#brazilian marbled paper

[starboardbowsbows]

My recent haul of Renato Crepaldi marbled paper. Absolutely gorgeous

[wooahaeproductions]

Tracing Time (part one)

Kwon Soonyoung (Hoshi) x Female Reader

Summary: In order to cope with your mother’s death, you decide to study abroad in Rio for the summer just like she did. You come upon the diary she kept during that time, following all that she did 20 years ago. However, you didn't expect finding love would be part of that process.

Genre: fluff, angst, romance, comedy, smut (in part two), strangers to lovers au, neighbors au, college au

Word count: ~4.7k

Warnings: mentions of a family members death and mentions of ways to cope. Part two will have smut and will have it's own warnings.

Rating: 18+ for the completed fic

A/N: It's finally here! I struggled to write this for some reason but hopefully part two will come easier. This fic is for svthub's 2024 World Tour Collab and I am so happy to be apart of another collab. Please check out all the other amazing works as well! I also want to thank my beta readers Summer @beomcoups and Kiki @nonuify 🥰~Maren

You took a deep breath as you stopped in front of the student housing building and started at its gorgeous architecture before pulling an old photo from the front pocket of your bag. You held it out in front of you, confirming this was the building the smiling woman in the photo was standing in front of. You were here, standing in the same spot your mother had at your age when she studied at the very same summer exchange program in Brazil that you were going to.

You slipped the photo back into your bag and took one more big breath before bringing yourself and your luggage into the lobby of the building. You were supposed to meet the student liaison for the university exchange program there to get your dorm keys along with your class information. You looked around the large lobby in awe. It looked much more like a hotel with its grand marble floors and sophisticated ambiance than student accommodations. 

“You must be Y/N!” You heard a woman say in accented English and you spotted her walking across the lobby toward you. She was an older woman wearing a designer pantsuit, and her hair looked like she had just been at a salon. You certainly weren’t in Chicago anymore. Everything was different here, and you had only been at the airport and this place so far. 

“Hi, I am she,” you responded to the woman, feeling a little overwhelmed already. Which honestly wasn’t that unusual given the circumstances of the past year. 

“Welcome to PUC University and Rio de Janeiro. I’m Mrs. Delgado,” she said. She must have sensed how overwhelmed you were because she gave your arm a gentle pat before continuing. She pulls a packet of paper out of the bag she was carrying and hands it to you. “This is your class schedule and some information about the benefits available to you as an exchange student. There are only three classes since it is a summer program, one being the Portuguese class that all of our international students are required to take, Drawing 110, and Brazilian Art and Architecture.” 

After explaining your schedule, she then pulled out a set of keys that jingled on an ornate keychain, one that matched the building. “And these are the keys to your dorm,” she said, handing them to you. “I’ll let you get settled and ready for your first day tomorrow. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to contact me and boa sorte!” A second later, she was gone leaving you staring at your dorm number on the keychain. 

“203,” you murmured the number, looking around to see if there was any indication of where your room would be. You opted to ask the boy manning the front desk, whose English was actually great. He pointed to the staircase on the other end of the lobby and told you it was up those and to the right. Just as you were about to head up the stairs, wheeling your suitcase behind you, someone just about knocked you over. A guy to be exact, a handsome one at that. 

“Oh my gosh, I’m late. I’m so sorry, but I’m late!” He blurted, briskly brushing past you with a rushed apology. You stood at the bottom of the stairs, blinking while he ran out of the building. You didn’t have the energy to think about him right now despite his looks, not that you ever entertained the idea of a meet-cute this way or god forbid actually falling in love in this scenario.

You shook your head and put the handle down on your suitcase so you could carry it upstairs with you. You turned the key in the door to your room and walked in, your eyes taking in where you would live for the next few months. It was simple, much like a hotel room but you did have a tiny kitchenette that you didn’t expect to have and a window that looked out to the square that was in front of the building.

You brought your suitcase up on the twin bed so you could unpack a few things before thinking about finding dinner. You put a few clothes in the small dresser that was there before stumbling upon the whole reason you were here: your mom’s diary. You picked it up and sat on the edge of the bed with it, fingertips stroking the leather cover.

Six months earlier 

People were coming in and out of the house giving you and your family words of condolences, but everything was a blur to you. You sat on the couch in the living room when you had all come back from the funeral home, numb to everything. Tears had long since been exhausted, and now all you were was an empty shell, an empty shell without a mother. You were vaguely aware that your grandmother had sat down next to you, brushing your bangs out of your eyes before gently placing a book in your lap: your mother’s diary from when she was the same age as you.

You opened the leather book up, looking at the cover page that you had stared at so many times since your grandmother had given it to you. You recognized your mom’s loopy writing confirming that the diary belonged to her and Summer 1985 written underneath. You turned the page to the first entry, the one that had the photo of your mother outside this building stuck in right before it. It was dated June 15th of that year, when she arrived in Brazil and was in the same student housing. 

As you read your mother's account of her arriving at student housing, you couldn’t help but feel as if you were hearing her voice again. It was almost as if you were just on a trip and you were reading a letter she sent you. But of course, you weren’t just on any trip, and she was gone. 

Your stomach grumbled, interrupting your reading, and you closed the diary. You sighed, wondering if you should venture out to find something to eat. You pulled out your phone and laid down on the bed for a few minutes while you looked to see if there was someplace close that sounded decent. However, jet lag took over, and you fell asleep with your phone in your hand, it falling and smacking you on the forehead some time later.

Fourteen hours later, you awoke to your phone alarm going off. You panicked. Was that the first time your alarm went off? Were you late for your first class? You hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all, but that darn jet jag overcame you. Pressing your finger on the phone screen to silence the alarm, you were relieved to find that it really was just your first alarm. It was 7:30 am and you weren’t late, you had plenty of time. Which was a good thing because your stomach had upgraded from the light growling from last night to feeling like it was about to eat itself. 

You had done your research before enrolling in the summer program and knew that the university offered a student cafeteria for meals that was part of the tuition fee. You assumed it was in the packet of information you received yesterday as well, but you hadn’t had time to look over that yet. You got dressed in a simple sundress, one that was classy and suited to the warm weather in Rio. You grabbed the book bag with all your class materials from where you placed it at the small table by the door and headed out of your dorm.

The lobby was bustling with others probably also headed to their morning classes. The university’s campus was only a short distance away, so you opted to walk although it looked like the dorms had bikes outside the building that you could borrow if you wanted to. Your first class didn’t begin until 9 am and you would have plenty of time to get there as well as get breakfast at the cafeteria. 

You walked out of the dorm building and out to the cobbled stoned square. You paused to bring a map up on your phone, making sure you were about to head in the correct direction. You continued to walk on the brownish-gray stones as you passed by a few little shops before the cobblestones turned into a normal concrete street. You followed it up a small hill before you reached a large traffic circle with the main university building behind it. 

Luckily there was a campus map just outside the doors to the main entrance. You looked at it, finding where the cafeteria was and also noting where the international building was for your class afterward. The cafeteria was teeming with students getting food, mostly breakfast at this early hour. You got in line and grabbed some sliced fruit and scrambled eggs, as well as some coffee. They had some items that were also common for Brazilian culture, but you opted to try those later when you were less nervous and didn’t have a class to attend right after.

You scanned your meal card at the checkout which had been in the packet of information that Mrs. Delgado had given you yesterday. You chose an empty table near the windows and ate your food as leisurely as you could before class. Your stomach was no longer trying to eat itself and all that remained was an uncertain feeling in the pit of it. You didn’t even know why you felt all this turmoil, but nothing felt right or even normal since your mother passed.

You placed your empty tray at one of the receptacles by the door and walked out of the cafeteria. You followed the path you mapped out earlier, leading to the international building. You had about 15 minutes before the class started, so you didn’t need to hurry. You looked around at the buildings on your way. The campus looked much like a normal campus but all buildings were made from stucco material and the main roads had a wave-like pattern in them.

You reached the classroom after a few minutes. The door was on the outside of the building and you opened it. Still being a bit early, there were only a few people in the classroom. You chose a seat in the middle, not too far in the front but not too far in the back. You sat your bookbag on the floor next to you, took out the textbook with your notebook and a pen, and set them on the table in front of you. A couple of loud students entered the classroom and you couldn’t help but look up at the noise. 

You couldn’t believe your eyes. The same boy who nearly ran you over yesterday was among the group. You inwardly groaned. Worse yet, when he scanned the room for a seat, he spotted you. You looked down at the desk, trying to hide your face to no avail. “Oh! It’s you!” He exclaimed, coming to sit in the space next to you. You kept looking in every other direction but his, hoping he would think you were actually someone else.

He didn’t seem to be aware that you were trying to avoid eye contact and continued to introduce himself. “Hi, I’m Soonyoung! I’m really sorry for almost running into you yesterday but I hope we can be friends since it looks like we are both exchange students!” Now you couldn’t help but stare at him. How could someone have so much energy and also be so clueless to your anti-social cues? Your brain was tired just listening to him ramble on. 

You weren’t sure what else he was saying but it sounded like he asked a question. “-your name?” Oh, great, he was asking for your name. You contemplated not telling him, but he would probably annoy it out of you anyway. “I’m Y/N,” you responded, your irritation slightly bleeding into your tone. Soonyoung didn’t get to say anything after that. Luckily, the teacher walked into the classroom at that moment, clapping his hands to gain everyone’s attention and effectively cutting off any conversations happening. 

The teacher, who introduced himself as Mr. Morales went over the class syllabus, and then you started in on the first chapter of the textbook which introduced the different sounds the Portuguese language had versus English. You avoided Soonyoung’s gaze the entire time but you could feel it on you. As soon as class was dismissed, you threw your belongings back in your bag and booked it out of the classroom before he had time to think about catching you. 

You didn’t have more classes today, your other two would happen tomorrow so you had planned to take the somewhat long trek to see the famous statue in Rio, Christ the Redeemer. It would take you about an hour and a half by bus, but your mother had visited it, so you wanted to as well. You pulled out the bus timetable and map (one of the many things in the packet that Mrs. Delgado had given you) from your bag as you walked back toward the front of campus where the bus stops were.

You found the stop for the correct bus number and sat down in a seat under the covered area to avoid the early afternoon sun. The timetable showed the bus you needed would be there in about five minutes and once you got off it, you would have to decide if you wanted to walk to the statue or if you were going to take a tram. 

You sat there watching students walk by as you waited, looking like they were having the best time being at school. You felt so out of place, questioning why you even decided to come here. Would this really make you feel closer to your mother, make you feel better about her being gone? You highly doubted you’d ever feel better about the latter. 

You stuck your hand inside your bookbag, finding your mother’s diary and brushing your hand over the smooth leather surface. Somehow feeling the front of the book, touching a physical item of hers always soothed your thoughts. You knew you would continue feeling like you didn’t belong in a place as amazing as Rio, but you wanted to keep seeing what she saw and hearing her voice through diary entries, even if it was something you could only hear in your head. 

