#china ceramic plate

[beautyandhealthtips123]

Food on White Ceramic Plate

It's okay to eat fish because they don't have any feelings. See more...

[arthistoryanimalia]

#FishFriday :

Fish Plate, c.1868-79

Made in Canton (Guangzhou), China [Qing Dynasty] for export to U.S. market:

part of the official presidential china collection of Ulysses S. Grant

Porcelain w/ enamel & gilt decoration

7/8 x 9 3/4 in (2.2 x 24.8 cm)

On display at Philadelphia Museum of Art

[webdiggerxxx]

꧁★꧂

[yourcoffeeguru]

VTG. Bone China Teignmouth Decorative Plaque Souvenir ENGLAND || SWtradepost - ebay

[dozydawn]

Pendants made from broken plates by MaroonedJewelry.

Gotham China “Winter Delight” by Norman Rockwell (1981)

Hyalyn Ceramics “River Scene”

Currier & Ives “A Cold Morning” (2001)

[desimonewayland]

A rare powder-blue-glazed, purple-enameled, and ruby-enameled 'CHRYSANTHEMUM' dishes Yongzheng six-character mark in underglaze (1723-1735)

Chrysanthemum-form porcelain dishes, reviving a Song dynasty lacquer shape, were produced in twelve different colors during the Yongzheng period. 

Christie’s

[cereamicwastelands]

[doctorgeese]

i fuckin love pottery dude

hashtag follow me if youre a fellow pottery enjoyer

[jasmine1022]

ceramic heating plate

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Anywhere That You Are

Hozier x fem!reader

Author's note: Inspired by that picture (as seen below), my new favorite song (That You Are) and an idea sent in via asks.

Summary: A scene of Y/n and Andrew enjoying their vacation in a secluded spot in the mountains of Italy.

Warnings: NSFW/SMUT, semi-public sex (sort of?), so much fluff.

They’d bickered for a while over where to go. She wanted somewhere quiet and secluded – because after two entire years of sharing her man with the world, Y/n wants him to herself. Andrew, on the other hand, had simply requested somewhere near water – the beach, a lake, a pool, anything he could swim in. So they met in the middle; two weeks in a rustic, little one bedroom cottage tucked away in the mountains of Italy, within walking distance of a vast, jewel toned lake. The house is perched on a jagged hill, overlooking the serene landscape, and sunsets wash the area in a gentle, golden glow. They’ve witnessed three so far, and each one has been nothing short of magnificent – though Andrew has argued that there’s at least one view that he appreciates much more.

Her, standing on the open porch, wearing nothing but his shirt as that warm light hits her face, making it seem like she’s glowing. Like something ethereal; an angel on earth sent just for him. Or even better, his own, personal heaven.

He’s thinking about that as he sits there, in one of the two wicker chairs with an acoustic guitar propped in his lap, fingers absently grazing the delicate strings. At first, he isn’t playing anything in particular. Andrew’s eyes are trained forward, taking in the view of rolling hills and aged trees while his mind strays to the thought of his love, just past the window behind him, moving around in their rental’s charmingly quaint kitchen. Humming softly as she fills the kettle, moving around fluidly as she takes it to the stove before prepping a pair of matching mugs out of the small cupboard over the wooden counter as it boils. She’ll fill up the mugs at the end of the process, and bring them out, all without spilling even a drop – because she’s more graceful that Andrew could ever dream to be.

Because if he is a perilously tall stack of china plates, just waiting for a breeze in the right – or wrong – direction to end in a clumsy disaster, then she is silk, moving freely through calm water.

As thoughts of Y/n take shape, Andrew finds himself playing the notes of a familiar tune, humming along to it as he does. A wedding present, written with a new friend for someone he loves so dearly, and so deeply, that even the most beautiful words, tied together with threads of gold, could only express a fraction of what he feels. But she’d loved it, and that was what had mattered most to him. Because if she loves it, then chances are, she knows.

She knows that if he had his way, they would be together – always. No oceans would separate them for months on end. There wouldn’t be months between kisses and neither of them would endure the heartache of seeing that other on screens without being able to touch even the barest tips of their fingers. No bed would stay half cold, and no terrible joke will be told through text. They’d go on walks every evening with fingers laced and her head leaned on his arm.

He would be anywhere – and everywhere – that she is. Because he always finds that he makes a bit more sense when Y/n is around.

