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bellamyblake · 4 years ago

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The perfect sleeping arrangement

for @star-sky-earth

Alternate Universe-Canon divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, Mommy!Kink, Nightmares, Anxiety Disorder

Bellamy always tries to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders but at night he's breaking apart-anxiety and nightmares are tearing him up, yet he won't let Clarke take care of him. Unless she insists and he starts opening up to her.

The only time Bellamy ever allowed Clarke to take care of him was at night.

During the day it was all about him doing everything he possibly could-going hunting, passing by medbay to bring her lunch, toss a scarf over her naked neck so she doesn’t get sick, ask her mom if she got anything for breakfast over her rolling eyes, make sure she comes back home before ten even though there’s a council meeting that night that he won’t attend because of his guard shift.

And it wasn’t just about her really-still, two years after they set their camp and started actually building it, he was taking care of the hundred as if they were his own children just like when they first landed-he brought Jasper a new jacket, fixed the roof of the co-joined cabin that Harper, Monty, Miller and a few other kids used, made sure to raid long-forgotten bunkers for winter supplies, participated in the shoveling of the snow, smoaking the meat from the game he had caught, helping Raven with the electricity solutions she needed figuring out as well as taking up as many guard shifts as he could especially during the winter when it was harder for the delinquents.

He even volunteered once a week in the small day care they opened last fall, reading books and telling stories to the kids in the midst of giving them a few history lessons here and there.

Overall he was stretching himself a little too thin and Clarke hated it even though whenever they fought about it, he always made sure to remind her that she’s no better than him.

And that may have been true but the thing was, he refused to let anyone ever take care of him, even her.

Even though he made sure she was fine all the damn time and it was the little things that broke her-him making her tea in the evening, bringing her hot water for her freezing feet and making sure she warmed up after her enthusiastic run in the back yard when the first snow hit, him tucking her up at night even when she kicked the blanket or finding the right kind of animal skin so he would sew her gloves for the winter.

He had even learned how to knit from a grounder woman during the summer festival and when they got back to camp he secretly traded a few sweaters for some yarn, only to start working on a beautiful blue scarf for her that he wrapped around her once the first winter days arrived.

It was great being with Bellamy but it was also heartbreaking, watching him give all of himself away and never expect anything in return.

Even when they kissed or had sex he always made sure she’s came first, always made sure to show her just how much he loved her, whispering words about her beautiful body in her ear as he teased her clit and bring her over the edge.

But when Clarke wanted to do the same, he’d try to get away, refusing the attention.

Some mornings she’d feel his hard cock against her butt and reach over to take him, turn around and kiss him, try to give him a good time but he’d kiss her forehead, mumble something like “I’m fine, princess, have to get to work, maybe some other time.” and slip away leaving her angry and sad that he just denied himself pleasure.

She knew why he did it, she had seen it from the moment back at that tree on their unfortunate day trip-he didn’t think he deserved it even though she had tried to make it known, even though she always made sure to show him how much he means to her, how much she loves him-but it wasn’t about that, it has never been about that-the fact remained-he didn’t believe he was worthy of being loved, of pleasure, even when it came from the person he cared for most in the world and who cared for him just as much in return.

The thing was, he tried to hide his problems away from her as well and that had been the last straw to turn things around.

At first it was his inability to sleep because of anxiety-he had a few days or even a week sometimes every month when he couldn’t sleep-nightmares plagued him and left him weak and exhausted but he would try to hide it from her at first until one night she came home and found him so tired that he had passed out by the hearth, having only just started the fire.

She can't even move him no matter how hard she wants to. She kneels down, puts her hands under his armpits and tries but he's so heavy. On top of everything he's all wet from the snow-his jacket's peppered with fastly melting snowflakes, his hair was drenched-the curls stuck to his forehead, he was freezing and she knew his boots leaked too, so she had to get him out of it and warm him up.

”Come on, Bell, wake up, let's get you to bed.” and he manages to wake up, get to a half-awake state but he's so out of it, like a drunk five year old who had absolutely no idea what was happening to him.

”C-larke?”

“Yeah, come on, please I can't lift you on my own."

“I'm tired.” he mumbles.

“I know, but you need to get to bed.”

“Why?”

“Because it's cold out here you'll get sick”

“I'm fine...it's by the fire...just...leave me”

“No, I’m not leaving you, come on, please.” she’s desperate at that point, feels her own tears picking up at her eyes.

“It's okay, I like it here.”

“It's the wooden floor, your back already hurts, it's time for bed, please help me, please,” he groans a little, too tired to even lift his head and look at her but then she adds “for me.”

And that does it.

He manages to lift his feet just a little so she can drag him to bed and spray him diagonally at first, then she starts undressing him slowly, he's moaning everything hurts him-he's absolutely exhausted, tired to his very bone, hadn't slept in days, worked all through it too on top of it.

He's a baby when she undresses him he goes “I’m cold.” when he doesn't have clothes on or “Ohh, my feet!” when she takes his boots off and finds his blisters.