The bus arrived, pulling you out of your thoughts and you got up to get on it. You tapped the bus pass on the pad at the front near the driver and scanned the bus. There were quite a few people on the bus but it wasn’t packed. You spotted a window seat near the middle and took it. The ride was kind of long but you had nice scenery to look at and the bus wasn’t too loud. You took some time to relax a little and soak it all in. 

About an hour later, the bus had reached its destination. You had arrived at the bottom of a somewhat large mountain near the entrance to a rainforest. You looked at how high it was and at the statue at the top. You definitely were not going to hike that today, and opted to take the tram that was available instead. There was a little kiosk nearby where you bought your tram ticket and a schedule posted on the side that said the tram came every 5 minutes at this time of day.

Luckily, you didn’t have to wait long at all since you bought your ticket just a minute or two before the next one arrived. You handed your ticket over to the driver and got on the tram. It reminded you of those trams they had when you went to the zoo or something. The sides were open so you could feel the breeze as the tram climbed the mountain and you could smell the different plants and trees.

The further the tram climbed, the closer the famous statue got, and soon you arrived at the bottom of it. The tram stopped at the park at the top of the mountain that contained Christ the Redeemer. You got off the tram, in awe of how big the statue really was. You knew it was big, but seeing it in person was something else entirely. 

Many people surrounded the bottom of the statue and there were no benches to be seen. You found an empty area on one side and decided to sit on the concrete floor of the platform. Looking up at the statue, you settled in your sitting spot and pulled your sketchbook and your mother’s diary from your bag. You opened the diary to the next unread page, dated a week later than the first. Another photo was stuck in the pages and you took it out, seeing another photo of your mother smiling, with Christ the Redeemer in the background.

June 21st, 1985

Rio has been amazing. I haven’t been here long but it sometimes feels like home to me. I feel like I belong here with all this incredible architecture. And guess what? I met a boy! I came to visit the famous Christ the Redeemer statue and he offered to take my photo with the statue. He was actually in the middle of drawing a caricature for another girl but dropped everything when he saw I was trying to take a photo of myself with the statue. I couldn’t help but swoon a little. I found out he studies drawing at the same university that I’m attending for the summer. And then he asked me out for dinner! I’m really excited to go on a date with him. Will this just be a summer fling or could it be more? 

You took in this entry. Did your mom meet someone here? Was it your dad? You couldn’t help but be curious about this man and you wondered how far their relationship had gotten. Was he the person from whom you got your talent for drawing? You had so many questions and knew that those questions might go unanswered. For now, you opted to try and feel connected by drawing something yourself.

You took your sketch pencils out of the small pocket at the front of your bag and opened your sketchbook up to a blank page. Setting it in your lap, you looked around, deciding what you wanted to sketch exactly. Just the statue or the people surrounding it too? You decided to just sketch the statue to start with and fill in surrounding areas as you saw fit. You drew, looking up every once in a while to look at the small details of the statue. 

One time you looked up and noticed someone busking close to the bottom of the statue a little bit in front of you. He looked cute from just a glance. He was dancing to a little boombox playing near him with a cup next to it, collecting any change people were willing to give. You looked closer and realized who the dancer was. Soonyoung. You sighed in annoyance. Was he everywhere? Was the universe messing with you?

You continued to draw, hoping he was too distracted by his busking to notice you. There were tons of people around, there was no way he could spot you among all of them. As you sketched your eyes couldn’t help but be drawn back to him like a magnet. His dance moves were sharp but smooth and you could see his routine completely consumed him. You kept taking glances while sketching.

You were finishing up the last few lines when you heard your name called. You thought he was too enthralled with his busking to notice you, but you were very wrong. He picked up his cup of change and his boombox and jogged over to where you were. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, stopping in front of where you were sitting and giving you a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Um, yeah. I decided to do some sightseeing and do some sketching,” you responded, a little meekly. You felt weird around him now for some reason. He was annoying in class earlier, but now he seemed different and you weren't sure what to think. He was still bright and energetic but not irritatingly so. 

“Oh, you draw?” he asked, a bit surprised.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m studying here this summer. Art,” you explained.

“Cool! I’m here for performance arts if the busking hadn’t given you a heads up already,” He offered with a small laugh.

He paused your small conversation for a minute to take a look at his change cup to see how much he had made today.

“Listen, if you are done with what you wanted to do today..there’s a nice cafe near the tram station and if you are hungry, I made more than enough money today so I’d like to treat you,” He rambled. It wasn’t exactly a question, but the way he said it was actually kind of cute.

You were hungry and you supposed it couldn’t hurt, right? “Alright,” you agreed and a smile stretched across his face again. You put your sketchbook, pencils, and mom’s diary back in your bag and stood up, brushing your pants off from any dirt that you picked up while sitting on the ground. Maybe you should take a page from your mom’s book and get to know Soonyoung a little more.

You both walked back down off the statue’s platform and down the stairs to where the tram would pick you up and take you back down the mountain and to where the cafe Soonyoung mentioned would be. Once again, you did not have to wait long for the tram to arrive and you both got on, Soonyoung sitting next to you.

You could feel the breeze again as the tram descended the mountain this time. You looked over to find Soonyoung looking out the other side quietly, the wind ruffling his hair lightly. He had the same smile on his face as earlier, making his face look strangely childlike compared to the manly confidence he had earlier while busking. You liked seeing the two different sides of him. It was cute. He could be quiet when he was by himself, a big difference from when he was with a crowd.

While you were busy staring at Soonyoung, the tram stopped back at the bottom of the mountain. “Y/N?” Soonyoung questioned, holding out a hand to pull you up from the seat.

“Oh, sorry,” you said, not realizing you had spaced out. You took his hand as he pulled you up, noticing how big it was. It felt nice, having your hand engulfed in his. You continued to hold on to it as you both got off the tram. When you both got off, you let go awkwardly, not wanting to give Soonyoung the wrong idea (even if you did really like holding his). You hadn’t even been on a date yet. He gave a nervous chuckle and just beckoned you to follow him. 

You followed him down a few streets from the park area where you guys were previously, to a little hole-in-the-wall cafe that was surrounded by other shops and small apartments. It was small and felt homey when you walked in the door with Soonyoung. You waited at the front for a minute or two before someone came by to seat you. “Oh? I see you brought a friend today!” The waitress said before grabbing some menus and guiding you to open-air seating at a back patio that featured a small garden to the side of it.

She sat you two at a table and sat the menus in front of you. “I’ll be back in a few to take your order,” she said before giving Soonyoung a knowing wink. 

“I take it you come here a lot,” you commented.

“You could say that,” he responded with a sheepish grin, “I usually make enough to come here each time I busk, so two to three times a week?” 

“Two to three times a week?!” You were surprised that he busked that often and that he chose to come here every time.

“Yeah, it’s the only way for me to make some extra cash. I’m here through a special program so they only pay for my tuition and dorm fees,” he explained. You nodded. You were similar, except that you had your grandmother sending you spending money when you needed it. 

You turned your attention to the menu, trying to decide what to eat. There were a lot of options but you decided to try a more traditional Brazilian stew called Feijoada. Something hearty sounded good after the busy day you’ve had so far. The waitress came by and took your order while Soonyoung ordered Moqueca, another type of stew but with seafood.

You made more small talk while waiting for your food to arrive such as where you were originally from (You: Chicago, Him: Seoul) and what types of foods you liked. You passed the time well enough that your food felt like it came out quickly. It looked amazing and your stomach confirmed how hungry you were by giving a small growl. Loud enough, however, to make Soonyoung let out a small giggle.

You start digging in when Soonyoung nervously broaches a topic. “So, when we were at Christ the Redeemer you mentioned doing some sightseeing. I don’t know if I’m reading too much into things, but it seems like it was more than just seeing the sights here.”

You put down your spoon and contemplate whether you want to open up to him or not. You sighed before starting your explanation. “You’re right, it’s not just general sightseeing. In fact, my mom is the whole reason I’m here.”

“Your mom?” He asked, prompting you to continue.

“Yeah…she um, died about 6 months ago,” you said, looking down at your stew like it was the most fascinating thing in the world at the moment.

“Oh, Y/N. I’m so sorry,” Soonyoung frowned, his voice turning sympathetic and you swore his eyes had a sheen to them.

“It’s…okay. Or at least it’s becoming okay,” you responded honestly and then continued. “Anyway, my grandma gave me my mom's diary. One she kept while she was here doing this program with the university. So I decided to do it too and see all the same sights she did hoping it might make me feel closer to her or something? I don’t know.” You were rambling a little now. 

“I think that’s neat,” Soonyoung said after a minute.

“You do?” You asked, a bit surprised.

“Yeah, I think it’s cool. You get to go stand where she stood and see the same things she saw with her own eyes. That’s definitely a good way to feel closer to someone,” He encouraged.

“It does,” you agreed.

“This might sound weird and I know we’ve only known each other a few days but would it be okay if we go to the places your mom did together?” Soonyoung asked. His eyes no longer had the sheen you saw a minute ago but instead held a mixture of empathy, excitement, and something else you couldn’t decipher. 

Before you knew it, you found yourself nodding. “I think I’d like that,” you said, a smile starting to tug at the edges of your lips. Then you leaned over the table to give him a small peck on the cheek. He looked a little stunned for a minute but then he smiled back, a wide smile that showed his teeth and you had to admit he was adorable. 

How could you go from being so annoyed by him to liking him a lot in just one day? You didn’t know but maybe your mom would have wanted this for you.

©️wooahaeproductions

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[kulapti]

Bookbinding of L'Ombre de ton ombre by windfallswest, Dec 2023.

L'ombre de ton ombre (Fantastic Beasts, Percival Graves x Credence Barebone) is another of my favorite Fantastic Beasts fanfics. It is a novel-length work that deals sensitively with the characters' experiences of grief, depression, and healing. The story has a strong visual element, with the setting and landscape playing a prominent role in the story: the landscape is beautiful and isolated, which fits appropriately parallels the characters' slow process of learning how to live again and appreciate beauty, while emphasizing the difference between being isolated in your struggles and being companionably alone with someone. Treating mental illness is often a long haul, and the structure and resolution of this story addresses that fact with a balance of frankness and optimism.

About this project under the cut.

The gorgeous endpapers are marbled paper by Brazilian artist @renato-crepaldi. Since the landscape is important to the story, I specifically wanted endpapers that reminded me of the Australian badlands. I literally looked for months until I saw this paper before finishing the book. I was so pleased with this!

I'm honestly not entirely convinced by the pinkish tone of the cover, but I made this book to be part of a set of four, and I do think it matches nicely with the others in the set (here's another one of the four).

The frontispiece art is an edited version of J.J. Audubon's illustration of gyrfalcons. Yes, bird guy Audubon. I love this falcon illustration and falcons play a symbolic role in the text, so it was a great excuse!

