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ohwereusingourmadeupnames · 4 years ago

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Persephone Will Have Her Fill

Pairing: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter Rating: Explicit (E) Notes: Here’s part two of my little hannigram verse. You should absolutely read the first part before you take a peak at this one. Word Count: 9.4K Warnings: There be some cannibalism and talk about killing. Oh, also - Will suffers from encephalitis, so there’s that, too! Summary:

After meeting the mysterious darkness that is Will Graham, Hannibal finds himself snared by the presence he brings into his life. When a question sparks up the need to truly be seen, Hannibal sets out to do just that. Earth-rocking realizations ensue.

Read on AO3 here.

“Have I ever seen any of your work?”

Looking up from the cutting board in front of him, the chef’s knife in his hand stalled through the rough chop he was treating the cilantro to. Hannibal took a second to draw in breath, then tilted his head – a contemplative look on his face.

“I’m surprised you haven’t pieced it all together already,” Hannibal replied smoothly, his body shifting to turn in Will’s direction. For a second, Hannibal let himself soak the other man in. His hands were covered in blood from the preparation of the organ on the butcher block in the middle of Hannibal’s kitchen. The man’s latest acquisition, a heart that would make great steaks for their dinner that evening, and then a lovely addition to a stew that blew Hannibal’s mind the last time Will shared it with him.

There were so many hidden components to Will Graham that Hannibal still didn’t completely grasp, but this one, the element that brought freedom and dropped the masks – Will flourished in it. The pinch of his shoulders eased and the fluid motion of hand to knife created art; a sort of relaxed talent that Hannibal only ever knew of himself before the whirlwind of Will swept into his life.

And, while they didn’t indulge the other in shared secrets of recipes and know-how in the kitchen, they each brought their own pieces to the game and let the innate connection between them bring about the result. The last few months of collaboration were some of Hannibal’s greatest culinary triumphs.

A coy smile directed Hannibal’s way brought him from his thoughts – the killer gleam in Will’s eyes reminding him of the existence of the wild animal the other man only barely kept at bay. He watched Will drop his knife, hands still covered in blood and viscera, and make his way directly into Hannibal’s space. There was a beat of shared breath, and then Will was suddenly behind him – his arm wrapping around Hannibal’s upper arms, pulling him until they were flush together, back to chest.

A blood stain in the shape of Will’s hand on the bicep of Hannibal’s shirt contrasted the stark white of the color – Will’s mark on him tangible in that moment in more ways than one.

The slightest height difference between them made it easy for Will to hook his chin over Hannibal’s shoulder, his lips already pressed delicately against the sensitive shell of his ear.

“I’ve thought about your design since the second I met you,” Will muttered, the words kissed into the soft skin just below Hannibal’s ear. “You’ve been killing most of your life – probably started young, caught the bug and had the talent to back it up. You’re knowledgeable in anatomy, so your dissections are precise. You only take what you need and use the rest to send your message.”

Each word felt like a direct hit to the walls in Hannibal’s mind. The palace that existed there, while generally untouched by outsiders, called out to Will. From the day they met, Hannibal felt himself making expansions, rooms being added on in an attempt to fit Will Graham’s infiltration.

“What I can’t decide on, though,” Will continued, the hand not gripping Hannibal already drifting down svelte sides until it settled on the middle of a trim stomach, “is whether you make a grandiose display, or not. You already play with your food, but do you reconstruct it, too?” There was another shift, Will practically plastering himself to every part of Hannibal he could reach.

Hannibal, unable to resist the temptation of the delectable heat behind him, pressed back, his right hand reaching up to grab onto Will’s forearm. In this position, he could feel warm breaths against his neck and the gentle rise and fall of Will’s chest. Despite the topic of conversation, the rate of Will’s heart didn’t pick up – the lack of acceleration more thrilling than a flare of excitement would’ve been. Finding someone so similar to himself was disarming, and yet, Hannibal didn’t know what he might do without it now that he understood the taste. His palette was redefined, covered and shaped by his darkness and its interaction with Will’s.

“And now? After getting to know me – what do you see?” Hannibal questioned, his back pressing more firmly against Will’s chest. The thickness of Will’s erection was there against his back, heat and want adding to the odd intensity they found themselves in.