She’s pretty sure he’s only ever saying that because he’s not coherent of anything happening around him and he’s just a child speaking his mind.

It wasn’t just a one time deal, though-it kept happening and it worsened significantly with the change of the seasons-when winter settled he got bad, really damn bad and his anxiety made him jumpy, sad and insomniac.

In the spring it was a little better but still quite hard and the hot summer nights would throw him into another nightmare spiral that could last a month and leave him absolutely exhausted until the autumn winds hit and allowed him to breathe somewhat.

She takes him to Jackson when she comes home one night to find him passed out in his work clothes again. This time he's too tired to fully wake so she has to pile the blankets and pillows on the floor and sleep with him there to make sure he's warm enough.

Clarke figures out quickly that he loves being spooned, held, kissed-he groaned content when she ran her fungers through his hair-he liked being warm but he didn’t wear clothes in bed except for his boxers and he enjoyed most of all when she tucked him in first after taking all of his clothes and then sliding in bed, wrapping herself like a monkey around him and holding him tight.

Jackson had prescribed him some anxiety meds but after talking to some grounders at the summer Polis trade between clans, Clarke found herbs they could use to brew as a tea for him to drink.

It didn’t always do the job but it helped significantly.

Still, she figured out he had a need for her late at night in those vulnerable moments and the more they occured, the more he allowed himself to be like this despite the constant battle in his heart.

He liked being pampered, liked her momming him, taking care of him like that.

But there was still something that tips the scales and it comes from the most unexpected places of all.

Second year around when the camp is up and running, all of them have to go through the mandatory health check ups.

Of course, Bellamy had tried to get away with his, sneak out but Clarke had grabbed him by the collar-literally and dragged him there for his mom to do it, knowing if it was her, they probably would end up with her pinned on the cot, him on top, pushing into her, instead of her taking in his pulse.

And that’s when it happens-her mom takes in his blood pressure and finds it too high, listens to his heart carefully and furrows her eyebrows as she focuses. Clarke feels the cold spread through her from her back through her entire body when her mom tells them things are out of norm but that if he takes some blood pressure medicine to regulate it, everything will be alright.

Clarke hates herself for it though-she should’ve noticed it sooner. She always let herself be held by him and she had noticed, as she rest her head over his chest, that his heart beat too fast but she thought it was just him being too tired or maybe the anxiety was making it worse for him but she never once thought something could be wrong.

That’s when things changed and she refused to let him get away with being taken care of anymore.

His heart beat became her good night lullaby.

During the day he was still Bellamy the guard, Bellamy the hunter, Bellamy the protector of his silly kids starting with Jasper, Bellamy the love of her life who brought her lunch.

But at night things shifted.

He’d sit in bed and wait for her to come out of the bathroom.

“Took your anxiety meds?” he nods seriously “The blood pressure ones?”

“Yep.”

“You sure?” he had stupid phase where he tried not to take them for a few weeks so they could save recources and ration them and she hadn’t talked to him for days after.

“I’m sure, Clarke.”

“Good boy.” she praises as she comes over “Time for bed now.” she lays him down covers him up and he looks at her with big brown beautiful eyes.

”You coming?”

“Right in, you big baby.” she promises as she leans over and kisses his forehead.

“Can you hold me?” he’s learned to ask for that with time and she had made sure to show him how proud she was of it.

“Of course.” she tucks him in and then quickly slides in on the other side of bed, wrapping herself around him, her arm over his chest and leg thrown over his. Her other one sneaks under his neck and she pushes his head to her chest so that he’s a little lower than her and her chin cover his head. That way she had quick access to his hair and she runs her fingers through his curls gently, helping him relax.

Because at night she sleeps deep, she doesn’t always hear when he wakes up from his nightmares or terrors and the only thing betraying him would be the dark circles under his eyes in the morning, so she has to ask every night how the previous one had been because only then would he be honest.

“How was last night?” he knows the question will come so he shivers a little as she holds him.

“Not too bad.”

“How many times did you wake up?”

“Once” he lies. She tightens her grip on his chest.

“Your shirt was soaked, Bell.” he shrugs and closes his eyes but she insists ”So? How many times?”

“Three.” he lets out quietly and she wraps herself tighter around him

“Why didn't you wake me up?”

“You know I can't.” she knew he wouldn’t, he never did. Unless she was there to scold him and force him to lay still while she took care of him after a night terror, he wouldn’t say a thing.

He had admitted once that he would wake up gasping for breath but force himself not to move too much and instead just stare at the ceiling while he calmed down so he wouldn’t wake her up.

She hated it. She hated whatever made him hate himself so much that he’d refuse to reach out even to her.

She knew it was about the way he was raised-his mom loved him according to his words and fond memories of her, but she was stern and had expectations for him especially after Octavia was born when the real hell began.

He had anxiety then too, night terrors as well, he may have developed this heart condition just because of the constant stress he was put under, he just had no way of knowing it.

One night as she was holding him he admitted he wouldn’t sleep at night after O was born, he’d check on her and his mom all the time, then sleep by the door when they knew there would be random check ups in Factory.

