indifference. And she continues to remind us of what's at stake, what truly matters.

In the days after the quake, she made many posts from and about Amatrice. The most moving for me was a film of street musicians made before the quake. Young and old musicians play a salterello, an Abruzzese form of dance music similar to a tarantella. The music is played on bagpipes and tambourine. A crowd has gathered around the musicians. One player passes the tambourine to an older man in the crowd who without pause perfectly continues the traditional rhythm.

It seems unreasonable to me that we would ever allow this music to be silenced.

#Amatrice L'Aquila Paganica centralitalyearthquake Abruzzo Abruzzese terremoto

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eckshecks · 7 years ago

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September 06, 2017Special Issues » Hopscotch Music Festival

Mary Timony, Triumphant By

David Klein

@DKleinandFall

Photo by Stephen Apicella-Hitchock

Mary Timony, Triumphant

Sunday, 4:15 p.m., Red Hat Amphitheater

Most tours that focus on the music of a band that broke up a long time ago tend to be some combination of cash grab, nostalgia trip, and victory lap. Those labels only apply tangentially to Mary Timony, who will "play Helium" at Hopscotch Sunday afternoon. Oh, there will be some nostalgia among the folks who knew the band the first time around, but while most such enterprises involve bands whose greatness is loudly proclaimed by many, Timony's performances offer a chance for many to discover one of the era's most undervalued indie bands.

In the twenty years since Helium disbanded, the band's reputation has risen in inverse proportion to the scarcity of its long out-of-print records. Matador rectified that in May with reissues of 1995's The Dirt of Luck and 1997's The Magic Kingdom, along with a fascinating odds-and-ends collection.

Helium shared elements with Liz Phair, Pavement, Guided By Voices, and other Matador labelmates—guitar dissonance, a taste for prog, deadpan vocal delivery—but Helium's concoction was somehow less immediately graspable. Additionally, the trio followed the promptings of its heart more than the path of commercial success. Despite touring with Phair and Sonic Youth, the band's biggest pop-cultural moment was being parodied on Beavis and Butt-head. Its disbanding coincided with the end of the romance between Timony and bassist Ash Bowie. (Bowie declined to take part in the tour; Timony will be backed by Brian Bettencourt and David Christian of the Brooklyn band Hospitality.)

In her post-Helium years, between solo work and recordings with Wild Flag and Ex Hex, Timony has amassed a catalog that dwarfs that of Helium, but it's Helium for which she is best known and most acclaimed.

Helium's discography charts a shocking evolution from the aggro tones of Pirate Prude EP to the "cartoon and monster movie music" of The Dirt of Luck to the baroque wanderings of The Magic Kingdom, on which Timony finally gave up trying to hide her classical training and mythological bent. Hearing these songs, informed by Timony's years of growth and exploration, will provide a rare opportunity for something old to sound new again. —David Klein

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Tags: Hopscotch Music Festival, Mary Timony, Helium, Ex Hex, Wild Flag, Hopscotch, Hopscotch Music Festival

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Hopscotch Grows UpSep 6, 2017

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Hopscotch Grows UpSep 6, 2017

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Hopscotch Grows UpNow in its eighth year, Hopscotch has grown from a local throwdown to a national attraction.

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Mount Eerie's Phil Elverum Reflects on Recent Grief, Relative Success, and the Power of Cosmic ForcesMount Eerie performs late at the Fletcher Opera Theater as part of Hopscotch Thursday night.

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naireides · 8 years ago

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History teacher Bellamy Blake has a globe on his desk and books galore. There's a map of the Pacific on one wall, with the flag of the Philippines hanging on the other. He wears glasses, a button-up with the sleeves rolled, and a smile everyday. His classroom is a little cramped with 20 desks, but it's worth it for being five steps away from the sculpting studio. It has definitely nothing to do with the pretty blonde art teacher, who has the colors pink, blue, and purple dyed into her hair.

he’s either the absolute best or the worst depending on who you ask; his rep of being engaging and mostly laid back precedes him which is why a lot of people come in thinking it’s gonna be an easy a and then they’re shocked when he assigns an essay on the effects of neocolonialism on the first day. still, he’s mostly loved by everyone because he may be a bit of hardass when it comes to work, but he knows what he’s doing; he has a way of having seemingly normal conversations in class and then when you leave you realise you know almost everything about the war of 1812

and then there’s his thing with the new art teacher.

(they firmly deny that it’s not a thing but it’s to no avail; highschoolers believe what they want to believe)

it starts when clarke- ahem, ms griffin-wink-you-can-call-me-clarke-wink- shows up on the first day. it’s a small town and no one has ever seen or heard of this woman, the one with as much colours splashed in her hair as there are on her skin. she’s from the northeast, her degree from harvard and somehow she ends up here in virginia, teaching in art in sleepy old ark. it’s a mystery that nancy drew probably couldn’t solve.

their feud starts of small, a terse whispered conversation in the hallway watched by almost two dozen eager eyes. clarke likes to play music while her students work, claiming that it helps nurture creativity, and mr blake does not appreciate the noise. she agrees to turn it down a bit and he goes back to his class.

but ark’s walls are thin and he can still hear the muffled sounds of pink floyd while he’s trying to teach the civil war.

and that’s how it starts.

they’re always unerringly polite, throwing compliments like knives at each other in the hallways, but sometimes when there’s the odd student lurking around after school they hear the real conversations about how mr blake is a stick in the mud with a hard on for the civil rights movement and how clarke wouldn’t know professionalism if it punched her in the face.

it’s the most interesting part of the school year and when it comes to sort out timetables for the new term, almost half the school wants in on art and history classes.

