#frieze master

[luheheheheheda]

Maps

[abetc]

Frieze 2023

London, UK

[vintagehomecollection]

Master bedroom of the house in the San Francisco Bay Area. The palette of this room was inspired by the soft colors that can be seen in many of the interiors designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh. The Glasgow Rose is the motif used in the panels of the wallpaper frieze outlined with narrow geometric borders.

The Bungalow: America’s Arts & Crafts Home, 1995

[commiepinkofag]

"Buddies"

Located in the ancient city’s wealthy quarter, the sprawling House of the Vettii was owned by Aulus Vettius Restitutus and Aulus Vettius Conviva, who became rich by selling wine after being freed from slavery.

Theories in the past have suggested that the two men were brothers, but it is more likely that they met when enslaved and had the same master, whose name was Aulus Vettius, according to Gabriel Zuchtriegel, the director of Pompeii archaeological park.

“If they were from the same family the first two names would have been different and they would have the same surname,” he said. “It was uncommon to have biological siblings who were slaves and then set free, because family ties were cut with slavery so it’s very unlikely they were brothers. It’s more likely that they were buddies during their time as slaves and then set free.”

[ancientartarcheology]

Legendary Mummy Portrait Hits the Market With a Seven-Figure Price Tag

https://news.artnet.com/art-world/fayum-portrait-l-frieze-masters-2549252

[mariana-oconnor]

The Dancing Men pt 2

In part one we had a couple who were failing at communication and a mysterious and ominous, yet also adorable, string of messages left by a dark figure (and probably replied to by the wife).

The moment that Hilton Cubitt's broad back had disappeared through the door my comrade rushed to the table, laid out all the slips of paper containing dancing men in front of him, and threw himself into an intricate and elaborate calculation.

Enrichment has been provided. It's a puzzle! Puzzle time.

...I was aware that Holmes liked to make his disclosures at his own time and in his own way...

Holmes bent over this grotesque frieze for some minutes, and then suddenly sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise and dismay. His face was haggard with anxiety. “We have let this affair go far enough,” said he. “Is there a train to North Walsham to-night?”

Do you mean to say that refusing to tell people relevant information that might affect their lives until you feel the necessary drama is possible is perhaps backfiring on you?

I mean, I know he needed the telegram to confirm his suspicions beyond doubt, and he didn't want to jump the gun, but after Watson's previous statement, this does feel a bit like 'Holmes, could you have stopped this earlier?'

I turned up the time-table. The last had just gone.

Nooooooooo! The British public transport system is failing us!

^ That's me laughing in 21st century British person.

“It's a terrible business,” said the station-master. “They are shot, both Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his wife. She shot him and then herself—so the servants say. He's dead and her life is despaired of. Dear, dear, one of the oldest families in the County of Norfolk, and one of the most honoured.”

Oh wow... holy shit this did get dark fast. I mean, I don't think it's a murder suicide, but still. Right... Maybe I shouldn't have been laughing right then.

I knew something would happen overnight as soon as they couldn't get a train until the next morning, but I didn't think it would be quite so drastic.

Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow my friend to do things in his own fashion, and contented himself with carefully noting the results.

This amuses me. Just the 'at least the police didn't interfere this time' attitude of it all.

It was equally conceivable that he had shot her and then himself, or that she had been the criminal, for the revolver lay upon the floor midway between them.

Or that someone else dropped it there.

In answer to Holmes they both remembered that they were conscious of the smell of powder from the moment that they ran out of their rooms upon the top floor. “I commend that fact very carefully to your attention,” said Holmes to his professional colleague.

Well, I guess this is important because he's drawing attention to it. Maybe because it should take more time for the scent of the gunpowder to get to where they are? Meaning maybe it was carried on a person's clothes, rather than drifted up naturally? Or maybe there were other explosions closer to them?

The study proved to be a small chamber, lined on three sides with books, and with a writing-table facing an ordinary window...

What is an 'ordinary' window? Just not a bay window or a french window?

“By George!” cried the inspector. “How ever did you see that?” “Because I looked for it.”

...Honestly, fair. I'll let you have this one, Holmes. Drag them. They really should have examined the room for things like that.

“It suggested that at the time of the firing the window as well as the door of the room had been open. Otherwise the fumes of powder could not have been blown so rapidly through the house."