So lost in the inner workings of his mind, Andrew completely misses the whistle of the kettle, the subsequent clinking of a metal spoon against the ceramic and finally, the tell-tale creak of the front door. He’s only pulled out of his thoughts when Y/n sets the pair of mugs down on the small, round table between the two chairs and comes to stand behind him. Her hands begin at his shoulders, spending a brief moment messaging them before sliding forward, fingers sprawled on his chest.

“What’s on your mind, huh?” Y/n probs, bring her lips to his cheek in a much-too-short peck.

Freeing one of his hands, Andrew places it over hers. “You,” he offers softly, shifting his head to meet her lips.

“Mm, yeah?” She smiles, “now, why would you think about me when I’m right here.”

“Because,” he tips his head so their noses are touching, “you’re my favorite thing to think about.”

Y/n giggles again, walking around until she’s in front of him. Andrew allows her relieve him of the guitar, watching as she carefully lays in in the vacant chair before climbing into his lap, her legs astride his thighs. “That’s all?” She pouts dramatically, “just think about.”

Chuckling, his hands find her hips, clothed in a gray t-shirt stolen from his suitcase – not that he’s complaining, his clothes look much better on her anyway. “Not just think,” he promises, catching her mouth.

“Yeah?” Her arms go around his neck as she melts into his chest, words escaping through their tangled lips, “what else?”

“Favorite person to kiss,” his lips travel along her jaw, and then down her neck, where he presses his nose to the warm skin near her pulse, “favorite smell,” he nips at her throat, leaving little, telling bruises, “favorite person to do this with,” and then, as of to examine his work, or just freshen the image of her in his mind, Andrew pulls away, broad grin splitting his cheeks. “Favorite person to see wearing my clothes.”

She is really just his favorite everything.

“Our clothes,” Y/n corrects pointedly.

“Oh, of course darlin’,” he plays along with a chuckle.

“I’m glad we’re here,” she says suddenly and the mood sobers a bit. A soft smile still plays at her lips, but there’s a twinkle in her eyes that are indicative of those private moments where one of them says something that is only meant for the other. A surge of emotion pools in her chest, and there’s a lump in her throat. It doesn’t matter how long they’ve been together – five minutes or ten years – it isn’t the distance that makes her heart grow fonder, its the moments spent in their own little bubble. When he’s close enough for her to throw her arms around his neck or lay her head in his lap. When the sound of his voice isn’t skewed by the speaker of her phone.

When she can open a door and find him on the other side of it.

Those are the moments that make her heart swell so much that Y/n thinks it may burst out of her chest. They are the ones that remind Y/n of how much she loves him, only because he’s him. There isn’t another person in the world that could rouse such an intense feeling within her, or even a fraction of the certainty she feels it with.

Lifting his hand to the side of her face, Andrew mirrors her expression. “So am I,” he returns with the same ease, “you have no idea how much I’ve missed it just being the two of us.”

Y/n huffs a chuckle and leans in conspiringly, her forehead pressed to his while his thumb caresses the apple of her cheek, “I’m willing to bet I do.”

Still cupping her cheek, Andrew tilts his head and closes his mouth in over hers again. His other hand, the one on her hip, searches blindly for the hem of the t-shirt. “We’re outside,” Y/n’s mumbled admonishment melts against his lips when he flattens his palm on her upper thigh, gradually inching it upwards.

“Just us up here,” Andrew returns, then adds, “do you wanna go inside?”

Clumsily, she undoes the plastic buttons at the top of his shirt, “not really,” Y/n’s hands slip into the top of his flannel shirt, fingers dancing along his skin, leaving sparks in their wake. “God, I love this shirt on you.”

“I’d like this off you,” he starts lifting the oversized t-shirt over her head, not caring where it falls when he tosses it off to the side. She isn’t wearing much under it, just her underwear, and Andrew’s eyes fall to her unrestrained breasts after discarding the t-shirt. His gaze is steady as he trails the tips of his fingers up her spine, and its more his feather-light touch than the temperate evening air that causes the dusting of goosebumps along her exposed skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasps, and Y/n feels her cheeks warm under his stare; a heady combination of tenderness and longing darkening his eyes.

There’s something about the way Andrew looks at her – and just looks – that never fails to rouse a sensation in the pit of her stomach. A warmth that she’s never really associated with sex; its more like the warmth of a hearth, reaching upwards. Embers spreading to the most hidden parts of her body. It's gentle, and comforting. It's not the rush of being desired, but the peace that comes with being wanted.

Its not fast and explosive. It doesn’t fizzle out when they’re spent.

It stands up against time, steadfast and true.

Andrew looks at her, and Y/n doesn't feel as if he's forgotten that there are other women in the world. Instead, she knows that of all of them, he will only ever choose her – want her.

