#daguerrotype era

[atomicjohndeerweaponssilos]

Daguerrotype Era Newspaper Headlines

[unnecessarysurgeriesonhermanlowe]

UNNECESSARY SURGERIES ON HERMAN LOWE

[saintbleeding]

[ID1: Three digital drawings of Tim and Danny Stoker from a Victorian-era AU. The first shows a toddler-aged Danny and mid-childhood Tim standing side-by-side, posed for daguerrotype. Danny is smiling innocently and there is a slight smile in Tim’s expression. In the next drawing, they are adults, and now Danny is taller than Tim, who has a moustache. Danny is wearing graduation robes and smiling proudly at Tim, who is giving him a humorously withering smirk in response. In the last drawing, Tim is in shirtsleeves, his waistcoat unbuttoned and cravat undone. He is looking down at a pocket watch in his hand with a sad expression, and there is an empty glass in his other hand.

ID2: Text reading “a husband or a child can be replaced but who can grow me a new brother”. End ID.]

STOKERS? YALL ORDERED STOKERS?? TOO BAD HERE THEY ARE

[elektrischemaidchen]

Lisztober #2: Daguerreotypes of Old

Our second entry for #Lisztober. Thank you, @franzliszt-official, for your kind words! We gratefully accept your advice and will now publish our postings & lyrics in English as well. (Unsere deutschen Follower finden den entsprechenden Text dann weiterhin auf unseren anderen Kanälen auf Facebook und Instagram ;))

Day 2!

The topic “Daguerrotypes” was somewhat predestined for us. At least, that’s what I thought. But yesterday looked something like this: 14.30 I stare at my notebook, the notebook stares back. 14.45 I pick up the Liszt photo book from the Ernst Burger collection and turn through the pages. I'm distracted by Franz. 15.00 I start a text about Louis Held's court atelier. I'm distracted by Franz again, who is looking sternly from his photos. 16.00 Whatever. I'm just going to write another typical Maidchen sing. Franz smiles, I smile as well. (He doesn't smile at all. Never, actually. Pure imagination). 17.30 I sit down to work on the music. 20.30 “It is pronounced Da-ger-oo-tüh-piiiii, can you please sing it like that?” 20.45 "No? Okay, whatever. We'll just use this take now." 21.45 Miss Lovelace looks over my shoulder and asks: “Well?” 22.30 There's a mistake in the „bridge“. I open a second bottle of redwine and have a cigarette. 23.15 Song finished. 23.30 Continue on writing the Beethoven lyrics for tomorrow. It's been on my desk for a really long time, was planned for the third album,  have a new divine inspiration. 23.45 Miss Lacelove asks me if I already have an idea for day 4 and if I could write something about “Études d'exécution transcendante”. I joke that it is of “increasing difficulty”. We have a good laugh. Afterwards I cry a little.

Lyrics (again, sorry, the translation does not work very well without the missing rhyme scheme):

Daguerreotypes What a beautiful theme Fits exactly Into our scheme I could write About Schenk and Schrecker About Louis Held And everyone else Of the old photographic world Who depicted Franz Back then But I am way too drained for this today And I also know That our listeners Are not into this very much so we just have to add some more blunt sexism So we stay true to ourselves And write about Our favourite dead composer posterboy Oh, only on Lehmann's painting That stands near our bedsides You’ll see the hot Franz who always Works out well Who always works out well It’s just the way it is To be honest Until eighteen hundred and fifty Liszt was so hardcore From eighteen sixty-five on onwards He lost his charms After that, as an Abbé, he was Special Interest Hanfstaengl‘s portraits We can still savour In the Weimar era it is hard to bear Franz as an old man Full of warts The body withered by cognac and smoking Oh, only on Lehmann's painting That stands near our bedsides You’ll see the hot Franz who always Works out well Who always works out well But even in this time still So people say He was still desirable Prey Oh, only on Lehmann's painting That stands near our bedsides You’ll see the hot Franz who always Works out well

[a-person-who-is-not-you]

Might be entering my Emily Dickinson daguerrotype era

[erinadetelos]

Qué lista? // La lista de foros en los que estuviste, así tus usuarios podemos estar tranquilos y no desconfiar de lo que dicen en tumblr... porque ya confirmaste que eras cangura y fuiste baneada, queremos saber hasta cuando fue eso, para registrarnos con seguridad el viernes.

Ah, a ver si me acuerdo

Mi primer foro

Valar Morghulis (2009). Aislin Baratheon

Winteriscoming (2010). Rukia Tormenta.

WOD (no recuerdo que significaban las siglas). 2013, me fui sola porque todo era tóxica, yo incluida. Arkiria Reed.

The Last Rebellion (era admin y armé un follón por lo que recuerdo eran dados trucados de otros admins, me pelee con esos admins y me fui). Actualmente, con la admin fundadora somos compinches y ex. Nos llevamos bien y nos tenemos los mejores deseos.

The unbreakable vow. Se murió solo. Carol Richards y Blaine Zabini. Se murió. Con algún user tuve conflicto porque le robe la partner y después nos encontramos en otros foros, nos arreglamos y fuimos amiguis.

Beyond the Veil. (Admin). No me pelee con nadie. Murió a los seis meses. Blaine Zabini y Carol Richards.