He’d fall off his bed as he tossed in his nightmare sleep, he’d shake all the time, grow restless or too tired, get angry sometimes-all signs of what he was still suffering from now.

Something else that happened lately as she came to find out-because he was so exhausted from his lack of sleep, he’d take short naps in hiding, away from her, so he wouldn’t bother her with his pain.

He’d go to the small overhang they had in the backyard where they kept the woods and sleep there and she’d hate it when he did that because it was so cold there she worried he’d get sick or he'd hide out in the kitchen while Murphy prepared dinner after bringing in the game he caught with the hunting party outside. He'd even spray on one of the metal tables at Raven and Monty's tent where they discussed plans for the camp.

So she knows, comes to figure out that spooning him and holding him helped a lot so all of this didn't have to happen. So he wouldn't have to hide away.

But something else did too.

Clarke would ask him if he’s okay, if she could do something else besides holding him but he’d of course shake his head and grumple a soft childish “I’m fine.”

She’d know better do, could always tell by the way he folds into her if he’s more vulnerable than usual, if it’s worse that night than the previous from the way his hands tremble or how he pushes his head into her hand looking for her touch.

In those nights, like tonight, she slides her hand down to hix boxers, digs in and pumps his cock to hardness.

He gasps a little, pushes his back into hers and looks up, searching for her eyes.

He doesn't want her to worry so much, so he tries to tell her it's okay but she wouldn't hear it and she jerks him off like this from behind. She knew exactly how he liked it by now-starting slowly, teasingly from the tip of his cock before sliding all the way down and cupping his balls for a moment before taking him in again.

His legs kick off the blanket just a little, he arches his back and she reins him in, calms him down, by kissing him softly, starting from his cheek, to his chin, sliding down to his neck, peppering him with her love, making sure to pay attention to all the freckles she sees in her way.

Her other hand is still in his hair-tucking at his curls, moving his head just the right way to expose more of him to her, give her a better angle as he gasps into her arms and calls for her untill he comes gasping, head buried in her chest, begging to be held, tighter, to be cuddled.

Finally, she lets him roll over when he's spent and he buries his head in her chest.

Clarke knows what he wants.

He loved sucking her tits after a good blowjob like this but she teases him a little like a boy who wants to be fed in the middle of the night but his mom's sleeping.

Bellamy buries his nose between her tits, breathes her in, lets her run her fingers through his curls, soft talk him, baby him until his quiet moans turn to desperate ones and he starts sucking, searching for her through her thin shirt.

“So impatient.” she jokes “You want some of that big boy?”

He whines, writhes against her just a bit, searching for more like a desperate hungry kid.

“What's up?” she runs her fingers through his hair once more while he keeps trying to bury deeper into her, probably hating the fact that she decided to wear a shirt tonight but it was winter and she was cold. “You hungry?”

He groans, buries his head even closer, searches for her nipple but can't find it through the awful angle that her tits are in now that she’s laying on her side “Want me to lift that up for you?” she asks grabbing the hem of her shirt that is in fact one of his “Want to suck on mom's tits?”

He looks up then, moves away a little and she wants to laugh at how cute and adorable he is-his mouth hanging a little, saliva drooling on his chin from his desperate attempts to get to her tits.

He gives her a soft hurt look, his eyes so lost and desperate, the barest of nods and she just can't deny him when he does that-he’s so sweet, so gentle, so broken.

And so exhausted.

“Maybe this will help him fall into a fitful sleep.” Clarke thinks as she cups his cheek and runs her thumb over the dark circle under his eye.

He's so tired, it's the absolute picture perfect of a boy turned baby needing his mom and a hungry for his partner man.

She can’t handle it, would be lying if this wasn’t doing things to her too, so she raises herself up just a little and pulls her shirt off.

His reaction is immideate, he doesn’t even wait for her to fully lay back down when he takes the nipple of her right breast in his mouth and sucks on it hard.

He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her up closer to him, wants to feel all of her pressed to his body, needs to have her there with him.

He doesn't just kiss her he sucks on her like a baby that's expecting for milk to come and it leaves her gasping and thrusting into his leg at the feel of her own wetness pooling into her but it is him that breaks her heart- he's so desperate for love and affection it's absolutely devastating for her.

It's noisy, he's smacking on her like a hungry baby and he's beautiful, so damn beautiful.

But he also never forgets about her-he sneaks his hand down to her ass and squeezes it, which makes her panties drench with her wetness and she grinds a little into him but she doesn't need release-this is about him, just him.

He gets a little hard again but it's not about that either now-he just wants to suck on her breasts and move his hands down her ass then up her back, then to her stomach-he loves touching her stomach, the softness there, the round curves that make her arch her back a little, makes her moan above him, reach out and put her hand on his shoulders, looking for something to support her.

Then he goes down to her panties, sinks in a finger into her making her gasp as he moves to her other breast, smacking just as hard, desperate for her beautiful breasts, desperate to beheld in her arms, to be vulnerable around her but also to love her, to let it pour out of him in any way possible.