Right, yeah, that does make more sense.

"There were twenty fifty-pound notes of the Bank of England, held together by an india-rubber band—nothing else. “This must be preserved, for it will figure in the trial,” said Holmes

Blackmail? That seems like she was making a pay-off and her husband maybe stumbled into the middle of things, started shooting and everything went south quickly.

The flowers were trampled down, and the soft soil was imprinted all over with footmarks. Large, masculine feet they were, with peculiarly long, sharp toes.

I assume this is referring to shoe prints with long pointed toes, not to the actual footprints of bare feet with long claws/talons. But it does read as though it's a person with talons or claws.

“Saddle a horse, my lad,” said he. “I shall wish you to take a note to Elrige's Farm.” [...] “I think, inspector,” Holmes remarked, “that you would do well to telegraph for an escort, as, if my calculations prove to be correct, you may have a particularly dangerous prisoner to convey to the county jail.

Did Holmes just send the stable-boy to take an incriminating message to a dangerous criminal.

Meanwhile, Holmes and Watson are... buggering back off to London? To do some chemical analysis? Apparently.

[moonlightrei]

Cloud of Daggers Chapter 1 - Alone

Relationship: Astarion/Tav (or reader) Tags: Angst, Pining, Post-Canon, Aberrant Mind Sorcerer Tav, minor shadowzel, others to be added Word count: 3.7k

Click here to read on AO3, or read below! Chapter 2 out now.

Alone. The emptiness spread out endlessly, encompassing all around and touching the depths of your very being. Your eyes may as well have been closed, or plucked from your skull in an act of torture that surely was less cruel than this darkness, this never-ending existence of gloom.

You remembered the moment well. The brief flash of pain or fear on his face, then a snap. A loss. A shattering of being.  He was still here, but not quite. Every now and then you could almost swear that you caught a glimpse of profound sadness cross his face, before it disappeared into the abyss. You would never give up on him, never abandon him, though you struggled to fend of the niggling doubts that plagued your mind, a swift replacement for the tadpole you had finally been rid of. 

The saviour of the city, they called you. The hero of Baldur’s Gate. Yet you lost seven thousand souls, and that should have been your greatest sin; your heart knew that not to be true. Of course, when you thought of those poor wretches caged in Cazador’s dungeon, your chest ached, but you would be a liar to claim they were your true regret - a source of guilt in itself.  

As the upper city had been rebuilt, your mark had been etched into it. Statues of you and your companions, friezes sculpted into restored buildings which showcased moments from your journey, some as you recalled them, and others embellished from Volo’s ridiculous tales. Duke Ravengard had offered you an estate there, but you had insisted on focusing your efforts on the much slower-going reconstruction of the lower city streets that you had roamed and protected with your friends in what had come to be both the most arduous and exceptional time of your life with the aim of making them your permanent home. Even in its decrepit state, every inch of the town evoked precious memories of your exploits, of your allies, of him. 

Him. 

Your crazed love. 

You had helped him to get what he so deeply desired, so why could you not shake the feeling that he had died in that instant? You should be grateful he was still here, still alive and whole. The citizens you tried to aid on the daily could only dream of holding all their loved ones still, and you felt unworthy of their praise of saving the city when so many lives were lost or ruined. How could you think even for a second that you saw your own grief reflected in their eyes? What had you lost? 

Alive and whole. Whole. That was what made your guts twist, your heart ache. No matter how you tried to reason with yourself, how you tried to thank the gods for blessing you, the whispers in your mind would not rest at the suggestion that he was whole. 

Astarion dwelled in the very house that kept him prisoner for two centuries, roaming the halls as their master. After everything he had confided in you, you had expected him to destroy the wretched place, to raise it to the ground. But there it stood, imposing and untouched, casting a deep shadow over the sea of rubble. 

He had offered you it all. A place at his side in his lavish palace, immortality, a thousand lifetimes of luxury. You so desperately wanted to agree, to fall into his arms and remain with him for all eternity, never considering the outside world again. The city outside would not cease to exist for anyone though, and you would not turn your back on it now. Your refusal had been unexpected to your love, eliciting an outburst of anger at first, but he had accepted your wishes for now. 

“Go then, darling. Play the hero a little longer. I, for one, have had rather enough of that act.” 