Last Curse. Me pelee con todo el staff por decirle que las tramas goblales eran un despropósito (soy autista y eso me hacía tener pocos filtros). Eso era lo que yo pensaba, lo explique mal y me llevo a tener conflictos. Lamento todo eso, me he reencontrado con algunos de los users y nos llevamos bien. Me gustaría encontrarme otros para pedirles disculpas.

Fire and Blood. Me pelee con el admin porque mandaba ask de mí a wepurge y lo descubrí. También era una roler medio pedante que caía mal, pero conflictos conflictos sólo fue ese. Luego de enterarme eso, seguí algo más en el foro y luego me fui sola. Luego, me banearon. Era Mya Ryos. Duré dos años.

Daguerrotype. Me fui yo por una injusticia a una amiga, me enfrenté al admin y me piré. Cyrano Montmorency

Ourworldwar. Duré DOS AÑOS. Hermoso foro. Ernestine Hoffman y Willhelm Schaltenbrand.

Sons of Rebellion. No problemas, simplemente murió a los meses. ADMIN. ROSITA PERDÓNAME, si ves esto vuelve, eras una gran amiga. Louis Weasley.

HogwartsRol. Me fui sola porque otro user me acosaba. No tuve problemas con nadie que sepa. Mathilde McMillan.

Homenum Revelio. Eso, Alecto Leicester. Posteamos muy lento pero quiero seguir en el foro.

New York. Dos años. 1920. Ningún problema con nadie.

Fire Will Reign. Me banearon sin darme razón válida más que tengo mala como dice Danna Paola. Ygor Corbray.

Así que ahí les dejo los foros y pjs que puedo recordar. Baneada, dos o tres veces en total en más de 10 años.

[agoddamn]

I love magitech settings so I consider Naruto's disparate tech to be a feature rather than a bug tbh. Fun things are fun and all. The manga is soft enough on logic in other areas [gestures to everything about Konoha drama] that the tech issues mostly don't bug me.

I even find it fun to think about! Like, Founders-era probably had ice boxes! Daguerrotypes (if modern Nart has Polaroids, early formal photography fits for Founders era)! It's Edo Japan plus Victorian (late Renaissance?) tech in a very entertaining way. Considering the existence of lightning release, shinobi researchers probably had a huge headstart on harnessing electricity versus real life--IRL electrical really got under way in an unstoppable sense around the 1600s-1700s because IRL we can't shoot lightning out of our hands--and Tobirama is perfectly positioned to have some insane Tesla/Edison-level drama. I embrace it.

It was good enough for FF6, it's good enough for Naruto.

...but the laptops in Boruto are a little much, even for me. Don't make me fucking look at a USB scroll, man. Cursed shit.

[otp-holic]

The one place (where something happened) (A03)

“In your life there are a few places, or maybe only the one place, where something happened, and then there are all the other places.” Alice Munro. (or the one where they receive a letter from a familiar name and we go into 4Ks of fluff around a lost afternoon in France)

4K. Lamely explicit at one point. Fanfic + Pictures Inside. Trigger for FLUFF as the main plot. Part of the Never let us lose what we have gained series (AO3)

This was supposed to be a manip with 200 words of bantering and it's now 4Ks of fluff with a few pictures. I've decided to leave them inside the cut because I feel they work better with its context there. I'm sorry for the hassle, but I really hope you give this a chance... unless you have cavities, only like fics with amazing plots or are allergic to shameless fluff.

Please do not repost the pictures, I know this is futile, but… I try :)

DAGUERROTYPE, France 1944 Private Collection.

Steve is cooling down from his very early run, enjoying the feeling of the pink sunrise looming over the awakening Brooklyn streets as he walks the last couple of blocks on the way home, when his phone beeps.

“Check your actual mailbox, we dropped something for you there. I think you should appreciate us making it old-fashioned just for you, grandpas!”

Steve smiles at Sam’s text and as soon as he arrives at their building he snaps a picture of the very common and flat envelope with “Barnes&Rogers” scribbled on top of a Stark Logo, to send along his response.

“Nice try, but this is inaccurate. A letter would have never made its way to us without an address or stamp. We’ll send you a proper thank you card to show you how it’s done.”

He can’t help but chuckle at his own joke rereading the text while he opens the door, and when he looks up from his phone and into the kitchen, he is received by a sleepy Bucky looking at the coffee machine like he looks at Steve during their most soft and embarrassingly cheesy moments.

“You love that thing more than you love me, confess it.”

“In the mornings? Yes. I don’t even like you in the mornings most of the time,” he answers matter of factly. “Want some?”

Steve playfully wiggles an eyebrow.

“No way. Your sweaty self is tempting, but coffee smells better. I might join you in the shower later.” Bucky offers him one of the two cups he has poured and he notices the envelope Steve is holding. “What is that?”

“We’ve got mail!” He hands it to Bucky. “I have no idea what's on it, but Sam texted me to say they had something delivered to our mailbox and there it was. Open it.”

Bucky leaves the cup on the counter, face sparked with a curiosity that makes him look twenty-one (and Steve weak on the knees), and goes for it.

The content is a bit underwhelming at first glance: Another envelope, white, no Stark logo, but topped with a bright green post-it with a note on Pepper’s script.