And when he's had enough of touching her he brings his fingers up, pulls away for just a moment so he could spread her wetness around her nipple before sucking onto it hard again.

“Bellamy-” she gasps and he moves away from her nipple for just a second, peppers her chest with soft little kisses, moves to the valley of her breasts, drags his tongue there before sucking onto the skin just above her right breast and pulling her closer to him by the waist.

“Bell-”

He moves away a little, looks up at her asking if he did something wrong, worrying like always but she just takes his face in her hands and pulls him in for a kiss. She’s as desperate to have him as he is her but Clarke knows this is about him, so after she lets him go they just pant a little, breathe with hurry and desperation after their recent endeavours.

Her hand falls to his chest, his fast beating heart and she wants to command it to slow down.

“Ready to fall now?” she asks and he sneaks a glance down to her chest again before he looks right up, not daring speak out his desires but trying to silently ask for them anyway.

Without words.

He could never speak for himself.

But she would.

“You can take one if you want to.” she prompts him gently tugging at his neck and pushing him back to her chest.

“You don’t mind?” he asks and his voice comes out too small, too scared for her liking.

Clarke hurries to shake her head.

“In fact I love it.” he tilts his head a little as if asking “Really?” and she smiles “I love having you so close at night.”

HIs head falls and he looks down for a minute, accepting her answer, but trying to gather up the courage to ask something else.

“Will you still hold me?”

“Of course I will.” she promises and he smiles, beams really in a way she rarely sees on him which makes her sad because he should be like this all the time.

He quiets down after but not before slipping his hand back in her pants and sinking three fingers into her again, it's like he just wanted to be there, always, being the Bellamy that he is, to always give in return.

She grinds a little into him, he pumps her some but then they settle.

She watches him, cups his cheek runs her hand through his curly bangs smiles and kisses his forehead.

He gets a little shy like what he wants of her is too much, too weird maybe but she confirms again with a little nod that says ”It's okay, you can go ahead” and he wraps his mouth around her nipple again and smacks like a baby until finally he quiets and they fall asleep like this-his fingers in her and his mouth on her-the perfect sleeping arrangement.

#bellarke fanfiction #bellarke #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #bellarke fic #canon divergence #hurt/comfort #smut #kink fic #idk how i wrote this it sucks im sorry #my writing

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paneliquido · 5 years ago

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L'Amazzonia l'ossigeno se lo tiene. Tutto

Studi scientifici alla mano, la casa non sta bruciando e l'Amazzonia nemmeno. L'Amazzonia peraltro non è affatto il polmone verde del Pianeta, ed è falso che dire che produca il 20 per cento dell'ossigeno: in linea puramente teorica produrrebbe venti volte il fabbisogno dell'intera umanità, ma è ossigeno che la foresta pluviale produce e consuma interamente.

Neanche un centimetro cubo lascia l'Amazzonia, che pure è grande sedici volte l'Italia.

Per quanto riguarda gli incendi di questi giorni, i media di tutto il mondo hanno fatto vedere le immagini del cielo grigio sopra San Paolo: ma è stato appurato che trattasi del fumo di incendi che ci sono nel vicino Paraguay, mentre la foto con un incendio amazzonico che Emmanuel Macron ha postato su Twitter risala addirittura al 1989.

Ognuno spara dati e cazzate, ma sui dati non si può barare più di tanto: i fuochi amazzonici, che ci sono ogni anno, soprattutto nella stagione secca, sono monitorati dai satelliti della Nasa e dal programma Copernicus dell’Unione Europea, non soltanto dall’Istituto di ricerche spaziali del Brasile di Jair Bolsonaro. Tutti hanno scritto che da gennaio ci sono stati 74mila incendi, ma è un numero che si riferisce all’intero Brasile: in Amazzonia sono stati 39mila.

Chissà se nel G7 di questi giorni discuteranno dell'allarmismo catastrofista di cui si sta rendendo epicentro soprattutto Macron, che ha scritto delle cretinate colossali per ragioni politiche sue: «La nostra casa sta bruciando. Letteralmente. La foresta pluviale amazzonica - il polmone che produce il 20% dell'ossigeno del nostro pianeta - è in fiamme. È una crisi internazionale. Membri del vertice del G7, discutiamo di questa emergenza tra due giorni! #ActForTheAmazon».

Allora ricominciamo dalle basi, come qualsiasi biologo, astronomo o naturalista potrebbe confermarvi: il monitoraggio satellitare dell'atmosfera, in Amazzonia e in tutto il Pianeta, mostra che i polmoni del mondo (intesi come aree di grande produzione di ossigeno) sono notoriamente gli oceani, inparticolare vicino all'Artico e all'Antartide. In Amazzonia, come detto, la produzione di ossigeno è equivalente al consumo, essenzialmente per la traspirazione della vegetazione: un contributo dinamico pari a zero. Il ruolo di quell'enorme e preziosa foresta pluviale è un altro, e per ora non risulta in pericolo: è quello di fungere da condizionatore d'aria del Pianeta e di inviare cioè costantemente umidità e calore alle alte latitudini (tanto che dallo spazio è difficilissimo fotografare quella zona) secondo un meccanismo che, anche qui, non scopriamo certo noi.