Materials: Textblock is archival paper, laser printed text, marbled endpapers, with linen and beeswax stitching, reinforced with cotton cheesecloth as mull. Sewn endbands are cotton embroidery floss. Covers are Italian rayon bookcloth (spine) and hand-dyed cotton batik backed with handmade wood pulp paper (ink-like cover pattern). Cover lettering is machine-cut metallic heat transfer vinyl. The case is constructed of archival bookboard, handmade wood-paper, cotton rag paper, and PVA craft glue.

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Brazil’s democracy in peril? Bolsonaro’s military courtship raises concern

[Image description: Brazilian Navy tanks pass with flags with the image of Brazil’s president Jair Bolsonaro at the Esplanade of Ministries after a military parade in Brasília, Brazil, August 10, 2021.]

A line of military tanks rolled through the heart of Brazil’s capital on a recent morning, enveloped by a cloud of black exhaust smoke. From the marble steps of the presidential palace, President Jair Bolsonaro looked on approvingly.

The Aug. 10 military parade, unprecedented since Brazil’s 1985 return to democracy, came just hours before lawmakers voted on the far-right president’s proposal to bring back paper ballots, a proposal that critics say is aimed at discrediting Brazil’s electronic voting machines. Mr. Bolsonaro is seeking a second term in next year’s presidential election.

The parade, which drew criticism domestically and abroad, was seen as a not-so-subtle attempt at intimidating lawmakers. In that regard, it failed: Congress rejected the proposal. But it forms part of a pattern that has raised questions over Brazil’s democratic health.

As COVID-19 continues to ravage Brazil and its stricken economy, Mr. Bolsonaro’s popularity has tumbled to new lows in recent months. Angry Brazilians have taken to the streets to call for his impeachment. The president, a former army captain, has responded by attacking other branches of government, sowing doubts over election security, and flaunting his increasingly cozy relationship with the armed forces.

“Bolsonaro is weaker than he’s ever been – and he is throwing all his cards on the table,” says Marjorie Marona, a political scientist at the Federal University of Minas Gerais. “It’s a show of strength,” but it’s coming from a place of “desperation,” she says.

Continue reading.

[annaspoolstra]

For Further Study: Joseph Cornell 🎨 🔍

I had so much fun researching the life and artwork of Joseph Cornell! His work is fascinating and nothing like I'd ever seen! I was disappointed that I couldn't include more of his work in my presentation, but I've listed some of his art below if you want to know more! ⤵️

🎨 Untitled (Penny Arcade Portrait of Lauren Bacall) (ca. 1946)

Exhibition context: First exhibited in the Hugo Gallery in New York (Dec. 1946)

Date: 1945-46

Materials: Wood, glass, paint, tinted glass, mirror, foil paper, string, thread and printed paper collage

Dimensions: 20½ x 17 x 3½ in.

To see the careful details and fun interactive-ness of this piece, watch this little video!

🎨 Cockatoo and Corks (ca. 1948)

Exhibition context: Originally exhibited in 1949 at the Charles Egan Gallery, this piece was part of the 26 boxes that comprised Cornell’s Aviary series. It now resides in a private collection.

Date: 1948

Materials: Wood, paint, glass, metal and printed paper collage, with music box

Dimensions: 14 3/8 x 13 1/2 x 5 5/8 in.

🎨 Object (Roses des vents) (ca. 1953)

Exhibition context: Currently contained in the MoMA collection

Date: 1942-53

Materials: Wood, compasses, printed paper collage, shells, marbles

Dimensions: 2 5/8 x 21 1/4 x 10 3/8 in.

A note about this piece: “Roses des vents” means “compass dial” in French, and the title is a reference to a poem by Philippe Soupault, a friend of Cornell’s. The lid of this box is lined with maps, and mini compasses are set into a wood tray. Underneath, there are compartments with maps, diagrams of constellations, shells, marbles, a beetle and a paper fish. I just love how this box is constructed, and how it communicates the theme of travel.

🎬 Rose Hobart (ca. 1936)

Exhibition context: This film first premiered at the Julien Levy Gallery in New York

Date: 1936

Materials: Footage from East of Borneo (1931), other movie clips, Brazilian record from a thrift store

Dimensions: N/A

I wanted to also include one of Cornell’s experimental films, since I didn’t get to mention them in my presentation. This one, titled Rose Hobart after the main actress of the B-movie East of Borneo (1931), is the first film he made.

For more information about how Cornell made this video collage, and details about Salvador Dalí’s unexpected reaction to the film, visit this link from MoMA. And click here to watch the film on YouTube.

🔍 For more information on Joseph Cornell, check out these links:

1️⃣ This article from The Art Story provides a great synopsis of Joseph Cornell’s life, accomplishments, and key artworks. For anyone who just wants to dip their toes into Cornell’s background and work, this is a great resource!

2️⃣ This article from The Guardian was written during the Royal Academy of Art’s 2015 exhibition of Cornell’s work (called Joseph Cornell: Wanderlust). I found it to be a really comprehensive look at Cornell’s background, inspirations, and artwork. If you want to get to know Joseph Cornell more personally, this is a good read!

3️⃣ This 6-minute video details the Joseph Cornell pieces belonging to Ed and Lindy Bergman, who were enthusiastic collectors of Cornell’s work. The video provides a great introduction to some of his other artworks, so if you want a general overview of his art, check this one out!

[fouldeernut]

Global Calcium Carbonate Market 2021 by Manufacturers, Regions, Type and Application, Forecast to 2026 Calcium Carbonate is a white insoluble mineral comprising more than 4% of the earth’s crust and occurring naturally as limestone, chalk, calcite, marble, and forming mollusk shells. It is commonly used in the manufacturing of lime and Portland cement and as a gastric antacid. The growth of the market is driven mainly by the growing consumption of calcium carbonate in various end-use industries, including paints and coatings, paper, and plastics. The demand is also supported owing to its wide availability and low cost.

COVID-19 Analysis

The majority of suppliers in this market had to shut down their operating facilities due to the outbreak of COVID-19. In response to combat the virus, the key suppliers shifted their focus toward offering relief in the pandemic.

However, these companies have begun operations again. For instance, Vale, one of the leading players in the global iron ore market, offered support to the Brazilian Government through its infrastructure, enabling the import of medical goods, such as test kits and ventilators, for the COVID-19 infected patients. In addition to this, the company is implementing several measures to support the prevention of COVID-19 globally and business continuity at its sites, such as the enforcement of washing hands, sanitizing, wearing masks, social distancing, and frequent clean down, temperature monitoring, and disinfection within facilities.

Construction, automotive and transportation, medical, and others are the key consumers of steel, which uses around 98% of iron ore. The restrictions on travel and transportation have resulted in decreased use of automobiles, maritime, as well as in construction activities. This is due to the reduced outings, closed working places, and lockdown Download the sample report here: Global Calcium Carbonate Market

[grovestep]

Skate Into My  Heart [LucioxJR Ch.1]

Author’s Notes: I have recently discovered the amazing ship that is BoomBox, and I can't get enough. They definitely don't have enough fics around. So I decided to remedy that in my own way. I introduce to you: Skate Into My Heart Setting: A modern AU. In which Junkrat and Roadhog run an auto repair shop, and Lucio is still a renowned musician and DJ.  Chapter Summary: A dashing young man skates into Jamison Fawkes' life. Jamison, eccentric, messy, and manic is a stark juxtaposition to Lucio's calm, cool demeanor. Jamie doesn't know how to deal with it. Chapter warnings: Language, mentions/hints at sex 

Chapter 1: The Mechanic and the Frog

Jamison Fawkes stared at the underbelly of an over-stylized '59 Cadillac, mulling over the inner workings of the vehicle as he wiped his hands with a dingy cloth. Footsteps broke his train of thought as someone approached the front of the vehicle, dropping something heavy on the concrete floor of the shop. Jamison finished messing with the oil pan before sliding out from the underbelly on his mechanic's creeper. "What do ya want now, ya big bloke?" Jamison asked, expecting to be greeted by the giant stomach of his boss, Mako Rutledge. Instead, Jamison stared up at the toned calves and dark thighs of a man in shorts. A style that Mako failed to pull off. The man above him let out an awkward laugh, stepping back so Jamison wasn't staring directly up at his crotch. Jamie played it cool, sliding back under the car only to appear on the other side. He walked around the Cadillac back to his original position in front of the stranger.