(admin offers bellamy blake a bigger classroom in the new wing on the other side of the school. it can hold up to forty students, has one of those smart board things, and the air con doesn’t take a good a fifteen minutes to kick in.)

(he declines and when asked why, he just shrugs. ‘i like smaller classes,’ he says, and then goes back grading essays.)

that might be a reason, but more than a handful of people notice the quirky comic style drawings that he’s pinned to the bulletin board at the front, and clarke is far less subtle, telling one of her seniors, ‘oh, bellamy bought it for me,’ when they asked where she got her ‘if ain’t baroque, don’t fix it’ mug.

and then if that wasn’t enough, it turns out that mr blake sometimes gives clarke a lift home because she only lives a block away from him with her cat, frida. it’s practically too much for a bunch of teenagers to handle, and almost all the freshmen believe that they’re going to get married.

‘oh please, actual human emotions are far too complex for me to achieve,’ she says when questioned about it in class one day. unlike mr blake who just glares them into silence anytime someone dares broach the topic, clarke chatters away freely, uncaring of who’s listening.

‘don’t stop at that,’ bellamy says, leaning against the doorway. his sleeves are rolled up as usual and his hair doesn’t look like it’s been combed in three days. he flashes them all a hint of a smirk, once again reminding them why clarke and mr griffin are the most frustrating couple in school for a number of reasons. ‘a lot of things are too complex for you. like remembering to pack lunch.’

he throws a brown bag at her which she catches singlehandedly. ‘turkey on rye. something that has more sustenance than peanut butter ritz crackers.’

‘hey, it has all major food groups covered: carbs, fats, and protein,’ she says

bellamy just twists his face and pushes off the wall, heading back to his class, and clarke calls after him, ‘thanks for lunch hunny!’ causing the tips of his ears to turn red.

honestly, they’re both terrible at keeping this.... whatever a secret, and far too good at it since there’s no concrete evidence.

(of course, jasper jordan insists that he caught them making out in a janitor’s closet one time, but first of all, jasper has a reputation of being sneaking out of class to get high most times, and secondly, why would they make out in a janitor’s closet when mr blake has a car?)

so that’s how mr blake and clarke became one of ark’s biggest won’t they/ will they couples while continuing to flaunt their relationship in everyone’s face. is that one of bellamy’s dress shirts she’s wearing with leggings, or is it just an oversized tunic? is that lipstick smudged on mr blake’s collar, or is it a drop of ketchup from his lunch? did clarke lean in to mutter something in his ear about exams so their students wouldn’t have a chance of hearing or reading her lips, or did she brush a kiss to his cheek?

no one knows for sure, and no one probably will ever know, because clarke and mr blake don’t kiss and tell.

#this turned into a drabble #i might fic it properly later idk #nai did a thing #(i guess lol)#long post #Anonymous #nai answers questions

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caveartfair · 6 years ago

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6 Keys to a Good Artist-Gallerist Relationship

Kat MacGarry and B. Wurtz. Image courtesy of B. Wurtz.

Jessica Silverman and Davina Semo. Image courtesy of Davina Semo.

There is no single archetype of the art dealer. Many gallerists are known for their selflessness and devotion to the creative process, but there are certainly bad apples, infamous for running glorified racketeering schemes. It can present a tricky dilemma for a young artist seeking representation—eager to take her career to the next stage, but wary of locking herself into a relationship that might not pay off. What are some of the factors that lead to lasting bonds between artists and their dealers? Artsy spoke with five artists, at various career stages, to glean some insights into this exciting but fraught process.

“Take it slow”

Remember, only fools rush in. If you’re thinking of building a long-term partnership with a gallerist, there’s no need to feel pressured into a contract. “The business aspect of working with galleries can feel a little shady, especially for those of us that, since childhood, knew it was a calling—not a decision,” said Jennie C. Jones, an artist who shows her work regularly, but didn’t formalize any gallery representation until she was 45. She now has found a supportive partner with Patron, in her home base of Chicago.

Many of the artists interviewed for this story stressed the importance of a trial run—a solo exhibition in advance of proper representation, to see how the arrangement works for everyone involved. “Take it slow,” counseled Davina Semo, a San Francisco–based artist represented by that city’s Jessica Silverman Gallery, as well as Marlborough Contemporary in New York and Ribordy Thetaz in Geneva. Semo added that representation is a two-way street: “I think gallerists should also be careful taking on an artist.” Like all relationships, it comes down to chemistry, shared values, and open dialogue about what both the artist and the dealer are looking for in a partnership.