Celebrating the safety of the grove had made it clear he did not relish the part of a saviour, though you had simply rolled your eyes at him back then. It felt like aeons ago, you grinning and insisting he enjoy himself. The cool embrace you had been wrapped in later that evening. How earth-shatteringly beautiful he had appeared in the soft glow of the moonlight. You could get lost in the memory if your lingered in it for too long, a welcome escape from the uncertainty you felt now. This opposition to good was different, the words laced with venom where there once was playful disagreement. 

He had not explicitly ended your relationship. Maybe that would have been preferable, given the unease you now felt when considering your bond. It was as though he was sure he would have you to himself eventually, as though he viewed this as a short dalliance that you would soon return from and devote yourself to life with him and his plans to rule the world. 

At night you silently prayed to the gods above, to any that would listen, that this was a knee jerk reaction to the sudden power he had gained, that your beloved would return to you soon. Until then, you kept yourself busy however you could, marking your efforts for the city as less altruistic than they perhaps appeared. 

You rose from the end of your modest bed where you had been perched since you’d stirred from your night-terrors, lost in thought. Astarion’s constant presence in your mind had once been a comfort, and still you could find joy in revisiting the countless experiences you had shared. A shiver ran through you as you tried to push away the idea that thinking of him now brought you confusion and the overwhelming sense of loss. 

Today was a break from your usual itinerary of using your magic to move debris or to slot materials together to build new houses. You had received word that your attendance was required at the stations you had set up to supply citizens and refugees alike with food and healing. It was a welcome change in routine, and your close friends Shadowheart and Gale were making themselves useful there. You suspected they were organising the operation without a hitch and that your presence was ordered either as a morale booster for the denizens or just as a chance to catch up with your companions.  

You shed your nightclothes and stood before the tall mirror in the corner of your room. Unwinding a length of cord from around your wrist, you noted the darkened appearance of your undereyes. Sleep came to you fragmented and troubled, and your attempts to recall what your elf mother had taught you of meditation had not been a fruitful alternative. You pulled your hair back and fastened it with the cord, tugging it tightly to ensure it was secure. With your hair out of the way, you couldn’t help but glance at the scars on your neck, two perfect little puncture wounds that forever highlighted your relationship. You dressed quickly, catching yourself automatically reaching for your armour before resolving you would not need it.  

The streets were quieter than they had once been, but the bustle of life was still a welcome distraction from your heavy thoughts. Nods of recognition were plentiful as you navigated the pathways, so familiar with the layout of the city now that you could always find the quickest route. The urge to flick your eyes up to the castle in the distance crept in, but you kept your vision firmly on the path ahead. 

A slight but genuine smile spread across your face as you arrived at a cluster of tents composed of many different coloured scraps of fabric hastily sewn together to provide a little shelter. Gale spotted you first and rose from the cookpot he was tending, nudging Shadowheart to get her attention and conjuring a mage hand to keep stirring the cauldron of stew in his absence. You approached pot, your stomach growling at the scent of food as your realised breakfast had entirely slipped your preoccupied mind.  

“My good friend,” Gale exclaimed, holding his hand out to greet you. “It’s been too long.” It had barely been a tenday since you had come to this very spot and served the hungry with your friends, yet you found yourself agreeing. Aiding the city kept you busy, an often-welcome distraction, but you did still find the time to miss spending every hour with your companions, even if many of those hours had been passed in mortal peril. 

Shadowheart pulled you into a quick embrace before examining you with her hands still firmly holding your shoulders, concern in her eyes. 

“You look dreadful,” she scolded. You rolled your eyes and gently batted her hands away. 

“An equally charming reception from the both of you then,” you laughed. “If you’ve called me here just to insult me then I shall be on my way.” You knew that Shadowheart was telling the truth, and that it only came from how much she cared for you, but you didn’t feel ready to talk through any of what you were feeling right now. 

“Don’t try to deflect. I know you too well and I can see something has been troubling you. If that damned vampire has-” 

“Shadowheart!” you snapped, then took a moment to regain your composure. You took one of her hands in yours and fixed your gaze on her face. “I’m telling you, I’m fine. Please don’t worry about me right now, okay?” She scrunched her nose slightly, clearly reluctant to drop the topic but not wishing to press you further. 