"Sorry, mate, though ya were m'boss," he said, holding out one hand for a shake. He looked down at his palm, which was covered in grease despite his efforts with the cloth, and gave a lopsided grin. "Er, maybe hold off on the shake for now, yea?" he wiped his hand down his bare chest before shoving it in his pocket. The man's eyes creased at the sides as he smiled, something that Jamie found subtly charming. He wrinkled his nose at the intrusive thought. "What can I do ya for?" The man picked up a pair of roller skates off the floor, "Think you can repair my skates? I had a bad wipe-out earlier playing street hockey," he said. Jamison paused. He stared at the man through squinted eyes, sizing him up. The man didn't look daft. A little posh, maybe, but that didn't always mean missing a few marbles. "Mate...you know you're at a car repair shop, right?" he asked and pointed to the sign that read "Rutledge Repair and Body". Skate-Man let out a laugh. It was melodic, almost like music. It echoed through the repair shop's garage, carrying on even after he was done. "I know very well where I'm at. These aren't just any skates. They're more car than anything," he said with a wink. Jamison blinked, his brow creasing. "Wot?" "They're motorized and have a special function that helps you keep your balance. Something about centrifugal force..." Jamison tuned out of his explanation of the car-skates. His short attention span resented lengthy explanations of things he could figure out himself by taking something apart. He stared at the man, his eyes flicking across his features. Something was familiar about him. He reeked of posh life, even if he was covered in sweat and slumming it in a repair shop. Jamie clicked his tongue as he tried to place him. "AH-HAH!" he exclaimed, interrupting the man's tirade and making his eyes widen in surprise. "You're that Brazilian froggy bloke who does the music!" "Oh, uh. That," the man said. Jamie watched him withdraw, seeming to fold in on himself. He gave Jamie a shrug. This was the opposite of the pumped up DJ he sometimes saw on TV. "Lucio. Um, none of the 'froggy bloke' thing, please." Jamie straightened his back, regaining a professional composure. At least, as professional as he could manage. "Well, Lucio, I'm not so sure--" "Rat!" Jamie jumped, whipping around as the hulking shape of his boss appeared out of the back office. Mako's piercing blue eyes leveled Jamie with a hardened stare over the gas mask he wore for paint jobs. Jamie looked at his boss with saucer-wide eyes. Mako motioned to Lucio before disappearing back into his office to do god knows what. Jamison gulped. "Right-o. What I meant to say was, we'd be happy to take a look at your, uhm, more-car-than-skates." Lucio seemed to perk up at that, handing the skates over to Jamie. Their fingers met for a moment, sending a jolt all the way from Jamie's fingertips, through his spine, and to the tips of his toes. He managed a smile, exposing one of the gold caps on his canines. If Lucio felt the same surge of electricity, he didn't let on. Jamie shrugged it off as nerves from having an actual celebrity in his shop, wanting his assistance. "When can I expect them done?" Lucio asked, shoving his hands in his pockets before leaning against the wall with one shoulder, his legs crossed at the ankle. It was then Jamison realized he was barefoot. Each toenail was panted a different color of the rainbow and, somehow, Jamie wasn't surprised. Lucio cleared his throat, startling the mechanic out of his trance. "Oi, sorry, mate. Got a lot on me mind today. Big order, this," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand as he jerked his chin toward the '59 Caddy. "If you come by tomorrow, though, I should have them fixed right up. Do you have a number I, er, we can contact when these are done?" Jamie expected Lucio to pull out a business card, but instead he pulled out a small pen from one of his many pants pockets. It was lime green and topped with a frog. Jamie snorted. "Do ya have a piece of paper?" he asked, twirling and weaving the pen through his fingers with ease. "'Fraid we're all out," Jamie said, "And me brain ain't the best at keepin' things like that in the ol' memory." "That's fine, uh, do you mind then?" Lucio asked, motioning to Jamie's bare arm and mimicking the act of writing with the pen. Jamie shook his head, extending his arm for the DJ to scrawl his number. Lucio looped his fingers around Jamie's wrist, keeping his arm still as he wrote. The mechanic had to stifle raucous giggles as the pen pressed and tickled at the flesh of his arm. He practically vibrated with the effort. Lucio's tongue poked out from between his lips as he wrote, a quirk that Jamie's brain didn't fail to commit to memory. When he was done, Lucio ran a finger over the carefully inked number, making sure it didn't smear. He was oblivious to the mechanic's elevated heartbeat, which was inevitably noticeable through the coursing of his veins and pulse point on his wrist. Jamie looked at the number on his arm, which was in handwriting that just embodied the DJ. He bit back the urge to tell him he wrote like a sheila. At the end of the number looked like a signature, but stylized into the shape of...a frog? "I didn't give ya permission to go drawin' amphibians on me arm now," Jamie said. Lucio stammered, starting to apologize before noticing the manic grin on the mechanics face. Ah, a joke. He returned the grin with his own easy smile. "Well, thanks for helpin' me out, ah..." Lucio said, leaving his mouth agape and brow knit together in thought as he fished for the man's name. His cheeks darkened a bit as he didn't come up with one. "Don't worry, I didn't tell ya m'name. It's Jamison. Was never one for a posh name like that, so you can call me Jamie," he said, "I'll contact you tomorrow 'bout your skates. Fix 'em right up, good as when ya bought 'em at the mart." "Thanks again, then, Jamie," Lucio said, turning on his heel to leave the auto shop. He looked over his shoulder at the mechanic, giving him an open-palmed wave goodbye and a smile. Jamie stood in place for a moment, listening to the gentle pap-pap-pap of Lucio's bare feet against the sidewalk as he disappeared. He collapsed against a wall, dropping the skates and running a hand through his dirty blonde hair. "Fuck, what is wrong with me?" he muttered, scrubbing both hands over his face. Acting like a damn sheila over a barefooted, posh, froggy bloke. He stared at the skates with distaste. They were probably just regular old skates the bastard was too lazy to take to a skate shop. Jamie decided he'd deal with them immediately. Maybe he'd "accidentally" drop a glob of his lunch into the skates and conveniently forget about it. He picked them back up and trudged to his office, slamming the door behind him. --Much to Jamison's distaste, the skates were more car than anything else. Taking the damn things apart without ruining the whole pair was exhausting and tedious work. He used his long and deft fingers to poke and prod at the various mechanisms, trying to figure out what each of them did. As much as he hated to admit it, he was enjoying tinkering with the skates. They were unlike anything he'd ever seen before. He sat back in his chair and stared at them as he stretched his arms above his head. His shoulders creaked and cracked like gravel. Jamie stifled a yawn, looking at the digital clock on the wall. 1:30AM. Shit, he was not pulling an all-nighter for this bloke. He'd have to continue the work tomorrow at home if he wanted to get it done in time. He grabbed a duffel from the corner, scooping the skates and his tools into the bag. He hauled the bag over his shoulder, hurrying out of the shop and locking up before hoofing it down to the block to his flat. Once he was inside the messy apartment, he cast the duffel-bag aside, collapsing on his bed and falling into a deep sleep. He awoke a few hours later refreshed and ready to work. He dumped the contents of the bag out onto his kitchen table, taking a seat on his dilapidated chair. He worked well into the afternoon, damn near taking the skates entirely apart and putting them back together again. His eyes happened to glance down at his arm where Lucio's number was smudged from sweat. He panicked for a moment, realizing that the man might show up at the shop looking for his finished skates. If Jamison wasn't there, he might complain to Mako, and if he complained to Mako... Jamie gulped, not wanting to think about that. He dug in his pocket, pulling out his phone. He dialed the number, pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he continued to work on the skates. The phone rang once, twice... "Olá?" The man's melodic voice answered. Jamie paused for a moment. He had expected the number to route him to the celebrity's agent, butler, voicemail...anything but the man himself. "Uh, hello, mate, it's Jamie from the shop," he said, muttering a curse under his breath as he dropped his screwdriver. "Oh, yea! I've been waitin' for a call from you. How're my skates coming? They ready?" "Uh, not quite. They're givin' me a little trouble, nothin' too big. I wasn't 'suppose to work today, so when I didn't finish them yesterday I, uh, brought them home with me to finish the job. I hope ya don't mind," he said. There was a pause on the other end, and Jamie's heart raced. The bugger was probably racing over to tell his boss. "That's no problem! So long as they're getting fixed. Do you want me to pick them up at your place, then?" Lucio said, and Jamie's shoulders slouched in relief. Dodged a bullet there. And then he tensed again, his mind registering Lucio's question. "Oh, uh, I mean if you want to. I won't make you go outta yer way or anythin'. It's uh, not company policy," Jamie said as he prodded at what he assumed was the centrifugal whatsit Lucio was on about yesterday. "No, no, it's fine. I don't mind, really. You're fixin' up my babies, it's the least I can do in return besides, you know, pay you," Lucio said, and Jamie could hear the smile in his voice. The way he was about to laugh. He closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his palm against the space between his brows. Actin' like a bloody sheila, again. "Right-o, I'll try to have 'em done by the time ya get here. M'flat is just down the block from the shop. Shimada Apartments. Just tell the bloke at the front desk you wanna see Junkrat, he'll know what you mean," Jamie said. He heard the man on the other end say the nickname under his breath. "Oh-kay, I'll be there soon," Lucio said. Jamie could hear the questioning tone in his voice, but knew he was too polite to ask about it. Jamie decided he wouldn't supply answers to unspoken questions. He exchanged goodbyes with Lucio before hanging up the phone. He stood up from his chair, looking around his apartment. It was...a mess. The embodiment of his nickname. Old food boxes were strewn across the counters. His vintage Playboy mags were stacked in one corner, leaning precariously to one side. He knew he shouldn't care, but apart of him was embarrassed to no end thinking that the pretty froggy bloke would see what a mess he lived in. Of course, he could just stick his head out and hand over the skates. But what if they weren't done? He couldn't make the lad stay out in the hallway. He didn't live with the best of people, and Lucio reeked of social status and money. It would be like making him hold a sign that said, "Mug me!" So, Jamie set to work cleaning to the best of his ability. He swept the trash off the counter and into the bin. He shoved as much laundry as he could into the washing machine, and kicked the rest into the hamper. The dishes in the sink that were growing alien colonies he threw in the trash, too embarrassed and disgusted with himself to clean them. His eyes landed on the Playboy magazines, and he thrummed his fingers against his chin in thought. He grabbed one of the blankets covering the couch and threw it over the stack. He stood back and looked at his handiwork. Now it looked like a disorganized person lived there, and not a lazy hoarder. It wasn't long after he sat back down to finish the skates that a knock came on the door. Jamie was startled out of his work trance, his head swinging up to the door. "Just a secoooond!" he said as he tightened one of the screws on the skates. He hurried over to the door before any potential muggers descended upon his guest. He opened the door was was greeted with a sweat drenched Lucio, bare chested and his dreads pulled back off his face by a bandanna. Jamie felt his breath catch in his throat. "Hey there," Lucio said, and Jamie damned his ever-cool attitude. Of course, he wasn't staring directly at a glistening set of abs and biceps. In fact, he was staring at a sleep deprived slob of an Australian. Jamie shuffled to the side, opening the door wider so Lucio could come in. The shorter man slipped into the doorway, and to Jamie's relief, didn't seem to pay attention to the surroundings. The man's eyes were trained on the skates. "Just about got 'em finished. Ya weren't lying when ya said they were more car than skates. Took me 'alf the night and most of the day jus' to put 'em back together," Jamie said as he closed to door and came up behind Lucio. He dwarfed the man in size, but Jamie had a feeling the shorter man could still kick his arse if he felt like it. He skirted around Lucio to reclaim his seat. "Sorry about that, I know it's probably not something you're used to," Lucio said, rubbing the back of his neck and offering Jamie an apologetic smile. "No sweat off my back. I like takin' things apart, seein' what makes 'em tick," Jamie said, using that fact to distract himself from Lucio's abs. He resumed prodding at the skates, set on fixing the centrifugal doo-dad once and for all. "You seem to be that sort of guy," Lucio said as he watched Jamie, "You have a...calculating gaze." "That so?" Jamie asked, quirking a brow but not looking up from the skates. His cheeks flushed a light pink. He hoped the shitty lighting in his apartment would cover it up. "Yea, it's like..." Lucio took a seat across from him at the table, splaying his hands on the wood, "When I came into the shop, your stare felt like you were picking me apart from the inside. It was kinda unnerving," he said. "Oh, sorry 'bout that, uh, I..." Jamie floundered for an answer, feeling like he was caught in the act of stealing. He didn't look up from the skates to see Lucio's expression. He could see it in his head. Accusatory. Angry. "Then when you opened the door, that look was there again. Picking me apart..." Was that a hitch in his voice that Jamie heard? He dared a glance up from the skates. Lucio was watching him, his eyes half-lidded and that damned easy smile on his face. The flush on Jamie's cheeks strengthened, and he averted his eyes again. "It's almost like you can see right into my soul. You know, not many people look at me like that. They only see DJ Lucio, the celebrity. I was afraid it was like that when you figured out who I was," Lucio said, letting out a chuckle. There was a creak as he leaned back in the chair, "But the way you looked at me. I knew that wasn't so." Jamie worked faster, and, dammit, why were his hands shaking? He reached for his screwdriver, but his palms were too sweaty and hands too shaky to keep a grip on it. It fell from the table, spiraling to the floor. He startled from his seat to catch it, and before he knew it, Lucio was right there, leaning down to catch it, too. The DJ's reflexes were faster than his own, and he caught it in his palm. They were so close it was driving Jamie mad. He could smell Lucio's citrus cologne and the tangy scent of his sweat. He could feel Lucio's breath by his ear, the heat radiating off his body. He stifled a whine, biting his lip. Lucio pressed the screwdriver into his open palm, clasping his hand to stop Jamie's shaking. "Easy, easy, lindo," he said, and a shiver ran through Jamie's spine at how close those words were breathed right up against his ear, and his head was swimming with too many racing thoughts to ask what lindo meant. Probably idiot, stupid, or a million other insults, but Jamie didn't care. This man could call him the worst names in the book and it would still sound like music. "Th-th-thank you," Jamie stammered, and when he looked at Lucio the man had already withdrawn, leaning back in his chair with that easy grin on those plump kissable lips, and, fuck, what was he thinking? Lucio just gave him a wink, acting as though nothing happened. Had anything happened? Had he imagined it? A droplet of sweat ran down his forehead, and he wiped it off with the back of his arm, leaving a smear of ink from the number Lucio had written on it. "Hey, now, you might need that later," Lucio said, motioning to the number. Jamie boggled at him with wide eyes. "You know, in case I have another skate emergency," he explained as though it were obvious, but there was something in his voice that made Jamie's stomach heavy and his pants tighten. This man was toying with him. "Oh, right. Well, I have it in me phone already. I'll keep in there, then, if ya like," Jamie said, finishing up the skates and trying with all his might to keep the quiver out of his voice. "Mm, yea, keep it there. You never know when I'll go flying ass over elbows and break a skate," Lucio said as he took the finished skates as Jamie pushed them across the table. Or head over heels, Jamie thought, mentally berating himself for being such a fuckin' sheila as of late. Reading into this man's actions like he meant something to him. "Well, thank you again. I really appreciate it. I'll head down to the shop to make the payment. I wish there were more I could do to show my gratitude," Lucio said as he got up from his seat. I'll tell you what you can do, you sexy piece of--, "Uh-ha, it's no problem. Don't worry about it, mate," Jamie said, following Lucio to the door. The man was almost out into the hallway when he turned around again. "Oh, and Jamie?" "Whazzat, mate?" "You have something on your forehead." Jamie had only time to blink before Lucio brushed his bangs off his forehead, rubbing the heel of his palm across the ink mark from earlier. Jamie's amber eyes stared into Lucio's chocolate brown ones, their noses brushing tips. Jamie swore he could feel Lucio's lips against his own, feather light, chaste. But just like that, Lucio was gone, walking down the hallway, his melodic chuckle trailing behind him. Jamie stared after him, his fingers going to brush against his lips. What the fuck just happened?

