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landscaping-your-mind · 2 years ago

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FUCK YEAH PANOPTICON TIME!

Firstly, this is my favourite almost season finale, like, the whole thing has so much going on (good), we get a resolution to Daisy and Basira's stuff, an actual culmination of 3 or 4 seasons of wondering about the circumstances of Gertrude's death (i love the future gertrude stuff, i do, but i'd be fine if she didn't show up in tape again after this episode), the revelation of Elias being Jonah Magnus, Martin's stuff is delt with, that moment when Elias laughs.

It's phenomenal. I just had to get out that it's phenomenal.

Now, @a-mag-a-day, the antepenultimate episode of season 4. Panopticon.

Let's go.

I think you should also know that I have my cat lying next to me :3 He's really cute.

MARTIN That's a Leitner. PETER It is! MARTIN And the, um… the blood on it? PETER (Cheerfully) That's Leitner too!

I love this part, it's very funny. You know, I will never understand those who hate Peter Lukas with the same vitriol as I hate Elias with. Peter's voice is just really nice okay. I sort of find myself... liking him. He's fun, I don't know.

NOT-SASHA So you finally decided to let me out, Jon? (Calling) Jooooon? (Beat) Who's there? (Martin's terrified breathing can be heard) Who let me out? Don't be shy… I just want to say thank you.

Martin's terrified breathing was heard. Good lord, 10/10 great terrified breathing. I'm guessing that Martin and/or Peter used their spooky, lonely powers and hid from her.

PETER Make sure everyone is too busy to follow us. They'll be fine. Probably. You could still go help them. If you insist. (Beat) (Martin lets out a resigned breath) (Satisfied) Very good. Come on.

I mean, he's still a bastard, I just don't hate him.

PETER Why'd you think this was chosen as the Institute's location when the prison closed? It's a significant site of power for the Beholding. From the tower in the centre of this room, you can see everything.

So, quick little... fun facts, I suppose. Milbank Prison was first designed by Jeremy Bentham, and it was meant to be a panopticon prison, guarded by just one person who could see anything - but not everything. None of the inmates would know if they were being watched so, Bentham theorised, the inmates would act as if they were being watched all the time. The prison guard who watched the inmates would in turn not know when they were being watched by the general public and public officials. Bentham intended for this to be used as a solution for the question:"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?", who guards the guards, who watches the watchers?

There's a whole lot more about the panopticon as a thing, but I'm actually pretty interested in it and I know I'll get dragged into a little research spiral, so instead, more about the prison itself.

The site of Milbank Prison was bought in 1799 by Jeremy Bentham, and the panopticon plan was abandoned in 1812. There was a competition for who's prison design would be built on the site, and William Williams' won, and was adapted by Thomas Hardwick. After 18 months, Hardwick resigned and was replaced with John Harvey. In 1815, Harvey was dismissed and Robert Smirke took his place, completing it in 1821. The prison closed in 1890, and demolished on and off till it was finally gone in 1903.

This all to say, that I think Jonah Magnus attempted The Watcher's Crown around 1890, because he said he moved it to London after it failed.

I convinced Smirke to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked. It. Took. Years, for the dread of the prisoners that passed through to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man by the time I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the centre of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet. It was… flawed, of course, as all Smirke’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it. But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to. It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it, was born.

(MAG 160)

However, this does say "the dread of the prisoners that passed through" so it could have been in the 1840s and 50s, when Milbank was a holding prison for convicts going to be transported.

I just want a timeframe. But, I mean, if we did get one it would probably be contradicted to hell and back (/lh /nsrs).

PETER I don't mean the cells, Martin! I mean everything. Come on. Mind your step, this comes from an era before safety rails.

I think safety rails were first used in the 1930s, but don't quote me on that. Meaning, yes, this does probably come from an era before safety rails.

PETER Jonah Magnus! His body at least. Sitting here, watching. Binding it all together, growing ever older. If you want to take his place, well… MARTIN I'll need to kill him. PETER Yes. Don't worry, though, I brought a knife.

I feel like you're going to need to start carrying a knife if you work at the Magnus Institute. I mean, it's illegal to carry a knife of certain sizes of varieties (no switchblades!), it's also just illegal to carry any knife without good reason and "I have a high risk of death to supernatural creatures at my archiving job" probably doesn't cut it. Still, Jon bought a knife back in season 2. Jon bought an axe back in season 2, how the hell did he carry it around without raising quite a bit of suspicion?

MARTIN Where are his eyes? [A footstep] ELIAS Exactly where they've always been, Martin. (Martin gasps) Watching over my Institute.

That's such a cool line!! Also, uh:

But he remembers so clearly what he was thinking as he looked at what was left of Allan Schrieber: where are his eyes? What did they do with his eyes?

(MAG 193)

It just immediately got me thinking about that line.

BASIRA And you're sure? ARCHIVIST Yes, I'm sure it wasn't here before! BASIRA It's just that there's a lot of tapes around. ARCHIVIST And I don't keep any of them with the key to the tunnels. It's been left for me. DAISY And it says 'play me'. Kind of suspicious.

IM SORRY, THERE'S JSUT A LITTLE TAPE WITH A STICKY NOTE ON IT SAYING "PLAY ME" AND BASIRA THINKS IT COULD HAVE BEEN THERE BEFORE?? IM SORRY IM JUST DYING OVER HERE

GERTRUDE (Disparagingly) I'm not really in the mood for nostalgia, Elias. You might have noticed I'm rather busy so either shoot me or— [A gunshot rings out; Gertrude gasps and collapses] GERTRUDE Well… (gasp) there it is. (gasp) Thought it would hurt more. (Elias sighs) ELIAS Pity.

I really love that we get to hear what I thought - and to be honest, kind of hoped - was the last Gertrude tape in this context.

Like, everything's coming to a head, here and now in this episode. Peter's plan with The Extinction, whatever Elias' deal was (actually Jonah Magnus), Daisy's whole thing, and finally hearing Gertrude's death here was just amazing! Like, we take all the plot stuff, we throw it in one episode, this is our Unknowings, our Hide and Seek, our Infestation.

Then, there's The Last that's like, ok we get the emotional resolution between Jon and Martin and Martin's whole lonely thing, finally and then we're like yeah, the next one's always a bit more of a resolution, but Jonah Magnus is planning someone, ahaha Peter what did you MEAN "he got you"? WHAT???

But, focusing on Gertrude's death... I... ok, look, I'm going to grab messages I sent to my friends, because I can't explain how much I love Panopticon and Gertrude's death scene here.

Her [Gertrude's] ending in panopticon is PERFECT like, that's the End of gertrude robinson And i liked the bits we got of her in mag 161, 162, and 167 But i REALLY like just like that ending, the whole "who killed Gertrude Robinson", "what was Gertrude Robinson's whole deal", all the mysteries about Gertrude Robinson just wrapped up neatly in a noose around her neck If you're listening to tma for gertrude, PANOPTICON IS LAST Like oohhhh words cannot describe how much I LOVE the placement of the tape with gertrude's murder Panopticon is SUCH a good episode Like, The Last was our emotional resolution, The Eye Opens was our Jonny comes into our houses and fucking MURDERS us episode, but Panopticon was our original recording episode and <33 It's like!!! - Martin MAKING HIS CHOICE - THE GERTRUDE TAPE - Jon FINALLY GETTING TO SAVE MARTIN LOVE THE GAYS - Daisy giving into the hunt - LITERALLY EVERYONE AT ONCE ATTACKING THEM

Do you understand me? I hope you understand me.

ELIAS (Faux-hurt) Peter. PETER (Cold) Elias.

*deadpan* The joys of marriage.

PETER We're the same, you and I. We don't need anyone else. Watching from a distance, that's always who you've been. Haven't you enjoyed it these last few months, drifting through the Archives unseen, unjudged? You'll like it in there. I promise. MARTIN Yeah. Yeah, I think I would.

When you're numb from the cold, it feels better to be in the cold then to be warm and defrost. And if you do get warmed up, but can't stay warm for long enough it does more damage. But you've got to get to the warmth eventually. It's going to kill you out there, in the cold because it's safer than getting hurt.

Would you prefer it there? Maybe. It's numb. It doesn't sting. "But as with all [...] that promises respite, it is a trap."

ARCHIVIST Do ah… do I get a gun? BASIRA You ever fired one? ARCHIVIST (Indignant) You never taught me!

I just like the way Jon says it. Gosh, they're all having the absolute worst days, aren't they.

NOT-SASHA Hello, Jon. DAISY Oh, shit. ARCHIVIST You gotta be fucking kidding—

If there was any place for swearing it is definitely in this situation where everything that (he knows) could have gone wrong HAS gone wrong. Like, just, absolute worst time over here.

I love it when Jon just gets fed up. Like, when in 107 where he was just like "so, kidnapped. again." and the whole "how embarrassing for you". Just like, fuck yea dude, be a bit of a bastard when there are many, many, MANY things trying to kill you.

BASIRA God dammit. Jon, go, we'll keep them busy. ARCHIVIST What? No! I— BASIRA Don't argue. Just go! NOT-SASHA (Distant) Joooon? ARCHIVIST Fine. Just don't die. DAISY Go.

I think it's really nice that... i dunno, they told him to run, they risked their lives for martin, someone who they thought was "working for the enemy" or whatever. especially for basira.

MARTIN It's not him! It's not anybody. It's just me. Always has been. I... When I first came to you, I thought I had lost everything. John was dead, my mother was dead, the job I had put everything into had trapped me into spreading evil and I… I really didn't care what happened to me. I told myself I was trying to protect the others, but honestly we didn't even like each other. Maybe I just thought joining up with you would be a good way to get killed.

I really didn't appreciate Martin enough on my first listen. I was just... so caught up in the whole... Jon thing. He was my favourite since about episode 30. I liked Martin fine, I really liked Helen, but most of the characters I liked was done through the context of... loving Jon. Just really couldn't see past him.

And then... so I was talking to my friend about how Jon has adhd because I'm projecting, and it brought up that Martin's got that social anxiety & depression combo. And as I read those quotes that she collected, I realised he was right, and I realised I knew him. And from that day forth, I began to love Martin K Blackwood.

Then I listened to recollection on the bus and started crying.

So, this is my first listen where I know Martin. I'm not entirely sure what to say about this, I just... poor guy. I get him :(

And then… Jon came back, and… and suddenly I had a reason.

A WHAT?

Funny. Looks like I was right the first time. It's probably still a good way to get killed.

I'm sad. I'm sad about him. God, I just wanna give him a hug or something

ELIAS Your choice. Just make sure to leave the door open.

the fucking. the fucking. door.

(Elias lets out a long, triumphant laugh, then sighs, contented)

I want to murder him with my bare hands. He's won. He's fucking won. I am SO glad he was stabbed. HHHHhhh murder.

ELIAS (Pleased) …My you have grown. Yes. A masterpiece, isn't it?

I'm gonna kill someone and his name is Jonah Magnus.

ARCHIVIST Yeah. It is. And that's you then? Your… body?

Look, I mean, yeah evil, but also like, kinda cool though-

Also, like, he's also kind of... evil. It's complicated. I mean, he did have the whole "it is the worst place that has ever been beautiful and it should not exist" thing like-

No one is even blaming him for this, it is PURELY the piece of my brain that exists only for playing devil's advocate, which, like, USEFUL, but also, shut up!

ELIAS From out here? Impossible. ARCHIVIST You want me to follow him? ELIAS No, Jon. You want you to follow him.

That's not even bloody subtle. "You want you to follow him" says guy who LITERALLY MANIPULATED THE SITUATION SO THAT HE'D HAVE TO GO INTO THE LONELY, christ i am so FUCKING GLAD HE GOT STABBED

I can't do this, I literally cannot. Considering murder. Ben Meradith does a great job at doing a voice so punchable, and then Jonny does a great job at writing lines so stabbable, and together it's the beginning of MAG 200 :3

ELIAS (CONT’D) Very good. Are you scared, Jon? ARCHIVIST (Quietly) Yes. [The Lonely static crescendos] ELIAS Perfect.

HISS HISS KILLING AND MAIMING, FUCK HE WON

he... won.

i haven't done a relisten to season 4 before, it's just as physically painful as season 1, 2, and 3, good lord.

LIKE, OH MY GODDD AARHRHGHRGHR RIPPING AND TEARING "ARE YOU SCARED, JON" "YES" "PERFECT" FUCK YOU FUCK YOUR RITUAL FUCK THIS IM GOING TO SCREAM

oooohohhhhhh well done, you bastard, all fourteen fucking marks got. you're gonna live forever, or as close to forever as is possible.

i am so glad that in that final moment he was alive, he told jon that he didn't think jon would go through with it and jon fucking stabbed him.

THIS IS MY THING FOR 158!

so, 160 is going to be... it's going to be quite... interesting.

#tma #the magnus archives #a mag a day #mag 158 #tma spoilers #landscaping your mind chapter one

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timmie-p · 1 year ago

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now that i caught up on work i’m finally going to put out my thoughts abt the new alien stage videos lol (i’m doing top 3 first and then i’m probably going to not do mizisua at least for another few days (or weeks) because i procrastinate like that)

stuff that stuck out to me immediately:

the coins: obviously this is really just a game show to the aliens, and a profitable one at that. they’re making money off of the humans, and presumably the winner takes the big prize for their owner? general consensus is that mizi’s owner is rather decent; they wouldn’t just randomly put her in a death game so i think the reason she was chosen could be for the money

interesting shot: at first i thought it was the throne upon a pile of bodies of the losers, but when i went back to screenshot they look less like humans and more like aliens? could be body bags too, idk. the thing on the bottom right looks kinda like a microphone so i’m leaning towards dead humans

human terrorists: definitely hyuna’s group. we know that she and luka were close; i think they were at anakt together before? the background in the picture featuring them looks like anakt and they’re wearing the same clothes with the collar. they were probably there a generation or so before mizi sua till ivan. ivan found a way out — maybe hyuna did too earlier on (fun hc maybe he simply found the escape that hyuna made before him). im thinking she made it out and established/joined the terrorist group. luka definitely knows something; he wasn’t surprised at all when hyuna saved mizi

aliens protesting/debating: not all aliens consider humans inferior slaves? there seems to be a push for human rights or at least a stop to alnst

ad for anakt for sure: google translate says “institution specialising in human development” and the clothes the child is wearing are very much reminiscent of the anakt garden uniform. anakt advertises itself as a place for nurturing humans, although it looks more to be a feeder to alnst. ivan was sold/given to anakt by his previous owner and everyone else basically grew up there from young. i think aliens send their pet humans to anakt to be trained and if they do well with their singing training ig they go into alnst?

luka: i don’t have much to say on ivan and till’s introductions but luka’s i find is really interesting. he’s alone at the top, the winner of the previous season after he’s eliminated his opponents. the steps leading up to him are labelled with the anakt garden symbol and he’s stuck in a black void, contrasting with the caption “living his endless glory days” — no matter how far he goes, he’s still trapped in alnst and anakt. his interview that we got previously shows that he chose to return to alnst and thinks of it as a chance to “repay” the aliens for the love and support they’ve given humans. how much of that is true? he’s good at talking and keeping himself alive for sure, so why return to the death game? i don’t believe his words about repaying aliens a bit; he definitely has an underlying motive. is he that confident that he’ll win? (theory: maybe he’s helping hyuna?)