La maggior parte dell'ossigeno (99,5 per cento) si trova nella crosta terrestre e nel cosiddetto mantello. Solo una piccola porzione si trova nell'atmosfera: lo 0,36 per cento. Volendo restare all'Amazzonia e utilizzandola come esempio, ogni anno 27 milioni di tonnellate di polveri provenienti dai deserti salati africani (tempeste ben visibili dallo spazio) si riversano su questa foresta brasiliana (ma non solo brasiliana) e fanno da fertilizzante per flora e alberi che trasformano l'anidride carbonica in ossigeno: ciascun albero nella sua vita ne produrrebbe una quantità sufficiente a due persone, e, come pure detto, l'intera Amazzonia venti volte quello che l'umanità potrebbe consumare. Ma non un solo alito di ossigeno lascia l'immensa foresta, che consuma tutto quello che produce.

Tuttavia il bacino amazzonico è sempre ricoperto di nuvole, e questo fiume di nuvole galleggia sopra tutto il Sudamerica sinché si scontra per esempio con i 7000 chilometri di cordigliera delle Ande e ricade sotto forma di pioggia equatoriale nel bacino amazzonico, e attraverso i corsi d'acqua giunge sino al mare dopo aver eroso roccia e sedimenti. Ed è qui che compaiono le vere artefici dell'ossigenazione del Pianeta: le diatomee, organismi quattro volte più sottili di un capello che attuano la fotosintesi producendo ossigeno. Dai satelliti, guardando gli oceani, s'intravedono delle correnti azzurrine o verdognole: sono loro, le diatomee, che insieme ad altri organismi formano il plancton e ci tengono in vita. Amano nutrirsi dei sedimenti celati nei ghiacciai che si sciolgono o che, ai poli, crollano spettacolarmente coi loro seracchi: per questo la produzione mondiale di ossigeno è concentrata in Artide e Antartide. Ma, anche quando muoiono, le diatomee fanno la loro parte; ricadono sul fondo dell'oceano come neve marina e, in milioni di anni, quando le terre riemergono e ridivengono deserti, compongono la polvere – milioni di gusci di diatomee – che le tempeste spingono tra l'altro in Amazzonia. E il ciclo ricomincia.

L'ossigeno prodotto dalle foreste (che se lo tengono, assorbendolo soprattutto a causa della decomposizione degli organismi vegetali) ) e l'ossigeno prodotto dagli oceani, in una parola, nasce per fotosintesi: ma è anche lo stesso ossigeno che è è chimicamente responsabile della proliferazione degli incendi. L'aumento dei livelli di ossigeno ha minacciato più volte la vita sulla Terra: sino a 300 milioni di anni fa il nostro Pianeta bruciava, e autentiche catastrofi dell'ossigeno estinsero le primitive forme di vita anaerobica durante il periodo Proterozoico. Ma si fa complicata.

Tornando all'Amazzonia e al cretinismo catastrofista, non v'è dubbio che la foresta costituisca comunque uno degli ecosistemi più importanti per la vita sulla Terra e che la deforestazione lo metta a rischio: ma il fenomeno risale a secoli fa e il peggio agli anni Ottanta e Novanta, poi bloccato con la legislazione più restrittiva che esista in materia. Ma gli incendi c'entrano poco.

Non si può confondere l’incendio con il fuoco controllato: in Brasile c'è un sistema di monitoraggio orbitale dei fuochi controllati i cui risultati sono disponibili su Internet, caso unico a livello mondiale. Gli incendi calano e con la deforestazione c'entrano relativamente, ma sono scesi in piazza persino i vescovi brasiliani e c'è chi discute addirittura di dichiarare guerra a Jair Bolsonaro, ritenuto in qualche modo corresponsabile degli incendi: la rivista Foreign Policy si è chiesta se altri paesi potranno permettersi di restare a guardare, sapendo che la fine della foresta avrebbe conseguenze disastrose in tutto il mondo. Questo, nonostante i paesi che hanno maggiore impatto sul clima mondiale non sono quelli come il Brasile, ma quelli più ricchi e militarmente potenti: Cina, Stati Uniti, India e Russia, che tra l'altro sono le principali produttrici di gas serra al mondo. Saremmo alla prima guerra ecologica mondiale.

Filippo Facci

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felsdumpsterfire · 1 year ago

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Contrary to popular belief, I am fully convinced D'arce was the last to officially join the poly because of A) unrequited love for pretty Frenchman but also in respect to Celeste. So Cahara had to really put all his Lovehara into bagging the cute knight who could bench press him

#not a reblog.#my art.#fear and hunger #funger #funger poly #cahara #d'arce #ragnvaldr #enki #le'garde #i just really think she should like #be allowed to ditch the french twink to be with three tall guys + a hot lady #anyway #I am addicted to putting -hara at the end of everything and it is ONE SPECIFIC comics fault #iykyk #ALSO THE FERAL URGE TO DRAW ADULT THINGS WITH THEM BUT NOT HAVING ANYWHERE TO POST IT IS KILLING ME

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iltrombadore · 4 years ago

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“La tua leggenda, Dora!” La tormentata e simbolica esperienza umana dell’ artista che fu la succube modella di Picasso...