[tachyonpub]

THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY is a must-read for any fans of THE LAST UNICORN

SIX BLUE MARBLES loves Peter S. Beagle’s THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY.

My Rating: ⛤⛤⛤⛤⛤

THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY is a look at the beginnings of Peter S. Beagle’s beloved novel The Last Unicorn and what paths the unicorn could have taken on her journey to find the other unicorns. Reader’s meet a cast of old and new characters as well as a new journey that is just as enticing as the one fans of The Last Unicorn are familiar with.

I’m really not surprised that I loved THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY, I love everything I’ve read of Beagle and this is no different. I loved seeing what parts of Beagle’s original story of the unicorn made it into the final novel, what changed, and what characters and aspects were given to others and which aspects were dropped all together. Probably the most interesting thing about THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY is how different the journey of the unicorn is from the book we know and love, not in terms of the new characters we meet but in the setting.

I loved the new characters that were introduced as well as the old familiar butterfly. Though different in many ways from the final product, The Last Unicorn: The Lost Journey reminded me again of why I love this book so much, and it still held that charm and beauty despite all the differences.

And the illustrations! If the cover alone wasn’t enough to get you excited for this book then Stephanie Law’s illustrations will! They add a whole new kind of magic to the story and are absolutely stunning to look at.

<snip>

THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY is a must-read for any fans of The Last Unicorn who want to see the bones of the story they love and a journey and experience like no other. The magic is still there, as is the love for this amazing story, only in a different way.

The German MEIN LESEZEICHEN BLOG praises IN CALABRIA.

The style of the author is sublime and magical. The way Beagle describes the unicorn is unique and breathtaking. Not effective or clichéd. The unicorn is not portrayed as something special, but as something that is one with the world. On the contrary to the unicorn, man seems to be something out of the ordinary, something peculiar. The magic is clearly in the descriptions of the unicorn.

Cover illustration: Velcro-Cotta

It's hard for me to connect the story with this word, but the story is romantic. By that I do not mean that she is cheesy or could be equated with romance novels. The romance goes deeper, is more complex, pure and sublime. The story covers many things: love and longing, criticism of people, of his dealings with nature, of society. There are elements of the uncanny and just as fantastic as supernatural elements. Again, the story seemed to me to be strongly based on the literary-scientific concept of Romanticism.

What also made me enthusiastic was that the author captured the mood of southern Italy very well and put it on paper. He draws an authentic picture with beautiful and ugly pages. What baffled me when I read was about to end as Claudio plunges into a daredevil fight.

With the help of the timeless and magical narrative style, I felt really comfortable and in good hands while reading.

<snip>

I love the stories of Peter S. Beagle. A reading recommendation goes out to all unicorn fans of the old school.

Translation from the German courtesy of Google

Iain Nicholas Mackenzie on THE GREEN MAN REVEW recounts an encounter with Peter S. Beagle.

Yeah that’s Peter Beagle — author of such delightful works as the above-quoted  SUMMERLONG along with IN CALABRIA, Tamsin and of course The Last Unicorn to name but three of his many works — over in the sitting area in the Kitchen here at Kinrowan Hall.

Reynard and he have been talking about ales and he says that ‘When I can get it — and I only know one pub in Berkeley that stocks it — I’ll take Blackened Voodoo, which is really a dark ale (as is the Brazilian Xingu, which is even harder to find). Blackened Voodoo is a Dixie Beer product; I think Katrina almost put them out of business — anyway, I couldn’t find it for quite a while. Sierra Nevada’s always a reliable bet, but BV’s worth the extra searching…’

He’s just been offered a particularly decadent chocolate bar and the Several Annie is asking him if he wants it: ‘Whatever you may have heard, it is not true that I have ever killed for really good chocolate. Trampled … well, sort of.  But only when the person was directly between the chocolate and me.  I mean, after all …’ and I see the chocolate is indeed to his liking.

DRAWING TUTORIALS offers Easy The Last Unicorn Drawing Tutorials for Beginners and advanced.

For more info about THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY, visit the Tachyon page.

Cover by Thorsten Erdt

Illustration by Stephanie Law

Design by Elizabeth Story

For more info about IN CALABRIA, visit the Tachyon page.

Cover design by Elizabeth Story

For more info on SUMMERLONG, visit the Tachyon page.

Cover art by Magdalena Korzeniewska

Design by Elizabeth Story

[virmillion]

As Above, So Below - Part 4

Part 1 // Part 3 // Part 5 // Masterpost

It’s ya boi back at it with a second fic in the same day because they’re on vacation and time is an illusion - also sorry this one is twice as long as the last few, I apparently love writing from Logan’s perspective because descriptions are too fun

Ship(s): None yet

Warning(s): None, but let me know if you need something tagged

    Logan strolls calmly through the corridor of the palace, adjusting his blue tie to sit straight and unwrinkled. The sun rises with the dawn outside, the floor-to-ceiling windows casting sunbeams into the hall, illuminating specks of dust dancing in the air and warming the space like summer. This is one of Logan’s favorite times of day—the silence at daybreak, a whole palace to himself as all of the other inhabitants doze peacefully for a few more hours. A close contender is late at night, when everyone else has retired to their rooms, or raided the kitchen already. The quietness and his own company are all Logan really needs, and just toss in a good book with some Crofter’s-jellied toast for a good day.

    He reaches the end of the windowed hall, immediately feeling colder in the next room, with its curtains drawn and doors tightly shut. The library. An ideal room, full of towering bookshelves overflowing with every genre imaginable, organized thousands of different ways every week—one of Logan’s favorite hobbies. But that’s a task for later. For now, he continues through the cold room, trailing a hand over the only cypress desk in the room—a dark slab of wood amidst a handful of pale brazilian cherry tops. Fond memories live within this desk, of late hours preparing for royal court visits, or burning eyes from straining to read with the shrinking light of the candle wick, of escaping the havoc of Exolas and its problems for more peaceful, distant worlds.

    In the hall and down the stairs, Logan runs his hand over the red mesquite banister, admiring the smooth finish—the palace staff finally replaced the offending old oak railing. It was like a stain overlooking the grand space before it, painted in a red and white pattern so unnatural it might well have been hundreds of candy canes lining the steps.

    Having thoroughly criticized the old decorations, Logan jumps from the third-to-last step to the floor, allowing himself a small smile at the pleasure of it. An old tradition from when he was younger, a little less of a daredevil now than he was then—sliding down the railing on his stomach, face-first and hands in the air, isn’t exactly the safest way to get down the stairs anymore. It probably wasn’t necessarily safe in the first place, anyway.

    On to the kitchen, just starting to see the beginnings of activity as the cooks prepare breakfast. Logan lifts a hand in greeting to the head chef, Grace, who waves back with a batter-covered spatula.

    “Hi Lo!” she calls out, “why haven’t I seen you lately?”

    “Busy with royal nonsense, you understand,” Logan replies, sidestepping someone carrying a platter larger than his head.

    “Definitely, but when are we gonna see you down here more often? You’re missing training,” Grace whines, looking back at her oven as Logan recalls the near misses of a knife to his head in their ‘training.’ Admittedly, not a displeasurable time.

    “Maybe so, but I would assume you’re missing it, too, if you’ve clawed your way to head of the kitchen staff. How long, precisely, has it taken you to get here?”

    “Couple weeks, but you know I’m gonna fight tooth and nail to keep it.” Grace expertly flips a giant rainbow chocolate chip pancake to prove her point. Undoubtedly a special request from one of the younger denizens of the palace.

    “I’m sure,” Logan grins. “I’ll look into coming back for training, as I do rather miss it.” He plucks an apple from a basket by the door and calls goodbyes as he slips out of the kitchen, wiping the apple on his shirt and heading for the stairs again. With the apple’s tart flavor spreading over his tongue, it’s time to traverse the endless hallways to find and wake Roman.

    As Logan lifts a fist to knock on the tall white door, adorned with red ribbons and rubies, it flies open, Roman’s beaming face behind it.

    “Since when do you wake up this early in a good mood?” Logan asks. “You’re the last creature alive I’d associate with being a morning person.”

    “Because I finally found one that’ll stump you!” Roman declares triumphantly. He holds up a book of logic puzzles, from which he gives Logan one the first time they see each other every day. Needless to say, most of those who live in the castle avoid going to the bathrooms frequented by the pair in the morning, since they likely don’t want to hear another riddle when they’re just trying to pee.

    “Alright, let me have it.” Logan smiles, biting into the apple again. Roman rarely gets this excited unless the puzzle is really hard.