“Ah! I believe our dish is ready to be served to the masses,” Gale interrupted, breaking the tension. “Would you mind fetching the bowls, Shadowheart?” The cleric left wordlessly and Gale continued tending to the stew, keeping his eyes fixed on the vat as he spoke again. “I would be lying if I said I was not worried about you, my friend. I know you do not wish to discuss the matter and far be it from me to push you, but please remember,” he turned back to you and looked you in the eyes, his expression serious. “There is little we would not do for you. Say the word and we would be at your side to face off whatever darkness is ailing you. If silence is what you need then we will give you that for now, gods know many of my friends have requested that of me before,” he quipped, slight lines appearing at the sides of his eyes as he smiled, relaxing you. “Just know that we are here.” 

You felt the sting of tears threatening pool in your eyes and blinked them away quickly. Your friends had all leaned on you at times and you almost wished you could ask them for help, but what was troubling you could not be faced off like the foes you had battled before. 

Shadowheart appeared again holding a stack of wooden bowels, many of them battered. Another item on the seemingly never-ending list of broken things in the city. People had already begun to crowd around the tent and Gale picked up a handbell, shaking it to alert others throughout the town that the meal was ready for those who needed it. You ladled spoonfuls of hot stew into bowls and handed them out, ignoring the growling of your stomach once more. You would not take this food for the unfortunate when you knew you could afford to eat your fill later. 

Your mind wandered, as ever, to your love, how he would turn his nose up at this stew, making a snide comment about the wizard-turned-chef no doubt. Was Astarion feeding? The thought had you bristling, the hunger gnawing at your insides swiftly being replaced with vile jealousy. His vampiric hunger was erased in the dark ritual, and you clung to this fact as a raft through the choppy waves of your racing thoughts. You had been his first feed on a thinking creature, an act of intimacy you had come to crave. Ordinarily, you wouldn’t allow yourself to focus on the memories of your breath hitching as sharp teeth grazed your neck, of his subtle whimpers of gratification, of the pulsing between your thighs. Even now the thought of it had warmth pooling low in your abdomen. Your cause of action would normally to be rid of this feeling as quickly as possible, but it was a temporary reprieve from the nausea of considering Astarion being close to another, drinking from another. 

The last dregs of food were dished out, and Shadowheart guided you through to another section of the tent where ratty pillows and rags for blankets were scattered across the floor. A handful of children were sat on the tattered bits of cloth, some accompanied by parents and others clearly alone.  

“More will come,” began Shadowheart.  “In a few moments there will be tens of children who had been asking after the hero of Baldur’s Gate again. Stories of our escapades are a welcome escape for them from the difficulty of the real world at present. Gale will conjure images for them.” She smiled gently. “We both know your more than capable of the magic yourself, but I think he likes to feel useful.” 

Long gone were the days of clashing with Gale and his ideas that sorcery was lesser than wizardry. You had earned his respect a thousand times over, and the power the two of you could generate when you worked together was undeniably the greatest form of channelling the weave, rather than either of the two types of magician alone. 

“Are you not joining us?” you asked. Shadowheart shook her head, her gaze darting to a ripped curtain that kept a further room out of site. 

“I have a mother who is gravely sick to attend to. Her child is out here. Give them a good show, would you?” She gave your arm a squeeze and retreated to behind the cloth to treat her patient. 

Gale was already sat cross-legged on the ground, casting dancing lights to amuse the youths who had gathered around him. You focused on the flickering, considering which tales would be uplifting for your audience, as well as which you could tell without making your heart ache. Emotions could have the power to interfere with your magic to an extent, so you were glad Gale was handling the imagery for today, lest you set fire to the one refuge many of these children had.  

You lowered yourself to the ground, settling on the story of how you saved a child from harpies, not comfortable to declare yourself a hero in anything directly relating to the city when the evidence of your failings to save everyone was staring you in the face. A small girl with one ear missing, the other pointed, a half elf like yourself, sat barely a metre from you, looking into your eyes expectantly. 

You began your tale and Gale created a dazzling likeness of each scene, even introducing a song to represent that of the harpies to cover a pained groan that came from behind the curtain, both of you expending your best efforts to maintain the attention of the children. You noticed how worried the half elf girl had been at the sound from the woman Shadowheart was treating. Her daughter perhaps? You rummaged through your pack to pull out an old map you had little use for now, and a quill, sliding both over to the girl. 