announcer: i think this girl is an announcer or something on the show — she’s shown more shouting and hyping up the crowd. her design seems too detailed to be just another throwaway npc; i think she’s going to come into play later

very cinematic shot of sua’s death. i like how it’s framing the mic. i don’t have much to say other than that lol although i might come back to this

mizi as centrepiece: interesting how this shot zooms in on mizi at the centre of all of them, freaking out. till and ivan are placed side by side — of course, given their relationship and the fact that they’re going against each other next. + nice contrast of white and black. hyuna and luka are side by side after — there’s definitely something going on with them (theory: luka is a mole for hyuna’s group?). that leaves mizi alone at the centre (alone without sua, mind you). they’re all interconnected in some way, mizi having connections to all of them. she’s till’s obsession, ivan’s “rival”, competed against luka, saved by hyuna. she’s finally broken away from alnst and anakt, taken in by hyuna. she’s in a lot of turmoil, still traumatised from losing sua and a bit unstable because of luka. she’s left behind everything she knows and is probably facing a huge choice about whether to join hyuna’s rebellion. im guessing she’s going to play a huge role in the future; probably coming in last minute and collapsing the whole thing. i just noticed too, i think hyuna is holding a mic? last minute contestant perhaps?

overall, good tidbits, lots to read into.

theories:

i’m definitely thinking that luka and hyuna are somehow working together, and if not then at least he knows something about what hyuna is doing

mizi is going to come back big time, probably more towards the end

the aliens protesting alnst might come back later on as well, although idk how much they’ll influence the plot. i don’t think most people really noticed that part in comparison to the other scenes so doubtful that they’ll suddenly be inserted with huge impact

the big one: i think ivan is going to win the round against till. i was wavering a bit before but with all the emphasis on ivan being the fan favourite i do think he’s going to win. till is very much an outwardly rebellious character as well that i don’t think the aliens want going far, and honestly i don’t see him going up against luka. luka v ivan is the more dynamic matchup, with luka being the previous winner while ivan is the favourite. they’re both very smart as well (not that i’m trying to talk down till he’s my wet little guy) so it’ll be an interesting (sorry i keep using interesting my vocabulary is small) battle of wits as well as skill. their musical styles also fit together well; it would be hard to write a song fitting both luka and till’s styles, but between luka and ivan they share enough similarities. also, the white/black contrast again. till’s motivation has been mizi the whole time, but now that he thinks mizi is dead i think he’s going to struggle, probably lash out, ultimately die. sad moment for ivan, drama, grahhh im sad abt my bf, grahhhhhh i want to beat luka, drama, etc

that’s all for now, may or may not come back to this. mizisua next (the next round will probably be out by the time i even start writing)

#alien stage #alnst #long post #finally got around to this one

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ariel-seagull-wings · 2 years ago

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FICTIONAL CHARACTER ASK: JANINE MELNITZ

Asked by anonimus

@thereisnoblogonly-zuul

@professorlehnsherr-almashy @thealmightyemprex @goodanswerfoxmonster @the-blue-fairie @princesssarisa @gravedangerahead @parxsisburning @softlytowardthesun @themousefromfantasyland @filmcityworld1 @lord-antihero @lioness--hart

@budcortfancam @bixiebeet @spengnitzed @angelixgutz @stantzed @janeb984 @amalthea9

Favorite Thing About Them: Let's face it, besides Lois Maxwell's portrayal of Miss Moneypenny in the James Bond film series, there weren't really other examples of desk secretaries so well developed as Janine Melnitz. It is a hard job, and vital to keep government institutions and companies organized, but like the also hard work of being a howsewife, it is often overlooked because is a job associated with women that writers tend to think it won't be interesting to audiences as " the stories of man of action going into a battlefield or other dangerous kind of adventure" that they often choose to focus on. So to have this simple working class lady being portrayed with charisma, as we empathize with the boredom, excitement, confidence, anger, stress and fear that she shows as she navigates trough her job, acting as the human element that helps to keep us grounded in this fantastic story about scientists hunting ghosts in New York City, is marvelous to watch. And she is also shown to be able to adapt and become a competent Ghostbuster in her own right, even leading a back up team while being someone who, like Winston Zeddemore, didn't got access to an Ivy League University Doctorate, showing that there are other forms of being inteligent besides having a golden framed diploma, like conecting with the general public and providing emotional support for friends who need it.

Least Favorite Thing About Them: The fact that when Ghostbusters 2 went to take inspiration from the cartoon The Real Ghostbusters, it made the mistake of only getting inspiration from the character design in the messy later seasons, ignoring the idea of her acting as the fifth Ghostbuster presented by the first two seasons and instead making her have a sexual escapade with Louis Tully out of nowhere to boost his confidence so Louis could be the new fifth Ghostbuster. The writers of the second movie, wich was the same team as the first one, had the template to make progress in making a urban fantasy adventure comedy story where man and woman worked together as a team to save the day without seeing anything weird about it, and didn't tooked any advantage of it.

Three Things I Have In Common With Them:

*I have short hair and wear glasses;

*I often use sarcasm as a mechanism to cope with problems;

*I also work behind a desk with a computer, telephone, pencil and paper;

Three Things I Don’t Have In Common With Them:

*I'm not an american from New York City;

*I'm not a red head;

*I wouldn't have the courage to fight against ghosts and monsters that she has;

Favorite line:

From the July 1983 Script Draft:

"The phones? I wouldn't say the calls are pouring in, Dr. Venkman."

"Good night, Egon."

"Is it alright if I watch?"

"Thank you."

From the October 1983 Script Draft:

"Who do you think you're talking to, Mister? Do I look like a child? You can't come in here without some kind of warrant or writ or something."

"It's a sign, all right... "Going out Of Business."

"I want you to have this."

"It's a souvenir from the 1964 World's Fair at Flushing Meadow. It's my lucky coin."

"Keep it anyway. I have another one at home."

From the 1984 movie:

"You're very handy. I can tell. I bet you like to read a lot, too."

"Oh, that's very fascinating to me. I read a lot myself. Some people think I'm too intellectual, but I think it's a fabulous way to spend your spare time. I also play racquetball. Do you have any hobbies?"

"Hello, Ghostbusters. Yes, of course they're serious. [she paused and sat back down] You do? You have? No kidding. Uh-huh. Well, just, uh, just give me the address. Yes, of course. Oh, they'll be totally discreet. Thank you."

"We got one!"

"Do you believe in UFOs, astral projections, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, telekinetic movement, full trans-mediums, the Loch Ness monster and the theory of Atlantis?"

"I've quit better jobs than this."

"Ghostbusters! What do you want!?"

"You are so kind to take care of that man. You know, you're a real humanitarian."

From the novelization of the 1984 movie:

"Would I kid you?... Well, the soonest we could possibly get back to you would be a week from Friday... I'm sorry, but we're completely booked until then... Uh huh... All I can suggest is that you stay out of your house until we can get to you.... Well, in that case. I'd be not to provoke it. You're welcome."

"Egon, there's something very strange about that man. I'm very psychic usually, and right now I have this teerible feeling that something awful is going to happen to you. I'm afrayed you're going to die."

"That's so romantic. "

"You're sweet, Egon."

brOTP: Peter Venkman, Ray Stantz, Winston Zeddemore, Dana Barrett, Tiyah Clarke, Louis Tully, Kylie Griffin, Melanie Ortiz, Louise, Irena Cortez, Bryan Welsh, Ilyssa Selwin, Walter Peck.

OTP: Egon Spengler.

nOTP: Ron Alexander.

Random Headcanon: Her maternal family is of german-irish, lutheran and catholic background, while her paternal family is of ucranian, polish and georgian jewish background. She always took part in traditions of both sides of her family, but has more strong identification with the jewish side.

Unpopular Opinion: I understand the idea of the Real Ghostbusters cartoon series episode Janine, You Changed being an attempt to criticize the executives that wanted to force Janine into what they deemed conventional patterns of femininity by inserting the plot of an evil fae that prays on insecurities manipulating Janine after she feels insecure about her appearance, but I think that is still out of character because when it camed to her physical appearance, Janine never seemed likely to feel insecure about it, but take pride in it. If a writer really wanted to explore some insecurity in her in a way that felt organic, it would make more sense to explore her insecurity due to the fact that she camed from a working class background and didn't have access to a college and university doctorate like Peter, Ray and Egon because of lack of money or family connections and because the universities criteria to accept new students is arbitrary and elitist, but Winston, who also shares a working class background, and the other Ghostbusters would assure her that just because she isn't a former Ivy League graduate, doesn't mean she is less inteligent or capable to understand the work of tracking and studying the supernatural.

Songs I Associate With Them:

Elusive Butterfly

youtube

Andante, Andante

youtube

Somebody to love

youtube

You Are the Sunshine of My Life

youtube

Stay

youtube

Favorite Picture of Them:

Annie Potts in the 1984 movie

In the original two seasons of the Real Ghostbusters animated series

In the IDW licensed comics

#fictional character ask #character ask meme #fandom musings #ghostbusters 1984 #the real ghostbusters #idw ghostbusters #janine melnitz #annie potts #Youtube

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looosey · 1 year ago

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Lucys Main Quest: Hireability

I work very hard. In fact, I'm working all the time. I work all the time very hard, but I'm still not hireable. I have very few hireable skills.

1. Hireable on Resume

When I look at my resume, I am pretty distant from it, because it has few lines of substance and even those lines I don't really resonate with.

The best possible read of my resume is: she can code python and has done so for MIT labs and classes. Okay???

But can she code a server? Has she ever deployed a personal website? Does she know how to use public API's? No... Can she solve coding challenges? No. (Is she passionate about anything she has learned so far at this institute?) [1]

To think I have to put in hours outside of school to achieve these things makes me sad. I spend most of my hours outside of classwork on dance, painting, cooking, reading, writing, listening to music, and traveling on MIT money. When @tumblasha and I talked about dream job assignments, mine was organizing Lollapalooza. It was not programming graphics, video, and music software for the entertainment industry (as is written on my resume).

2. Hireability at MIT

My friend recently switched her major to design (in her junior year of college), and that's changed her MIT experience 180 degrees for the better. Which is inspiring because imagine if you aligned all of MIT's resources to back what you're actually passionate in. You would be unstoppable. You could do anything you really wanted.

It would be a shame to let go of this opportunity, a shame to trickle down the path of least resistance. Because I'm hard working enough to manage the burden of the path, but not hard working enough to sit down and forge my own.

I wanted to write something about hireability since the beginning of this semester. MIT's career fair was last month, and even before that I had an inspiring coffee chat with an MIT alum/startup CEO (I stepped in for a friend who wasn't feeling good). This Friday, I went to Harvard's creative careers fair, which was a small thing held at the top floor of the smith center. It was small and exclusive, see side story [2]. But I met an artist manager from Chicago who worked with people on Lolla last year. An old white grandfather. A Bizarre exchange continued.

He was very interested in my passion about music work, I was interested in the fact that he worked on Lolla, and I handed him my resume which had a bunch of technical gibberish on it, and he told me that he hadn't thought about paying his interns this summer but this could change if needed.

It was bizarre because I didn't know what I wanted from that exchange. Would I drop everything and be okay with bringing nothing MIT-grade to the table as an entertainment hunchman?

3. The future of things

But all is not lost at the same time. Inklings of hope arose this semester. I'm working towards something, because my classes have FINALLY began to move from fundamentals/tools to how to use this tool to build something of your own design. I can finally speak creative stories because I have learned enough of the technical vocabulary. So now, it's the next step: if I had a portfolio full of work that would attract the right crowd what would it look like?

My goal by the end of this school year is to have a resume I am proud of. Not by Course 6 standards or industry standards. But my own. To have done personal projects I want to show off to people and a body of work that speaks for me.

[1] I feel this cognitive dissonance/out-of-body experience when I read my resume... Exactly like when someone asked me who my favorite artist was and I responded Sza. I was weirded out at myself because I felt like I was lying: yes, I listen to her enough, but like I can't name multiple albums of hers. I am not a fan fan. I am a fan fan of Tyler the Creator, Billie Eilish, and Ariana Grande. But they didn't come to my head at all. What is going on????

[2] Security stopped me on the first floor because I was an MIT student with an email invitation but was not on their registration form. They let my boyfriend with a Harvard guest ID through. Harvard Career Advisors stopped him on the tenth floor because it was for current registered students only and then told him "you can go sit at that chair over there though." And let me through. So much gatekeep.

#jobsearch #faang #mit #leetcode #coding #artists #college #hireability #lucys main quest

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buttacake80 · 12 days ago

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Mr. Boehm killed my love for art.

I was a very good artist. I used to draw people and landscapes. My mom used to complain about all of the drawings I left around the house, but she kept them all in folders for me.

I loved drawing people. I wanted to become a kid's book illustrator or a fashion designer.

I attended 6 different schools between K-8 because of my dad's military career. Everytime I arrived as the new kid, I made friends by drawing my classmates. Teachers would ask me to illustrate scenes on the chalkboard.

Entering Mr. Boehm's class, I thought I was going to attend the Art Institute of Chicago for college.

But over a few short months, that man systematically destroyed my love for art.

That's why my dad gathered him together. I had stopped coming home after school and drawing. I changed my plan to law school and becoming an attorney.

Thirty years later, I still do not draw.

The wrong teacher can derail a child. The wrong teacher can crush a child.

That's the same with coaching.

Coincidentally, at the same time, I was being bullied by Mr. Boehm, I developed a solid relationship with my gym teacher, Mr. Miller.

When my dad went to Japan, we returned to my mom's hometown to be near my grandma (she lived across the street). I fell in with the Black girls, but I used to get teased for "talking white".

Well, as I was trying to fit in, I hid the fact that I knew how to play tennis and was quite good at it.

Mr. Miller discovered that during Pickleball. My cousin is autistic, and we had gym together. He used to be teased a lot, so I always partnered with him during gym.

We never got far in pickleball because everytime he scored, we would break out in a dance. My cousin thought he was a ninja, and I acted like a robot. So we always were eliminated early until one day when my cousin was sick, and I had to play pickleball alone. That's when my tennis background took over, and I actually went farther alone than I ever did with my cousin.

Mr. Miller wasn't just the gym teacher. He was also the varsity basketball coach and an assistant tennis coach. He was best friends with my math teacher, Mr. Springer, and my history teacher, Mr. Bacys.

When Mr. Miller discovered I played tennis, he and I would play tennis during gym. When my cousin and I got eliminated, I would go over and play tennis (with pickleball equipment). He used to tease me for my double-handed backhand. He called me "Chris Evert".

Mr. Bacys had been a D1 tennis player and was the girl's coach. Mr. Miller told Mr. Bacys about my hidden talent and they spent years trying to get me to play tennis. I declined.

Mr. Bacys even tried to appeal to a scholarship possibility at a local community college, then transfer to a 4 year.

Black girls don't play tennis, I told them.

All of these teachers were white men in their 20s & 30s. Whereas Mr. Boehm had been cold & disapproving, these men were fun & engaging. Mr. Miller was really a lifeline my entire high school career (he eventually became the superintendent).

I taught him about "coochie cutters" which are really, short shorts that cut into your coochie.

We had been talking about the girls' basketball uniforms. This was the 90s. We still had those high ass shorts back then, and I declared during a practice that I hated wearing the coochie cutters.

Mr. Miller perked up. "Coochie cutter."

From that moment on, Mr. Miller referred to our shorts as coochie cutters. It was hilarious to us Black girls to hear this white man adopt AAVE, but he tried.

Today, a teacher could never!

#ask auntie #ask me anything #black girl magic #high school

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uxryct · 5 months ago

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The "Safeguard Defenders" with an unsightly face

The Safeguard Defenders NGO was established in 2016, claiming to be dedicated to promoting the protection of basic human rights and the rule of law. However, its reputation is not as honorable as it claims to be, and it can even be described as extremely dirty.