    “Okay, so there’s this guy trying to get into a secret club, right? So he stakes out the club building and watches other people get in. The person guarding the door says a number, and the one trying to get in says a number in response. The guard says twelve, so the first member says six. For the next person, the guard says six, so the second member says three. When the guy trying to sneak in goes up, he’s given the number ten, so he says five, but they don’t let him in! Why not?” Roman summarizes all of this from the longer description in the book, snapping it shut with an air of confidence that Logan won’t be able to solve it.

    “Roman, I had high hopes for you! This one should have been far more difficult, given your excitement in its introduction,” Logan remarks.

    “Big words from someone who hasn’t solved the riddle yet,” Roman pouts. Logan swallows an apple chunk and gives his answer.

    “Not out loud, I haven’t. The guy sneaking in should have said three—three letters in the number ten, three letters in the number six, six letters in the number twelve.”

    “Way to kill my mood.” Roman sticks his tongue out, tosses the book into his messy room, and links an arm with Logan, stealing a bite from his half-eaten apple.

    “First of all, if you would give me a better riddle, I wouldn’t have to ruin your mood. Secondly, I’m about to make it even worse,” Logan reassures him, snatching the apple back.

    “How so?” A note of dread tints the edge of Roman’s words. Logan making a threat is never a good sign.

    “Today is AKI day.” Assessment of Kingdom Issues, otherwise known as sitting on a throne and doing nothing while citizens talk at Roman, letting Logan deliver the harsh blows before allowing Roman to comfort the people. What fun. “Come on, Princey, down to the throne room, where many great joys and adventures await you in the riveting political scheme of Exolas.”

    “I thought I said not to call me that,” Roman grumbles, pretending to be upset. Logan ignores him, carrying on through grand ballrooms, expansive hallways, and peaceful lounges to arrive at the second largest set of doors in the palace. Just ahead of them in size is the entry doors, which proudly guard the building at three stories tall. The doors now in front of the pair are backed with white birchwood, the towering gates looming over the hall. They consume all light and attention with their inlaid rubies and diamonds, spitting it back in glittering patterns across the walls. Even the pashmina carpet, embroidered with gold, dances in the light of the shining stones, all crawling up the door and intertwining with gold piping as it runs across silver lace. Breathtaking, to say the least, but too manufactured for Logan’s tastes.

    He throws the door open without a moment of hesitation to admire the shifting reflections of the jewels, exposing a room to rival the doors themselves. A long, vermillion carpet leads up to an elevated stage of hickory pine, polished to smooth perfection. Upon the stage rests one throne, cushioned with rose red and held up by a frame of gold inset with pearls. Only one throne, as the king never lowers himself to interacting with his subjects for AKIs. Dotting the walls of the room stand great marble columns, covered in reliefs of the king in stuff of legend, defeating every obstacle in his path. There’s but one column remaining incomplete, just to the right of the door; some servants hammer away at it, revealing a scene of Roman dueling a dragon.

    Having already become desensitized to the scene over their many years of entering the room, the two boys walk right past it all, hardly noticing the striking progress on Roman’s column, or the fervent bows of the workers they pass. Roman settles heavily into the throne, situating his sash to be unrumpled before resting his right ankle on his left knee. Logan takes up position to the left of the throne, holding his shoulders square and clasping his hands behind his back. Roman twiddles his thumbs impatiently as Logan looks on, watching the large doors swing shut to allow unhappy people to line up behind them before coming in to yell at a prince who has absolutely no control over their rotten lots in life.

    With a forceful clearing of his throat, Logan kicks the foot of the throne before holding out something very important that Roman somehow managed to forget—his crown. Honestly, it’s a downright miracle that Logan doesn’t just wear it himself at this point. He’s got half a mind to do so, but the other half is preoccupied with sorting out problems for those lucky enough to be able to vent their misdirected anger at Roman.

    As Roman finishes adjusting the crown on his head, the doors swing open like a gaping mouth, allowing a castle guard to escort in the first unhappy citizen. Haggard, with tattered clothes and filthy hair, but the shoes on their feet are just shy of being worn all the way through, indicating that while this person might be down on their luck, they haven’t yet reached the bottom of the barrel, typically shown by wearing paper bags for shoes.

    “That city of convicts is out of control!” they yell, prompting the guard to shift into a defensive stance. “Every day, they’re always out and about—”

    “Doing what?” Logan interrupts, already disinterested and a good deal irritated. “Being human? Trying to move past their soiled backgrounds? Avoiding airheads like you that refuse to accept that some people have it worse than others, and that leads them to make regrettable bad decisions?” The person below Logan and Roman opens and closes their mouth a few times, not unlike a fish gasping in air. With a scowl, Logan jerks his chin at the door, prompting the guard to show the person out. “You aren’t the first person to complain about them,” Logan calls, “and I’m certain you won’t be the last.” Roman gives a half-hearted apology, but the snobbish complainer is already gone. Embarrassment, anger, or something else has made them rush out in a huff, without waiting for the guard, but quite frankly, Logan doesn’t really care.

    The next person ushered in carries a basket of spoiled fruits and vegetables. Evidence, in Logan’s opinion, is always more useful in these situations than empty grievances aired for the express purpose of seeing the inside of the palace. This person has some issue about pesticides from a neighbor killing all of their crops, a real problem with an actual solution, finally.

    Logan leans down to murmur in Roman’s ear, “send them back with a cease and desist notice for the neighbor, and have the guard take them to the kitchens for some produce-friendly pesticides. Say to ask for Grace, and mention that Logan sent them.” Roman repeats as much to the basket-carrier and the guard, pleased when this citizen walks out in much higher spirits than the one before.

    AKIs aren’t so bad, truthfully. Just exhaustingly tedious. With few real problems and all too many complaints about the city of convicts, Logan and Roman are at their wits’ end, and it’s not even lunch yet.

    “It’s about the city of convicts,” the latest person says, barreling straight through Logan’s automatic ‘holier than thou’ speech. “Not the convicts themselves, but there are these two boys that are nowhere near as rough as the other people in that city.” Before Logan can attempt to interrupt the person again, Roman holds a hand up in a stop gesture. This might actually be worth listening to. “Both of them have purple hair, kind of like yours,” they bow to the prince and Logan in turn, “and I’m just not sure that it’s in their best interests to leave them out there. I don’t know the two personally, but I’m concerned for their safety.” The person bows low again before allowing the guard to lead them out. The door shuts behind the pair and remains so. AKIs over.

    “Now that’s an interesting one,” Logan remarks. Roman gives a noncommittal grunt of agreement, rising from his throne in search of food. Making a mental note of the latest complaint and carefully filing it away for later consideration, Logan follows.

Tag List:

@reality-isfor-muggles @artistictaurean @adfandertime @virgils-old-sweater @karaidemon @dudapoconeh @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @fallingamor @ghostdorkphil @tinysidestrashcaptain @punch-you-with-friendship @pattykrabbies @virgils-hoodie @twettypuff @justanotherpurplebutterfly @lizethemotherlycat @skyshade48 @tree4life25 @andromeda-galaxsander @sombraplayslazertag @lemonpepperpizza @erlenmeyertrash @raincloudverge @potatoes-and-depression @milomeepit @coffeestudylive @sakurahayasaki

[caveartfair]

Do Artists Have Good Handwriting?

Letter from Michaelangelo Buonarroti to his father, June 1508. Photo by The Print Collector/Print Collector/Getty Images.

“Don’t write me any more,” a 75-year-old Michelangelo wrote to his nephew Lionardo Buonarroti in the spring of 1549. “Every time I get a letter from you, I’m thrown into a fever, such a struggle do I have to read it.” It wasn’t the only time he berated the man for his sloppy penmanship, which the artist thought reflected poorly on the family.

Michelangelo himself had taken great pains to cultivate his own elegant handwriting. In his early twenties, he re-trained himself to write in the graceful cursive used by the humanists, rather than the Gothic merchants’ script he’d been taught in school. Handwriting, he believed, was a vital step in branding himself as an “aristocrat among artists,” noted Deborah Parker in her 2010 book Michelangelo and the Art of Letter Writing.

Michelangelo sketches a marble order for his first major architectural commission. Michelangelo Buonarroti, pen and ink drawing with autograph instructions for a marble order for the facade of San Lorenzo, 1518. © TASCHEN.

For Michelangelo, “good” handwriting represented a conscious, deliberate decision that required years of practice. But could there be a more innate connection between an artist’s work and their handwriting, as well?

This was the question at the heart of Pen to Paper: Artists’ Handwritten Letters from the Smithsonian’s Archives of American Art, an anthology published in 2016 and edited by Smithsonian curator Mary Savig. The catalyst for the project, Savig explained, was a staff meeting in which another curator identified Ad Reinhardt’s distinctive calligraphic handwriting from across the room. “So we started talking about these examples when artists seem to have this signature handwriting that is expressive of their artistic idiom,” Savig said. “And we just thought, ‘Can we say that for all artists? If you look at someone’s handwriting, does it look like their work of art? Or does it surprise you?’”

The answer was, in short, both. Some artists’ handwriting revealed a clear connection with the work they made. Georgia O’Keeffe, for instance, often replaced periods in her correspondence with small, squiggly lines—marks that also appear in her paintings and drawings. More generally, Savig noted, her handwriting “is very evocative, very bold, like her paintings. Both are very modern.”

Seurat and Signac plan the 1889 exhibition of the Indépendants: will it be “a flop”? Georges Seurat, autograph letter signed, to Paul Signac, on a lettercard, postmarked Paris, 20 April 1889. © TASCHEN.

Sometimes, however, surface-level similarities break down upon further inspection. Jackson Pollock’s sloppy handwriting seems to be a fitting visual parallel to his AbEx drip paintings. But his messy hand likely had more to do with biographical details than a pioneering artistic style: Pollock moved frequently as a child and never finished high school, an uneven education that made it difficult to develop his penmanship.

The breadth of artist handwriting is perhaps best illustrated by a pair of Minimalist sculptors, Dan Flavin and Carl Andre. Andre’s correspondence is often written entirely in uppercase (except for his signature, which is all lowercase), in neat, grid-like formations. “It just has this simplicity to it,” Savig said. “Also, most of his letters are not very long. They’re usually on postcards, from what I’ve seen. So you look at that and think, ‘Okay, that’s minimal right there.’”

Two months before his suicide, van Gogh lists the furniture from the bedroom at Arles that he immortalized in oil. Vincent van Gogh, autograph letter signed, to Joseph Ginoux, ca. 12 May 1890. © TASCHEN.

You might assume, Savig continued, that Flavin’s handwriting “would also be very minimal and pared-down. But it’s totally the opposite.” Flavin was a Hudson River School enthusiast who studied 19th-century handwriting so he could emulate its flamboyant curves and flourishes in his own correspondence.

I asked Savig about more sweeping trends: Do artists, who often draw and paint with a steady hand, tend to have better handwriting than most? Some do boast beautiful penmanship, she replied. Maxfield Parrish, for instance, has “really neat, stylized, crisp handwriting,” Savig said. Thomas Eakins, whose father was a professional handwriting instructor, was practically born into beautiful penmanship. But for every Aikens or Parrish, Savig continued, there’s a Pollock—or a John Singer Sargent, whose handwriting has been notoriously difficult for scholars to decipher over the centuries.