“The basis for a strong dealer-artist relationship is trust and communication,” said Tessa Perutz, a New York–based painter who isn’t formally represented by a dealer, but has shown previously with galleries including Pablo’s Birthday in New York and Stems in Brussels. “There should be nurturing and sensitivity, with a strong backbone of respect,” she said.

Understand the nature of the relationship

The art world is a notoriously social environment, one that’s punctuated by parties, international travel, and plenty of booze. That means the lines between business and pleasure can often blur—or dissolve entirely. And while it’s nice to enjoy the company of your gallerist, should a young artist be looking for a friend, a business manager, or some elusive combination of both?

“It’s a balance,” offered Josh Reames, a painter currently represented by Andrew Rafacz Gallery in Chicago, Luis de Jesus Gallery in Los Angeles, and Brand New in Milan. “It’s ideal to have a friendship, but also keep it professional.” He acknowledged that this can be easier said than done, leading to “the awkwardness of a purely business relationship where you don’t connect at all, personally,” or “the flip side, where a gallerist is great personally, but toxic business-wise.” In other words: Your dealer might be a witty raconteur and an unbeatable drinking buddy, but that won’t help an artist pay the rent if she’s waiting 18 months to be paid for work that sold at NADA in Miami Beach.

Still, the nature of the art world means that the personal and the professional will mingle more so than in other industries—and that can be a great thing. Semo met Bob Linder—her partner, and the eventual father of her child—via a show she staged at his space, Capital Gallery. Meanwhile, her broader network of dealers has been a vital support after she gave birth.

“The night I was in labor with my son, Jessica Silverman offered me our first exhibition together,” Semo recalled. “When I returned home from the hospital, there were flowers from Max and Pascal at Marlborough, and messages from Stéphane [Ribordy]. I was never truly worried that people would think I was going to give up on my work and only want to be a mother, but there was still a bit of that fear—and these small gestures of support meant so much to me.”

Believe in the work, first and foremost

The art world can often seem like a cynical place, one in which dealers circulate like money-hungry sharks. (That reputation is only cemented by flat-footed satires like Velvet Buzzsaw that sketch a milieu in which the only thing worth talking about is how much the art is worth.) But a gallerist whose heart is in the right place will appreciate what an artwork conveys, before worrying about the price it might command.

“The nicest thing a gallerist has done for me is to truly be present with the work, to see and sit with it,” Jones said, “and not be overly concerned with logistics and planning when doing a studio visit…not to overstep by suggesting upscaling or pushing for more of whatever just sold, if the artist is exploring new directions. The most honest thing a gallerist has ever done for me was to be brought to tears by a piece upon leaving them in the space to consider things without my presence.”

“I was never a cash cow, so to speak,” said B. Wurtz, who is represented by Metro Pictures in New York, Kate MacGarry in London, and Office Baroque in Brussels, among other international galleries. “It was about liking the art. For me, that was a dream come true; for them, it was kind of flying in the face of good business practice. But that’s what is wonderful about most galleries: They aren’t normal businesses.”

Wurtz admitted that not all of his peers have enjoyed the same level of understanding with their dealers. “I know artists who have told me that their gallery is completely sales-oriented, to the point of not really even talking about the art,” he continued. “That’s not what I have or want. I want a personal relationship. It’s certainly more fun and makes life more interesting. The ideal is for everyone to do what they really want—and happen to make money.”

Be transparent (and don’t ghost your artists)

I’ve heard plenty of horror stories from bitter artists over the years. One now-defunct gallery—which was later sued by someone it represented—refused to even divulge the names of collectors to the artist whose work it had sold. Transparency is key, both as a good business practice and a sign of basic respect. “In what other business would your agent or representative not be completely transparent?” Reames asked. “For all the moving parts to run smoothly, there has to be an open line of communication. I’m currently on the roster of a gallery that hasn’t had an exhibition in a year now, but has also become completely opaque with communication. All of the other artists that I know who also work with the gallery are equally in the dark, and it’s maddening.”

But even in situations that are less dire, clear communication is key. Artists are stressed enough after wrestling with their creative demons in the studio; it’s the job of the gallerist to stay on top of the business side of things, keeping everyone else happily in the loop.

“There isn’t much to be gained from withholding information,” Perutz said. “It all comes back to a foundation based on trust—I’d go so far as to call it faith. It’s important to know where the works go and to keep an up-to-date database of such information. It’s helpful in the long term, and if you lend works to museums or institutions.”

Transparency should also should apply when potential discounts come into play. Jones, for instance, suggested that anything beyond a 10-percent discount should ideally be broached with the artist in advance. And while regular updates are generally beneficial, she noted that sometimes it’s better for dealers not to share every potential development or opportunity that comes down the pipeline.

“Galleries should keep some prospects to themselves, until they’re real,” she said. “Artists have grand imaginations. When a project or placement of a work is mentioned as a possibility, the imagination can run wild: a little validation, encouragement, funds that might help chip away at student loans, health insurance, or allow a leave from teaching. This is the only time a gallery should take pause—and wait until things are confirmed.”