“Why don’t you draw some pretty pictures for us?” you suggested softly, and the girl held your gaze and nodded quickly. 

Continuing the story, you described Shadowheart resisting the harpies’ spell and snapping Mirkon from the trance too, earning a cheer from the children as Gale showed the tiefling boy running away. You tried to ignore the way your heart fluttered as you recounted Astarion’s calculated movements, recalling how he took careful aim at a harpy that was right next to you as you were enamoured in its luring song and shot an arrow straight into its chest, keeping you safe from its terrible claws.  

As you were coming to the end of your narrative, you noticed Shadowheart slip into the room from behind the curtain, giving a soft smile that you hoped meant her patient was well. She clapped along with the crowd as you brought the story to a close and ushered the people over to a small pile of supplies such as blankets and healing potions, encouraging them to take what they needed. 

A tugging on your sleeve brought your attention to the small half elf girl who was stood at your feet. She beamed and held up the map you had given her. On it she had inked a crude but unmistakable picture of you and Astarion with hearts around you. It seemed the telling of your tale had not well hidden the adoration you held for him, and children could be annoyingly perceptive. A lump formed in your throat as you gently took the parchment. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, blinking rapidly to fend off the threat of tears forming once again. You knelt down to the girl’s height. “This is really beautiful. Do you want to keep it?” 

The girl shook her head rapidly. “No, it’s a pretty picture I did ‘specially for you!” She flung her little arms around you in a quick hug. “Thank you for the story, it was lots of fun. Now I’m going to find my mummy.” She made a beeline for Shadowheart and you prayed she would be able to take the girl to her mother without it being a sad affair. 

You examined the drawing in your hands, admiring the comically large, pointed ears she had given Astarion and the long cloak that flowed down from your shoulders to the ground. You rolled it up carefully and slipped it into your pack, feeling Gale’s eyes on you as you did so. He abided by his earlier words, though, and elected not to comment on the girl’s gift. 

Once most of the folk had exited, leaving only the most unfortunate who had no other place to go, you rejoined your friends to chop vegetables for the next batch of food.  

“Mae seems fond of you,” said Shadowheart. “Her mother is improving, thank the gods, but she has some way to go yet.” She scooped a pile of root vegetables up and tossed them into the pot. “That’s part of why we needed you here today, aside from for your excellent story telling skills.” 

“I’m no Volo,” you japed, earning a raised eyebrow in amusement. 

“That pompous fibber and his intricate falsities can remain with him, wherever he has scampered off to now. The children connect with you. They appreciate hearing about a more positive reality.” She inspected the top of a carrot carefully, frowning at the black bruise that had formed on its skin. “Mae’s mother, Senta Bloomstem, is the druid that’s been helping us grow all these crops with such speed. Jaheira joins when she can, but reforming the Harpers is no small task.” She sliced the carrot in two, hesitantly discarding the inedible part. “Senta is in no state to tend the produce at present, and we have too many mouths to feed to survive without a druid’s touch.” 

Gale tore the leaves of a cabbage apart, passing them to Shadowheart for her to mutter some quick words that had water streaming from her fingertips to wash the soil from them. 

“We need to send word to Halsin in the grove,” chimed Gale. “You know as well as I that he’d gladly spare a set of hands to aid us, even if the druid those hands belong to may find the city somewhat grating.” 

“And who better to send than our intrepid adventurer,” continued Shadowheart, turning her focus on you. “A welcome distraction too, I should think.” She held up her hands as you narrowed your eyes slightly, warning her not to go down this path again. “I’m not saying anything,” she insisted. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone here. Think of it as a break. Who knows, maybe nights under the stars once more are what you need to help you sleep.” 

“We’ll remain here and continue our duties, but fear not, we have sourced a travelling companion for you. A certain silver-tongued githyanki.” Gale japed. “I’m sure you can understand us not wanting to send her alone, lest she return with just the hands we mentioned and no druid attached.” 

You agreed to the quest and confirmed that Lae’zel would fetch you from your dwelling tomorrow. Gale handed you some carefully wrapped meals and Shadowheart insisted you weren’t to leave without potions of healing and scrolls of lesser restoration. Once Gale had bid you farewell with a bow and left earshot, Shadowheart produced further bottles.  