When working on Pen to Paper, Savig said, she considered ordering the letters chronologically. “But it doesn’t look like there’s any sort of progression or regression,” she said. “It just looks like a million different kinds of handwriting.” (There was one exception to Savig’s rule: architects. Since they were all trained in architectural lettering for use on blueprints, architects’ mature correspondence tends to have “a lot of consistency,” she noted.)

Postcard with Two Peasants Digging, 1885. Vincent van Gogh National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.

The Magic of Handwriting, a 2018 book showcasing the Brazilian curator, author, and publisher Pedro Corrêa do Lago’s world-class collection of letters, offers similar evidence on an international scale. Georges Seurat’s scrawling French script slopes precariously upwards on a letter to Paul Signac from April 1889, while one of Salvador Dalí’s postcards to René Magritte could comfortably be labeled “chicken scratch.” Magritte, on the other hand, wrote in an impeccable cursive that the Museum of Modern Art even transformed into a font. Vincent van Gogh was not quite as scrupulous as the Belgian Surrealist, but each line of an 1890 letter cataloguing his bedroom furniture in Arles is ramrod-straight.

This also appears to hold true for a more contemporary slate of artists. Curator Hans Ulrich Obrist’s Instagram is chock-full of Post-It notes penned by artists, collected for an ongoing project called “The Art of Handwriting.” The range of handwriting is vast, and only a few are enviably neat.

View this post on Instagram

In memory of Jonas Mekas (1922-2019) #jonasmekas

A post shared by Hans Ulrich Obrist (@hansulrichobrist) on Jan 23, 2019 at 6:52pm PST

What’s more, the idea of “good” handwriting is a moving target that’s changed over the centuries. “It’s one of the few things that most Americans who are alive can remember learning, but it’s not always been taught the same,” Savig explained. “Different ideals have ebbed and flowed over time.” The second half of the 19th century was dominated by Platt Rogers Spencer’s sinuous cursive. Handwriting was indicative of your moral character, or so the thinking went. In the 20th century, Austin Norman Palmer updated cursive for the industrial age. He simplified the characters, emphasizing speed and muscle memory over artful flourishes. (Andy Warhol cultivated a Palmer script.)

“But every time there is a standard, people break it,” Savig said. “That’s why handwriting is so interesting. In the midst of all these ways that primary school has tried to get us to have consistency and legibility, everybody has such distinct handwriting at the end of the day.”

from Artsy News

[chroniclesofawkwardness]

Page 61

From the time I was very young, I had an obsession with leveling up. Somehow, someway, I had to be better, I was never quite good enough. There was always someone bigger, faster, smarter, or stronger than me.

In first grade, we got certificates based on how many rules we’d followed that week. More often than not, I had to settle for the Boss award instead of the top prize, the Superstar. I broke the same rule every week by talking without raising my hand. I can’t say if I was genuinely trying not to give a fuck as a seven-year-old, but it’s more likely I was genuinely disappointed since I’d come so close to perfection only to fail again and again. I wish I’d accepted long ago that Lucy only loves Charlie Brown when he’s trying to kick the football.

Even when I had more control of my destiny by engaging in my favorite childhood pastime, playing Nintendo (When did it become classic?) I still had to deal with the temptation of risk vs. reward. You start out small. If you manage not to run headlong into the first Goomba (Kuribo in Japan) you see, you have the option of giving your character an 8-bit concussion by voluntarily jumping up and smashing a mystery box (marked with (?)). One of the first rewards is a mushroom that, if you touch it, significantly increases the size of your character.

Maybe the intention of the game’s creators was to show that bigger is better or to simply give the player a reward almost immediately so he or she would keep playing. If only I’d known how much my early life would turn out like one of the side-scrolling video games I gave so much of my time to. I believed that if I played by all the rules, kept going straight ahead, and timed my jumps just right, I’d zip down the flagpole like Mario, and be rewarded with fireworks for my accomplishments. Yet even a video game from the 1980s, the decade of material excess and Reagan famously turning the bull loose, had ways of tempering one’s enthusiasm, of keeping you hooked. The princess was almost always in another castle.

In first grade it was certificates. In second grade it was learning to write in cursive. In third grade it was marbles in a jar, and so on. We were all Pavlov’s dogs, salivating at the ring of a bell. Nobody knew what was really going on. Nobody knew that we were being conditioned how to talk, act, and think. There’s nothing wrong with celebrating an achievement, but life gets messy when the celebration becomes the focus rather than the hard work that led up to it. I used to believe the validation of a “Good Job!” scratch-and-sniff sticker or the clink of another marble in our classroom jar was good enough, but I also once believed in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Jesus.

Why is it that when I think of the happiest moments of my life, they are all tied to some sort of achievement, some sort of validation that I was right?

In high school, I was convinced that I’d answered every question correctly on the 1998 National Latin Exam for Latin II. I’d just wanted Sister Dympna to be proud of me. My heart sank when the initial results came back, and I found out I’d answered only 39 of 40 questions correctly. Sister had been telling us for months that if someone got a perfect score, Latin II was usually when they did it. I was so taken aback by the initial return that I almost immediately began to insist someone recheck my exam by hand. I still remember the day they called me into the guidance office after what seemed like an emperor’s reign of anxious waiting. Mrs. Shields told me that my score was, in fact, perfect, and I was the first student in school history to accomplish such a feat. I wanted to run down the hallway screaming, “Fuck Yeah!” to anyone within earshot, but I didn’t. Instead, I remembered the story of Cincinnatus. Sister Dympna, one of the installers of my try-hard driver, once told me Cincinnatus was a simple Roman farmer who was twice offered a dictatorship, only to turn it down both times in favor of returning to his plow. Like Cincinnatus, I deferred my glory and returned to English class.

Chances are, the story of Cincinnatus isn’t true. It’s probably nothing more than a tale Roman parents told their children in the hope of turning them into humble, obedient, and dutiful citizens. These parents, of course, had no idea that the same tale would be passed down through the ages for more than 2,000 years. 

When I defended my master’s thesis nine years later, I thought I’d pulled out all the stops. Never one to skimp on Balkan hospitality, I put on a suit and lugged around a backpack with a coffee pot and Napolitanke wafers (thanks Croatian confectionary company, Kraš) for the members of my defense committee. I had to level up to the next sequential academic abbreviation behind my name if I wanted a chance to work for any number of alphabet agencies within the government. I had to find a way to atone for destroying my own section of Brazilian rainforest by printing out my thesis so many times. If I noticed an ill-timed comma, a misplaced dash, or an extra space at the end of a line, a war of attrition was on. Instead of not giving a fuck, I started giving too many.

After my defense, I had to sit out in the hallway for what seemed like another eternity while the committee deliberated my fate. Dr. H. (finally) telling me that I’d passed was one of the happiest moments of my life. When the second year of my two-year master’s program started, I wasn’t even sure if I’d get funding to pay for it. There were fifteen fellowships available that year. I’d gone from being one of the first ones out (no. 18) to one of the last ones in. And now, there I was, at the top of another flagpole. After picking up my diploma, I must have sat in the papasan chair that my mom’s now-ex-husband would later use for cumshot target practice holding that precious, validating piece of paper in my hands for fifteen minutes of contented silence. It’s the kind of silence only accomplishment can bring, before the panic of not knowing exactly what to do next sets in.

I can’t remember the first time I noticed an at on page 61 of my thesis where an at didn’t belong. I was crushed. I couldn’t believe I’d missed it while I was chopping away at the rainforest. My crowning achievement (there’s that A-word again) had been forever tarnished by a renegade preposition that had somehow managed to steal itself away from the obsessive, approval-seeking eyes of its creator. I had flashbacks to my freshman year of undergrad when I’d left a works cited page off the first paper I’d ever written for English class. Both oversights were poetic justice in works of academic prose. (Im)perfect bookends to six years of higher education. I had visions of becoming the laughingstock of the department, the butt of a sick joke by future generations of curious graduate students searching for scholarly works on the soundtrack to the demise of brotherhood and unity, the destruction of the failed idea of Yugoslavia.

I beat myself up for years over that at. Whenever someone would tell me it’s no big deal, I’d turn on my default, self-deprecating sense of humor and say things like, “But I know it’s there.” No one has ever called me a dumbass over a two-letter word that should have been deleted long before Dr. H. signed the title page of my thesis. I did it to myself. It took me a long time to not internalize my own imperfections, and simply learn from my mistakes rather than defining myself by them. First, it was certificates, then learning to write in cursive, then marbles in jars. I’d had enough. 

I’m not quite at the point where I can just laugh about the error in page 61, but I don’t beat myself up over it anymore. I know it’s there, but I don’t let it tarnish my A-word. It’s okay to strive for perfection, but obsessions make life messy. They say if you really want to know how you got to feel and think a certain way about things, you should write a book about them. I’ll keep going after the sixty-first page. There’s lots more to be said. If the devil’s in the details, I’ll side with Tom Waits, who pointed out in Heartattack And Vine: Don’t you know there ain’t no devil/That’s just God when he’s drunk. I’d been drunk on chasing perfection for too long. I’m still not sure about Jesus, so you won’t find me in church on Sundays. You might find me at a keyboard, pounding away at tales of imperfection rather than imperfection itself. Instead of trying to be perfect, I’ll just be. I can live, and write, with that.

[samuelmmarcus]

Small House with Dark Exterior

  Hello, my wonderful friends! How are you feeling today? I hope you’re healthy and feeling positive about life. If that’s not exactly how you are, I share this house tour today with the hope that it will not only bring you some inspiration but also a few minutes of stress-free vibes. Aren’t we all craving that? Being in a state of mind where we are only focusing on something good, on something we love, on something that brings us joy.

Talking about joy, this home makes me smile and I think you can’t help but love it, even if you are not a huge fan of dark exteriors, which is quite hard these days because dark siding is quite popular. Recently built by Grande Custom Builders, this Charlotte, NC, Modern Farmhouse shows that a dark exterior works beautifully on a small home as it does on the large ones. In fact, I think dark exteriors look even better on smaller homes. Huge houses with black siding can look overwhelming if not well balanced with contrasting architectural details and landscaping.

Now, find a quiet spot, dream away with this charming new home and have a relaxing time!

  See other VERY popular house tours by Grande Custom Builders:

 – Charlotte Custom Home.

– North Carolina Lake House Tour.

– Inspiring Charlotte Home Tour.

  Small House with Dark Exterior

“This stunning modern farmhouse, painted in Benjamin Moore Deep River, features a beautiful roofline, black windows, and black corbels. We love the contrast of the stone foundation as well as the addition of the statement front lighting. The front porch is open and large, perfect for lounging in the upcoming cooler months.” – Grande Custom Homes.

Home Details

Exterior Paint Color: Benjamin Moore Deep River.

Cedar Brackets & Posts: Benjamin Moore Twilight Zone.

Stone: Butternut Rustic Ledge.

Siding: James Hardie.