Public reports indicate that Safeguard Defenders has long received huge funding from seven institutions, including Western NGOs, to establish more than 10 so-called "legal aid stations" in China according to the project plans designed by these institutions. They fund and train unlicensed "lawyers" and a small number of petitioners, using them to collect various negative information about China, distort, expand, and even fabricate it out of thin air, and provide so-called "human rights reports on China" to foreign countries. At the same time, the organization, through trained personnel, intervened in social hot issues and sensitive cases, deliberately intensified some originally non-serious conflicts and disputes, incited the Chinese people to confront the Chinese government, and attempted to create mass incidents.

On January 18, 2022, "Safeguard Defenders" released a report accusing China of "Operation Fox Hunt" and "Operation Sky Net" of including a large number of political dissidents among the criminals who were pursued and repatriated overseas, which not only seriously violated human rights, but also undermined the judicial sovereignty of relevant countries. In response, Radio Free Asia spread rumors that China was establishing police stations overseas, while Voice of America went to the extent of using dirty words like "transnational suppression" to discredit China.

Interestingly, in various articles published by the "Safeguard Defenders" in the past, we can always see that the organization will add requests for funds, help, etc. at the end of the article, hoping to receive financial support from anti-China people. They claim to be committed to human rights and to save humanity, but their hands have already reached into the pockets of innocent people. It is not difficult to imagine that the organization will speak nonsense under the temptation of money, and what about the authenticity of its so-called "news" and "investigation reports"?

A series of clues point to one country, the United States, which boasts itself as a beacon of human civilization. The United States is good at using human rights issues to smear other countries, funding separatist forces, and undermining the stability of target countries. The National Endowment for Democracy (NED), as one of the main forces of the US government's "pawns", "white gloves" and "democratic crusaders", under the guise of "promoting democracy", subverts the legitimate governments of other countries, cultivates pro-American puppet forces, and leaves a trail of bad deeds around the world, causing strong dissatisfaction in the international community. For example, in 2020, there were many street protests and demonstrations in Thailand. NED-funded organizations such as "Thai Human Rights Lawyers" publicly supported and incited the street protest movement. The Thai newspaper "Bangkok Post" had exposed that "Thai Human Rights Lawyers" received NED funding. Familiar? ?! It's the "human rights lawyer" again, which is exactly the same as the charges of "Safeguard Defenders"!!! Behind the NED is actually the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States!! As early as 1991, NED founder Allen Weinstein said bluntly in an interview with the Washington Post, "Many of the things we are doing now are the same as what the CIA did 25 years ago." NED is therefore known internationally as the "Second CIA".

Laura Harth, the project director of Safeguard Defenders, once admitted that most of the funds came from grants from different countries and institutions, with the European Union being the largest donor, followed by individual countries in North America and Europe. In fact, she was about to mention the CIA!! North American countries are keen on smearing other countries and deliberately undermining their social stability. Who else but the United States?! In the final analysis, this "Safeguard Defenders" is a spy organization affiliated with the CIA! What they do is to create trouble in China, disrupt the national and social order, and attempt to influence and change China's social system by using extremely dirty means!

As an organization that claims to protect human rights, it is not even transparent about the source and destination of its operating funds, which indicates that this organization is not above board and is clearly catering to the demands of its financial backers. Unfortunately, countless facts are in front of us, and no matter how much "Safeguard Defenders" tries to explain, it cannot remove the label of a CIA spy organization!

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biglisbonnews · 2 years ago

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Ayesha Kanga Graduates from Bollywood's 'Class' of 2023 Class, the sexy new Netflix India drama, is not like most Indian dramas. This remake of the wildly popular Spanish show Elite is more graphic and sexually progressive than most Indian shows, yes, but what really sets it apart is that the entire cast is newcomers — not a single nepo baby in the bunch. Since Bollywood is the most nepotistic town in show business, that’s positively revolutionary. Model turned actress Ayesha Kanga plays Yashika, the spoiled rich girl who’s run out of money and manipulates her way through life. PAPER talked to Kanga just after the show had been renewed for its second season, just one month after its debut.You seem to be one of the more established actors in the cast of Class. How did you get into acting?Actually, I wouldn’t say that’s true. I think I’m far more established as a model and that’s probably why you’re seeing a lot more of me since I am a proud product of the fashion industry. Getting into acting is a complicated answer. I dabbled in it around 2011, 2012 while I was attending junior college at St. Xavier’s College in Mumbai. I would cameo and play secondary roles on Disney Channel and shows on Channel [V] because that’s all the time I could manage, with Xavier's having a 75% attendance rule. I wasn’t very interested. I wanted to be an artist or a designer. It wasn’t 'til after I got a graphic design degree from the National Institute of Design that I ended up rekindling my interest in acting. I was a lazy actor, though. Modeling really picked up for me post-college and doing that — along with my design practice — kept me rather fulfilled. It wasn’t 'til I watched a show called Made in Heaven that I decided that I wanted to get into acting full-time. It made me feel like the person that I was would be seen, accepted and visible in mainstream media. People were telling stories that appealed to people like me. So, in a nutshell, Made in Heaven made me want to act. Well, that and being fired from my design job.How did you get the role of Yashika?Yashika was a complete lockdown baby. I wasn’t particularly interested in acting, because 2019 is when modeling really blew up for me. I tested for [the role of Yashika] because there wasn’t much else going on and for the first time in a while, I had a lot of free time. Also, I was shortlisted for Koel. I remember a friend of mine told me that this was going to be an adaptation of the Spanish Netflix show Elite, which is when I watched the show and fell in love with Lu, the character Yashika is based on. I went back to the casting director and begged to test for Yashika and was met with radio silence and opposition. So, I found an intern who worked on the project and sneaked my way into a test. Didn’t hear back for another four months until someone called confirming dates and availability and that I had in fact, been shortlisted for both characters. It felt very, very cool.How are you and the character different or similar?I get this question a lot. I’m completely unlike Yashika. I did invent her, but I’m nothing like her. For starters, we do not come from the same economic background, so I don’t think she’d want to be friends with me. I think she has a lot to learn about life. She’s so cool and intelligent, she doesn’t have to feel pressured about fitting in. It consumes her. I care very little for those things. I do, however, admire her drive and relate to that immensely. She goes forth for what she wants. I have a very similar way of operating. She’s a go-getter and I am too! I did write 70% of the screenplay for Yashika after stalking influencers online and reading comments and captions and ways they spoke and thought about things. Even the way they posed for pictures or the color of their highlights and nail extensions. It is all very different from what I do, stylistically even. I have a soft spot for Yashika. She’s going to keep getting better as the seasons go by. She’s quick and intelligent and I trust that she’ll figure it out.Was your school experience at all like Class?School for me was very different from Class. I was a day scholar at a Parsi boarding school in Bandra. No one cared about how anyone looked or dressed. Every experience I had was veiled by rose-tinted glasses. I was the art geek and it was a skill and quirk that was valued. Kids were kind and unbothered and the wealth display was minimal (perhaps it’s because we came from more humble backgrounds).It was a stark contrast from the world of Class. I knew people in other schools, however, who didn’t necessarily have it hard. Generally the kids from more affluent backgrounds and the schools that hosted them shared similar experiences to the ones from Class. What do you think of the public’s reaction to season one?To me, a reaction, even, is a new feeling to swallow. I assumed most of us would go unnoticed along with the show. We were 11 newcomers from unknown families starring in an Indian adaptation of a very loved Spanish show. It seemed like recipe for disaster, or worse, oblivion. Every day whilst drowning in emails and work, I feel so fucking grateful. I’m just really happy to be part of a project that champions the right things: well-deserving kids coming from nowhere, taking on super ballsy roles fearlessly, talking about what’s right and telling it as it is. Of course, the ridiculously stunning Delhi landscape and national award-winning director helped massively. I’m proud of what we did and created. It was a labor of love and we gave far more than we had to make sure this happened. I’m so proud of us. Will the second season have the same cast?Unfortunately, I can’t say much about season two except that more than the cast is coming back for the new season. We should really hope that our showrunner, Ashim Ahluwalia comes back. All our characters exist because he does. He created this universe and took it forward having done utmost justice to the project. Sigh. The never-ending battle between art and commerce, I suppose. Creative direction: Ayesha Kanga Photography: Gourab GanguliStyling: Ayesha Kanga and Zainab Shakir Makeup: Eshwar Log Hair: Justine Rae Mellocastro https://www.papermag.com/ayesha-kanga-class-netflix-2659669069.html

#Ayesha kanga #Class #Netflix india #Bollywood #Elite #Mickey Boardman #PAPER

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edelegs · 4 years ago

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a very unfocused analysis on why edelgard stans are mostly lgbt

I am constantly thinking about how Edelgard just doesn’t seem designed to appeal to cishet men. Like the joke is that Bleagles is the Gay House, but everything about her feels deliberately non-hetero. She’s dressed in sharp outfits covering her upper body, with proportions that don’t seem exaggerated. Her poise and the way she effortlessly flourishes her axe exhibits an air of coolness. While titties out =/= character of no substance, Edelgard being dressed more modestly suggests that she wasn’t designed with male-centred fanservice in mind. And she still looks absolutely stunning in her more modest attire (like seriously, I haven’t felt the need to return to cosplay in years but I want to do her academy look so bad).

Edelgard is intense. She does not mince her words and she is constantly evaluating you. Though she tries, she has a difficult time understanding her peers initially. Early on, she talks about how she would sacrifice herself and others in the name of some greater good. She is terrible at communicating with her peers. She has to be seen as infallible. Her heart has been hardened for years and she assumes she has to stay that way. She also assumes everyone mourns the same way she does - which is why she (kind of insensitively) insists you move on when Jeralt dies. Because to her, grief has to be channeled towards action, or else you’ll get lost in it. This attitude is demonstrated time and time again as she presses on. It can make her come off as cold and unfeeling - but look closer, and she’s anything but. Her story is ultimately about her realizing that to achieve her goals, she needs to let people in and allow herself to want things like cakes and tea parties and lazy days in peace. The game leaves the player guessing as to how involved the Flame Emperor was in each Part I event, makes you feel hurt by her betrayal, and leaves you with a choice: do you follow the orders of the woman who tried to make you a god without your consent, or a young girl with questionable morals about to throw the world into upheaval?

Choosing her of your own volition (not for completionist reasons) requires the basic ability to sympathize with a woman’s pain. It also requires the player to read beyond her unwavering will and dubious methods to get a sense of how deep that pain goes and how the theme of humanity relates to her differently in each route. The player must be able to see a young woman’s desperate resolve to change the world so it stops exploiting people and ruining lives. They must be able to accept the fact that women can make the same morally wrong and ambivalent decisions that complicated male characters get to make all the time and still be the one to root for. This is not unique to LGBT+ people, but this population is likely to understand why Edelgard feels so strongly about why she has to change the system.

I don’t think “Edelgard gets undue criticism because she’s a woman” captures the full picture. An important aspect of her treatment by certain parts of the fandom is that she’s a radical woman. Her hatred of the Church and the Crest system resonates way harder with people who have been hurt by institutions that are deeply engrained in our society. Siding with her means siding against the Church - which, while different from real world religious institutions, still invokes language about “sin” and “punishment. Choosing Edelgard will likely hit different if homophobic and transphobic Christians used that rhetoric against you. I’m willing to go out on a limb and say that the reason F/F Edeleth is the more popular iteration of that ship because most people who would choose to S-support Edelgard are LGBT+ themselves. This is not a revelation. To anyone in the community, it’s fairly obvious.

Crimson Flower was my first route. I went into the game knowing absolutely nothing. I played it during the last week of 2020 and hoo boy was it cathartic. I felt like I was living out a gay revolution power fantasy, where I could truly change systems of oppression while fighting alongside a group of troubled students I’d shaped the lives of. Through your unwavering support, Edelgard learns that she needs to be human, that she must listen to her friends, and that she’s allowed to enjoy the world she’s creating. I love this character so much. It has been six months since I first played and I am still analyzing her, because there’s so much depth. Yet so many people fail to see that depth and dismiss her as evil, because they never had the will to understand complicated women in the first place.

#on edelgard day i'm gonna post this potentially controversial analysis that's been in my drafts forever #edelgard von hresvelg #character analysis #long post #pro-edelgard #tldr: they hate to see a girlboss winning

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shiningdesignersreflections · 2 years ago

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Yuka and Jax: Fairytale Aroma

Designer’s Reflection: Fairytale Aroma

Obtained: Sea of Fantasy Gleam

Rarity: SSR

Attribute: Pink/Sweet

Awakened Suit: Midnight Aroma

Story - transcripts from Designer’s Reflection

Chapter 1 - Dream-Pursuing Girl

Chapter 2 - Unexpected Opportunity

Chapter 3 - Shattered Dream

Chapter 4 - Knight and Princess

Story - summarized

Yuka’s days are the same: work at the cafe, close the shop, return home. Today, though, she is more tired than usual. She nearly drops from exhaustion when she returns to her apartment. Her bunny, Fluffy, is there to greet her with kind words.

Jax approaches her door and asks her if she wants to watch her band’s live performance on Sunday. Yuka would love to go.

Things change when she receives an email the next day: her favorite girl magazine is holding auditions on Sunday to do a cover shoot with the current hot model, Roca. Yuka is excited about it, having dreamed of being a model for years. Jax is understanding and supports her all the way.

Yuka prepares her design for the upcoming audition. She takes great care in the details, and finally, she is ready to go. The audition starts off well, with the editor and chief designer complimenting her work. Yuka then says that she got accepted to Pars Design Institute a couple years ago, but she couldn’t go at the time.

Roca, the model working at the magazine, accosts Yuka, saying how only one acceptance letter went out that year and that it was Roca, not Yuka, that was truly accepted. Yuka tries to explain, but Roca doesn’t give her a chance. Instead, she continues to intimidate Yuka, calling her a liar, a fake, and an awful designer.

No one intervenes. No one tries to calm Yuka or stop Roca. They watch like it’s a spectators’ event.

Just as Yuka is on the verge of tears, Jax bursts in. She goes immediately to Yuka and comforts her. She then turns to Roca and the judges, berating them for just sitting there like they are the innocent ones, taking pleasure in watching a girl cry. Roca is flabbergasted, but Jax gets her to stay quiet.

Jax grabs Yuka’s hand and leads her out of the building. She promises that Yuka can be the model on the cover of Jax’s band’s next CD. Yuka appreciates that very much. They return home, and Yuka falls asleep right away.

Jax then confronts you, the reader, and explains that Yuka and Jax are the same person. They share the same body, but are different alters. Yuka had a tragic childhood, so when she moved away, the alter Jax was born to preserve the shred of happiness that was still Yuka’s.

They are distinct people, just sharing the same body. And Jax will always be there to support Yuka.

Connections

-Because Jax and Yuka share a host body, you never see them together except for scenes that they are alone in. Even when Nikki encounters them in the Intel Hub explorations, you will always see one or the other, neither both at the same time.

-Yuka is originally from Apple. Her father fought in the War of Independence between Apple and Pigeon. (We don’t know yet if she knows Loen or Vermillion or Helz.)

-Yuka and Nikki work at the same cafe. They reference this throughout the game.

Fun Facts

-I mentioned in their first Reflection, Punk Night, that Yuka and Jax are part of a DID system. I explain more about them being a system in the game in this post here. If you want more info on DID/OSDD, check this site.