“I’ll continue to refrain from speaking on it is that is your wish, but please take these.” She pushed five potions of sleep into your hands. “You’ll want to keep your wits about you when camping on the road, so only drink half at a time. When you return, I’ll have more sent to you.” You rolled your eyes at her nagging but accepted them all the same. She pulled you into a hug once more, murmuring into your ear. “You’ll keep safe, won’t you?” 

“Of course,” you replied. “I’ll return with haste.” 

You returned to your home, prepared a quick meal, and began readying your pack for the travel ahead, leaving the potions of sleep on the floor. You pulled Mae’s drawing out of your bag, smoothing it out on your desk. The thought of asking Astarion to join you flitted through your mind, but you swiftly resolved that he would have no interest in coming. He didn’t appear to have interest in anything besides his own power anymore. 

Once all was complete, you bathed and dressed yourself in your nightgown once more, undoing the cord from your hair to let it fall down to your shoulders. You tried in earnest to shut down your mind, to push away how the beautiful cold moonlight cascading through your window reminded you of the equally alluring elf sat alone in his stone castle. 

With a sigh, you snatched one of the sleeping potions from the ground. 

[sweetstephstuff]

Chapter .05?

The air was musty, cloying. It always was, perhaps always will be. Except in the dining hall and boudoir of course, where the master of the house liked to relax. Those rooms were rewards and lures to those who did well and pleased him. It’s where Gwen resided, her eyes hollow and her hands busy. Often she cleaned the giant table in the dining hall, replacing the rotting food and shooing away the flies. The boudoir, once a room of rest and respite in hedonistic fashion, became a bedroom/trophy case. It’s where Rapheal refitted the room with a frieze looking above the room of Gwen’s former self: Happy, vibrant, free. Just to remind her what she lost. Large, golden bookshelves overflowed with books, once he knew she pretended to read. She was never taught the written word, and would pour over the pages, inventing her own stories to occupy her time when cleaning was done. Heroes, villains, love, loss. It was a private joke to himself, one he never got tired of. Those pages she’d pour over were ones he picked specifically. They housed either pornographic tales of dwarven women like her, or they were gruesomely explicit accounts of torture documented over centuries. Gwen was so close to becoming his Despair. His method of torture. His beloved pet. His toy. His. His. All His. The constant killing and reviving her was starting to become almost boring. A few games of hide-and-seek where he’d kill her when she was found. A children’s game in a pool where he held her underwater until her body stopped struggling. Once he invited her to a romantic dance, and out of curiosity, bit into her neck. That night he learned seeing your own sinew in the mouth of someone else creates shock, which dulls pain. She didn’t even scream for him until a few hours later, as she was locked in a cold box for storage. It took 3 days to finish his meal. She was terrified of him, which only pleased him more. Her nose twitched when she was scared, leading to his nickname of her. “Little Rabbit.” But, at this moment, he needed her cooperation. The lovely mind games of fear and breaking her down until she saw him for the God he saw himself to be would have to wait. It was time to smooth out his silver tongue and pull out the charm.

[luheheheheheda]

[seoul-bros]

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Minimoni Vibes in 2013

Minimoni in BTS 2018 Summer Package

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Premiering Now

Minimoni Exchange Part 2

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Finally a minimoni interaction from PTD

Permission to Dance Interactions

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Minimoni Birthday Ads

Minimoni at Frieze Seoul Exhibition

RM's Adieu 2022 Diary Entry (Reblog)

Minimoni mutual appreciation society

Bicycle Buddies

1st look magazine (20/08/2015) plus staff Instagram behinds

Minimoni Compilation

Kim Namjoon Admiration Society - Club President Park Jimin

Minimoni car partners 09/10/2022

[thepastisalreadywritten]

London (CNN) — An art historian has identified a missing portrait of King Henry VIII after spotting it on social media.

British fine art researcher Adam Busiakiewicz was idly scrolling on X when he was stopped in his tracks by a post from somebody he follows.

The post was a photograph shared by Tim Cox, Lord Lieutenant of Warwickshire, an honorary position representing the British Crown in the central English county.

It showed a gathering at a reception in Warwick’s Shire Hall, where Warwickshire County Council is based.

But Busiakiewicz wasn’t interested in the people smiling at the camera.