A nip to the neck tore a sigh from Hannibal’s throat, the answer to Will’s interest now smashed up against the zipper of his pants – the well-tailored suit slacks for once a nuisance, hindering his pleasure. Not usually so submissive, Hannibal fought against the urge to turn around and pin Will to the counter – these moments where Will shed the façade were few and far between. These interactions acted as gates opening to the empathetic mystery.

Will’s hand on his cheek had Hannibal turning his head, their lips joining in a warm kiss. He could feel the patches of Will’s hand that were still wet with blood – the liquid smearing wherever work-rough hands touched. The scent of copper and sweat were prominent in the space between them; an aphrodisiac if Hannibal ever knew one.

Tongues tangled in a desperate attempt to draw something from each other. When Will kissed, or touched, or even looked – the air went a little thin and every part of Hannibal was on display. Empathy or not, Will’s ability to look past the heavy walls and see within was unmatched and equal parts confusing and tranquil in its own right.

Parting for air became necessary – in their tussle to be as close as possible, Will pressed him hard against the counter. There was no space between their chests, no room to draw in a breath, even if he wanted to. Hannibal used his extra weight to lean forward, effectively cutting their kiss off. His chest heaved, and with every pulsing beat, Hannibal felt his cock throb – the timing of it eerily close to the pace of Will’s huffed out breaths.

Sure hands were quick to grab onto him again, Will used his leverage to turn Hannibal around – the two men practically nose to nose. The easy way Will stripped him down to this person that just did what was prompted, it was disarming and intoxicating all at once.

Those same hands were cupping his face then, Will’s thumb lightly running across Hannibal’s bottom lip. Will took his time looking Hannibal over, the tender brush of the man’s empathy caressing his skin. “I think you’re an artist, Hannibal. Sometimes you like the audience,” Will peppered kisses around the skin of his mouth as he spoke, “and sometimes, you keep your brutality all to yourself. I’m willing to bet that several names in the media over the last few years apply to you.”

“Such a clever boy you are, Will,” Hannibal said in reply, both hands wrapping around Will’s hips. “My most recent hunts have been underground, but one day – very soon, you’ll truly see me.” There was a soft breath shared, and then their lips were upon each other again.

It didn’t take but a few steps to get down the hall and into the study – the idea of walking up the stairs completely out of the question. In their time together, Hannibal was quick to understand that the physical urge to own and connect would come whenever and wherever it wanted. Will carried chaos with him and used it to his advantage – his impulsive, yet completely strategic actions were off putting and wild – absolutely delicious in its juxtaposition. Each of the rooms in his house now stored lube in at least one of its drawers.

There was only so much expensive olive oil Hannibal could let go to the cause.

Hands fumbled to rid bodies of clothing while trying to keep the tension of lip on lip. Hannibal made quick work of Will’s blue and green flannel; his fingers nimble on the buttons. A gasp left Will’s lips when fingers made their first touch on bare skin – an entire army of gooseflesh overtaking the sensitive flesh.

By the time they made it into the study, Will’s pants were hanging open, the belt flapping wildly with every movement. Hannibal, on the other hand, still wore his waistcoat and shirt, both of which were unbuttoned, yet hanging off his shoulders. His cock pressed ruthlessly against the seam of his dress pants, and every part of him ached to have Will in any way on offer.

Huffing out an exasperate breath, Will stepped back from their embrace. He made quick work of the clothes that still clung to him, his cock slapping his belly obscenely as the last layer fell to the ground. His eyes were ablaze, the usual blue of them completely overtaken by the lusty black that made Hannibal think of paranormal beings – beautiful little monsters with dark eyes and so many tricks under their sleeves.

“Have I told you how much I dislike all the layers you wear? While sexy, the suit takes so damn long to get off,” Will grumbled, his tongue dragging over his bottom lip. “I’m not patient enough right now, either.”

As he spoke, Will climbed onto the couch, his forearms settling against the armrest – the rest of his body a delicious temptation. Knowing how good he looked, Will glanced over his shoulder, a devilish glint in his eyes. He didn’t need to say anything, either – he simply maintained eye contact and reached behind himself, deft, coppery red fingers prying his ass cheeks apart; the cherry pink of his hole on provocative display.