“I love the way you look at me,” she whispers, still loosely clutching his shoulders as she leans forward.

Andrew’s grin broadens and he flattens his hand on the center of her back, “well, I love looking at you,” he returns in the same, hushed tone. A sound between a delighted chuckle and a hum of contentment falls onto his lips from hers. He tastes of the beer he’d taken out with him earlier, and something subtly sweet that makes her toes curl.

In a sequence of clumsy, fumbled movements, Y/n lifts herself off Andrew’s lap for long enough for him to tug her underwear down, and get it of one leg before they hastily undo the button and zipper of his jeans so they can shove them down to the middle of his thighs. A fit of laughter erupts from her throat, at some point during the jumbled mess of movements, and as she throws her head back, he laughs too, rendering their attempts efforts even more maladroit

It probably doesn't look like they’re in a movie, or even particularly sensual. But its the one of the things he misses the most when they’re apart. Not the act itself but the being with her like that; when they’re so caught up in how it feels that nothing else matters. Bodies in awkward positions or a stray comment that has nothing to do with anything at all, none of it matters because he's with the one person that it all makes sense with.

When Y/n sinks down onto him, her lewd moan is cast into the crook of his neck, and Andrew lolls his head to the side, pressing his cheek to her hair, the fruity fragrance of her shampoo flooding his senses. “God,” he rasps, reveling in the way she feels wrapped so tightly around him.

“Just like that,” he encourages, gentle grip on her hips guiding Y/n into steady pace. Rocking her hips against his in pronounced, languid motions, her back arches slightly, creating in a balletic curve. She looks much like art, Andrew thinks.

Just like that, so simple and unhampered. With a couple stray strands falling over her face and her head thrown back. Practically melting in his hands. Through his hazy, lust-blurred vision, he sees the most beautiful person he’s ever known transform into something that can only be other-worldly. Every bit of her has been carved by the gods with the purpose of being the truest personification of beauty.

What must he have done in some other life to be afforded the privilege of her company?

It's really the tangible that’s keeping him grounded; reminding him that he’s real enough to share that moment with her. The warmth of her silken skin under his rough fingers, the clench of her core around him, the tips of her fingers sunken into his shoulders.

The pressure of Y/n’s forehead against his, the heat of her breath when she ellicts his name in a husky moan. “God, Andrew,” there’s a waning smile tugging at her lips as she quickens ever so slightly. His hips buck to meet hers, and every time they connect in a heady, jerked movement, her breath hitches audibly.

God, he loves that sound. That little, whined, “uh.”

Y/n’s fingers curl into his shoulders as her thighs start burning, a direct result of Andrew’s light wash jeans rhythmically rubbing against her skin. That fiery friction coupled with the usual tingle that accompanies being stretched around him is enough to run her breaths shallow and ragged. There’s a light sheen gathered on his forehead when she presses hers to it, and from that angle, Y/n swears she can feel him in her stomach.

Vaguely, she registers when Andrew moves one hand from her waist, bringing his thumb to her sensitive bundle of nerves, while he lowers his head to press his mouth to the swell of her breath. Curling her toes at the new sensations, one of Y/n’s hands slide out from under his shirt and reaches for the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, disturbing his haphazard bun. Andrew's tongue flicking at the top of her breast, incits the most thrilling sensation in the pit of her stomach, and the way he's working her nub is dizzying; the combination quickly guiding Y/n to the cusp of release.

“I need to feel you,” Andrew grits, edges of his teeth dragging along the ample flesh. “Let me feel you,” he pleads urgently, the upward motions of his pelvis growing erratic as he tries to prompt Y/n to quicken her pace. “Come’on sweetheart,” he encourages, tone low and dry.

"Andy….Andy….” Y/n yelps, crescent-shaped nails grazing his scalp as her legs start stiffening.

“That’s it, darling” he entices, thumb working on her numb more vigorously now. Andrew needs to feel her squeeze him; like she’s putting every stray part back into its place. He’s aching for the kind of release that only Y/n can bring, the kind that empties his mind completely and leaves him seeing stars for the next few minutes.

Twin kaleidoscopes are painted onto her shut lids as it happens, and Y/n can’t help but blurt out a string of cried praises muddled in with the obscene repetition of his name. A sinful prayer shared between lovers. Her legs, no longer able to support her own weight, become jello and Y/n struggles to keep moving through the cloud of her release.