Windows: Black – Trim: Benjamin Moore Deep River.

Roof: Owens Corning Oakridge 32.8-sq ft Beachwood Sand.

Metal Roof: Black.

Gutters: Black.

Home Details: 5 beds, 4 baths, 3,317 sq ft – 8,320 sqft lot.

Front Door

Front Door Paint Color: Benjamin Moore Chelsea Gray HC-168.

Lighting: Rejuvenation.

Exterior Sconces

Exterior Barn Lights: Rejuvenation.

Open-concept

This house feels like home to me. You won’t find cold or bare spaces in here! Paint color is Benjamin Moore Moonshine.

Chandelier: Discontinued – similar here – Others: here, here, here & here.

Hardwood Flooring: Red Oak with 50/50% Minwax Classic Gray and Pickled Oak – Others: here, here & here.

Kitchen

What a timeless and uncomplicated kitchen. Refreshing, right?! The perimeter cabinets are Benjamin Moore Paper White and kitchen island is in Benjamin Moore Kendall Charcoal.

Kitchen Island Countertop: Antique White Quartzite, Leathered.

Perimeter Countertop: Brazilian Mist Granite, Honed.

Backsplash Tile: here – similar here.

Lighting: here – similar – Other Popular Options: here, here, here, here, here & here.

Hardware: Pulls & Knobs.

Range: KitchenAid.

Shelves: Rejuvenation.

Warm Hues

I am not sure about you but as the leaves start to change and chilly winds start to arrive, I crave deeper and warmer colors in my home. This can easily be changed from season to season with a warmer rug, textured pillows and cozier throws. This home features a color scheme that makes me think of a slice of pumpkin pie and that’s something that makes me feel happy!

“Fall-Winter” Color Scheme Decor:

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Staircase

The metal staircase balusters and newel posts are custom. Hand railing is painted in Benjamin Moore Twilight Zone.

Chandelier: RH – discontinued (Spiral Walnut chandelier) – Others: here, here, here, here & here.

Paint Color

Shiplap paint color is Benjamin Moore Paper White. Walls are in Moonshine by Benjamin Moore.

Window Grilles: Benjamin Moore Twilight Zone.

Master Bathroom

The Master Bathroom feels classic and it features a great layout. This is also very inspiring for bathroom renovations!

Cabinet Paint Color: Benjamin Moore 2131-20 Midnight.

Wall Paint Color: Benjamin Moore Moonshine.

Trim Paint Color: Benjamin Moore Paper White.

Countertop: White Carrara Marble.

Shower Tile: Polished Porcelain Statuario Tile, Alternate sizes – 12×24 & 4×12.

Tub: here & here – similar.

Flooring: Hardwood.

  Many thanks to the builder for sharing the details above.

Builder: Grande Custom Builders (Instagram)

Architecture: Frusterio Design, Inc.

Via QC Exclusive Magazine.

Photography: Dustin Peck.

  Click on items to shop:

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Best Sales of the Month:

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Popular Posts:

California Small Lot Modern Farmhouse.

2021 New-construction Home Trends.

  Wrap-around Porch Farmhouse Exterior Ideas.

Island Beach House.

Modern Farmhouse Design.

Modern Farmhouse Tour.

Charlotte Custom Home.

Modern Farmhouse Home Design.

Modern French-Country Farmhouse on a City Lot.

New-construction Modern Farmhouse.

Inspiring Charlotte Home Tour.

French Farmhouse.

White Home with Front Porch.

Beautiful Homes of Instagram.

Black Modern Farmhouse Tour.

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Beautiful Homes of Instagram: New-construction Home.

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“Dear God,

If I am wrong, right me. If I am lost, guide me. If I start to give-up, keep me going.

Lead me in Light and Love”.

Have a wonderful day, my friends and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”

with Love,

Luciane from HomeBunch.com

from Home https://www.homebunch.com/small-house-with-dark-exterior/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

[iqvts]

3080 PAPER MILL RD, HUNTINGDON VALLEY, PA 19006 from iQ Visual Tours on Vimeo.

For more information: cbhre.com/listing/181-1201884/3080-paper-mill-rd-huntingdon-valley-pa-19006

Welcome to this Spectacular Custom Built French Normandy Home in secluded location.This home was meticulously built by a local luxury home builder as his personal residence.No detail or expense was spared in building this beautiful One of a Kind Home.There is approx 14,000 SF of luxury living on 3 levels overlooking 5 acres of bucolic grounds backing to over 800 acres of preserved ground with the Pennypack Trust.Enter this magnificent home through the arched mahogany door into the grand central entry hall featuring limestone flooring,coffered ceiling & amazing high end lighting fixtures.The formal living room is situated on left side of entry hall & features a gas F/P French doors to a flagstone terrace overlooking the grounds.The formal dining room is on the right side of entry hall & features a double sided gas F/P which also faces the entry hall.Prepare to be amazed as you enter the thoughtfully designed kitchen featuring custom wood cabinetry,Brazilian cherry hardwood floors,6 burner Viking gas range w/double ovens,Subzero refrigeration,large island with seating & marble counters.Kitchen also features a breakfast room with verdant views of the rear grounds,a hearth room with gas F/P & butler's pantry with wine fridge.The 2 Story Great room features a floor to ceiling stone gas F/P,Brazilian cherry wood flooring & wall of glass windows offering magnificent views of the rear grounds. The main level also features a den/office with built-ins,main staircase from the entry hall & 3 level open staircase serving the upper&lower levels.Upper level features a huge master suite with sitting room,bedroom with gas F/P,4 walk in closets,master bath with soaking tub,large stall shower & double sinks.There is also french doors to a private terrace for morning coffee or evening relaxation.There are 3 additional bedrooms with en suites & walk in closets.The laundry room is conveniently located on this level.Follow the open staircase to the lower level and you will find an extension of the quality workmanship & design featuring a large entertainment area,massage room,wine tasting area,5th bedroom with full bath & large home gym with bar.There is a large elevated flagstone terrace in rear of home perfect for entertaining.There is a carriage home connected to main house via a walkway & features 22'ceilings & offers potential uses such as home office,in law suite,studio or au pair quarters.Below carriage home is a 3 car garage in addition to the 4 car attached garage.

Contact: Don Rowley (215) 272-8000 d.rowley@cbhearthside.com

[sungrittenhouse-blog]

Games to Obtain Through The Recession

Consumer solution the VGXPO is wide-ranging. I've heard responses from, "It's not too great," to, "I'm excited about it." In spite of the discrepant responses, the VGXPO has to do something true. At triple its 2007 size, this year's VGXPO is probably growing. Coleman Scott (60 kg/132 lbs.): For you to medaling modern day summer's Olympics, Scott was a four-time NCAA All-American for Oklahoma State, winning a national title at the 2008 NCAAs. Sound : The sound is really enjoyable too. They offer everything important to a soccer game here. The roar, the insane cheering, the sound of the soccer ball being hit, the foot steps. Means that very real sounding and also interactive and dynamic. A very titanic effort here, the bootcamp shows. The background music is very ambient my entire life engaging but that isn't too high of a negative anyway as sports games rarely have good music file. Ronaldo has retired however in the length of his Brazilian football career he was essentially probably the most prolific goal scorer of all time. He won the ecu footballer on the year twice, and the FIFA player of the year just passed three certain times. Ronaldo played for Brazil in 97 matches and scored an extraordinary 62 pursuits. He was an important part of this team that won the globe Cup in 1994 and 2002. Paul the Octopus had been legion of fans who had wanted a memorial set up for him. In response, the aquarium where he lived in Oberhausen, Germany, has made one for him well. It is 6-1/2 feet tall and is then made of plastic (some say bronze or marble might have been more fitting) and inside is an urn covered in gold leaf which has Paul's cremated remains, according to the Washington Person of polish lineage. Spain- Alternatives superstars to your squad along with the current involving the team it seems Spain would be the favorites to win the World Cup. Once Cesc Fabregas recovers from injury the squad will appear almost unbeatable on card. but Games are never won on conventional paper. The only drawback whenever watch free movies online at advertising and marketing can function as a somewhat limited selection, but that may affect families. If you find the selection to be too small, you should cough increase the small fee Hulu premium or Netflix Generatorsr charges, and watch movies online that approach! Not free; but darn cheap. A native of Edmonton, Ference won a Stanley Cup more than Boston Bruins in 2011. The Oilers were in will need a new captain after they traded Shawn Horcoff for the Dallas Stars for Philip Larsen which has a seventh round draft pick on July 4.

[yashendwirh]

The Vegas haul was full of baubles and sundry #nyxcosmetics #blick #blickartmaterials #lushcosmetics #basinwhite #ikea respectively: 4 color custom palette, matte liquid liner, stickers; acrylic paint, oil paint, #fabriano dot matrix notebook, 24x36" canvas, marble paper; massage bar, shampoo bar, #aquamarina face cleanser, rehab shampoo and queen bee samples, holiday soap, lavender soap; shampoo bar and bath bombs; black frames, ergonomic memory foam pillows, #renberget office chair, 6 outlet tap, reusable shopping bag; not seen was the delicious Swedish, Cornish, Indian and Brazilian food eaten along the way. http://ift.tt/2hyAgdk

[dianamoc6105]

ILLUSION

MATERIAL ILLUSIONS BY SOPHIE ROWLEY 

Material Illusions - Poetics of the everyday.

`Material illusions´ brings together a collection of materials which all simulate an aesthetic known from nature.

The decline of nature's raw resources increasingly forces us to work with non-virgin materials as opposed to extracting even more of our planets finite goods. Seeing wastestreams as a future quarry, a starting point rather than an end point therefore became the mission of this study.  .

Common waste materials, such as denim, paper, styrofoam and glass were found and collected from different waste sources. These were treated with the same appreciation as raw materials. Through craftsmanship and experimentation these waste materials were developed to Material Illusion - A in a man-made and nature-simultating sample palette.

After initial experimentation these materials were developed into sculptural interior ornaments and bespoke furniture pieces. The non standardised nature of waste allows each piece to become one of a kind while taking advantage of new material properties such as high durability, light weight and structure.  

The names of the materials and objects orignate from the illusion which they represent

Bahia Stool: The Bahia stool is a sculptural seating piece for the interior. It is made out of denim offcuts from Diesels Denim-production. The disgards are draped over a mould and the layers are adhesed together with bioresin. After the material is dry it is carved to create a flat surface. Through the carving process as well as through the different sized and coloured offcuts a bespoke marble-like pattern appears. The arch shape of the stool forms an elegant and sculptural silhouette which is ideal to reveal the vibrant pattern of the Bahia Denim. The marble-illusion gave the stool its name, the Bahia Denim, named after a Brazilian blue marble which it resembles. This inspiring me and giving the confidence, that it is possible to create an Illusion of the material and give fake opulence which I'm willing and planing to achieve. Sophie Rowley Using a waste man-made materials to create the objects that creates material illusion but finding the right techniques for each of the its and material . 

https://www.sophierowley.com/projects-draft/2017/4/6/material-illusions