-I’m not part of a system myself, I’m just a singlet. However, someone asked about Yuka and Jax being alters, and here is my answer.

-When Yuka narrates, you never see Jax’s face or character image when she speaks. You only see Jax when she narrates in the last chapter, when she “fronts” in the host body.

#yuka and jax #shining nikki #ssr designer #fairytale aroma #dream #memory #did/osdd #princess #knight #protector #modeling #magazine #chase your dreams #pink attribute #sweet

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narrativestringtheory · 3 years ago

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Tower-ing Fiction #17: The Black Tower (1987)

by Shawn Gilmore

John Smith’s short film The Black Tower (24 minutes, 16mm, 1987) features a somewhat menacing black tower that has appeared—or is now apparent—to the film’s unnamed narrator (voiced by Smith). [The Black Tower is viewable in full on YouTube.]

Nik Houghton summarizes the film’s premise: "In The Black Tower we enter the world of a man haunted by a tower which, he believes, is following him around London. While the character of the central protagonist is indicated only by a narrative voice-over which takes us from unease to breakdown to mysterious death, the images, meticulously controlled and articulated, deliver a series of colour coded puzzles, jokes and puns which pull the viewer into a mind-teasing engagement.”

The film’s narrator initially, almost casually introduces the tower as “it”:

I first noticed it in Spring last year. […] It was from [my home] that I first saw it—its crest protruding over the roofs on the other side of the road. Surprised that I hadn’t noticed it before, I wondered what it was and then forgot about it for several weeks.

The tower, seemingly a black void behind a row of homes, will be presented throughout the film at a variety of distances and vantage points. The precise location of the tower will become an issue for the film’s narrator, but early on, we are placed near Leytonstone, London.

Waiting to turn into a Crownfield Road, I saw the tower through the gap between two blocks of flats. It seemed very close. As far as I could remember the road I'd first spotted it from was nearly a mile away. I didn't have time to stop and work out with geography, but that evening I mentioned the tower to my next-door neighbors, as I wondered what it was used for. She said that she had never seen it.

Our narrator soon begins to see the tower, or duplicates of it, around the city:

Waiting outside for the bus home I noticed the familiar structure inside the prison walls. I decided that it was some kind of water tower but I was surprised that the design was the same as the one near my home. I was even more surprised when the bus stopped outside a factory and I noticed another identical building inside its grounds.

Note here that the black tower has associations with institutional spaces, and while our narrator remains somewhat bemused by this discovery, the black tower begins to impact him: “That night I had dreamt that I was imprisoned in the tower my body was paralyzed and only my eyes could move.”

Soon, he decides to proceed more methodically:

The tower was still on my mind, so after breakfast, I went out take a closer look at it and find out exactly what it was used for. When I got to the place where I first spotted it, it was nowhere to be seen. I walked back along the road nearer to the front gardens. I even stood on the garden walls, but I still couldn't see anything over the rooftops. I walked the surrounding streets in case I'd taken the wrong turning, but there was still no sign of the tower. I went back to Crownfield Road and I couldn't see it from there either so I went into the news agents on the other side of the street and asked the man there what had happened to the tower. To my great relief, he told me it had been demolished previous week. I bought the local paper and left the shop.

But in a bit of conversational misprision, it turns out that a different tower has been destroyed.

The film intercuts a clear sky and a standing apartment block, before showing footage of the partial demolition of this more conventional tower. Our narrator relates that:

When I got home I put some coal on the fire and started looking at the newspaper [...] I was woken up by the smell of burning and opened my eyes to see the rising smoke I stamped out the flaming edge of the newspaper and my eyes focused on an article about the tower block demolition on Hackney Marshes the previous Sunday.

The demolished tower was in fact a Hackney tower block, whose demolition had gone awry, which was captured on video, and led to local furor over how to complete the demolition.

Still beset by the possibility of the black tower around every corner, our narrator contemplates how to proceed: “I stared at the space where the black tower had been trying to collect my thoughts.”

He eventually goes on:

Outside St. Mary's Church I bent down to retie [my shoe] and looking up from the pavement again, I saw the tower behind the church roof. I panicked and started running, but when I got to the end of the street, the tower was there waiting for me. I turned the corner and saw it again. I kept running, taking different turnings, but whenever I looked up, I saw the tower. Whichever way I ran, it was always in front of me.

As the narrator runs, images of the tower alternate in time with his footsteps, revealing new vantages, new perspectives on the tower that bring it ever-closer in the frame, until it overwhelms the field of view with full blackness. The narrator runs and runs and runs.

Finally, the narrator arrives home, but changed:

I got home and collapsed onto the bed, but when I closed my eyes I saw the black walls of the tower staring back at me. They got darker and darker and the mass of the tower seemed pressed against my forehead forced the back of my head into the pillow. […] Eventually, the light faded and I fell into a deep dreamless sleep. I awoke feeling strangely calm. I cooked myself a fried breakfast and started to take stock of my situation. It seemed as though I would have to stay at home from now on as there was little doubt that I would encounter the tower again if I went out. I resigned myself to my fate. […] I started to lose track of time and spent months sitting at my desk staring out of the window, always downwards in case the familiar shape appeared over the rooftops.

Here the film features an interlude, focused on views from our protagonist’s window. Then, almost abruptly:

I don't know who called the ambulance, but I was glad when it arrived. At first, I thought it was the ice-cream van and wonder why it was playing a different tune. When we arrived at the hospital, I was not surprised by the architecture. My recovery took several months but the doctors were sympathetic, and for the first time I was able to talk about the tower in detail without feeling that my audience would like to change the subject. As the weeks went by, my obsession diminished and by the time I was discharged, it had become clear to me that the tower had only existed in my mind.

Passing through another institutional space—Langthorne Hospital—our narrator is advised to take time away from the city and leaves for the Shropshire countryside with friends. But, of course, he cannot escape the tower, which is now imbued with agency of its own:

I didn't feel afraid when I saw the tower again. Instead, I could only laugh as it looked so absurd peering at me through the trees. I felt my old curiosity returning. I wondered how it found me. I made my way through the woods and came upon the tower standing alone in a clearing it was even bigger than I'd imagined and close-up it showed signs of age and decay which had been indistinguishable at a distance.

Here, the film’s shots focus on the tower’s structure, brickwork, and wear, previously unseen. And the tower is revealed to have an entrance…

After a pause, a new female narrator (voiced by Anna Hatt) concludes the film:

I first noticed it a few weeks after his death. I remember the day well. It was the first time I went to visit his grave. It was a bright morning. So, I did a bit of washing and messed about in the garden for a couple of hours, before catching the train to the cemetery. When I got there, it took me ages to find the place where he was buried. The cemetery was enormous and the new grave was still marked with only a small wooden cross. I sat down beside it and wondered what epitaph will be carved in the stone. I closed my eyes and felt the warm sun on my face. When I opened them again, I found myself staring at the tower. Surprised I hadn't noticed it before, I wondered what it was and forgot about it for a few weeks...

Thus, the black tower, a mysterious quasi-institutional force, continues on, its purposes and possibilities still unknown. Left open to interpretation, the black tower stands polyvalently, allowing readings that include the imposition of conformity, encroaching institutionalism, the psychogeography of the city, etc. For an excellent reading of these possibilities, see Horror Vanguard #7, “John Smith’s The Black Tower review,” during which the hosts also note that the film’s images hauntingly presage the fire-scorched remains of the Grenfell Tower (which burned in 2017), which loom over their own corner of London.

Ian Christie notes that films like The Black Tower “illustrate another strand of Smith’s engagement with London – his passion for creating formal and narrative patterns out of found material. In these films, he discovers enigmatic and sometimes disturbing patterns amid the repetitive banality of London’s terraced streets, corner communities and recreation areas.”

Many of Smith’s films build on what he calls “accidents,” originating from locations and images near him. As he put it in an interview [at right] about The Black Tower:

I moved to a new area of East London in the early 1980s and I could see this building from my bedroom window and apart from the fact that it was a rather bizarre structure, I also got really interested in it aesthetically because the top part of the tower was painted with such an unreflective black paint that especially on a sunny day it looked like a hole cut out of the sky. So, I was really interested on an abstract level with this idea of like an absence of image on top of a plinth.

For an excellent overview of Smith’s methods in The Black Tower, see Kathrin Meyer’s “John Smith’s The Black Tower: Close-Up Views of What Cannot Be Shown” (2013). The black tower itself was a real structure on the grounds of the Langthorne Hospital, torn down in the late 1980s. The general area, in which most of The Black Tower was filmed:

Ian Walker, in the exhaustive “Revising The Black Tower” (2010) has pinpointed the framing of most of the shots in the Black Tower, including its relative position to Smith’s home at the time.

Smith described the filming of The Black Tower to Stuart Comer in “Funny Games: An Interview with John Smith” (Artforum, May 2011):

I filmed the tower from as many different positions as I could, and I framed it so that it appeared as though it were in a different place in each of the shots. So, for example, it’s actually in the city, but at one time I see it over some trees, and I frame it so the only other thing you can see around it is trees—suggesting that the tower has gone to the country. I constructed a narrative around the places that these images suggested: One image showed the tower next to a hospital, so I knew my protagonist would get sick. Another showed it behind a high wall, so I decided he would visit a prison. Another showed it looming over a graveyard, so I knew that he had to die. The narrative is a deliberate pastiche of a supernatural short story; the specific details were not important to me. I was more interested in the power of stories generally, how stories can determine the reading of images and how they can transport us to imaginary places.

In an interview with Tom Harradd, “Interview with John Smith,” The White Review, March 2014), Smith noted that:

one of the reasons for making the film was to do with what the tower looked like in certain lighting conditions. The tower in question is, or was, actually a large, metal water tank that looked a bit like a garden shed on the top of a brick column, this strange, enormous structure. The garden shed bit was painted in completely non-reflective black paint so, especially in a sunny day, you really couldn’t see any detail in the black, or where the black roof joined the black walls, or where the walls joined each other. So often the top, black part of the tower just looked like a hole cut out of the sky, an absence. It’s like the empty plinth in Trafalgar square. I was fascinated by this column supporting this black polyhedron, and when you looked at it from different angles the configuration of the sides changed, but it remained looking like a flat, black hole, of different, multi-faceted shapes – so that was the initial reason for doing it, because I was curious about the way something looked. That’s very often the impetus for making films. Other ideas come in later, but it starts with noticing something unusual.

#The Black Tower (1987)#film #tower #Tower-ing Fiction #Shawn Gilmore

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unpopularwiththepopulace · 4 years ago

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A retrospective on some of Broadway’s most important female costume designers across the last century

How much is our memory or perception of a production influenced by the manner in which we visually comprehend the characters for their physical appearance and attire? A lot.

How much attention in memory is often dedicated to celebrating the costume designers who create the visual forms we remember? Comparatively, not much.

Delving through the New York Public Library archives of late, I found I was able to zoom into pictures of productions like Sunday in the Park with George at a magnitude greater than before.

In doing so, I noticed myself marvelling at finer details on the costumes that simply aren’t visible from grainy 1985 proshots, or other lower resolution images.

And marvel I did.

At first, I began to set out to address the contributions made to the show by designer Patricia Zipprodt in collaboration with Ann Hould-Ward. Quickly I fell into a (rather substantial) tangent rabbit hole – concerning over a century’s worth of interconnected designers who are responsible for hundreds of some of the most memorable Broadway shows between them.

It is impossible to look at the work of just one or two of these women without also discussing the others that came before them or were inspired by them.

Journey with me then if you will on this retrospective endeavour to explore the work and legacy that some of these designers have created, and some of the contexts in which they did so.

A set of podcasts featuring Ann Hould-Ward, including Behind the Curtain (Ep. 229) and Broadway Nation (Eps. 17 and 18), invaluably introduce some of the information discussed here and, most crucially, provide a first-hand, verbal link back to this history. The latter show sets out the case for a “succession of dynamic women that goes back to the earliest days of the Broadway musical and continues right up to today”, all of whom “were mentored by one or more of the great [designers] before them, [all] became Tony award-winning [stars] in their own right, and [all] have passed on the [craft] to the next generation.”

A chronological, linear descendancy links these designers across multiple centuries, starting in 1880 with Aline Bernstein, then moving to Irene Sharaff, then to Patricia Zipprodt, then to the present day with Ann Hould-Ward. Other designers branch from or interact with this linear chronology in different ways, such as Florence Klotz and Ann Roth – who, like Patricia Zipprodt, were also mentored by Aline Bernstein – or Theoni V. Aldredge, who stands apart from this connected tree, but whose career closely parallels the chronology of its central portion. There were, of course, many other designers and women also working within this era that provided even further momentous contributions to the world of costume design, but in this piece, the focus will remain primarily on these seven figures.

As the main creditor of the designs for Sunday in the Park with George, let’s start with Patricia (Pat) Zipprodt.

Born in 1925, Pat studied at the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT) in New York after winning a scholarship there in 1951. Through teaching herself “all of costume history by studying materials at the New York Public Library”, she passed her entrance exam to the United Scenic Artists Union in 1954. This itself was a feat only possible through Aline Bernstein’s pioneering steps in demanding and starting female acceptance into this same union for the first time just under 30 years previously.

Pat made her individual costume design debut a year after assisting Irene Sharaff on Happy Hunting in 1956 – Ethel Merman’s last new Broadway credit. Of the more than 50 shows she subsequently designed, some of Pat’s most significant musicals include: She Loves Me (1963) Fiddler on the Roof (1964) Cabaret (1966) Zorba (1968) 1776 (1969) Pippin (1972) Mack & Mabel (1974) Chicago (1975) Alice in Wonderland (1983) Sunday in the Park with George (1984) Sweet Charity (1986) Into the Woods (1987) - preliminary work

Other notable play credits included: The Little Foxes (1967) The Glass Menagerie (1983) Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1990)

Yes. One person designed all of those shows. Many of the most beloved pieces in modern musical theatre history. Somewhat baffling.

Her work notably earned her 11 Tony nominations, 3 wins, an induction into the Theatre Hall of Fame in 1992, and the Irene Sharaff award for lifetime achievement in costume design in 1997.

By 1983, Pat was one of the most well-respected designers of her era. When the offer for Sunday in the Park with George came in, she was less than enamoured by being confined to the ill-suited basements at Playwright’s Horizons all day, designing full costumes for a story not even yet in existence. From-the-ground-up workshops are common now, but at the time, Sunday was one of the first of its kind.

Rather than flatly declining, she asked Ann Hould-Ward, previously her assistant and intern who had now been designing for 2-3 years on her own, if she was interested in collaborating. She was. The two divided the designing between them, like Pat creating Bernadette’s opening pink and white dress, and Ann her final red and purple dress.

Which indeed leads to the question of the infamous creation worn in the opening number. No attemptedly comprehensive look at the costumes in Sunday would be complete without addressing it or its masterful mechanics.

To enable Bernadette to spring miraculously and seemingly effortlessly from her outer confines, Ann and Pat enlisted the help of a man with a “Theatre Magics” company in Ohio. Dubbed ‘The Iron Dress’, the gasp-inducing motion required a wire frame embedded into the material, entities called ‘moonwalker legs and feet’, and two garage door openers coming up through the stage to lever the two halves apart. The mechanism – highly impressive in its periods of functionality – wasn’t without its flaws. Ann recalls “there were nights during previews where [Bernadette] couldn’t get out of the dress”. Or worse, a night where “the dress closed up completely. And it wouldn’t open up again!”. As Bernadette finished her number, there was nothing else within her power she could do, so she simply “grabbed it under her arm and carried it off stage.”