“This got to me via PR. We analyzed it and checked with the source (no peeking, I swear) and it seems legit. With that return address, it’s likely to arouse your interest. Love, P.”

Bucky tears off the post-it and the letter is revealed to be addressed to Steve Rogers at the Stark Tower, but it is when they turn it around when everything goes still for a second.

The return address is some street in Marseille, but what has Steve’s mouth dry and Bucky’s hand trembling just a bit is the combination of the place and the name written on top: Emmanuelle Jaques Dernier.

“Boom?”, Bucky says, trying to cut through their heavy hearts and taking Steve’s hand. It’s a terrible terrible joke, but Dernier would have loved it and he grins.

“That’s a terrible terrible joke,” Steve verbalizes, “but I think at least we’ve reached the same conclusion.”

“Elementary, my dear Steve,” Bucky answers as he opens the second envelope, only to reveal a folded letter and yet another envelope. “It’s a fucking vault of paper!”

Steve takes the letter from him, unfolds it, and quickly scans it (normal office paper, printed, hand-signed) before he starts reading it out loud to Bucky’s undivided attention.

“Dear Mr. Rogers,

My name is Emmanuelle Dernier and I am the great-grandson of Jaques Dernier of the Howling Commandos.

First, let me tell you that we all in our family grew up with amazing stories and praise for you, Sergeant Barnes, and the rest of the team. I never got to meet my great-grandfather or any of them (you), but I’ve always felt like I did.

In fact, that’s the ultimate reason behind this letter: I ached to honor him and I’ve been putting in order all his remaining letters, pictures, and memories so they don’t get lost forever, and there are many things I’m discovering through this journey. So many pictures and tiny details… and amongst them, you and the rest of the Commandos appear at the most random and memorable moments. Nothing that’s going to make it into history books, more like the stories my grandpa used to share with us over and over again, those important tidbits that make him more human.

Anyway, I was going through the pictures he kept when I came across some war photos that didn’t seem to match the 40s timeframe. Typical daguerreotypes from the 20s in a very bad state, probably taken with a camera from the era in 1944 and developed on a later date by somebody who clearly didn’t master the technique.

They were in a very bad state and hidden inside an envelope that said “Terribly drunk soldiers in France making idiots of ourselves in unique and creative ways. Fun evening, horrible hangover. About 20 miles west of the Maginot Line. Autumn ‘44”. I’m attaching a photocopy of that, I hope you can understand my decision to keep the original.

After restoring the daguerreotypes with some experts, all I got were five very bad pictures with silhouettes of people apparently having fun…. but there was one that got a lot better in the cleaning process that feels important somehow. I’m sending the original, as well as the restored version I got.

I, of course, don’t have the whole context, but I hope it brings back a good memory. My great-grandpa might be in the picture, but I don’t think this one belongs to my family or to a museum.

Thank you for your service, I really hope this letter finds its way to you.

E.Dernier.”

“I can’t believe… Steve, most days I’m convinced that day and that place are a figment of my imagination,” Bucky smiles, remembering. “When I think of a moment of pure joy during the war, I think about that afternoon in France, and it always feels unreal. A bubble of air and laughter while we were so surrounded by death.”

Steve nods, reminiscing about that warm and humid September morning when they arrived at yet another abandoned and destroyed little village, this one about twenty miles west of the Maginot Line. They had orders to lie low and wait for twenty-four hours before they started the maneuver to wipe another Hydra base off the map, and that little town was perfect for that.

Among bomb debris and fallen walls, they found one small building miraculously standing next to the remains of the church, so they decided to set camp under a roof for a change since the weather was being a little flickery with the rain, and they had the rare luxury of time.

The inside of the tiny house was as unusual as the outside: nothing was destroyed beyond being dusty and worn by time, and everything they found (furniture, kitchenware, and even fabrics) belonged more to Steve and Bucky’s early childhoods than to 1944, a living museum frozen in time.

Only it was not a museum, but the parish house left untouched and non-raided: old-fashioned clothes, outdated church books, yellowing clergy collars, and, of course, the wine cellar. Oh, that wine cellar… the havoc it unleashed.

“I remember the absolute excitement when Falsworth found all those bottles of old unscathed mass wine from the parish,” Steve brings his memory to words, looking at Bucky, “I’m still a little convinced that we are going to hell for drinking them.”

“Not for that, probably, but it was a wonder nobody died on the spot of wine poisoning, it tasted like sweet vinegar, ugh.”

“But it did his part, right? Took our minds off things; got us drunk, bold and silly.” Steve answers.

“Apparently not all of us,” Bucky says very seriously, looking at Steve.

“Technicalities… I got drunk by proxy. Seeing you all so happy made me giddy and tipsy, too.”

“I came and went… I remember being a little surprised at the clarity of my thoughts at some moments there when some of the guys were basically drooling on the floor. Now I understand, of course.”

Steve squeezes his hand, not much to be said there.

They were already way too drunk by the early afternoon, drinking to the sound of a sudden rainstorm pouring outside. All of them scattered across the small dusty living room and its adjoining kitchen while they went through all the bottles of wine they had been able to find. Cheering for the foregone priest every time somebody raised a glass, and laughing as if there were no ruins or war on the other side; just silly men (boys, really) laughing their hearts out.