Nel vasto salone al primo piano del museo Fortuny, tra le dovizie imbandite di quello scenario Art Nouveau con lampade, dipinti, tessuti ed abiti di seta e velluto che rivestono le pareti, nella primavera-estate del 2014 una serie di gemme visive sbucò con l’evidenza della rarità: erano le fotografie di Dora Maar, che visse un tormentato amore con Pablo Picasso subendone la personalità al punto di trasformarsi nel più disponibile, acquiescente e più famoso tra i modelli prescelti.

Le foto di Dora, riemerse dal suo archivio per merito della studiosa Victoria Combalìa, inaugurarono la mostra veneziana (“Dora Maar. Nonostante Picasso”) al merito di un’ artista dallo sguardo malinconico e penetrante, documentario e sognatore, fiorita nella Parigi tra le due guerre mondiali e pervasa dal clima incandescente della ‘rivoluzione surrealista’.

Ecco, nelle stanze addobbate del Fortuny, sorgere il profilo inatteso di una storia individuale, l’ avventura di un’ artista con il suo occhio prensile e creativo, l’ espressività piena di pathos ed ironia delicata e attenta agli istanti drammatici della vita quotidiana, sismografo del tempo e dei suoi paradossi secondo le regole bene interpretate della ‘estraniazione’ surrealista.

Prima di conoscere Picasso, Dora Maar , alias Dorothea Markovic (1907-1997), franco- croata di origine ebraica (per parte di padre) era stata una fotografa di notevole qualità, emula di Man Ray e capace di stringere nell’ immagine una capacità di racconto e invenzione. Una volta entrata nella famiglia artistica di Montparnasse ( Breton, Eluard e tutti gli altri) si era accreditata come fotografa di moda e pubblicità, con ritratti e nudi di donna dalla scintillante individuazione fisiognomica e caratteriale (tra questi, oltre alla indimenticabile ‘Nusch’ Eluard, c’è anche il ritratto in chiaro oscuro, ‘le visage posé sur la main’, di un mito androgino degli anni Trenta, la cantante saffica Suzy Solidor, che nel suo cabaret ‘La vie Parisienne’ attraeva tutto il milieu culturale di avanguardia: da Jean Cocteau, a Jean Louis Barrault, Tamara de Lempicka, la Duchesse de La Salle …).

Di primo acchito appaiono alcuni piccoli e preziosi cammei. Ecco Dora, mentre ritrae l’amica ‘Nusch’ Eluard, ‘accoudée, les mains sur le visage’, per una posa attonita, dai lineamenti riflessi in uno specchio che riassume quell’ ideale disincarnato, etereo e onirico di bellezza ‘convulsiva’, della vocazione surrealista.

‘…Les sentiments apparents/ la légèrete d’approche/ la chévelure de caresses…’: così Paul Eluard raccontava di ‘Nusch’ già nel 1935 in un ‘fotopoema’ realizzato insieme a Man Ray; ma la delicata fantasia di Dora Maar avrebbe di lì a poco immortalato con altrettanta efficacia la felicità di quell’ amore integralmente laico grazie ad un’ immagine ‘entrelacée’ della coppia schermata da un frastaglio orizzontale di ombre e di luci.

Il poeta e ‘Nusch’ si trovavano allora a Mougins, sulla Costa Azzurra, nel 1937, mentre Dora viveva il suo idillio con Picasso, e si apprestava a posare nella parte della donna che in ‘Guernica’ urla di terrore e solleva col braccio una lampada accesa in mezzo al delirio di corpi devastati nel fragore del bombardamento. Dora fece la modella, poi fotografò le sequenze della esecuzione di ‘Guernica’ e le pubblicò sui ‘Cahiers d’Art’ appena il quadro venne terminato. Lei, però, non salì sul palcoscenico della fama. Picasso l’aveva incitata ad abbandonare la fotografia per tentare la pittura: lei aveva ubbidito, e lui non avrebbe risparmiato le sue acuminate frecce (‘..tanti segni per non dire niente…’).

Poi, erano sopraggiunte, giustificate o meno, le gelosie: verso la compagna precedente di Pablo, Marie Therèse Walther, che gli aveva dato una figlia, mettendo Dora di fronte alla sua non voluta sterilità (‘…l’aridità, il deserto, io sono il luogo dove si getta il seme e non fiorisce…’). Modella, preferì riconoscersi nei ritratti di donna che piange, con il gatto, il volto deformato da spigoli e diagonali (‘…sono la donna verde dei quadri del genio, sono l’idea stessa del dolore: il mio, il suo, il dolore del mondo…’).

Dora era bella, con un ovale dagli zigomi orientali, due grandi occhi sempre spalancati, che tornano nei lineamenti della picassiana ‘Femme qui pleure aux chapeau’ ( e Picasso diceva di lei: ‘…per me è sempre stata la donna che piange…’).