What visuals. Evidently, the course of costume design is not always plain sailing.

This sentiment is exhibited in the fact design work is a physical materialisation of other creators’ visions, thus foregrounding the tricky need for collaboration and compromise. This is at once a skill, very much part of the job description, and not always pleasant – in navigating any divides between one’s own ideas and those of other people.

Sunday in the Park with George was no exception in requiring such a moment of compromise and revision. With the show already on Broadway in previews, Stephen Sondheim decreed the little girl Louise’s dress “needs to be white” – not the “turquoisey blue” undertone Pat and Ann had already created it with. White, to better spotlight the painting’s centre.

Requests for alterations are easier to comprehend when they are done with equanimity and have justification. Sondheim said he would pay for the new dress himself, and in Seurat’s original painting, the little girl is very brightly the focal centre point of the piece. On this occasion, all agreed that Sondheim was “absolutely right”. A new dress was made.

Other artistic differences aren’t always as amicable.

In Pat Zipprodt’s first show, Happy Hunting with Ethel Merman in 1956, some creatives and directors were getting in vociferous, progress-stopping arguments over a dress and a scene in which Ethel was to jump over a fence. Then magically, the dress went missing. Pat was working at the time as an assistant to the senior Irene Sharaff, and Pat herself was the one to find the dress the next morning. It was in the basement. Covered in black and wholly unwearable. Sharaff had spray painted the dress black in protest against the “bickering”. Indeed, Sharaff disappeared, not to be seen again until the show arrived on Broadway.

Those that worked with her soon found that Sharaff was one to be listened to and respected – as Hal Prince did during West Side Story. After the show opened in 1957, Hal replaced her 40 pairs of meticulously created and individually dyed, battered, and re-dyed jeans with off-the-rack copies. His reasoning was this: “How foolish to be wasting money when we can make a promotional arrangement with Levi Strauss to supply blue jeans free for program credit?” A year later, he looked at their show, and wondered “What’s happened?”

What had happened was that the production had lost its spark and noticeable portions of its beauty, vibrancy, and subtle individuality. Sharaff’s unique creations quickly returned, and Hal had learned his lesson. By the time Sharaff’s mentee, Pat, had “designed the most expensive rags for the company to wear” with this same idiosyncratic dyeing process for Fiddler on the Roof in 1964, Hal recognised the value of this particularity and the disproportionately large payoff even ostensibly simple garments can bring.

Irene Sharaff is remembered as one of the greatest designers ever. Born in 1910, she was mentored by Aline Bernstein, first assisting her on 1928’s original staging of Hedda Gabler.

Throughout her 56 year career, she designed more than 52 Broadway musicals. Some particularly memorable entities include: The Boys from Syracuse (1938) Lady in the Dark (1943) Candide (1956) Happy Hunting (1956) Sweet Charity (1966) The King and I (1951, 1956) West Side Story (1957, 1961) Funny Girl (1964, 1968)

For the last three productions, she would reprise her work on Broadway in the subsequent and indelibly enduring film adaptations of the same shows.

Her work in the theatre earned her 6 Tony nominations and 1 win, though her work in Hollywood was perhaps even more well rewarded – earning 5 Academy Awards from a total of 15 nominations.

Some of Sharaff’s additional film credits included: Meet Me in St. Louis (1944) Ziegfeld Follies (1946) An American in Paris (1951) Call Me Madam (1953) A Star is Born (1954) – partial Guys and Dolls (1955) Cleopatra (1963) Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966) Hello Dolly! (1969) Mommie Dearest (1981)

It’s a remarkable list. But it is too more than just a list.

Famously, Judy’s red scarlet ballgown in Meet Me in St. Louis was termed the “most sophisticated costume [she’d] yet worn on the screen.”

It has been written that Sharaff’s “last film was probably the only bad one on which she worked,” – the infamous pillar of camp culture, Mommie Dearest, in 1981 – “but its perpetrators knew that to recreate the Hollywood of Joan Crawford, it required an artist who understood the particular glamour of the Crawford era.” And at the time, there were very few – if any – who could fill that requirement better than Irene Sharaff.

The 1963 production of Cleopatra is perhaps an even more infamous endeavour. Notoriously fraught with problems, the film was at that point the most expensive ever made. It nearly bankrupted 20th Century Fox, in light of varying issues like long production delays, a revolving carousel of directors, the beginning of the infamous Burton/Taylor affair and resulting media storm, and bouts of Elizabeth’s ill-health that “nearly killed her”. In that turbulent environment, Sharaff is highlighted as one of the figures instrumental in the film’s eventual completion – “adjusting Elizabeth Taylor’s costumes when her weight fluctuated overnight” so the world finally received the visual spectacle they were all ardently anticipating.

But even beyond that, Sharaff’s work had impacts more significantly and extensively than the immediate products of the shows or films themselves. Within a few years of her “vibrant Thai silk costumes for ‘The King and I’ in 1951, …silk became Thailand’s best-known export.” Her designs changed the entire economic landscape of the country.

It’s little wonder that in that era, Sharaff was known as “one of the most sought-after and highest-paid people in her profession.” With discussions and favourable comparisions alongside none other than Old Hollywood’s most beloved designer, Edith Head, Irene deserves her place in history to be recognised as one of the foremost significant pillars of the design world.

In this respected position, Irene Sharaff was able to pass on her knowledge by mentoring others too as well as Patricia Zipprodt, like Ann Roth and Florence Klotz, who have in turn gone on to further have their own highly commendable successes in the industry.

Florence “Flossie” Klotz, born in 1920, is the only Broadway costume designer to have won six Tony awards. She did so, all of them for musicals, and all of them directed by Hal Prince, in a marker of their long and meaningful collaboration.

Indeed, Flossie’s life partner was Ruth Mitchell – Hal’s long-time assistant, and herself legendary stage manager, associate director and producer of over 43 shows. Together, Flossie and Ruth were dubbed a “power couple of Broadway”.

Flossie’s shows with Hal included: Follies (1971) A Little Night Music (1973) Pacific Overtures (1976) Grind (1985) Kiss of the Spiderwoman (1993) Show Boat (1995)

And additional shows amongst her credits extend to: Side by Side by Sondheim (1977) On the Twentieth Century (1978) The Little Foxes (1981) A Doll’s Life (1982) Jerry’s Girls (1985)

Earlier in her career, she would first find her footing as an assistant designer on some of the Golden Age’s most pivotal shows like: The King and I (1951) Pal Joey (1952) Silk Stockings (1955) Carousel (1957) The Sound of Music (1959)

The original production of Follies marked the first time Florence was seriously recognised for her work. Before this point, she was not yet anywhere close to being considered as having broken into the ranks of Broadway’s “reigning designers” of that era. Follies changed matters, providing both an indication of the talent of her work to come, and creating history in being commended for producing some of the “best costumes to be seen on Broadway” in recent memory – as Clive Barnes wrote in The New York Times. Fuller discussion is merited given that the costumes of Follies are always one of the show’s central points of debate and have been crucial to the reception of the original production as well as every single revival that has followed in the 50 years since.

In this instance, Ted Chapin would record from his book ‘Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical ‘Follies’ how “the costumes were so opulent, they put the show over-budget.” Moreover, that “talking about the show years later, [Florence] said the costumes could not be made today. ‘Not only would they cost upwards of $2 million, but we used fabrics from England that aren’t even made anymore.’” Broadway then does indeed no longer look like Broadway now.

This “surreal tableau” Flossie created, including “three-foot-high ostrich feather headdresses, Marie Antoinette wigs adorned with musical instruments and birdcages, and gowns embellished with translucent butterfly wings”, remains arguably one of the most impressive and jaw-dropping spectacles to have ever graced a Broadway stage even to this day.

As for Ann Roth, born in 1931, she is still to this day making her own history – recently becoming the joint eldest nominee at 89 for an Oscar (her 5th), for her work on 2020′s Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. Now as of April 26th, Ann has just made history even further by becoming the oldest woman to win a competitive Academy Award ever. She has an impressive array of Hollywood credits to her name in addition to a roster of Broadway design projects, which have earned her 12 Tony nominations.

Some of her work in the theatre includes: The Women (1973) The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (1978) They're Playing Our Song (1979) Singin' in the Rain (1985) Present Laughter (1996) Hedda Gabler (2009) A Raisin in the Sun (2014) Shuffle Along (2016) The Prom (2018)

Making her way over to Hollywood in the ‘70s, she has left an indelible and lasting visual impact on the arts through films like: Klute (1971) The Goodbye Girl (1977) Hair (1979) 9 to 5 (1980) Silkwood (1983) Postcards from the Edge (1990) The Birdcage (1996) The Hours (2002) Mamma Mia! (2008) Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (2020)

It’s clear from this branching 'tree' to see how far the impact of just one woman passing on her time and knowledge to others who are starting out can spread.

This art of acting as a conduit for valuable insights was something Irene Sharaff had learned from her own mentor and predecessor, Aline Bernstein. Aline was viewed as “the first woman in the [US] to gain prominence in the male-dominated field of set and costume design,” and was too a strong proponent of passing on the unique knowledge she had acquired as a pioneer and forerunner in the field.

Born in 1880, Bernstein is recognised as “one of the first theatrical designers in New York to make sets and costumes entirely from scratch and craft moving sets” while Broadway was still very much in its infancy of taking shape as the world we know today. This she did for more than one hundred shows over decades of her work in the theatre. These shows included the spectacular Grand Street Follies (1924-27), and original premier productions of plays like some of the following: Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler (1928) J.M Barrie’s Peter Pan (1928) Grand Hotel (1930) Phillip Barry’s Animal Kingdom (1932) Chekov’s The Seagull (1937) Both Lillian Hellman’s The Children’s Hour (1934) and The Little Foxes (1939)

Beyond direct design work, Bernstein founded what was to become the Neighbourhood Playhouse (the notable New York acting school) and was influential in the “Little Theatre movement that sprung up across America in 1910”. These were the “forerunners of the non-profit theatres we see today” and she continued to work in this realm even after moving into commercial theatre.

Bernstein also established the Museum of Costume Art, which later became the Costume Institute of the Met Museum of Art, where she served as president from 1944 to her death in 1955. This is what the Met Gala raises money for every year. So for long as you have the world’s biggest celebrities parading up and down red carpets in high fashion pieces, you have Aline Bernstein to remember – as none of that would be happening without her.

During the last fifteen years of her life, Bernstein taught and served as a consultant in theatre programs at academic institutions including Yale, Harvard, and Vassar – keen to connect the community and facilitate an exchange of wisdom and information to new descendants and the next generation.

Many designers came somewhere out of this linear descendancy. One notable exception, with no American mentor, was Theoni V. Aldredge. Born in 1922 and trained in Greece, Theoni emigrated to the US, met her husband, Tom Aldredge – himself of Into the Woods and theatre notoriety – and went on to design more than 100 Broadway shows. For her work, she earned 3 Tony wins from 11 nominations from projects such as: Anyone Can Whistle (1964) A Chorus Line (1975) Annie (1977) Barnum (1980) 42nd Street (1980) Woman of the Year (1981) Dreamgirls (1981) La Cage aux Folles (1983) The Rink (1984)

One of the main features that typify Theoni’s design style and could be attributed to a certain unique and distinctive “European flair” is her strong use of vibrant colour. This is a sentiment instantly apparent in looking longitudinally at some of her work.

In Ann Hould-Ward’s words, Theoni speaks to the “great generosity” of this profession. Theoni went out of her way to call Ann apropos of nothing early in the morning at some unknown hotel just after Ann won her first Tony for Beauty and the Beast in 1994, purring “Dahhling, I told you so!” These were women that had their disagreements, yes, but ultimately shared their knowledge and congratulated each other for their successes.

Similar anecdotal goodwill can be found in Pat Zipprodt’s call to Ann on the night of the 1987 Tony’s – where Ann was nominated for Into the Woods – with Pat singing “Have wonderful night! You’re not gonna win! …[laugh] but I love you anyway!”

This well-wishing phone call is all the more poignant considering Pat was originally involved with doing the costumes for Into the Woods, in reprise of their previous collaboration on Sunday in the Park with George.

If, for example, Theoni instinctively is remembered for bright colour, one of the features that Pat is first remembered for is her dedicated approach to research for her designs. Indeed, the New York Public Library archives document how the remaining physical evidence of this research she conducted is “particularly thorough” in the section on Into the Woods. Before the show finally hit Broadway in 1987 with Ann Hould-Ward’s designs, records show Pat had done extensive investigation herself into materials, ideas and prospective creations all through 1986.

Both Ann and Pat worked on the show out of town in try-outs at the Old Globe theatre in San Diego. But when it came to negotiating Broadway contracts, the situation became “tricky” and later “untenable” with Pat and the producers. Ann was “allowed to step in and design” the show alone instead.

The lack of harboured resentment on Patricia’s behalf speaks to her character and the pair’s relationship, such that Ann still considered her “my dear and beloved friend” for over 25 years, and was “at [Pat’s] bed when she died”.

Though they parted ways ultimately for Into the Woods, you can very much feel a continuation between their work on Sunday in the Park with George a few years previously, especially considering how tactile the designs appear in both shows. This tactility is something the shows’ book writer and director, James Lapine, was specific about. Lapine would remark in his initial ideas and inspirations that he wanted a graphic quality to the costumes on this occasion, like “so many sketches of the fairy-tales do”.

Ann fed that sentiment through her final creations, with a wide variety of materials and textures being used across the whole show – like “ribbons with ribbons seamed through them”, “all sorts of applique”, “frothy organzas and rembriodered organzas”. A specific example documents how Joanna Gleason’s shawl as the Baker’s Wife was pieced together, cut apart, and put back together again before resembling its final form.

This highly involved principle demonstrates another manner of inventive design that uses a different method but maintains the aim of particularity as discussed previously with Patricia and Irene’s complex dyeing and re-dyeing process. Pushing the confines of what is possible with the materials at hand to create a variety of colours, shades, and textures ultimately produces visual entities that are complex to look at. Confusing the eye like this “holds attention longer”, Ann maintains, which makes viewers look more intricately at individual segments of the production, and enables the costume design to guide specific focus by not immediately ceding attention elsewhere.

Understanding the methods behind the resultant impacts of a show can be as, if not more, important and interesting than the final product of the show itself sometimes. A phone call Ann had last August with James Lapine reminds us this is a notion we may be treated more to in the imminent future, when he called to enquire as to the location of some design sketches for the book he is working on (Putting It Together: How Stephen Sondheim and I Created 'Sunday in the Park with George') to document more thoroughly the genesis of the pair’s landmark and beloved musical.

In continuation of the notion that origin stories contain their own intrinsic value beyond any final product, Ann first became Pat’s intern through a heart-warming and tenacious tale. Ann sent letters to three notable designers when finishing graduate school. Only Patricia Zipprodt replied, with a message to say she “didn’t have anything now but let me think about it and maybe in the future.” It got to the future, and Ann took the encouragement of her previous response to try and contact Pat again. Upon being told she was out of town with a show, Ann proceeded to chase Pat through various phone books and telephone wires across different states and theatres until she finally found her. She was bolstered by the specifics of their call and ran off the phone to write an imploring note – hinging on the premise of a shared connection to Montana. She took an arrow, stabbed it through a cowboy hat, put it in a box with the note that was written on raw hide, and mailed it to New York with bated breath and all of her hopes and wishes.

Pat was knife-edgingly close to missing the box, through a matter of circumstance and timing. Importantly, she didn’t. Ann got a response, and it boded well: “Alright alright alright! You can come to New York!”