“Earth to Steve… I don’t know about you, but I’m dying to see what the hell that envelope is hiding. Especially now that we know about its time stamp.”

“I’m sorry, me too! Gabe drunkenly handling that old camera and those glass plaques the way he did? I’m honestly impressed that he was able to take any pictures at all,” he muses. “Shit, is it weird that I’m nervous?”

“I’m gonna save us the bantering because I’m nervous, too,” Bucky answers in all sincerity. “Truth is, Steve, I remember everything about that day.”

It’s a new admission, a newly opened door for them because for some reason, they have never talked about that peaceful surreal afternoon, and Steve nods in recognition as he silently goes for the envelope one-handed, not wanting to let go of Bucky’s hand because his surface is way cooler than his wrenching insides. Maybe the picture is an overexposed french wall but maybe…

The photo he extracts from the envelope is clearly the original and damaged one Emmanuelle specified in his letter. Anybody else looking at it would see nothing beyond Dernier’s blurry profile, but since Steve and Bucky were there when this was taken, they know exactly what moment Steve is holding in his hand.

“Buck,…” is all Steve can say, struck by the blurry keepsake.

Later in the afternoon when they had already consumed most of the wine and there was not a single coherent thought left in the room, one of the guys took the parish books and besottedly announced that there was a wedding set for today… thirty years ago. Alcohol fueled a goofy idea that escalated at the speed of light, with Morita saying they were going to a wedding because they deserved a celebration, Dernier confessing that he had once considered becoming a priest, and Dum-dum bringing out all the old fashioned clothes from the wardrobe and deciding they were getting nice and clean for the festivities.

“That’s clearly Dernier in the picture killing it in his priest role, right?” Bucky says, half smiling and interrupting Steve’s thoughts. “You know, I went all-in with that fake wedding party. I was laughing to tears when I saw you put on that ridiculously long and ill-fitting jacket from the 10s, feeling weightless and silly for the first time since sailing off, and God knows we all deserved that. And it was all safe and light-hearted until fucking Morita decided you had to be the groom, and...”

“Were you jealous because I won the dashing groom competition?”

Steve’s attempt at a joke is weak, but there’s truth behind it: Morita chose Steve as the groom (“Cap, you are the most dashing and the least drunk”) to a chorus of excited voices cheering for him. Somebody else, most likely Dum-Dum, chose the rest of the roles (Sarge, best man duty; Jones, camera; Morita, keep the wine flowing; the rest of you, misbehave!) and in the blink of an eye, they were all going outside laughing under a light rain, and about to celebrate Steve’s fictional wedding to nobody.

“How could I be jealous?” Bucky cuts in. “Do you remember all you said to me that afternoon? During World War II and in front of a battalion of men?”

“I was drunk.”

“Fuck you!” Bucky disentangles his hand from Steve’s to use both of them to hold Steve’s face and kiss him with violence. “Tell me. Do you remember what you said?”

As if he could ever forget. He can recall every step he took from the house to the makeshift wedding spot amidst the trees where his best man (looking dapper even in that ludicrous jacket) was laughing along Dernier. He can still smell the petrichor, can still sense the blush coloring his cheeks while hoping nobody noticed and can still hear the beating of his heart when Bucky handed him a battered umbrella (“You don’t deserve to get rained on your wedding day, punk”) and a fucking ring made out his shoelaces (“You’ll have to buy something a little more permanent.”). And then…

“Dernier started the ceremony and he wanted to know if I had somebody in mind and I said ‘of course’.” He replays, his voice barely a whisper. “I said I’d had my eyes on a brown-haired Brooklynite since before I could remember. I said that I was pretty sure those blue eyes were set on mine too and that hopefully those eyes would be set enough to want to marry me even if I had never dared to ask.”

He’s been holding Bucky’s gaze the whole time, and he’s far from over yet, but he needs to fucking breathe before he goes on. Neither of them has moved a muscle for the past minute.

“Then he asked me to repeat the wedding vows after him and…”

“And you said Buck, right?”, Bucky interrupts, voice winded. “You fucking whispered I take you, Buck, as my lawful wedded husband till the end of the line. I heard, Steve. Even if the rest of the world didn’t, I did. But you never said anything, so I always deemed it impossible, a product of the corniest nook of my mind trying to outweigh all those bad things, because not even you could be as bold, reckless, and mushy as to do that,…it’s my fucking fault, I should have known better!”

“Not completely reckless, pal. I was scared shitless as I said those words, but what else could I do? You were right by my side about to put a ring on my finger as my “best man”, everyone, including you, supposedly drunk past recollection, and everybody else too far away to hear my whispers. It was such an easy choice in the end because truth should always win over fear. And those vows were. The truth.”

“You have always been too honest for your own good, Rogers,” Bucky is breathless and exasperated and goes for his mouth again, bringing in all he (they) couldn’t in 1944. “You destroyed me, Steve. My knees were as weak as a teenager’s in front of his first crush. I wanted to kiss you so badly when I heard you say all that there in the open… and I couldn’t even acknowledge it.”

“I know. And for what it's worth, I really thought you didn’t remember.”