His focus was on the background where, hanging on a wall, was what he suspected was a missing portrait of the Tudor monarch Henry VIII.

In a post published on his blog earlier this month, Busiakiewicz said he had been “scrolling at speed” when he spotted the painting “with a distinctive arched top” on the wall.

He was immediately reminded of a series of 22 portraits commissioned by a local politician and tapestry-maker during the 1590s.

According to Busiakiewicz, Ralph Sheldon (1623–1684) commissioned the pictures – which were mostly of kings, queens and “significant contemporary international figures” – to hang in his home, Weston House in Warwickshire.

The reason they had arched tops was because they “were once incorporated into an architectural frieze of the Long Gallery at Weston,” Busiakiewicz said.

In a press release sent to CNN, Busiakiewicz said the arched top was a “special feature of the Sheldon set,” while the painting’s frame was “identical to other surviving examples.”

The painting also showed the king holding a sword and wearing a feathered hat – just as he appeared in an engraving of the Long Hall made by antiquarian Henry Shaw in 1839.

The series of portraits was later dispersed at auction and “the majority remain untraced to this day,” according to Busiakiewicz.

After making his theory public, Busiakiewicz visited Warwick’s Shire Hall together with local historian Aaron Manning to see the painting close up.

“The portrait is large, and completely in-line with the other Sheldon portraits,” Busiakiewicz wrote in a later blog post, on July 22.

In a telephone call with CNN, Busiakiewicz revealed that this was not the first discovery he had made thanks to social media.

In 2018, he stumbled across a picture a friend had taken at a wedding and posted on Instagram.

It featured a portrait that he identified as the work of 17th-century female artist Joan Carlile (1606–1679).

“Social media is a crazy thing,” Busiakiewicz told CNN, “because some people use it to watch cat videos and follow what’s going on in the world, and then people like me just look at what people have hanging on their walls.”

A spokesperson for Warwickshire County Council told CNN in an email that Busiakiewicz and Manning approached them about the painting and arranged to come and see it.

“Adam and Aaron viewed the painting at Shire Hall, and have confirmed they think it is definitely one of the Ralph Sheldon commissions,” the spokesperson wrote.

“Since this discovery, the painting has been moved into our Museum Collections Centre to allow further research to take place.”

Busiakiewicz told CNN that the identity of the painter is not known, but the creator of the portraits is sometimes referred to as "The Sheldon Master.”

He is now working on trying to establish the painting’s provenance.

It was acquired by the council as recently as 1951 but there are gaps in the records.

“Provenance is always such a really tricky thing - it’s very hard sometimes to find, particularly when pictures are sold privately. But there’s no doubt that this is Ralph Sheldon’s painting of Henry VIII,” he said.

“Looking at paintings and pictures of paintings is my life and it’s great fun, particularly when you can in some way right a historic wrong, let’s say.

Pictures that are overlooked, pictures that aren’t appreciated as much as they might be.”

[twentiestara]

Frieze masters : objects and sculptures

[atsushifukui]

Frieze Seoul

COEX, Seoul

2024 Sep, 4-7

Booth 8 : Tomio Koyama Gallery

[sassafrasmoonshine]

Théophile Steinlen • La Rue (The Street) • [Charles Verneau, printer] • 1896 • Paris, Imp. Charles Verneau • Société de Propagation des Livres d'Art, Paris • 1913 • Lithograph in seven colours on wove paper on linen • Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam

Colourful posters were a common sight in the streets of fin-de-siècle Paris. They were more than mere advertisements – some were genuine works of art. High-quality designs by progressive young artists were printed by specialist printshops. Théophile Alexandre Steinlen created this gigantic poster to advertise the master printer Charles Verneau.The Street is one of Steinlen’s most important works of art. Its large scale meant the poster had to be printed in no fewer than six separate parts. With its sparkling expanses of colour, decorative patterns and vivid content, the work has everything that made poster-art so innovative in this period.Steinlen presents a contemporary street scene, with people from every walk of life: the capitalist, the laundrywoman, the elegant Parisian lady and the worker. The artist has made all the figures the same height, as in a frieze in a classical temple or a fresco in a church. It is with good reason that at the time, posters were referred to as 'frescoes for the masses'. – Van Gogh Museum

[mrb33]

Mayfair ART MOOCH

Continuum

Minoru Nomata at White Cube gallery

From The Press release: His art is characterised by a lack of human presence, his works depict imaginary architectural structures and enigmatic landscapes that transcend time and place. Conjuring an unfamiliar world that is nonetheless tethered to reality, his visionary paintings evoke a disquieting sense of alienation. “Lack, deficiency, insecurity, isolation and the unknown – those so-called negative feelings can also be a creative trigger for me to create something”, the artist has said.