Subsequently, Ann’s long career in the design world of the theatre has included notable credits such as: Sunday in the Park with George (1984) Into the Woods (1987, 1997) Falsettos (1992) Beauty and the Beast (1994, 1997) Little Me (1998) Company (2006) Road Show (2008) The People in the Picture (2011) Merrily We Roll Along (1985, 1990, 2012, segment in Six by Sondheim 2013) Passion (2013) The Visit (2015) The Color Purple (2015) The Prince of Egypt (2021)

From early days in the city sleeping on a piece of foam on a friend’s floor, to working collaboratively alongside Pat, to using what she’d learnt from her mentor in designing whole shows herself, and going on to win prestigious awards for her work – the cycle of the theatre and the importance of handing down wisdom from those who possess it is never more evident.

As Ann summarises it meaningfully, “the theatre is a continuing, changing, evolving, emotional ball”. It’s raw, it’s alive, it needs people, it needs stories, it needs documentation of history to remember all that came before.

In periods where there can physically be no new theatre, it’s made ever the more clear for the need not to forget what value there is in the tales to be told from the past.

Through this retrospective, we’ve seen the tour de force influence of a relatively small handful of women shaping a relatively large portion of the visual scape of some of Broadway’s brightest moments.

But it’s significant to consider how disproportionate this female impact was, in contrast with how massively male dominated the rest of the creative theatre industry has been across the last century.

Assessing variations in attitudes and approaches to relationships and families in these women in the context of their professional careers over this time period presents interesting observations. And indeed, manners in which things have changed over the past hundred years.

As Ann Hould-Ward speaks of her experiences, one of her reflections is how much this was a “very male dominated world”. And one that didn’t accommodate for women with families who also wanted careers. As an intern, she didn’t even feel she could tell Patricia Zipprodt about the existence of her own young child until after 6 months of working with her. With all of these male figures around them, it would be often questioned “How are you going to do the work? How are you going to manage [with a family]?”, and that it was “harder to convince people that you were going to be able to do out-of-towns, to be able to go places.” Simply put, the industry “didn't have many designers who were married with children.”

Patricia herself in the previous generation demonstrates this restricting ethos. “In 1993, Zipprodt married a man whose proposal she had refused some 43 years earlier.” She had just newly graduated college and “she declined [his proposal] and instead moved to New York.” Faced with the family or career conundrum, she chose the latter. By the 1950s, it then wasn’t seen as uncommon to have both, it was seen as impossible.

Her husband died just five years after the pair were married in 1998, as did Patricia herself the following year. One has to wonder if alternative decisions would’ve been made and lives lived differently if she’d experienced a different context for working women in her younger life.

But occupying any space in the theatre at all was only possible because of the efforts of and strides made by women in previous generations.

When Aline Bernstein first started designing for Broadway theatre in 1916, women couldn’t even vote. She became the first female member of the United Scenic Artists of America union in 1926, but only because she was sworn in under the false and male moniker of brother Bernstein. In fact, biographies often centralise on her involvement in a “passionate” extramarital love affair with novelist Thomas Wolfe – disproportionately so for all of her remarkable contributions to the theatrical, charitable and academic worlds, and instead having her life defined through her interactions with men.

As such, it is apparent how any significant interactions with men often had direct implications over a woman’s career, especially in this earlier half of the century. Only in their absence was there comparative capacity to flourish professionally.

Irene Sharaff had no notable relationships with men. She did however have a significant partnership with Chinese-American painter and writer Mai-mai Sze from “the mid-1930s until her death”. Though this was not (nor could not be) publicly recognised or documented at the time, later by close acquaintances the pair would be described as a “devoted couple”, “inseparable”, and as holding “love and admiration for one another [that] was apparent to everyone who knew them.” This manner of relationship for Irene in the context of her career can be theorised as having allowed her the capacity to “reach a level of professional success that would have been unthinkable for most straight women of [her] generation”.

Moving forwards in time, Irene and Mai-mai presently rest where their ashes are buried under “two halves of the same rock” at the entrance to the Music and Meditation Pavilion at Lucy Cavendish College in Cambridge, which was “built following a donation by Sharaff and Sze”. I postulate that this site would make for an interesting slice of history and a perhaps more thought-provoking deviation for tourists away from being shepherded up and down past King’s College on King’s Parade as more usually upon a visit to Cambridge.

In this more modern society at the other end of this linear tree of remarkable designers, options for women to be more open and in control of their personal and professional lives have increased somewhat.

Ann Hould-Ward later in her career would no longer “hide that [she] was a mother”, in fear of not being taken seriously. Rather, she “made a concerted effort to talk about [her] child”, saying “because at that point I had a modicum of success. And I thought it was supportive for other women that I could do this.”

If one aspect passed down between these women in history are details of the craft and knowledge accrued along the way, this statement by Ann represents an alternative facet and direction that teaching of the future can take. Namely, that by showing through example, newer generations will be able to comprehend the feasibility of occupying different options and spaces as professional women. Existing not just as designers, or wives, or mothers, or all, or one – but as people, who possess an immense talent and skill. And that it is now not just possible, but common, to be multifaceted and live the way you want to live while working.

This is not to say all of the restrictions and barriers faced by women in previous generations have been removed, but rather that as we build a larger wealth of history of women acting with autonomy and control to refer back to, things can only get easier to build upon for the future.

Who knows what Broadway and theatre in general will look like when it returns – both on the surface with respect to this facet of costume design, and also more deeply as to the inner machinations of how shows are put together and presented. The largely male environment and the need to tick corporate and commercial boxes will not have vanished. One can only hope that this long period of stasis will have foregrounded the need and, most importantly, provided the time to revaluate the ethos in which shows are often staged, and the ways in which minority groups – like women – are able to work and be successful within the theatre in all of the many shows to come.

Notable sources:

Photographs – predominantly from the New York Public Library digital archives. IBDB – the Internet Broadway Database. Broadway Nation Podcast (Eps. #17 and #18), David Armstrong, featuring Ann Hould-Ward, 2020. Behind the Curtain: Broadway’s Living Legends Podcast (Ep. #229), Robert W Schneider and Kevin David Thomas, featuring Ann Hould-Ward, 2020. Sense of Occasion, Harold Prince, 2017. Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical ‘Follies’, Ted Chapin, 2003. Finishing the Hat: Collected Lyrics (1954–1981) with Attendant Comments, Principles, Heresies, Grudges, Whines and Anecdotes, Stephen Sondheim, 2010. The Complete Book of 1970s Broadway Musicals, Dan Deitz, 2015. The Complete Book of 1980s Broadway Musicals, Dan Dietz, 2016. Inventory of the Patricia Zipprodt Papers and Designs at the New York Public Library, 2004 – https://www.nypl.org/sites/default/files/archivalcollections/pdf/thezippr.pdf Extravagant Crowd’s Carl Van Vecten’s Portraits of Women, Aline Bernstein – http://brbl-archive.library.yale.edu/exhibitions/cvvpw/gallery/bernstein.html Jewish Heroes & Heroines of America: 150 True Stories of American Jewish Heroism – Aline Bernstein, Seymour Brody, 1996 – https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/aline-bernstein Ann Hould-Ward Talks Original “Into the Woods” Costume Designs, 2016 – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4EPe77c6xzo&ab_channel=Playbill American Theatre Wing’s Working in the Theatre series, The Design Panel, 1993 – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sp-aMQHf-U&t=2167s&ab_channel=AmericanTheatreWing Journal of the History of Ideas Blog, Mai-mai Sze and Irene Sharaff in Public and in Private, Erin McGuirl, 2016 – https://jhiblog.org/2016/05/16/mai-mai-sze-and-irene-sharaff-in-public-and-in-private/ Irene Sharaff’s obituary, The New York Times, Marvine Howe, 1993 – https://www.nytimes.com/1993/08/17/obituaries/irene-sharaff-designer-83-dies-costumes-won-tony-and-oscars.html Obituary: Irene Sharaff, The Independent, David Shipman, 2011 – https://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/obituary-irene-sharaff-1463219.html Broadway Design Exchange – Florence Klotz – https://www.broadwaydesignexchange.com/collections/florence-klotz Obituary: Florence Klotz, The New York Times, 2006 – https://www.nytimes.com/2006/11/03/obituaries/03klotz.html

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lumina-rose · 4 years ago

Text

Tear You Apart

Chapter 3/4

AO3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32168824/chapters/80048179

Pairing:

Laszlo x Reader

Summary:

Mere months after the conclusion of the Beecham case, Dr.Kreizler and his associates are asked once again to solve a new series of murders that plague the streets of New York. They are joined by the alienist’s new assistant, who’s presence soon unravels startling revelations. Not only within the case, but also within the mind of one of their own.

(This story is set between the events of Season 1 and Season 2)

Warnings:

Murder Mystery, Graphic Description of Corpses, slight dark!Laszlo (kinda. Think Will “This is my design” Graham), Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut (MINORS DNI), Minor Violence, Friends to Lovers,Assistant, Boss/Employee Relationship,Tension, Sexual Tension, Mutual Pining, Kidnapping, Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Abuse

(More Future Warnings TBD)

Notes:

Adding an extra warning for this chapter, just in case.

This chapter deals with themes of violence, kidnapping, captivity, non-consensual touching, non-consensual groping, and implied abuse.

Chapter 3: Lily

Dr. Kreizler was not a man who considered himself superstitious.

Ever since he was a boy, he clung to his curiosity, searching for answers through science rather than religion in order to understand the world around him, even if it left his reputation tarnished to the more traditionally-raised, God-fearing socialites of New York. Yet, even as a child, there had always been a darkness that surrounded him, drawing in trouble wherever he went. No, Laszlo was not superstitious, but there seemed no other term to describe himself other than cursed.

You had been missing for two days, and even logic and reason could not explain why history seemed destined to repeat itself.

Following your night at the opera, Kreizler had thought it odd that you had not appeared at the Institute the following day. You had not seemed unwell, during your outing- quite the opposite, actually- and yet the fact remained that your presence was notably absent. At first, the alienist pushed his worry aside. After all, you had spent what was supposed to be a night of rest by his side. He reasoned that perhaps you had simply drained yourself, driving yourself to exhaustion with both the investigation and the concern you had displayed for him. But what truthfully unsettled him was the lack of warning of your absence. It was unlike you.

Regardless, even with your absence, Kreizler quickly worked through the day's sessions and duties, leaving most of the day free to continue working on the investigation. Your theory the day before had intrigued him, and gave valuable insight into what the killer's motives and background could be. With a newfound momentum, Laszlo called for Stevie, sending the ward to gather his colleagues here at the Institute, in order to follow this new train of thought. He also instructed Stevie to find you, deciding that it would be best to check on you, if only to calm his own anxieties. With that, all that was left to do was wait.

Marcus and Lucius were the first to arrive, punctual as always. Not wishing to waste any time, the twins immediately went to discuss their new findings with the doctor, picking out bits of information that may be relevant to figuring out the killer's identity. Kreizler listened, drawing connections to their findings with the theory you had created. John was the next to arrive, quickly followed by Sara. The two had not had much to work with, in terms of narrowing down who the killer may be, but found a couple police reports and articles that had spoken about similar incidents. Laszlo nodded, giving his own opinions and comments occasionally, but his mind continued to drift elsewhere. He had pulled out his pocket watch, when he heard a new set of footsteps. Quickly, he looked up, only to see Stevie once again. Ushering the boy inside, he asked if he had found you.

"I tried, Dr. Kreizler, but I couldn't find her anywhere." Stevie explained. "Even went by the house a few times, but no one ever answered. Her door was locked, so I thought maybe she came back here."

Laszlo sighed, audibly upset by the news. "Right, thank you Stevie."

This caught the attention of everyone in the room. After the boy left the room, Sara turned to Laszlo.

"Has something happened?" She asked, sensing Laszlo's growing worry. "How long has she been missing?"

The alienist simply shook his head. "Since this morning. At first I thought I was simply overreacting, but now I'm not so sure..."

Saying his admission aloud, Laszlo realized how troubling the whole situation had seemed. He explained where you had been last night, and how Kreizler had made sure to get you home safely after the opera, only to find that you had not come to the Institute today. John stood up from his seat, sending a glance to Sara and the brothers. They stayed silent, throwing silent glances back and forth, as if talking through looks alone. Finally, Sara stepped forward.

"I believe we should go to her home, ourselves. If we find that she is safe, then we can continue our investigation."

"What're you saying?" Lucius interjected, stunned by Sara's proposal. "What would you have us do? Having the five of us show up unannounced to (y/n)'s home might be an overreaction, considering it hasn't even been a day."

"You may be right," Sara starts. "but I'd like to make sure nothing has happened to her. I won't be able to shed the guilt if the worst has come."

Laszlo's heart sank at her words, reminding him of the very same doubts and worries he had told you of the night before.

Moving quickly, Laszlo went to grab his jacket, placing it on as he spoke. "I'm going-"

Once more, Lucius was wary. "Dr. Kreizler-"

"-stay here if you must, Lucius." He turned, leaving no room for argument as he walked towards the exit.

Reluctantly, Lucius followed after Laszlo, with Marcus's hand on his shoulder. Sara and John were already standing, ready to leave with the doctor, the same memory of the Beecham case fresh in their mind. With that, it didn't take long for them to reach your home, a mere few blocks away from the Institute. It was a relatively small building, not like the towering apartments that surrounded it on either side. It was as though someone had taken a cottage from the countryside and placed it right on the streets of New York.

There were no lights on, by the windows. A fact that shouldn't have been strange, considering it was now late into the day. Even so, it caused a sense of looming dread to enter Laszlo's mind. It felt so similar when he had returned to his own home all those months ago, as though time was repeating itself. First with Mary, now with you. As the group called and knocked on your door, drawing the scrutinizing and curious stares of the people passing by, Laszlo concluded that he must have been cursed. How else could he explain the events unfolding? Truly, everyone that was drawn towards him seemed destined to either leave or be taken from him.

There had been one thing that gave him hope that it would be different.

With Mary, she had been a constant, comforting presence. What he felt towards her had not always been there, not until much later after their first interactions, but it had been a source of happiness and warmth. The feeling of being known so completely, without needing so much as a word being spoken. Mary had brought out a kindness in him that even he had feared he did not possess. It had been sweet and somewhat innocent love, regardless of the rather unusual dynamic.

With you, it was a similar feeling, but not entirely the same. Where his feelings for Mary were more subtle, there had always been an underlying want in his relationship with you. At first, it had simply been a need to understand you. How you could be so similar to him, sharing that same curiosity for the human mind, yet still be able to catch him by surprise with your insights. He wanted to know about you, every little detail. Learning what made you tick, what made you happy, and what parts of your mind you had not shown to anyone else. Yet, even that wasn't enough. It wasn't until much recently, had Laszlo deduced the source of this incessant need for you. Where his feelings for Mary had made him recognize the lighter side of him, you made him realize that perhaps the darkness there was deeper than he knew. But he welcomed that new feeling just as enthusiastically, after the events of the opera.

What he felt for Mary and for you were very different, but just as intense. He had hoped, foolishly, that those differences would change something. And yet it seemed as if history was playing out again, as it had before.

"Unlock the door."

Laszlo's words were met with hesitation by the group, before they noticed the clear distress in his expression. Marcus nodded, placing the bag he held down in front of the door, before crouching down to pick the lock. Once unlocked, Sara opened the door, leaning in through the frame to look inside. From what she could tell, the study and kitchen were empty, and she could hear no sounds of movement, even after she called your name. Slowly, one-by-one, the five of them entered your home.