It is too much. Is it normal to feel this much? Steve would blame it on the serum enhancements, but he was already overwhelmed at 16, so that’s clearly not the answer.

He craves, no, he needs touching, grounding, closer. Bucky. There’s too much space between them even if they are back to kissing like they would have that day in 44, and at any other time if their own lives wouldn’t have stolen those moments from them.

“It happened.” Bucky whimpers, biting on Steve’s lip who abandons his own stool to straddle him, both of them gasping in sync at the feeling of their cocks, hard against each other’s through their soft pants.

Bucky soon ups the stakes by carding his metal hand through Steve’s hair pulling his head backwards to help himself into that spot on his neck.

“Same two moles as when you were tiny, as when we were at that war... Your cute vampire bite. Favorite spot.” He licks on them with the tip of his tongue. Steve growls on cue and Bucky giggles. “Favorite chain reaction.”

“Buck, you cheater, you know what that does to me!” Steve cries out followed by Bucky’s evil chuckle.”Bed, couch, countertop,…I don’t care, but naked. Now. Stained pants due to heavy petting are too much of a trip down memory lane for me. Let me keep a bit of my dignity.”

Steve stands up liberating Bucky from his grip but aching at the loss of contact.

They are naked and making out in the middle of the kitchen in no time; Bucky steadily pushing him against the refrigerator while fiercely grinding against his crotch.

“Hey, ‘teve,” Bucky pants. “The way this is going, it’s my dignity now that's at risk. I don’t think I can make it further than the floor before I come.”

Steve groans into his mouth just at the thought and they start sliding to the floor the best they can until he’s a human blanket moving over Bucky. With no lube at hand, and no time, that’s their best option.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, his hands not leaving Bucky’s sweaty hair. Bucky’s hands on his ass, forcing their groins closer with one while he (almost absently) plays around his hole with the other, driving Steve crazy in the process. Dicks left to do their own thing through pressure and friction. Everything is working. And fast.

“Oh, fuck!” Bucky exclaims “Can you promise me all this stuff with the letter was real and not a long-con plan to assure your fragile masculinity that I love you more than I love that espresso machine?”

That. That silly unfunny excuse of a joke that screams Bucky all over is what pushes Steve all the way over the edge. He fucking laughs as he comes making absolutely embarrassing sounds, pressing their foreheads and noses together until it hurts, and shaking from head to toe without stoping his pressure on the stupid and smug man under him. His lover. His partner. His unofficial husband. His best friend.

His Buck.

“There’s still too much blood in your brain if you can play that dirty,” Steve states, placing one hand between them grabbing Bucky’s hard cock. “Let’s see if I can do anything about it.”

“Your hand, usually so helpful, but I was already following you after that sound you make when you come and laugh at the same time, shit, it always goes straight to my dick, I’m,…” he keeps talking with difficulty between breaths and moans until he leaves his speech unfinished coming all over Steve’s fist.

They kiss on the lips breathing into each other before Steve rolls over. They are sticky and panting in silence, spread on their kitchen’s floor, Steve’s shoulders crushed between Bucky’s and the dishwasher. Domestic bliss at its most literal.

One lavish fuck and two showers later they reemerge into the kitchen in search of something to eat: Bucky is in charge of the food today, while Steve cleans the mess they left a couple of hours ago.

He’s decluttering the counter when their damaged picture laying there puts a smile on his face but also reminds him of the restored version presumably still waiting inside the disregarded letter, so he grabs the envelope to retrieve its contents: one photocopy (from Dernier’s original writing), and the promised photo.

And it is restored. Everything is clear where it was blurry before: Dernier (so deep into his priest impersonation that he’s not even looking at them), the trees, the battered umbrella, the ridiculous jackets… and them.

“You had the nerve to call me reckless and mushy, Buck?” Steve laughs as he stares at the picture where a very young Bucky is about to put a ring on his finger with the least subtle lovestruck expression he’s ever seen (“and it’s for you”, his brain proudly reminds him) “Wow, you might as well be kissing me there, anything would be more subtle than this!”

“Don’t shame me, you punk, especially not when you were the one responsible for breaking my brain back then!” Bucky answers coming from behind and stealing the picture from his hands to scrutinize it. Goofy grin and raging blush quickly taking over his face. “But you’re one to talk, Cap. You are gazing at that shoelace’s ring as if I were handing you a diamond tiara!”

Steve laughs softly at that and moves his right hand to his pocket, feeling the weight of the little compass he had retrieved earlier from one of his drawers. He used to carry it with him everywhere for comfort, but he has a better option now.

“Didn't you know that shoelaces are forever?” He asks, taking the compass out of his pocket and holding it in both hands as he opens it, nudging Bucky with his elbow to get his attention.

Bucky is confused for an instant while he looks at his young face staring at them from inside the little box. Of course he knew that (he made fun of Steve for days and days) but Steve detects the change in his expression when he notices the other thing.

“Wow, you gigantic sap,” Bucky says, taking the compass out of his hands to double-check he is seeing what he thinks he’s seeing. “You saved my shoelace.”

He had. While they were all celebrating his wedding under the rain dancing to no music, he quietly slipped the little string off his finger and tied it to the most secure place he had back then.