Respect your artists—and pay them

This golden rule should be simple, but anecdotal evidence proves how much trouble certain dealers have holding up their end of the bargain: paying for artwork that has been sold. It helps to trust the whisper network here, whether online or among peers; if a certain gallerist seems eternally swarmed by rumors, you might want to avoid being the next artist to get burned. “I don’t think every single complaint should be a big red flag—artists can be unreasonable at times—but when there’s smoke, there’s usually fire,” Reames said. “There are a couple of times I should have listened more to my peers. I would have saved myself a lot of headaches.”

The accepted industry sales split is almost always 50/50, and in a healthy working relationship, the artist should not feel slighted by that profit sharing. “It’s important to point out that the galleries deserve every bit of that money, as they do an enormous amount of work,” Wurtz said. “I really don’t know how any artist would expect to have a career without a gallery. When one begins showing with a gallery, it soon becomes clear what all that work entails: rent, publicity, keeping records, storage, on and on.”

“I’m a sculptor, and so production costs can be significant in my practice; it’s important for me to split those costs with the gallery,” Semo said. “There is a lot of overhead in running a gallery, just as there is in keeping a studio practice. Some people think that galleries get too much in the 50/50 split, but when I consider all the work that my gallerists do for me, I’ve never felt that they were undeserving of that percentage.”

Everyone I spoke to had different ideas about what exactly to expect from a dealer: An Artforum ad? A flashy Lower East Side opening dinner for 40 close friends and industry insiders? “I think gallerists need to make it their mission to seed archives with work by women and artists of color, to fill in that narrative,” Jones said. “That means more in the long term than fancy dinners and cocktails with collectors.”

Being a supportive dealer often comes down to investing in an artist for the long term, making them feel valued on a personal level. Jones recalled a pivotal museum survey that, while it constituted a milestone in her own career, didn’t seem to be a top priority for her gallery. “Beyond one partner flying in for the opening night reception, I was solo, in the art trenches for a week prior,” she said. “Not having a cohort during the install, public programs, dinners, and walkthroughs was hard. During the run of the show, I felt there wasn’t a substantial attempt at creating excitement around the exhibition as a platform to introduce the work to new collectors or institutions.” It certainly doesn’t help to cut corners when an artist’s own self-worth hangs in the balance.

Look towards the future, not just the next five months

Being an artist can be intensely stressful; success (and sales) can be ephemeral, especially in a system that privileges novelty. “Fresh-out-of-grad-school artists can sell works at such high prices that it’s unsustainable,” Jones said. “I’ve pointed this out particularly to students of color entering the art world.…Longevity is important, and young artists of color will pop like popcorn at an art fair, and be gone by 40. Many galleries may not be mindful of pacing if someone is coming onto the scene hot: exploitation and evaporation.”

“In terms of service to my career, nothing beats feeling understood, and having the courage [that] artmaking takes be truly seen, understood, and hence supported,” she added. “That is a powerful connection and a solid place to begin.”

But if the very thought of committing to representation makes you nervous, it might be time to consider an open relationship. Plenty of galleries operate within a model that eschews formal representation in favor of individual projects and more flexible arrangements.

“It’s more and more common to show in multiple galleries and not be represented, and I think it’s super healthy, as well,” Perutz said. “If you can work with galleries in a respectful and mutually beneficial way that is not totally exclusive, then there is no harm done, and it can often help solidify and strengthen new relationships. It’s all about cultivating spheres of influence and invigorating existing relationships with new energy.”

from Artsy News

#Artsy News

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tatacheers-blog · 7 years ago

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The Ebb and Flow of España Part V: Welcome to Zaragoza

After spending a week exploring so many wonderful towns and landscapes in Catalunya, it was time to move further west. I headed out with Victor’s family to meet his extended family in their hometown: Zaragoza. This bustling city is the capital of Aragon. I honestly did not know much about the area before visiting, but turns out Aragon is one of the most important areas for Spanish history and I certainly learned a lot.

Driving into Aragon, all I could see was desert. Dry, brown-coloured mountains passing my view. It was amazing how in just a few hours driving from Catalunya the landscape changed so much. Aragon is actually an area full of contrasts. I am told there are green valleys as well as the snow-capped peaks of the Pyrenees. However, as I did not venture much outside Zaragoza, I simply experienced the scorching desert of summer’s September.

As I mentioned, Zaragoza has a lot of history up its sleeve. In fact, the name Zaragoza comes from what the Ancient Romans called the city: Caesaraugusta (founded by Augustus himself).

The Cathedral

So the first you will see in this city, whether from afar or when you wake up from traveling, is the humongous Cathedral. You can’t miss it. I think my jaw literally dropped at the size of this building. Officially called Catedral-Basílica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar, this Cathedral is the heart and soul of Zaragoza.