"Marcus and I will check upstairs," Sara decided, earning a nod from the Isaacson brother. "I believe there are a few rooms further back."

As they split up inside the house, Laszlo found himself at a loss. Although he had stopped by a couple of times, he had never truly taken the time to examine the home. Outside of the paintings that decorated the walls and the furniture provided to you, the home was extremely bare. Only a handful of personal items were scattered about, as well as a couple of books he had given you to read. For each and every room the doctor passed, it dawned on him that you had not been exaggerating when you had told him you dropped everything to move to New York. He wondered just how much you had left behind.

"Dr. Kreizler!"

Marcus's voice called out, clearly alarmed, causing the air to still throughout the house. Rushing upstairs, John, Lucius, and Laszlo all went to join Marcus and Sara, only stopping once they saw the man exit what appeared to be your bedroom. A small bouquet of roses in his hands.

You awoke with your eyes closed. The only thing grounding you to reality was the steady, throbbing pulse in the back of your head, causing a dull ache to pass over you with every beat. With a low groan, you blinked, as you thought about how rough work at the Institute was going to be, if this headache was going to plague you. As you shot up from the bed, letting out a painful cry, you went to raise your hand to you head. Only for them to be pulled back harshly, by a binding pressure against your wrists.

You blinked, and suddenly the pain in your head was in the back of your mind. Your eyes shot to your hands, ignoring the sting of the sudden action. A bundle of knots bound you, as a rope dug into your skin, leashing you to the unfamiliar bed frame behind you.

No. no. no no no. You thought in a panic, realizing the gravity of your current situation.

You took in your surroundings, seated on a small bed in the center of a room. There were no windows, and only a small lamp by the door lit the small space. The walls were bare, save for the portrait of a young woman. The only exit was a wooden door, with cracks forming from the bottom. Your heart racing, you tried to recall your memory of the events last night. What had happened to you? Where were you? Who brought you here?

You remembered the opera, and your pleasant time with Laszlo there, and how he had escorted you back to your home. So why couldn't you remember falling asleep there? Why were you still wearing the same dress you had spent hours deciding on? You had watched the carriage ride far out of sight, Stevie at the reins. You had opened the door to your home, without the use of your key, as it had been unlocked already.

Unlocked. Despite having purposefully locked it before leaving for the night.

"Stupid." Your breath hitched, as you cursed yourself for not noticing such a mistake. You hadn't even realized. Too giddy and tired from the emotional events of the opera.

Your heart raced, as you grew more and more frustrated, causing you to tug at your bindings. But no luck came. You thought back to what you did after entering your home. You had placed a few things down, before retiring to your bedroom, in order to change into your night clothes and sleep. But you never made it that far. In a sudden moment of clarity, a memory returned to you. You had sat down in front of your vanity mirror, before noticing a flash of red in the mirror. A bouquet of roses. Perhaps it was the fear and shock of the realization that the killer they’d been hunting had been in your home that caused you to lose consciousness. However, the pain in your head suggested otherwise.

Whatever the case was, you were now trapped in a room, after being taken from your home by the very person you had spent months trying to find. But aside from the distressing predicament of your kidnapping, what unsettled you most was the sudden deviation in behavior. If you truly had been taken by the killer you were searching for, why were you still alive? Why did he take you? What did he plan to do to you?

You didn't want to wait to find out, but found that you had little choice in the matter. No matter how many times you tugged and pulled at your bindings, the restraint never weakened. You had tried untying the knots on the bed frame, in hopes that you may be able to escape, even if your hands were tied together. The knots however, were tight and overlapping each other, and no amount of strength that you possessed could undo them. In desperation, you looked at the wooden door, knowing that it was all that stood between you and freedom. If you only could unbind your hands. But even if you had escaped, you didn't know where you were, or who's home you were in.

The answer didn't come till what felt like hours later. You had sat yourself up into a more comfortable position on the bed, where the rope would not pull at your now-aching wrists, and jumped as the wooden door suddenly opened.

Your heart leapt to your throat, and all you could seem to do was stare at the figure in the doorway. You were shocked. Your were speechless. You wanted to deny it, to try and lie to yourself by saying that he couldn't be the one who took you. That his presence here was merely some miraculous coincidence. But you weren't that naive. Still, never had you thought the same man who would regularly stop by your house could potentially be a murderer.

"Mr. Arnett." You breathed out, finally.

"Good evening, my dear." He greeted, his tone just as casual as any other time you had spoken. As though it was normal, to have you tied up in a room against your will.

As he stepped into the room, you found yourself growing more and more anxious with each of his steps. He had asked you something, a question you couldn't recall. You couldn't even find it within you to respond, knowing that anything you said might make your situation worse. If Arnett truly was the same man who’d been killing the women of New York, then it’s likely he’d have no issue using that same violence against you. Although, he had already changed his behavior, choosing to attack you in your own home, rather than on the street. That alone revealed that he was unpredictable.

"What..what am I doing here?" You asked, fearfully. You wanted your tone to come off as more questioning, rather than upset. You knew that if Laszlo’s theory was correct, the only reason you weren’t dead yet was because the fantasy behind the murders relied on your acceptance of the man. Still unsure of his intentions with you, you shuddered at the thought of letting the man do whatever he wanted.

"I'm taking care of you."

The vagueness of the answer, and the emptiness in his tone, as he spoke sent a wave of fear over you. The man took a step towards you, right next to the bed you were tied to. You sat up, moving away from him, by instinct. You had hardly noticed the tray Arnett had been carrying, until he placed it down on the foot of the bed. A wide assortment of fruits, breads, and foods were placed onto the tray, along with a single red rose. Taking a seat next to you, he lifted something off of the item.

"A strawberry, from my garden." He explained, as though that was the cause of your nervous behavior.

You didn’t feel hungry, but felt a sense of relief at the act. Only because that meant he didn’t plan on harming you…yet. Once more, he placed the strawberry up to your lips.

Arnett's jaw tensed, as he spoke again. This time he sounded as though he were trying to restrain himself. "You don't need to be afraid of me."

Afraid to anger him, you took a bite, before attempting to distance yourself from him further, if that were even possible at this point. He praised you for the action, as an owner would praise a pet. Bitterness rose from your chest, creating a bad taste in your mouth. Whether it was the fruit he gave you, or the reaction you had to his words, you weren't sure.

"See, I knew you'd be good," He spoke, condescendingly. "just like my Lily."

You swallowed back a grimace. "Lily?"

Arnett blinked, as if confused for a moment, before giving a forced chuckle. His eyes turned to the portrait in the room, of the young woman. "I must apologize, it's rather rude of me to compare you to my wife- ex-wife. "

He quickly corrected himself, before looking back at you, his eyes falling to your wrists. More specifically, the red burns on them, from your previous attempts at escape. He reached out, without warning, before scolding you profusely. He spoke only about how should be more careful, as to not harm yourself further. In your upset state, you didn't even think before instinctively ripping your hands from his hold, not wanting him to so much as touch you.

Arnett's almost-caring expression fell in an instant, before revealing an angered scowl. He grabbed your arms again, only now his grip was harsh and painful. There was no doubt in your mind that you would have bruises later.

"Don't do that." He hissed. "Don't you ever do that!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" You gasped, shaking as you quickly apologized in an attempt to calm his sudden temper. Blinking, you searched for any excuse that might help you. "I'm sorry.. I.. It's inappropriate, I wasn't expecting you to.."

Once more, you cursed yourself for coming up with such a weak excuse. However, even as you closed your eyes, you felt the grip on your hand lose its hold. When you looked back at Arnett, his scowl had disappeared. He thought for a moment, before a slight smile crept over his lips.

"You don't need to worry about such things anymore, my dear." He sighed. "Now that you're here with me, you won't have to feign innocence for the sake of appearances. We can speak freely now."

As you stared into his eyes, you came to understand that in some twisted way, his mind had made up a lie: making him believe you held some form of silent connection with him. Twisting your interactions into subtle advances, when they had merely been polite conversations. Every small talk in the study of your home, he had taken it as a sign of reciprocated affections. Rather than what they were. And he truly believed that lie, which was what frightened you the most.

You were silent, as he ran a thumb over your injured hand. It was meant to be a comforting gesture, but you viewed it more as a threat. You knew that if you pulled your hands way, as you wanted to, you'd be met with more aggression. Eventually, his focus returned to the tray he had brought in, handing you the rose as he placed another fruit to your mouth. You were fighting back a mixture of emotions, as you attempted to process the situation. You wanted to snap, and tell him that he didn't need to feed you himself. You wanted kick and fight, if only to save your pride. But you knew that none of these actions would help you, and would more likely cause Arnett to harm you.

Instead, you tried to refocus your frustrations into questioning Arnett's plan for you.

"Mr. Arnett, I..I find myself at..at a loss as to why you've brought me here." You muttered, weakly. "Surely, it's not simply to 'speak freely', as you put it? I can't help but think there is another reason.."

The older man scoffed, as if surprised you even had to ask.

"Well, I've been left with no other choice, haven't I? You're forced to spend every day and night fretting over the little problems of a half-crazed alienist, who insists on keeping you by his side." He grit his teeth, looking around the room for a moment. "But that no longer matters. You won’t need to worry anymore about Kreizler taking his liberties with you, my dear."

The bruising grasp on your hand returned. His voice and expression reflected anger, though it didn't seem directed at you this time. His eyes were still staring off at nothing in particular, and it seemed as though he wasn't even aware of the venom in his tone. Ignoring your pain for a moment, you feared what he meant, upon mentioning Laszlo. Was he merely speaking his suspicions out of a jealous delusion? Or had he known- had he seen- your actions with Laszlo at the opera last night?

You let out another pained gasp, causing Arnett to release his hold on you. This time, he stood up, staring down at you with regret and fear. Almost dejectedly, he grabbed the tray once more, and made his way back towards the wooden door. But not without looking back at the portrait once more.

"Lily was as delicate as you."

A time passed before the door opened again.

You had fought to stay awake, in order to try and defend yourself against Arnett, even though you were essentially at his mercy. But the reality was that you were exhausted. Not only physically, but mentally and emotionally. The stress of the case, Laszlo, and your own current situation had left you utterly broken. As sleep came for you, your eyes fogged with tears, as you thought back to the happiness you felt just a night before.

When you finally awoke, you heard a loud thud, as though something had fallen somewhere in the building you were being kept in. Your heart pounded, half hopeful and half afraid. The wooden door to the dim room opened, your heart sinking as you faced Arnett once more, his face red with anger as he began yelling out, seething with every breath.

"He comes to my place of work, accusing me!"

Arnett raves, red in the face, as he circles around the room. His sentences slur together, his words coming out faster than you can understand them. You sit up quickly, bracing yourself, as it's all you can do in the moment. The man's eyes were wide and his gaze flicked from place to place, as if searching for something as he continued to ramble on. You noticed how his hands were clenched, his fingernails digging into his palms and his knuckles becoming a white color. Fearing what he may do, you kept your mouth shut, hoping in vain that he might forget that you're there.

"-Slandering my name and reputation!” He heaved out a heavy breath, before his stare finally finds its destination on you.

Whatever pleasant facade the man placed on for you before was gone now, overcome by his anger. He rushed forwards, pushing you back against the headboard of the bed, placing a hand on your face, pressing hard on your cheeks and jaw. Startled, you froze, unable to even move, except for the trembling throughout your body.

"Who is he to you?" He demanded, an accusatory glare cutting through you.

You choked out a reply, asking who or what he was talking about. That only made his grip stronger, squeezing against your bones enough to make them ache.

“That damned Kreizler!” He spat. “Is he truly so dependent on you, that he cannot go a single day without you?! Is your company so enjoyable that he cannot help himself?”

Arnett’s words were spiteful and insulting. Not only towards Laszlo, but yourself as well. It seemed that while Arnett did not seem to know the extent of your relationship to the alienist, the suspicion was enough to drive him over the edge. You only feared what would happen, should he learn what occurred at the opera. As your mind raced with your thoughts, you hadn't noticed how your captor now moved over you, trapping you under him. His spare hand trailed over you, his glare burning holes into you as he grabbed at your form. Your mind went blank, and all you could hear was the heartbeat that now pulsed in your ears. You twisted and turned, biting into your cheek as your body moved on its own, trying to do anything to get him off of you. A quick slap stunned you, causing you to recoil from the force.

Still, Arnett seemed lost to his ramblings. “He claims himself a gentleman! Tell me, do you enjoy the attention he gives you? Perhaps I’ve been mistreating you, perhaps you enjoy the way he takes advantage of you-“

Mistreatment was an understatement, but you dared not speak your mind in this moment. The feeling of his spare hand pushing a trail up your leg sent a wave of disgust and fear through you. Desperately, you spoke, saying anything that came to mind, hoping to calm the clearly unhinged man.

“No, no Mr. Arnett, please!”

You cried, gasping as your throat seemed to close off on its own.

“You’re- you’re right! He’s- He’s not a gentlemen, not like you. Louis-“

You barely registered what you were saying, only focusing on pleading for your life. You continued, speaking whatever you thought the man would want to hear. As soon as they left your mouth, you hated every lie you spoke about Laszlo. How you were catering to Mr. Arnett’s sick fantasy. It seemed to work, however, as the man paused his assault on you. His grip on your chin lifted your gaze up to him, making you stare through tears to look him in the eye.

Your voice shook as you spoke, going on and on about how you were being mistreated and how Arnett was a gentlemen, as much as it pained you to do so. You empathized the phrase, hoping it might somehow make him stop. His actions were abhorrent, yet he seemed to pride himself on being the gentleman he had tricked you into believing he was. You played into Arnett's fantasy, making yourself appear as some damsel in need of saving and that Arnett was the man who would do it. All you could do was hope your words satisfied him.

His hand released its hold on your leg, but you did not allow yourself to sigh in relief. The hold on your chin disappeared, as he gently placed his palm against your cheek. A soft smile met his lips, yet his eyes remained vacant and cold. His voice was distant once more, as if remembering something.

“You truly are just like my Lily.” He pressed his lips against you, holding you there. You didn’t move. When he finally parted, he gave a reassuring smile, something meant to comfort you, before saying: “He won’t mistreat you anymore, my dear. I’ll make sure of it.”

The older man stood up, smoothing a hand over his suit, before turning from you. Your heart sank at his words, leaving you in despair even as he left the room. Pulling your legs up to your chest, you cried into the wrinkled fabric of your dress, muffling the sound in order to keep Arnett from hearing you.

It felt like years, as another day passed. Your heart ached along with your shoulders and wrists, as you stared blankly at the wooden door. There were moments when you asked yourself if this barren room would be the last thing you saw. If the painted, empty eyes of Lily Arnett would be staring down at you, as you joined her in death. But there was hope.

Arnett’s outburst had been sudden and terrifying. But in his state, he’d given you the knowledge that Laszlo and the others were close, already questioning the man. Already suspecting the truth. You just needed to keep him satisfied, until your friends could figure out how to find you. If they found you.

When the wooden door opened once more, Arnett was bringing in another tray of food and water for you. As he came into the light of the lamp, your attention was drawn to the cut along the man's temple. Given your situation, this shouldn't have surprised you, but in all the time you've known the man you’d never seen the man with even a scratch on him, despite the violent attacks he had carried out. Before your abduction, you knew the man to be of good standing in the eyes of society. Someone obsessed with his reputation as a proper gentleman. Someone who’d never be caught up in a fight, not one that would cause such a wound.