“It’s not a shoelace, you jerk, it’s a symbol. A declaration.” He laughs, stealing the compass back to safely pocket it again.

“You are delusional,” Bucky snorts, kissing the top of his head. But he’s widely smiling and lost in thought as he goes back to their sandwiches.

Steve stays on the spot enjoying the peace in their silent companionship, his focus on the latest news showing up on his phone, the text he’s writing to Sam and the comforting sounds of Bucky moving around the kitchen.

“You might have married me, but I never actually married you.” Bucky blurts out of the blue a bit later, sitting by his side as he hands him a plate with a sandwich and some grilled greens on it. “Do you want mayo with that?”

“Uh?” Steve forgets all about the news and the text and looks at Bucky in confusion.

“Mayo, do you want some?” Bucky repeats nonchalantly.

“No mayo, thank you; but I was actually more interested in the other part, you know, that thing about marriage?”

Bucky looks him in the eye: earnest, blushing and with the same look of smug adoration he had on the picture.

“Oh, that part.” He jokes. “You apparently married me in 1944, but I never married you back. And I would like to.”

“Marry me?” Steve asks and Bucky visibly nods.

“I’m sorry for throwing the idea at you like this, books tell me I'm supposed to have candles, music, and a ring, but you showed me that restored picture and I couldn't stop thinking about it, about proof,” Bucky speaks uncharacteristically slow and very softly, voice trembling here and there while he claps his hand with Steve’s finger by finger for reassurance and as a distraction. “A single photo had the power to transform a moment that existed just as a made-up happy place inside my mind into something tangible and real. Something that would be tangible and real for anybody getting a hold on it and looking at our stupid faces.”

“So stealthy,” Steve says, and they both laugh together.

“Proof, Steve. I was slicing tomatoes and thinking how there’s so much evidence, thousands of files! out there proving that all the stuff that fuels my nightmares were real, but nothing solid about this. Us.” Bucky stops for a moment collecting his thoughts, still smiling even with the heavy subject he just dropped into the mix. “Sorry, I believe I put more time into these sandwiches than into thinking this all the way through so I’m…”

“Take your time, we’ve gone from mayo to marriage to nightmares in five minutes so don’t worry, you have me hooked here.”

Steve makes Bucky laugh again as he intended, and he feels their calloused laced fingers immediately squeezing closer.

“It’s stupid because it doesn’t change anything for us but,.. I don’t fucking know, Steve, I think that picture has messed up with my mind! I instantly found comfort in the idea of people finding facts beyond the nightmares now or in the future. An easy to understand, universal and oversimplified proof of how much I loved you and how much I was loved in return.” Bucky takes a breath and stares at him sporting a million-watt smile. “Marrying you,… I would really love that. And for real this time.”

“Ok, Buck.” Steve instantly replies, eagerness winning over thoughtful and heartfelt declarations. He tightens the grip on their joined hands to drive them to his lips and seals the easiest answer he’s ever had to give.

And it's done!Sorry for the cavities, for going on with the fic when it should have ended and for ending it where it might have had to keep going. It was painful and fun. I'm free!

[painterlegendx]

Ten Easy Painting Christmas Tips You Need To Learn Now - Easy Painting Christmas

The tube — the additional aggregate of posters accession Oliver’s assignment at the aiguille of his career — was affiliated to what my boyhood academician ability accept looked like, had it been slid out of its skull and continued beyond a table. Somehow, the albums Oliver advised were all amid my favorites — my car was chaotic with arenaceous cassette dubs and mixes of a ample block of the 4AD archive — and I’ve never doubted that the beheld accent he created to draw their disparate sounds into the aforementioned cosmos of blush and collage was added than hardly amenable for this coincidence.

Christmas Paintings On Canvas Easy Ideas In Home 6 .. | easy painting christmas

6+ Easy Canvas Painting Ideas for Christmas 6 - easy painting christmas | easy painting christmas

Simple Christmas TREE Step by Step Acrylic Painting on Canvas for Beginners - easy painting christmas | easy painting christmas

RezClick - Whimsy Paint and Sip: Calendar in 6 .. | easy painting christmas

6 Easy Canvas Painting Ideas | Christmas paintings on .. | easy painting christmas Oliver was, afterwards all, amenable for the attending of the absolute discography of my admired bandage at the time, the Pixies: from the awful breeding of the daguerrotypical images on aboriginal releases like “Come On Pilgrim” and “Surfer Rosa” to the analytical monkeys and vectors adorning “Doolittle” appropriate on up to the eyeball-studded fleshscapes of “Trompe Le Monde.”He was additionally the blurred eyes abaft my admired releases from The Breeders — from the rubbed-eye ashen smears and beginning stalks of “Pod,” to the elephants and barren book of “Safari,” to the glossy, glassy, goo-strewn hearts of “Last Splash.” He could cede the abrupt burghal jailbait noir that supercharged Throwing Muses’ “House Tornado" and carbon the ballerina dream of Belly’s “Star.”