Errante, erotica, eretica, Dora Maar: lo era stata con lui, e qualche anno prima con l’altro amante Georges Bataille, il mistico indagatore dell’ eros acefalo, che l’aveva accompagnata nei sobborghi di Barcellona e Parigi, in lunghe escursioni ai confini della realtà, per escogitare la magia delle cose viste, praticando il ‘surrealismo della strada’: una bambola appesa ad un chiodo su una staccionata, mendicanti, bambini emarginati dietro cancellate dirute, piccoli Jackie Koogan nelle baracche di Barcellona, Parigi e Londra, e ancora manichini, erme di ponteggi sulla Senna, e soprattutto fotomontaggi dettati dalla volontà di esaltare il lato spaesante della realtà.

Il gusto per il dettaglio, un certo preziosismo dell’ impaginato, la tornitura affettiva dello sguardo, definiscono uno stile che si differenzia dal sintetico approccio compositivo del suo maestro Man Ray. Fotografie solarizzate, sovraimpressioni, fotomontaggi, non tolgono al linguaggio visivo di Dora un certo tono sentimentale che la rende partecipe della scena raffigurata, tanto che di fronte alle immagini pare anche di ascoltare la sua voce di commento, almeno come ce la ricorda lo scrittore americano James Lord, amico e biografo di Picasso, che ne restò incantato: ‘…aveva una bella voce, singolare, unica. Era come il gorgheggio del canto degli uccelli…’.

Molto limpide, le immagini, chiare e distinte e gravide di emotività: la stessa emotività che impedì forse alla Maar di reggere l’urto con la personalità onnivora di Picasso, e le procurò la depressione di cui soffrì lungamente dopo che lui, nel 1943, si distaccò per amare la più giovane Francoise Gilot, penultima compagna di vita. L’isolamento psichico in cui la donna si ridusse per quasi mezzo secolo (fino alla fine dei suoi giorni), i devastanti elettroshock, le sedute di psicoanalisi con Jacques Lacan, ebbero una causa scatenante nel convulso rapporto col trascinante malagueño (così ce la presenta la fama cinematografica che ha avuto lungo corso per il mid-cult divulgativo); ma è cosa certa che il temperamento malinconico e autodistruttivo di Dora traeva già la sua linfa speciale dall’ esperienza passata, da una inquietudine di donna nomade per destino e per carattere ( dal crollo austro-ungarico all’ emigrazione argentina e infine nella Francia dell’estenuato dopoguerra del Dada, dei Bardamu e degli Stawisky ) alle prese con l’ansia di smarrita identità. Picasso se ne era innamorato incontrandola seduta ad un tavolo dei Deux Magots, pronubi gli amici ‘Nusch’ e Paul Eluard, mentre sfidava la sorte e si feriva lanciando un coltello tra le dita aperte della mano inguantata (lui, allora, le tolse il guanto di poco insanguinato, e se lo tenne come pegno del loro incontro…).

Di questa ribelle e introversa fragilità, dal fondo masochista, è testimone l’opera fotografica di Dora come anche la sua vita, compresa la decisione di assoggettarsi alle peripezie artistiche del suo uomo, dedizione da intendere primaditutto come un altrettanto personale ‘comportamento estetico’ (l’abbandono, l’annullamento totale di sé, il divenire totalmente ‘altro’ secondo il motivo surreal-rimbaudiano: ‘Je est un autre’). Così che se fu vittima, Dora fu certamente consenziente, ancorché sofferente…

Nel secondo dopo guerra, perduto Picasso, perduto il padre, oltre il tempo delle crisi psicotiche, Dora recuperò lentamente una traccia di vita interiore, una meditazione che la portò ad abbracciare la fede cristiana: divenne cattolica fervente di stampo tradizionalista secondo i precetti di Dom Jean de Monleon, l’ultimo dei suoi padri spirituali, fino a quando non morì, a Parigi, nel 1997. Non usciva né aveva più il piacere di curiosare tra le cose viste per la strada, continuò però a dipingere (in forme sempre più stilizzate) e a fotografare, si concentrò sul repertorio del suo archivio fotografico, vide solo pochi intimi amici (Cocteau, la de Noailles, Oscar Dominguez) e attenuò tutto il rancore che aveva pubblicamente dichiarato nei confronti di Picasso, la passione perduta.

Si sarebbe così venuta attenuando la dicotomia di un comportamento nevrotico sintetizzato nei due poli della biografia amorosa (l’ invito alla ‘dépense’ della vita messa in gioco secondo le ispirazioni del primo amante, Georges Bataille; e la soggezione totale ad una sorta di ‘signoria sadiana’ di cui Pablo Picasso sarebbe il segno personificato) che potrebbe fungere da paradigma simbolico per le tipiche vicissitudini sentimentali e umane toccate alla condizione femminile nel XX secolo: nella perdita e l’abbandono della identità tradizionale, il sentimento consapevole di una presente differenza, il sopravvento ansioso di una liberazione intellettuale e morale nella pervasiva e sempre irrisolta contesa di potere e amore-attrazione per l’altro sesso.