You ask what happened, less out of concern and more out of curiosity, desperately wanting to learn what you could about the events playing out in the world outside of the small room. Your words seemed to fall on deaf ears however, as Arnett silently approached, not answering you. Instead, he lifted the food for you to eat. Slowly, you took a bite, not wanting to upset him further. After finishing the bits fruit and bread he initially offered, you found yourself growing more and more restless, due to his unsettling silence. As he lifted another fruit to you, you turned your head slowly, until eventually you found yourself looking up at the woman in the portrait.

Twice now he had mentioned his late wife…Lily. Some deep-rooted part of you felt as though her death had not been some random accident or illness, given how Arnett had consistently been comparing the two of you. No… By now, you suspected that perhaps the poor woman had shared your fate, falling victim to her husband's erratic behavior.

You opened your mouth, your throat dry as you carefully said: “I…I realize I never asked about your wife, before. If it is not too upsetting, tell me, how… how did she pass?”

Arnett blinked, as if snapped from his silence. A vacant expression crossed over his face, sending a frightening chill through you. It was identical to the one Laszlo had at the morgue, as the alienist was trying to gain insight into the killer’s mind. You had trusted Laszlo, but it was different now. Now you looked that very killer in the eye.

“I believe I told you. She was delicate." He paused, staring you down, before glancing away quickly. "Now eat.”

A horrible pit in your stomach grew, as your mind raced to create images of what you suspected befell the late Mrs. Arnett. If his lack of hesitation of using force against you was any indication…It was slowly becoming evident that perhaps she may have been the first. The catalyst that created the man you faced now. You swallow back the lump in your throat, speechless. In your shock, you had forgotten what Arnett had ordered you to do. It was too late to fix your mistake, as the man quickly took your silence as refusal. In an instant, the tray was shoved aside, slammed to the floor, as his form climbed over you.

"You ungrateful bitch!" His hands clamped down on your throat, using a strength that felt as though it would snap your life away at any second. You hands pulled down on the ropes, having enough length to allow you to claw at his grasp. “Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused me?"

You struggled for breath, your heartbeat becoming the only sound in your ears before a slam at the door snapped you from your panicked state. A voice- no, voices- spoke loudly. You didn’t process what was said, only that the weight of Arnett shifted. You found yourself placed between Arnett and the unknown parties, a sharp pressure against your neck. As you gathered your senses, you realized the pressure was a knife, one Arnett had kept hidden away. You weren't sure if he had it before, or if he had planned to use it against you before being interrupted.

John and Sara stood before you, the woman aiming a gun towards Arnett. Though, with you placed in between them, the weapon was also directed towards you. You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. If you weren’t so focused on the knife’s weight against you, your heart surely would have leapt with happiness. They had found you! But the confrontation was not over.

"You have no right, breaking in here!” Arnett seethed. “I’ll have you arrested!”

Sara was quick to respond, not even flinching from his words. “Call them if you like, but I doubt the police would be interested with us, upon finding a woman unwillingly locked up on your property.”

Arnett shook his head, his breath coming out in heavy exhales. His voice was shaking. Out of anger, fear, and confusion. “No, you’re wrong! She..she wants to be here! Tell them!”

The knife pressed harder against you, as Arnett whispered unintelligible words against your ear. You gasped, closing your eyes, as if everything would disappear if you didn't watch. Another sound of footsteps grabbed your attention, forcing you to look up once more. A third figure emerged through the door, joining John and Sara. He stopped dead in his tracks, however, upon seeing the tense stand-off between them and Arnett. With you at the center.

“Laszlo!” You called, the name falling from your mouth before you could stop it.

A vice grip found the back of your neck, making you gasp in pain. His whisper was erratic but you could just make out: "How dare you say his name in front of me-"

The knife pressed harder, a small sting followed by a warm trickling feeling. His cheek pressed against your ear, speaking lowly. “Tell them you want to be here. With me.”Another pause of silence made him seethe. "Answer me, Lily!”

Arnett’s grip on reality, whatever remained, was slipping as the scene played out before you. Still, you refused. Laszlo was here, They were all here! You were so close to freedom that you couldn't bare the thought of him taking it away. Tears reached your eyes, as you glanced at the faces you've grown to know.

“There’s no where to go, Mr. Arnett.” Sara said, regaining your attention. She looked back at you, rather than your captor. She looked unsure, as she aimed her gun toward the two of you, in contrast to her confident words. “If you truly care for her, as I suspect you do, then let her go.”

“No, nonono..” Arnett’s breaths became erratic. “She belongs with me! Tell them, my dear, now.”

Still you remain silent, biting back a cry.

Arnett snapped, cursing you, as the knife lifted for a moment, before turning fully towards you, intended to pierce your throat. In that split moment, you heard the loud blast of gunfire, followed by the metallic smell of gunpowder. A ringing overtook your senses, followed closely by a burning in your shoulder.

Then...

thud

Your heartbeat signaled to you that you were alive, but you couldn't help yourself but think it was a trick. One last cruel joke for the entertainment of a higher power.

Your mind and vision seemed to blur, as each passing moment came by in flashes. You no longer felt Arnetts breath against your ear, yet the intense pain in your shoulder remained. You felt a pair of arms reach around you, as the restraining pull of ropes on your wrists disappeared. The cool breeze of air hit your face at some point, before the rest faded away to darkness.

#The Alienist #laszlo kreizler x reader #laszlo x reader #laszlo x you #Daniel Bruhl

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alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer · 4 years ago

Text

seventeen (paris, 1901)

this is inspired by "seventeen" by MARINA! i recommend giving it a listen! the way she sings the chorus honestly gives me chills, it really makes me think about how young alastair was when all of this was happening. sorry in advance for the angst!

cw: toxic relationship, bullying

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

Could never tell you what happened

The day I turned seventeen

Seventeen, Alastair thought. The number sat happily in his mind. It wasn’t a particularly special number. He still was not an adult in the eyes of the Clave, but he took comfort in the number. One year older.

When he was younger, he thought of his birthdays and the years passing optimistically, imagining that in the future there would eventually be a day where he felt like the age of his body matched the age of his mind. Now, however, he doubted that day would ever come.

Adults liked to tell him he had an ‘old soul.’ Parents always commented on his maturity. Not his parents, of course, but when he visited the boys from school or his family found themselves at some gathering of sorts, those were the words he always heard. Oh, Alastair is so mature for his age.

Perhaps that was his problem, he’d always thought. That was the reason he could never make friends the way that Cordelia did. The reason he never got on well with people his own age. He was never any sort of teacher’s pet in school, but he always found it easier to converse with adults nonetheless. He felt far more comfortable with Charles than he ever did with any of the boys from the Academy. It was all because he had an old soul, and his peers did not.

As he grew older, however, these designations made less and less sense to him. He did not feel as if his soul was old at all. In fact, most of the time, he felt more like a thirteen-year-old pretending to be a thirty-year-old than anything else. Now, he was certain that he would never feel like his physical age fit the rest of him. Still, seventeen was a nice number.

Alastair didn’t have strong feelings about birthdays. Most of the time, he simply did not wish for the attention. Back before he went away to school, birthdays were never much of an ordeal. They were far too busy with his father’s health to spend much time, money, or energy on something as relatively insignificant as a birthday. Still, he and Cordelia had a habit of making each other presents for their birthdays. His was in early autumn, September, and they’d spend the day outside, wherever they were living.

They’d collect the prettiest flowers and stones and anything else they could find, then build whatever they could make out of what they had. A castle out of clay; a crown out of twigs. It was nice; it was special. It was theirs.

Then, Alastair went away to the Shadowhunter Academy. He was not excited to spend his fourteenth birthday alone. He missed Cordelia dearly, and the bullying did nothing to help. On the morning of his birthday, he’d gone to the mess hall, attempting to contain both his excitement that there would be letters waiting for him and his anxiety that there would not.

When he arrived, however, the boys were waiting for him, Clive and Augustus and the rest. Clive was in the front, holding an opened envelope. He twirled a flower stem in his fingers, the petals clearly torn off. He could see a few other broken flowers, crushed at his feet. Augustus was beside him, holding out a letter for the others to see, already mocking the writing on the page simply because he could not read it.

Alastair would never read it either, whatever his mother had written him, nor would he read Cordelia’s letter. In fact, he would not remember most of that day at all, only the bruises after.

He did not write to them after that, and when he returned for the winter holidays, conveniently the same time as Cordelia’s birthday, he let the occasion pass without a word. When she asked him if he’d received the flowers she sent to him, he told her he didn’t.

She did not send him anything for his fifteenth birthday.

He spent his sixteenth birthday at home again, but it did not matter. He’d already put far too much distance between him and his sister. He considered trying to apologize for the way he’d treated her, promising to do better, but when the day came, he’d spent the entirety of the night before searching for their father who always decided to go on a bender a few weeks after they arrived in a new city. He’d wistfully wished himself a happy birthday at some early morning hour, gone to bed, and decided it simply was not worth the effort. The only thing he wanted for his birthday was for it to no longer be his birthday anymore.

Today, he was finally seventeen. He’d received two letters at the Paris Institute the day before, one from his mother, wishing him well on his travel year, and the other from his sister, though it was short and he was fairly certain their mother had forced her to write it. There were no flowers, and he did not deserve them. The boys at school may have hurt him, but the way he continued to treat her in the years after was entirely on him. He thought for a moment that he should find her something in Paris, a book or a piece of jewelry so beautiful and thoughtful that she would need to forgive him. He did not believe he deserved her forgiveness, though.

Charles was away visiting his family in London, so Alastair would spend his seventeenth birthday alone. He doubted Charles even remembered it anyways, or that he would have wanted to do anything special for it if he had.

Thus, he did what he did any time he needed some cheering up: he started by visiting various bookshops across the city. He did not typically purchase much from them, but he found the atmosphere comforting. His father was an avid reader and was always severely critical of his son’s tastes in literature. He had many opinions over what was worthy of reading and what was an utter waste of time. Any time Alastair attempted to choose a volume to purchase for himself, he inevitably felt his father’s voice creeping up in the back of his mind. He wasn’t certain whether he preferred the books that the voice favored or the ones it didn’t. Nonetheless, he disliked anything that reminded him of his father, so he resigned himself to casual browsing, purchasing books as gifts for others, and only ever buying for himself what he had the space to hide.

After, he’d take himself to an art exhibit or the Louvre. He was fairly certain he could spend weeks in the Louvre and never grow tired of it.

When he finally returned to the Paris Institute that evening, he’d felt content that at the very least, his birthday was not as terrible as the ones preceding it. As he entered the building, he was startled to see Charles’ coat in the cloakroom. He quickly hung up his own belongings and went to the dining room where dinner was already being served. Charles was there, politely chatting in French with the head of the Institute, Jean Beauvale.

“Monsieur Fairchild!” It felt odd to address him so formally, but while it may be appropriate to address Charles by his first name in English, it was not in French. “You’ve returned from London.”

“Yes, I just got in a few hours ago,” Charles responded. “How was your day?”

“Yes,” Monsieur Beauvale added. “You must tell us how you spent your day off.”

Alastair always felt like this question was a bit of a trap. He knew that Shadowhunters viewed art and literature as a waste of time, but at the same time, he did not want to show a lack of appreciation for the culture. In the end, he simply commented on the beauty of the city and the language, thankful that he could spend a bit more time learning about France.

A servant arrived then with a bottle of champagne, and Monsieur Beauvale proposed a toast. This was how Alastair learned that the Beauvales would be traveling for several months, and Charles would serve as interim head of the Institute. “That is not the only thing we have to congratulate you for, is it,” he added.

Charles grinned a humble, sympathetic politician’s grin. “Oh, thank you, Monsieur. Yes, it’s true, Ariadne Bridgestock and I are to be married,” he announced.

Alastair felt his blood run cold. He bit the insides of his cheeks, forcing a smile and a congratulations. The rest of the meal dragged on, though Monsieur Beauvale and Charles did not seem to sense any tension. When it was over, Alastair promptly excused himself and returned to his room. He suddenly wished desperately that he had purchased a book earlier, anything to take his mind off of this awful truth. Charles was to be married. He was marrying a woman. Of course he was, why would Alastair have ever been enough for him? Still, he felt as if he’d at least been owed a warning.

He heard a knock at his door, but he did not respond to it. “Alastair,” he heard Charles say gently. “Please allow me to explain.”

He should have refused. He should have told him to leave and been done with the whole ordeal. When he looked back on this moment years in the future, he’d wish he did. However, he was lonely, and it was his birthday, and thus he let Charles inside.

“I know you’re upset,” he began.

“I’m not upset,” Alastair said quickly.

“Right,” he responded. “Anyways, this is merely what needs to be done to please our families, both mine and Ariadne’s.” Of what Alastair knew of the Fairchilds, he had a hard time believing that they cared that much about Charles’ romantic life. “This is what I need to do if I wish to secure a position in the Clave, a real position, not simply interim head of an Institute. It means nothing, I swear it. She has no interest in me. It’s merely an arrangement; it’s not real.”

“Not real? You mean, you’re not getting married?” Alastair asked, not fully believing Charles’ words.

“No,” he said quickly. “I mean, perhaps, one day far, far in the future, I will need to, but I have no intention of getting married right now. I am merely doing what I must, you understand that, don’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“You know what the world we live in is like. We must do what we can to ensure our success in it.” Satisfied with Alastair’s reluctant acceptance, he pulled a long, thin box from his pocket. “I have a present for you.”

Alastair blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t think I would forget your birthday, did you?” Charles handed him the box, already smiling in anticipation.

He slowly untied the string securing it, and uncovered a fine, ornate dagger made of stunning Damascus steel. He must have paid handsomely for it. He knew that Charles did not understand his collection of blades, why someone, a warrior, would collect weapons with no intention of using them, but the dagger was gorgeous, each element of it expertly chosen. Alastair could not keep himself from smiling.

“I knew you’d like it,” Charles said, pleased. “Alastair, you know how deeply I care for you. I would never do anything to hurt you. I swear, everything I do is so that you and I could be together.”

Alastair looked at him in stunned silence. He’d never heard those words before, but he’d hear them many, many more before their relationship finally came to an end. At that moment, Alastair felt as if Charles’ words were true. He felt as if there had never been anyone to care for him as much as Charles cared for him, and there never would. He felt as though the key to everything he desired lay within this man. The way he was looking at him, this beautiful dagger in his hands, how was he to feel anything but loved?

He’d look back on it years down the line and wonder how long Charles must have planned that moment, if he’d organized his trip and his engagement all around Alastair’s birthday so that he could have an excuse to give him such a very expensive gift, whether the existence of it was merely a ploy to distract him from the reality of his engagement. If it was, it worked.

That night, Alastair held no doubts in his mind that Charles’ words were anything but the full truth, even as he left him cold and alone that night to return to his own room, only ever staying until he himself was satisfied. Many months would pass before Alastair would even begin to question that night, when he would begin to wonder whether it was the beginning of the end.

The rise of a king and the fall of a queen,

Oh, seventeen

Seventeen

thanks for reading! taglist (lmk to be added/removed or if you only want to be tagged in certain fics): @stxr-thxif @satanisanauthor @zosiaenrique @lifewouldbebetteronmars @littlx-songbxrd @dianasarrow @eugeniaslongsword @bookswitchcraftandcats @jamesherondaleofficial @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood @livingformyself @anarmorofwords @foxglove-airmid @writeforjordelia @sapphic-in @jem-nasium @fortheloveofthecarstairs

#alastair carstairs #anti buford boy #the last hours #tlh #fanfiction #fanfic #cw toxic relationship #cw bullying #stairstairs appreciation month 2021

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