“Fuck,” Andrew heaves, lifting his head as Y/n quakes around him. His breathing is heavy as he follows along, mind now far too tattered to properly enjoy the way she looks when she’s completely in ruins. So instead, Andrew hastily pulls his hand from her center and cradles the back of Y/n’s head, pulling her towards him so he can crush his lips to hers, the fervor of their kiss matching the thick warmth swirling around them.

That gorgeous scenery that they’ve been enjoying over the past few days – trees that soar towards the dimming sky, the bellies of green hills and the occasional burst of colour owed to wildflowers, all dusted by that golden evening hue – blurs around them, completely forgotten.

Even as they come down from the very top of it, Andrew’s breathing remains heavy, and he can feel Y/n’s heart pounding against her ribs.

“Jesus,” Y/n suspires when they break, shoulders slumping. Andrew chuckles briefly at her exclamation before sagging against the back of the chair, throwing his head back so he can stare up – but not really – at the ceiling. Looking down at herself, Y/n can’t help but feel the heat return to her cheeks upon noticing that she’s completely unclad. He’s seen her like that maybe a hundred times by now, if not more, but there’s always the tiniest bit of self-consciousness that sneaks up on her when he’s completely dressed and she’s….well, not

Abashed, Y/n throws herself against his chest and buries her face in the side of his neck. Andrew can feel her smile on his skin, and the way her fame shakes slightly with bashful giggles. “What?” He smiles, one hand settled on the small of her back while the other reaches for the side of her face, urging Y/n to look at him.

“You're still wearing all your clothes,” she giggles, tugging her lower lip between her teeth as she meets his gaze.

Briefly, Andrew glances down at himself; the first four buttons of his shirt are open, and his pants have made it to the middle of his thighs, but otherwise he’s still entirely clothed. “Shit, yeah,” he laughs softly. “Tell you what,” he meets her lips in a punctuating kiss, “gimme ten minutes, and then we’ll fix that.”

[fromthedust]

portrayals of bats before 1800:

Bat pendant - jade - China - Shang Dynasty - c.1600-1046 BCE Mastiff Bat Vessel - Moche culture of Peru - 200-850 Codex-style cylinder vase with bat holding plate of body parts - Mayan - c.680-750 The Bat God - terra cotta - Tezoquipan - Aztec - c.700 Bat - Aztec Bat - Aztec Bat - from the Aberdeen Bestiary - England - c. 1200 Bats - from De Natura animalium - Cambrai - c. 1270 Bat - from Pabenham-Clifford Book of Hours - England - c. 1315-1320 Albrecht Durer (German, 1471-1528) - Bat with outstretched wings, and another with wings folded - 15-16th century Albrecht Durer (German, 1471-1528) - stylized bat from Melencolia I - print - 1514 Pieter Boel (Flemish, 1622-1674) - Five Bats - 17th century The Batt - from 'A Description of a Great Variety of Animals and Vegetables' - edited by Thomas Boreman - 1736 bat-shaped vessel - ceramic - China - Qing Dynasty, 1736-95 bats flying over waves - porcelain bowl - China - Yongzheng period (1722-35) Pierre-Paul Barraband (French, 1767-1809) - Bat - 1793 Pierre-Paul Barraband (French, 1767-1809) - Bat - 1794

[fashionsfromhistory]

Any update on the pin?

Oh I'm sorry! I actually followed up on that privately. Unfortunately it's not the most exciting but let's talk about some of the basics about dating items here. There's some more jewelry specific info if you click this link.

So this is our very cute brooch! First off, we're in a super good starting point. We have a legible & clear makers mark! A quick google search reveals a lovely site called The Potteries, which is a list and some history on potters in the Stroke-on-Trent area. Unfortunately, the information on Cara China is scant. Here's the highlights:

The Cara China Co: Longton. Founded 1945

Cara China made fine bone china ornaments, broaches, earrings. Examples include garden benches with flowers winding around, all hand painted. In 1971, they had a visit from the Ambassador of Tunisia, Ismeal Kamel, and his American wife, who, although expected to make a short visit, stayed much longer.  His wife was very interested in English ceramics.

And we've hit a wall. If I wanted to get more information, I would either reach out to the local library to look at newspapers or perhaps email the owner of The Potteries. (Or if I was a local, chat up the grannies to see if they knew who I could talk to)

While the internet has made dating items immensely easier, there's still a lot of hitting the books you have to do. Fashion plates, comparing to other garments, going through family history/letters if able, etc. I find it to be a very interesting task. I would personally place it on the earlier side of our time frame because of the similarities to something like this vs something like this. But at the end of the day, sometimes you're not going to be able to narrow it down more than 1940s-1970s.