The Cathedral is both important today and in history. History-wise, it is reputed to be the first church dedicated to Mary. According to ancient local tradition, soon after the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus, Saint James was preaching the Gospel in Spain, but was disheartened because of the failure of his mission. The story goes that on 2 January 40 AD, while he was deep in prayer by the banks of the Ebro, the Mother of God appeared to him and gave a column of jasper and instructed him to build a church in her honour: ‘This place is to be my house, and this image and column shall be the title and altar of the temple that you shall build.’

About a year after the believed apparition James is believed to have arranged to build a small chapel in Mary's honour, the first church ever dedicated to the honour of the Virgin Mary. After James returned to Jerusalem, he was executed by Herod Agrippa in about 44 AD, the first apostle to be martyred for his faith. Several of his disciples took his body and returned it for final burial in Spain. This first chapel was eventually destroyed with various other Christian shrines, but the statue and the pillar stayed intact under the protection of the people of Zaragoza.

I am by no means a religious person, however make no mistake that the people of Zaragoza certainly are. I was amazed at how many people truly believed this story but then I have to remember, this is Spain after all, where Christianity has flourished for centuries.

The present spacious church in Baroque style was begun in 1681 by Charles II, King of Spain and completed in 1686. It really is a grand church, and size is definitely its strong suit. Amongst all the adorations in the church, there is a small area with two bombs on the wall. During the Spanish Civil War of 1936–1939 three bombs were dropped on the church but none of them exploded. Many people believe Mary protected the city from the wrath of war.

Today, the Cathedral is visited by thousands of people every year. Many residents of Zaragoza go to the Cathedral to pray and ask for certain things. Victor’s cousin went, hoping to pass her Law Exam. I’m happy to say she did indeed pass, so who knows!

The Palace

Like the majority of Spain, from 1018 to 1118, Zaragoza was one of the Muslim taifa kingdoms. During this time another great wonder was built. The Aljafería Palace is a fortified medieval Islamic palace where the Band Hud dynasty resided. The palace is particularly unique as its one of the only examples from the taifa period. And wow. You can really see how much wealth must have come through Zaragoza because of the palace’s grandeur.

The king himself called his palace "Qasr al-Surur" (Palace of Joy) and the throne room which he presided at receptions and embassies, "Maylis al-Dahab" (Golden Hall) as witnessed in the following verses of the monarch himself:

Oh Palace of Joy !, Oh Golden Hall!  Thanks to you, I arrived at the height of my desires.   And although in my kingdom I had nothing else,  For me you are all that I could long for.

I hope that was enough history for you because now I want to talk about the more modern parts of the city. Not everything is centuries years old.

The Museum

Museo Pablo Gargallo houses original artworks from 20th century Spanish sculptor Prablo Gargallo. Gargallo developed a style of sculpture based on the creation of 3D objects from pieces of flat metal, but he also used paper or cardboard. While his sculpture is amazing, the pieces he used as templates are also incredible. They are works of art in themselves.

On the other side of the river is the newer part of the city. I ventured over there a couple times to visit some of Victor’s extended family. It is amazing how the Ebro river clearly divides the new part of the city from the old. However, throughout Zaragoza are modern pieces which intertwine with the history of the city. I love when history and modernity are juxtaposed as it creates a complex story.

As the fifth largest city in Spain, Zaragoza has quite a lot to offer. Beautiful architecture, history, and of course food. A blog post regarding the tapas culture in Zaragoza is coming soon! Get ready!!

#zaragoza #aragon #spain #españa #europe #explore #experience #aragón

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tnott · 4 years ago

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mayhemxmugglesxmagic:

Flames licked the alabaster mantle, viridity encasing the drawing room in shades of jade. It died slowly, and a stark white chill returned – glacial after his solicitor’s exit. Draco had received the summons two weeks ago, the Prophet had somehow gotten hold of a copy. Undoubtably the work of some dissatisfied office hand within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement looking to make a quick buck. Stiff backed Draco stood from his chair.

His second trial was to begin at the end of April – little less than a month away. He’d returned to the manor at his mother’s insistence, his flat swarmed by reporters on the daily. Here in Wiltshire they seemed to keep their distance – whether that was due to the reputation of the manor, or the simple fact of it’s location he did not care. Some days it offered peace, most days it offered reminders of death and decay.

A breath hung heavy in his chest as a hollow knock echoed through the halls. Mipsy, one of the few remaining house elves popped into existence – hands held tightly behind her aproned form.

“ Shall Mipsy be getting the door, sir? It’s Miss Knott. ”

A familiar whisper of a voice – light and demanding crawled it’s way between them. It called his name – a sirens song, promising secure and happier times. – Theodora.

Shaking his head Draco crossed the space and found his way down the hall to the large ornate doors – paint chipped and edges worn. He hesitated.

“ Merlins beard, keep it down would you? Want the whole of the world to hear? ” he began, voice low and steady – a tympany in an empty car park. Hands gripping the shinning silver doorknob, Draco pressed his forehead to the wood – it was not cool as he had expected, but warm and smelling fresh rain. He couldn’t open it. “ What do you want, Knott? ”

Finally, an answer, even if it was coming through a closed door. Theo had been certain that Draco was home, even if he was ignoring her. With things as they were, where else would he dare go?