6+ Easy Canvas Painting Ideas for Christmas | Christmas .. | easy painting christmas And while Oliver was an ocean abroad in London, his designs seemed to ascertain the apple about (and inside) me, extending from shelves at the bounded almanac boutique to the posters that bashed my bedchamber walls, allegorical not aloof a countless of designers who aerial his smudgy colors, tidily adventuresome typography, and calmly evocative imagery, but additionally the absolute affection that amidst the music it approved to abduction on paper.The beyond of Oliver’s assignment seemed to actualize the ambiguous spectrum of affections of my boyhood spent amid headphones — from the alone bed that apparitional the awning of Red House Painters’ “Down Colorful Hill" to the athrill abstractions streaking beyond the skies of Cocteau Twins’ “Heaven or Las Vegas.” He created a continuum of abasement to adorableness that acquainted added like accomplished art than bald anthology cover.Hearing about his casual — and cerebration of the countless means he emerged in my activity aloof through his designs — feels like a abstraction in anachronisms. It’s adamantine to explain to addition alike 10 years adolescent than me the aberrant acceptation that anthology covers had — the way they packaged not aloof the article of the record, but the acquaintance of experiencing it.It was a accident I aboriginal acquainted aback the bins at my bounded Strawberries in the Searstown Mall were repurposed to board the admission longboxes that housed the then-ascendant media of CDs. You could feel the animality of music starting to abate into ones and zeros, bargain to accurate bits. The album, with its pictures in complete and its complete in pictures, was acceptable added portable, and as CDs themselves were afford in favor of files, the animality of the anthology started to feel wasteful, if not absolute vestigial.Columns far best than this could be (and accept been) accounting about what the liberation of music from the banned of concrete media has done to our acquaintance of it. And while technology has accustomed us a “lossless” acquaintance of music as we’ve drifted added into the alive era, the aforementioned can’t be said of the beheld and concrete ambit of music that designers like Oliver aloft into such emotionally and aesthetically complete experiences.Of course, we haven’t absolutely alone Oliver’s bequest (or able his shadow) — if anything, it’s about like we’ve addled the almanac and started over again. The year 2019 was the aboriginal in three decades that vinyl annal outsold CDs; and while that $225 actor or so is but a baby atom of what the alive casework brought in, it’s additionally a little indicator that the art of the anthology isn’t absolutely lost.What ability booty a little best to accompany aback is the faculty of association that a artist like Oliver was able to create, aloof by apperception what his admired music ability attending like. In an era aback award your bodies was as adamantine as award yourself, Oliver begin a way about the ambit amid us: He let us dream the aforementioned dream.Michael Andor Brodeur can be accomplished at mbrodeur@globe.com. Follow him on Twitter @MBrodeur. Ten Easy Painting Christmas Tips You Need To Learn Now - Easy Painting Christmas - easy painting christmas | Encouraged to be able to the blog, with this time period I am going to teach you about keyword. And from now on, this is the primary graphic: Read the full article

[insanecleanposse]

ofpaperandponies:

That light blue background is actually an additional border that the studio attached the photograph to. Attaching the photograph to an additional background was not uncommon (though I’ve never seen this color used before) in the era of daguerrotypes, ambrotypes, and tintypes (the hard images). Once photography advanced to cartes-de-visite and cabinet cards being the norm, the fact that they were paper prints eliminated the need for an additional border, made from a separate sheet of paper.

The pose is typical of the 1840s-late 1880s, where the body was made to appear as if only asleep, and was a denial of death in many photographs. The Burns Archive has three books of “Sleeping Beauty” from during and around this time that have some very unsettling images in them.

[kevin-cable-photography]

WALL ART https://fineartamerica.com/profiles/kevin-cable.html?tab=artworkgalleries&artworkgalleryid=718886 From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia Fine art photography is photography created in accordance with the vision of the artist as photographer. Fine art photography stands in contrast to representational photography, such as photojournalism, which provides a documentary visual account of specific subjects and events, literally re-presenting objective reality rather than the subjective intent of the photographer; and commercial photography, the primary focus of which is to advertise products or services. One photography historian claimed that "the earliest exponent of 'Fine Art' or composition photography was John Edwin Mayall, "who exhibited daguerrotypes illustrating the Lord's Prayer in 1851".[15] Successful attempts to make fine art photography can be traced to Victorian era practitioners such as Julia Margaret Cameron, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, and Oscar Gustave Rejlander and others. In the U.S. F. Holland Day, Alfred Stieglitz and Edward Steichen were instrumental in making photography a fine art, and Stieglitz was especially notable in introducing it into museum collections. In the UK as recently as 1960, photography was not really recognised as a Fine Art. Dr S.D.Jouhar said, when he formed the Photographic Fine Art Association at that time - "At the moment photography is not generally recognized as anything more than a craft. In the USA photography has been openly accepted as Fine Art in certain official quarters. It is shown in galleries and exhibitions as an Art. There is not corresponding recognition in this country. The London Salon shows pictorial photography, but it is not generally understood as an art. Whether a work shows aesthetic qualities or not it is designated 'Pictorial Photography' which is a very ambiguous term. The photographer himself must have confidence in his work and in its dignity and aesthetic value, to force recognition as an Art rather than a Craft" Home Decor Gallery https://fineartamerica.com/profiles/kevin-cable.html?tab=artworkgalleries&artworkgalleryid=718886 see the images in the gallery for your clients and yourself!