I, ROBOT

Sorayama at Almine Rech gallery

From The Press release: Sorayama’s ongoing Sexy Robots series ponders the alluring, intimidating imaginary of a cyborg human, merging woman and droid, fleshy anatomy and flashy armor, in a cheeky and unsettling continuum from the Hollywood pin-up to the fantastical future. Sorayama channels aesthetic visions from Bert Stern to Mel Ramos, Brancusi to Rolls Royce, Egypt to the Oscars.

Chronicles

Ahmed Mater - Christie's from 17 July to 22 August.

Tbilisi Independent

Frieze - Cork Street.

Highlighting five young, female-run galleries from the Georgian capital: 

Niniko Morbedadze - We love animals (series) 2024

Assemblage pieces by Temple Pharmacy

Layers of Time

Giorgio Morandi and Alexis Ralaivao at Nahmad Projects

Morandi Natura Morta 1946 - Ralaivao - Nature morte aux trois citrons 2024

From The Press release:

Morandi’s oeuvre, characterised by its restrained palette and masterful use of light and shadow, invites viewers into a world of quiet contemplation. Through his timeless still lifes, Morandi transforms mundane objects into symbols of deeper human experience, prompting reflection on the nature of existence itself. In contrast, Ralaivao’s paintings burst with energy and sensuality, capturing fleeting moments of intimacy and anticipation. His bold use of colour and dynamic compositions draw viewers into a world where every brushstroke pulses with life, inviting them to explore the boundaries between reality and imagination. 

Although the artists may seem like an unlikely pairing at first glance, their works share a profound reverence for the subtleties of everyday objects and a commitment to exploring the essence of perception itself. Both artists engage viewers by highlighting the compositional aspect of their artwork alongside material surfaces. While Morandi’s compositions resemble studio photography, evoking a sense of familial assembly akin to a wedding portrait, Ralaivao’s works reflect the influence of contemporary mobile phone photography, where the camera becomes an active participant in capturing moments and sparking immediate reflection and dialogue.

Together, Morandi and Ralaivao weave a narrative that transcends the constraints of a single frame, inviting viewers to immerse themselves in the timeless beauty of still life compositions. Born nearly a century apart, this exhibition reveals the shared differences between two artists, across generations, finding themselves in the same city, and united by a common bond: their unwavering dedication to the art of painting.

“Both Ralaivao and Morandi are reductive artists, their language is quiet, the tone of their paintings cool, and it feels quite fitting that this exhibition should be a closely selected one. It offers a tantalising starter, and leaves me wanting more.” – Paul Coldwell 

Morandi - Natura Morta 1950 - Ralaivao Citrons et saladier jaune 2024

Alexis Ralaivao - Art Nouveau Shadow 2024

“I believe that nothing can be more abstract, more unreal, than what we actually see. We know that all we can see of the objective world, as human beings, never really exists as we see and understand it. Matter exists, of course, but has no intrinsic meaning of its own, such as the meaning we attach to it.” – Giorgio Morandi

Mayor gallery

Waldemar Cordeiro

From The Press Release: The first solo exhibition in Europe of visionary Brazilian artist, Waldemar Cordeiro (b. 1925 Rome, Italy – d. 1973 São Paulo, Brazil). Fifteen works, many of which have never been shown outside Brazil, form the basis of this exhibition in which different phases of Cordeiro’s intensive production from the late 1940s to his early death in 1973 are brought into new curatorial focus.   Regarded as the greatest of Brazil’s exponents of concrete art in the 1950s, Cordeiro was an original and visionary practitioner and theorist, who brought both these domains together in an astonishingly productive oeuvre.

Installation shot

Transposição Cromática Estudo da Cor, 1958

Untitled 1960

Liberdade 1964

EXORCISM: INSIDE OUT

Penny Slinger at Richard Saltoun Gallery