“What do you think I want?” she demanded. “Do you think I’m here because I want to borrow a cup of sugar? I want to talk to you, of course. Now stop being a prat and open the damn door. Or do I have to break it down?”

Narcissa Malfoy would likely never forgive Theo if she damaged the door’s antique frame with its tasteful baroque scrolling, but some things were more important than property repair. Things like friendship. Things like the absolute idiot on the other side of the door who seemed to have resigned himself to falling apart in solitude.

“I’m alone,” she continued, “if that’s what you’re worrying about. No Prophet reporters on my tail, I promise. You couldn’t pay me to talk to those vultures.”

She fell silent, waiting for an answer, but heard nothing but the buzz of bees at work in the front garden’s spring blooms and the low, distant call of one of the peacocks as it wandered the grounds. Shifting impatiently from foot to foot, she waited a little longer, her irritation growing for every second that the silence continued to spool out between them.

Heaving a sigh, she pulled out her wand. “Fine,” she said, raising her voice. “If this is how you want to do it, then I advise you to stand back. I’m coming in whether you like it or not, Draco.”

#[ trials and tribulations ]#c: draco malfoy #v; girl with the weight of the world in her hands #mayhemxmugglesxmagic

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senfonikankara · 8 years ago

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Anton BRUCKNER (1824-1896)

From whichever angle you view him, Anton Bruckner is a lone and exceptional figure. Hugely influenced by the music of Richard Wagner, he idolised the operatic visionary to the point of obsession. But he also had roots deep in the musical past: in the church music of Bach, Haydn, Mozart and the Renaissance master Palestrina. The intense, dark sensuality of Wagner's Tristan and Isolde left a deep imprint on his harmonic style. And yet his symphonies have also been described as 'cathedrals in sound', reflecting their spacious architectural qualities and underlying mood of religious devotion.

[ Yazının Türkçe çevirisi ]

Bruckner was an unusually late developer. Almost all his works that are performed regularly today were composed after he turned 40. He showed promise as a child: his first surviving composition, a setting of the hymn Pange lingua, was written when he was 11. He was encouraged by his cousin, organist and church composer Johann Baptist Weiss, who would play Haydn, Mozart and Schubert from memory.

It took Bruckner a long time to settle on music as a career. When Bruckner was 12 his father died, after a long battle with tuberculosis. His mother took him to the nearby monastery of St Florian, where he was given board and education, with a thorough grounding in music. The prior, Michael Arneth, was a benign fatherly presence until his death in 1854, when Bruckner was 30. St Florian became a spiritual home and Bruckner returned regularly, notably in times of crisis. His mature scores show an obsession with musical proportion that may well have been influenced by this beautiful, tranquil Baroque building.

Bruckner would continue to seek father figures. Indeed, well into his sixties he addressed the conductor Hermann Levi as 'My father in art' ('Mein künstlerischer Vater'), even though Levi was 15 years his junior. And, at first, Bruckner followed his own father into teaching. But the call of music eventually proved stronger.

His outstanding talent as an organist secured him the post of organist at Linz Cathedral in 1856. In later years he achieved international fame as a performer, especially as an improviser, even when his compositions were still little known.

Around the time of the Linz appointment, Bruckner submitted himself to an exceptionally rigorous training in harmony and counterpoint with Simon Sechter. A famous Viennese pedagogue, Sechter had once taught Schubert - another composer whom Bruckner revered.

Only at the age of 39 did Bruckner at last pronounce himself free to compose as he wished. His horizons quickly broadened. He encountered the music of Wagner, and Beethoven's 'Choral' Ninth Symphony, and was overwhelmed by their scope and expressive power. His first major full-length work, the Mass in D minor (known as 'no. 1', though it is actually his fourth setting of the Mass text) was a success at its Linz premiere in 1864. However, when a critic suggested that the symphony might be Bruckner's true métier, the devoutly religious composer took this as a sign of vocation.

He began his official Symphony no. 1 the following year. But, as so often in Bruckner's career, creative expansion and success were followed by severe mental crisis. His obsessional tendencies, manageable when he was relatively stable, became alarming. At one point in 1866 he was found desperately trying to count the leaves on a tree. When his sister visited him in the Linz sanatorium, Bruckner had to be forcefully restrained from counting the sequins on her dress.

Music came to his rescue. In 1867 Bruckner began his Mass in F minor (no. 3); he told a friend that in writing it he had composed his way back to health. The following year Bruckner was offered Sechter's professorship at the Vienna Conservatory, and he moved to the Austrian capital.

There he found a few champions, notably the conductor Johann Herbeck, but overwhelmingly the city's musical establishment was indifferent or actively hostile. Bruckner's devotion to the arch-modernist Wagner did him no favours with the largely conservative musical press. It also earned him the lifelong enmity of the influential critic Eduard Hanslick, who championed Bruckner's rival in the concert hall, Johannes Brahms.