[whats-that-teacup]

Would you mind helping me find a teacup? It was a white ceramic (I think?) teacup with a yellow lip and strawberries. It used to be my mother's but I lost it in a move a few years ago. I wanna try and get a full set because I KNOW there used to be a matching plate at least. I drew a picture if that helps!

I've got some matches! Nothing that lines up perfectly I'm afraid, but here's what I was able to find:

Mikasa, Strawberry Festival

Wedgwood, Strawberry Hill

Sheffield, Strawberries N' Cream

Brick Oven, Strawberries

Nikko, Spring Valley

It was surprisingly difficult to find patterns with yellow trim specifically! Gilded trim is far and away the most common so I have included one or two that are gilded but yellowy still. Also an unexpectedly large number of strawberry patterns have green trim for some reason.

I really hope one of these is a match, or somewhat close! If not, feel free to tell me which of these is closest, and I'll keep digging in that direction. There are a lot of strawberry patterns out there, so it's likely I barely scratched the surface here!

And a fun fact for you: Mikasa, the first brand listed here, produces a lot of bone china. Despite it being viewed as generally fancier or higher quality, bone china originated as a substitute for the authentic hard-paste porcelain formula! Hard-paste is made with kaolin specifically, and countries outside of China struggled to figure out that formula for many years. Bone china uses a mixture of various minerals as well as bone ash, which (unlike other earlier soft-paste formulas) creates a durable and most importantly thin structure that doesn't collapse as easily in the kiln. The most common way people determine if bone china is authentic is holding it up to a light source and seeing how translucent the body is!

[yourcoffeeguru]

PARAGON Fine Bone China Trinket Decorative Plate Rose Floral Design made ENGLAND || SWtradepost - ebay

[dozydawn]

Pendants made from broken plates by LaValerieDesigns.

[thesmokingguns]

Naive

Breaking up wasn’t part of the plan. They were supposed to be endgame but as Izzy got out of his car and looked at his house, the one with the navy blue shutters that he had bought with her while whispering about the children they would raise in the spare rooms upstairs, he saw the aftershocks of warfare. 

His clothes were on the lawn, some of them had been burned from the way that smoke hung in the air and the charred remains smoldered like a warning as he walked up his driveway. The daffodils he had planted for her had been ripped out in a rage, the holes where they had been a reminder of their beauty. But it was his front door, thrown open and letting everyone look inside the clearly empty house that was the real proof that his wife was not going to be running out to greet him with a kiss after the tour. 

Which was fair because he had cheated on her. 

Yes, he was the cliche. The rockstar who couldn’t keep it in his pants. 

But to make it so much worse, it had been his ex-girlfriend who he had fallen back into bed with after a particularly bad show that Axl had shown up two hours late to. Izzy had been so mad and drunk that he had gone backstage, snorted a few lines and the next thing he remembered was the lights of a camera flashing and his cock in someone that was definitely not his wife.

He had tucked himself away, shocked and sick. Literally throwing up next to the girl who was screaming at him for being an asshole. Which was fair, he was the worst type of asshole out there. 

So he had called his wife, sobbing like a child as she answered the phone. Half asleep, woken up from his call and yet still answering because she knew that it was him. Because she was perfect and loved him and he was the worst.

The way she had just said, “Oh” when he told her what happened. How she hadn’t cried as he sobbed, begging her for forgiveness. She had been so quiet as he promised her it was a mistake and talked over and over again about how he was in love with her and this had all been just him being a fucked up mess. And she hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t damned him or told him that she hated him. 

How he wished she had. 

Izzy didn’t know when she had hung up the phone, nit when his sobs got softer he heard the dial tone buzzing in his ear and knew that she was gone. Yet he rushed to make it back home to her to try to save whatever was left. Knowing that what they had was everything. 

But she hadn’t been unaffected as she acted on the phone. And seeing the destruction caused from his infidelity hurt but not as much as knowing that he hadn’t been there for her as she broke down. 

Walking into his house, he saw a trash bag of their wedding china, pieces of each plate that had been smashed and then swept up and cleared from the floor. Bending down, his fingers found a ceramic piece, the blue line still showing up as he felt it prick his fingers, blood dropping on the floor. 

On the kitchen island was the paperwork. 

His lawyer had called to warn him about it. She had gone there this morning filed for the divorce right away because she knew her worth, knew she was worth more than him hurting her like this.

And still seeing it. Seeing her wanting to dissolve the marriage broke him all over again. 

He fell to his knees and sobbed, heart aching as he wished he could take back the mistake that he made and knowing that he couldn’t. It was done. 

And he had no one to blame but himself.