E tanto viene da pensare osservando l’opera di Dora: dalle foto di strada, ai ritratti, alle nature morte surreali, le architetture ribaltate, gli oggetti controluce, così come le pose da ‘modella picassiana’ che ce la restituiscono per tagli di zigomi, larghi occhi scompaginati, ritagli di visione angolare e prospettica, come un caleidoscopio di forma entro una sintetica, e incisiva, costituzione d’ immagine.

Metafora della femminilità turbata che attraversa il XX secolo, il volto e l’anima di Dora Maar si presentano come l’ inchiostro simpatico da decifrare una volta messo a contatto col reattivo giusto: così la eccentrica biografia dell’ inquieta nomade, ribelle e sottomessa, capace di intensa dedizione e di altrettanto impenetrabile isterismo psichico, si può tradurre in emblematico paradigma di una crisi spirituale.

Sembra occasionale notare (ma ci sarà pure un valore, in tale concomitanza di ‘segni’) come quel suo diminutivo di ‘Dora’ (da Dorothea) non sembri quasi appartenere più alla singola esistenza di cui fu il segno, raccordandosi per simbolica omofonìa ad altre ‘Dora’ che furono oggetto di attenzioni vaticinanti il dissidio tra i due sessi a contrassegno del moderno ‘disagio della civiltà’.

E toccò precisamente ad un’ altra inquieta ‘Dora’ (o Dorothea), sorella del socialmarxista austroungarico Otto Bauer, rigettare l’analisi cui l’aveva sottoposta Sigmund Freud nei primi anni del ‘900 dopo il tentativo di interpretarne i sogni quale ‘caso di isterìa’ che alla fine si rivelò come trauma psicologico causato dall’ esperienza diretta della ‘crisi familiare’ (gli adulteri, le avances degli amici paterni, eccetera). La vicenda fallimentare del caso Dora Bauer servì egualmente a Freud per le sue teorie sul ‘transfert’. Gli sfuggì tuttavia di sicuro il significato di quella insorgenza come sensibile ‘rivolta femminile’ a tutto un sistema di valori e convenzioni fondato su pregiudizio e rimozione del corpo delle donne.

Non diversamente, ma forse con maggiore acume, sarebbe andata qualche decennio più tardi (tra il 1928 e il 1939) al compagno di simbolici ‘senhals’ di Eugenio Montale, l’amico Bobi Bazlen che incaricò il poeta di comporre versi in omaggio ad un’ altra ‘Dora’ (o Dorothea?) la fantomatica e inaccessibile Dora Markus, come traccia della quale aveva solo potuto mostrare una foto delle gambe dal ginocchio ai piedi contornate da un lembo di gonna plissettata…

Anche in questo caso l’ esistenza della donna evocata per accenni è negata nella sua pienezza: e pure da quel profilo senza volto, e senza identità, se ne ricava la poesia di una femminile inquietudine, di un’ esiliata dalla propria terra e dalla propria vita che sembra affidare la salvezza all’incantesimo di un piccolo portafortuna (‘…forse/ ti salva un amuleto che tu tieni/ vicino alla matita delle labbra,/ al piumino, alla lima:/ un topo bianco, d’avorio;/ e così esisti…’ .

La figura controluce di Dora Markus, che dal porto di Ravenna indica una ‘sponda invisibile’ della patria lontana con il cuore immerso in un ‘lago di indifferenza’, sembra il contrassegno di una metaforica coincidenza tra destini coevi: come quello dell’ altra Dora, la sofferente e docile modella di Picasso, paradigmatica figura di donna identificata nell’ incontro capitale della vita, fatto di magiche corrispondenze e premonizioni, per il desiderio di amare e di essere amati, per l’esistenza che si fa sogno e arte, secondo la regola della bellezza di Andrè Breton (‘la bellezza convulsiva sarà erotico-velata, esplosivo-fissa, magico-circostanziale, o non sarà’).

Anche nei versi di Eugenio Montale, il dramma dell’ambiguità tra arte ed esistenza si riconoscerà nell’esperienza ‘convulsiva’ dello scambio identitario di analoghe e distinte figure, associando la memoria di un premonitore ‘Carnevale’ della amica Gerti (‘…in un mondo soffiato entro una tremula bolla d’aria…’) alla comparsa del nome vagheggiato della indefinibile Dora (Markus), anche lei d’origine israelita e mitteleuropea, ‘oggetto ansioso’ della immaginazione, che mima il desiderio di fermare la fuga del tempo, parabola della sofferenza umana sullo sfondo di storiche (s’annunciava la guerra mondiale) e sempiterne catastrofi imminenti: ‘…La tua leggenda, Dora!/ Ma è scritta già in quegli sguardi/ di uomini che hanno fedine/ altere e deboli in grandi/ ritratti d’oro e ritorna/ ad ogni accordo che esprime/ l’armonica guasta dell’ ora/ che abbuia, sempre più tardi…’.

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