After the catastrophic premiere of the Third Symphony in 1877 the Viennese critics, led by Hanslick, were savage, and Bruckner's music was not heard again in Vienna for nearly half a decade. Bruckner is often described as lacking confidence, and there are several stories of him humbly accepting criticism from colleagues, and even pupils. Yet he continued in his symphonic vocation, despite frequent humiliation and acute loneliness (Bruckner longed for, but never found love).

At a deeper level, it seems, his sense of direction was rock-solid. For many listeners it is that strong sense of underlying purpose, despite the sometimes anguished emotions expressed, that makes his music so valuable. With time, that inner strength and the originality of Bruckner's music began to be recognised.

The conductor Hans Richter was an important advocate in Vienna. The tide began to turn in earnest with the premiere of the Seventh Symphony in 1884, in the relatively progressive-minded city of Leipzig. Subsequent performances of the choral-orchestral Te Deum (1884) and the Eighth Symphony (1890) in Vienna divided the critics. Nevertheless, it was clear that Bruckner now had a strong following in the city, while his reputation continued to grow abroad.

Hugely encouraged, Bruckner began work on what was to be his most ambitious project: his Ninth Symphony, to be dedicated 'to dear God'. Conceived on a massive scale, it was to culminate in an orchestral 'Hymn of Praise'. But as his health began to fail the obsessional traits pressed in again.

Bruckner increasingly distracted himself with revisions of earlier scores. Some friends felt too that his religious devotion had degenerated into mania. When Bruckner died in 1896, he had in fact completed three of the symphony's four movements. Much of the finale was also in performable form. But the crucial 'Hymn of Praise' was missing. Many scholars now believe that Bruckner was working on the final pages when he died, but that they were stolen by souvenir-hunters. This raises the tantalising possibility they may still exist, somewhere.

Fortunately, the three complete movements are very satisfying as they stand. The Adagio third movement is glorious, and Bruckner referred to it as his 'farewell to life' ('Abschied vom Leben'). After such a moving farewell it is hard to feel what more needs to be said.

Source: SinfiniMusic

#Bruckner #anton bruckner #classical music #Romantic period #richard wagner

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classicmusic · 8 years ago

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New Yorker, issue 1: Henry Cowell’s “Ensemble” received an unkind New York welcome

I always find it interesting to look back at the first issue of various publications to see what was what at the beginning of the run. Perhaps unsurprisingly, writers can be very optimistic and see the publication in an auspicious light, whether or not the crystal ball was true on the course. (I say unsurprisingly because, well, think about the likelihood of a journal publishing doom and gloom in its first issue...)

Being a semi-regular reader of the The New Yorker, some time ago I took advantage of the access to their online archive that comes with a subscription to see what the magazine was like in its early days. It doesn’t exactly go without saying that the tone and general spirit has remained more or less the same (though compartmentalized) since issue no. 1, from February 21, 1925. The cover features Rey Irvin’s famous dandy, Eustace Tilley:

The image evokes an unambiguous sense of specific culture and highbrow-ism (the magazine eventually taking its place as middlebrow, par excellence), even a slight air of effeteness. The editors surely were not seriously unaware of that perception, and on the first page of prose (opposite the first printed page, an ad for Caron perfumes, similar to this) is the tongue-in-cheek proclamation:

On general principles, this magazine expects to take a firm stand against murder. But we don’t want to be bigoted. If, for instance, someone should ask you to advertise in The New Yorker, and throw out the hint that your refusal might lead to some unwelcome publicity, you wouldn’t shock us much if you poured him into the nearest drain.

Even today, New Yorker humor is notorious for this sort of *snort*-worthy pithiness, its “Tiny Shouts” section maintaining that too-clever voice to this day.

[Apparently the legal mailing status of the magazine had yet to be settled on the first press.]

This in mind, I looked for the first pages on music, and I can’t say I was terribly disappointed. The page is broken down into a series of “comings and goings” of New York musical life, none longer than a few paragraphs (again, not unlike sections of the magazine today, with its lists of events, reviews, and general commentaries on cultural life in the City). The first note is a short, somewhat critical review of Stravinsky’s Piano Concerto--played by the NYPhil and conducted by Willem Mengelberg--that heralds the “last of Stravinsky, propria persona” in New York before the composer left for the west. The third is an in-the-know recounting of the box office frenzy for tickets to a series of April concerts at Carnegie Hall by Fritz Kreisler, whose popularity seems to have reached a fever-pitch in the inter-war period, the New Yorker writer claiming that “Kreisler, by the way, is probably the only artist in the world who can sell out concert after concert without announcing in advance his program” in light of the immediate sell out to some 3,000 patrons who bought tickets by inquiring directly to the Heck Brothers, who managed the space.

[The New Yorker’s caricature of Kreisler from the first issue.]

The other three blurbs are slightly more amusing, if not interesting. A brief report on the British pianist Ethel Leginska discusses her failure to appear for a concert, the NYer writer speculating the cause to be a previous performance’s bad review written by a critic who likely would have attended this New York show. The highlight of the blurb here is the first sentence:

Mme. Leginska, the evanescent pianist, has described her disappearance as a lapse of memory, and perhaps she who lapse last lapse best, for Leginska is as noted now as Mr. and Mrs. Jack Dempsey.