[genderrepresentationart-ohm-blog]

“[T]he public perception and censorship of the female body in regards to breastfeeding remains complicated...The introduction of bottle feeding and formula, the hyper sexualization of women’s breasts in World War II pin-ups, and numerous other cultural moments have contributed to how we might currently view these mid-19th century images today. Yet overall there is a candid tenderness to them, with one woman’s white-gloved hand cradling a child, the details of a woman’s dangling earrings and the baby below’s clenched fist in another, that offers a rare glimpse into the now anonymous lives of these 19th-century women."

--Laura C. 2/14/2017

[talkallthehiddles]

From Old Masters to Canvas Photo Portraits

Centuries ago, artists like Diego Velazquez created remarkable family pictures using oil paint on canvas, presenting a mastery of lighting, composition, and brush approach. Today, this type of colored face, often commissioned by noble families and royalty, hangs in several museums throughout the world. In our technological era, photographs have largely replaced oil paintings while the preferred choice for memorializing familial groups. Nevertheless, also the advancement of photography hasn't totally wiped out the traditional way of family portraiture.

The Old Masters were usually known and popular for their ability in portraiture. One of the upper classes, an individual or party interpretation decorated with a skilled artist was one strategy to ensure that death did not mean the household name was destined for oblivion. Heads of state, wealthy merchants and their wives -- and undoubtedly mistresses - and illustrious public figures all chased instant immortality within the form of a canvas portrait. Of course, immortality via portraiture was a custom using a long history dating back centuries. Nonetheless it acquired new life with all the increase of artwork inside the Dark Ages and Renaissance. A canvas picture by a master like Rembrandt or Holbein was no small endeavor, particularly when it indicated a large class; often, subjects were necessary to stay or stand stiffly all day on-end since the painter sketched. For hundreds of years, before appearance of photography until in the mid-19th century, oil or watercolor on canvas was the most used method of memorializing your family line. Once Louis Daguerre had perfected a way of taking a still image and moving it to your lasting area, the game changed forever.

Although designers could continue to seek out picture work, Daguerrotypes, then tintypes, and eventually Paperbacked images turned the favorite medium for family photographs. Economics undoubtedly played a role in the surge of the photo portrait. Indeed, for a longtime, only the poorer classes wanted to have themselves immortalized in pictures. The fortunate few kept the use of a professional artist, watching your family face as an appearance of artistic merit as much as an individual history. As images became a matter of mass production, slowly also brains of condition yielded to portrait photography. Nowadays, outside of Buckingham Palace, modern family pictures in fat are hardly to be found. But the usage of fabric images as a channel for portraiture has identified another life in the type of photo transfers. Professional photographic services can turn digital images or into material photos - filled with simulated brushstrokes - at highly affordable prices. So one day in the foreseeable future, the Joneses of Mainstreet may hold alongside Spain's royal family, both immortalized on canvas because of canvas pictures. Learn more info foto portrait

[sixtytenboogie]

From Old Masters to Canvas Photo Portraits

Ages ago, artists like Diego Velazquez made unique family pictures using oil paint on canvas, showing a competence of light, arrangement, and brush technique. Today, this type of colored family portrait, typically commissioned by noble families and royalty, weighs in several museums throughout the world. In our technological era, pictures have largely replaced oil paintings as the preferred medium for memorializing familial groups. Nevertheless, perhaps the development of photography has not completely destroyed the original way of family portraiture.

The Old Masters were generally acknowledged and desired for their expertise in portraiture. Among the upper classes, a single or class depiction painted by a qualified performer was one solution to ensure that death didn't mean your family name was destined for oblivion. Heads of state, wealthy merchants and their spouses -- not to mention mistresses - and illustrious public figures all chased instant immortality in the kind of a canvas portrait. Of course, immortality via portraiture was a convention using a long history dating back centuries. However it gained new living with the surge of painting inside the Dark Ages and Renaissance. A canvas picture with a master like Rembrandt or Holbein was no small project, particularly when it represented a big collection; frequently, subjects were required to stay or stand stiffly all night on end because the painter sketched. For more than 100 years, until the arrival of photography until in the middle-19th century, fat or watercolor on material was the most used approach to memorializing your family line. Once Louis Daguerre had improved a means of recording a still image and moving it to a lasting surface, the sport changed forever.

Though artists could continue to get symbol work, Daguerrotypes, then tintypes, and eventually Paperbacked images turned the favorite medium for family photographs. Economics definitely played a task within the rise of the photo picture. Indeed, to get a long time, only the poorer classes wanted to own themselves immortalized in images. The fortunate few kept the usage of a specialist painter, observing your family face as an expression of artistic merit around a personal record. As photos turned a matter of mass production, slowly also brains of condition produced to portrait photography. Today, outside of Buckingham Palace, modern family pictures in oil are hardly to be found. Nevertheless the use of material pictures being a method for portraiture has identified a second life in the type of photo transfers. Professional photographic services can change digital prints or into fabric photographs - complete with simulated brushstrokes - at extremely affordable prices. So one day in the future, the Joneses of Mainstreet might hold alongside Spain's royal family, both immortalized on canvas due to material images. Discover more info foto portrait

[thestereotypebuster]

Give him a break, porn for this era is like, blurry daguerrotypes of people's bare legs. Let him at least have the theater.

Yea I bet he would 👀