This might be the first--and certainly the punniest--time I’ve heard of a direct comparison between a pianist and a boxer!

A brief look at the tenor Edward Johnson extolls the virtues of his ability to sing in multiple languages, the singer being particularly famous in Italy for his performances of Wagner in Italian(!). But evidently such a performance choice was taboo in New York at the time:

Johnson has sung Wagnerian roles in Italian only and polyglot performances are taboo at the Metropolitan, although unintentionally polyglot versions occasionally are heard. Probably the task of restudying the roles in German appalls the gifted tenor. And well it might!

Not exactly scathing, the review is at least tongue-in-cheek about the demands of a professional singer and the concessions made to them. This is sort of an interesting reverberation of the tradition of performing vocal works in the audience’s native language--rather than the language of composition--which had been in practice at least since the baroque era, something that is almost looked down upon anymore.

The last of these three more interesting reviews (it appears as the second item on the page) is a brief look at an International Composers’ Guild February 8 concert and is the one that piqued my interest most, not just for its sheer absurdity. The review focuses narrowly on only Henry Cowell’s 1924 work, Ensemble (performed at this concert in a revised and expanded version for ”a small [string] orchestra”), which was, suffice it to say, not terribly well-received by the author. They do note that aside from the unconventional thunder stick instruments the music is “conventional matter,” presumably a good thing.

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The highlight of the performance was a mishap:

The end of Mr. Cowell’s stick declined to be party to the affair, and flew off the handle, seeking refuge in the general direction of Lawrence Gilman. Now, if Mr. Cowell were to begin twirling pianos he probably could be certain of a sold-out house. Suggestion to live insurance company: Why not sell accident insurance with concert tickets?

I have to appreciate the pervasive sardonic tone of the whole of this page of music criticism, especially this bit of it that today stands as a rebuff to the (sometimes) over-seriousness and score-fetishism of much music criticism and its audience (you can practically hear the clutching of pearls if this had happened in Carnegie Hall today).

Cowell was treading a line with critics of the day, as Olin Downes had a similar reaction to the event for the New York Times on February 9, 1925:

Mr. Cowell, it appears, has temporarily abandoned composing for the piano and fists and forearms and has written his “Ensemble,” heard last night, for three Indian thunder sticks and chamber orchestra. The thunder stick is a flat piece of wood attached to a string and whirled in the air by the performer. The effect is of whirring wind, mounting to a thunderous sonority, according to the rapidity of the movement. Three men whirled thunder sticks through the first movement of Mr. Cowell’s “Ensemble,” and it was hard work. One of them, after trying with first one hand and then two, gave it up and rested. Another whirled too vigorously and lost his grip. The thunder stick shot away from him, but it did not hit either the composer of the piece or a critic who listened, so that both lived to the end of the composition.

I’m not sure which critic didn’t recognize Cowell, but both seemed to find the situation humorous, regardless of who dropped the stick. Together, the two reviews offer a composite picture of the persons involved--it seems Cowell may have lost his stick and Lawrence Gilman was nearly hit by it. If it was Gilman who was almost hit, perhaps there is some poetic justice here, with this concert taking place at Aeolian Hall where, a year earlier, Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue premiered with the Paul Whiteman Orchestra, a work that Gilman panned as trite and feeble.

A well-covered event (Gilman was writing for the New York Herald Tribune by this time), what the New Yorker article fails and Downes succeeds to provide is an accurate picture of the power-house program that included Cowell’s piece. From Downes, we know that works by the following composers were performed: Acaria Cotapos, Bela Bartok, Massimo Zanotti-Bianco, Henry Cowell, Anton Webern, Richard Grant Still, Carlos Salzedo and Carlos Chavez. Of these, Downes had little positive to say about the actual music, complimenting mostly the performances, even going so far as to say:

One expects from what may be called certain exhausted European musical stocks, such as that represented by certain of the disciples of Arnold Schonberg [sic]--among them von Webern--music which shall be ultra-sophisticated, self-conscious, refined and re-refined until nothing vital or expressive of anything in the least important is left. But one regrets to see young North Americans turning out stuff which has little or none of the youth, the clear vision, the instinct for direct and honest self-expression which should be characteristic of rising composers of this country.

For his reputation and legacy, Downes didn’t mince words when it came to modernist music, preferring instead a more conservative ilk (”One of the best compositions was Bela Bartok’s sonatina for piano...”).

There is a lot more that could be drawn out of these reviews as instances in a fuller picture of the reception of modernist music at that time, Cowell and others inclusive, but I’ve rambled a bit further than intended already. The tone of The New Yorker’s writing has dialed back a bit since its first issue, though the image it laid out in its early days lingers between the covers. Nevertheless, there is a significant contrast between this and what you read from people like Alex Ross or (previously) Sasha Frere-Jones, which is, I think, interesting. (...which is not to imply that this is unique to the New Yorker...)

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