“Take it off, Hannibal – or don’t. Just get over here and fuck me.”

Unable to think any further than that request, Hannibal shrugged off his waistcoat and practically dove onto the couch behind Will. He let his eyes roam over every inch of Will he could before impatient hips pressed back against him. The string between divine and desperate constantly hung in the balance – Hannibal frequently forgot the things he learned over the years; control and patience no longer existing.

Ducking between the delectable spread that was Will in that moment, Hannibal allowed himself to take in a long breath. The earthy musk sat in the back of his nose – his senses overcome with how manly and right the scent registered to be. It was a catalyst, the final notes of reign over himself falling as he tucked in and let the entire expanse of his tongue press against Will’s most intimate spot.

Like a man starving, Hannibal set about claiming his prize. He started with small licks around the rim, Will’s muscles already starting to relax under such simple ministrations. The first taste drove him mad with hunger, his tongue flattening after the first few teasing brushes to press more insistently against the still tight pucker. Pushing Will’s hands away, Hannibal took over the job of spreading supple cheeks, his longer fingers pushed into the flesh. Wanting more width, Hannibal shifted, practically yanking the globes even further apart.

The pleasure-pain of it tore a growl from Will’s lips, the man pressing his hips back against Hannibal’s face roughly in retaliation. Though he could see the redness start to overtake skin, Hannibal continued on – he felt familiar enough with Will’s interests to know that his counterpart appreciated the heat of pain just as much as delicate pleasure.

An abundance of spit both on Will’s skin and around Hannibal’s mouth and chin made the whole process easier – the point of his tongue and the tip of a rogue finger were easily admitted access. Little by little, Will loosened around him. Hannibal’s ministrations, like the rest of him, were precise – dealt with the intention of taking Will to pieces. Yet, Hannibal felt like he was the one falling apart; every rough touch and drawn out moan felt like a hit straight to the soul.

No one – not even Mischa, laid Hannibal so bare to the world. Especially with something as simple as a well-placed look or cleverly worded demand.

Only Will.

Groaning at the thought, Hannibal pulled back, a hand coming up to wipe away some of the moisture from his face. His chest was heaving, the cardiovascular system within him used to heavy lifting, not marathon tongue fucking.

The small gap in movement and Hannibal’s preoccupation was just enough for Will to once again take control of the situation. Where he was splayed against the side of the couch just moments before, Will was now facing Hannibal, his eyes alight.

Strong hands pushed against Hannibal’s shoulders until his own back was resting against the opposite arm rest, his long legs stretched across the entire length of the couch. Will settled into his lap nicely – strong thighs bracketed Hannibal’s, each clench and pulse of muscle bringing them closer, magnifying the feeling of touch and stimulus. Hannibal didn’t even have his pants off, yet, he felt just inches from the delirious cusp of that little death.

Hannibal watched with a contained awe as Will reached for the end table drawer – his brain was so strung out, he completely forgot that lube existed there. The soft slam of it being closed snapped him out of his haze. Hannibal tried to make quick work of getting his pants open – though, was quickly thwarted by Will, who merely let him get the zipper down before he was reaching in and grabbing Hannibal’s cock without any sort of finesse.

Will impatiently opened the lube and poured a decent amount directly onto Hannibal’s length – his teeth gritting against the cold of it. Fingers followed the flow. Will’s hand wrapping around the girth of him brought sharp canines down into a kiss swollen lip – Hannibal never had to fight so hard with the quick to cum trigger reflex that attempted to fail him right that instant. Fingers were tight around him for too short a time; instead, they trailed from his swollen flesh and found their way to Will’s hole, the man fingering himself open just enough to spread the slick.

Before Hannibal took his next breath, or had a second to find some control, Will lowered himself onto Hannibal’s rigid cock – their joint pants of exertion sounding around the room, overtaking the entire space. In an attempt to stop himself from finishing right that very second, Hannibal gripped Will’s hips tightly – his fingernails digging into the skin there, each one drawing up little welts of blood; Hannibal’s mark visible now, too.

“Fuck, Will – don’t move. Please,” Hannibal mumbled, his forehead resting against Will’s breastbone, his chest heaving with short, abortive breaths.

The slightest roll of hips was Hannibal’s answer – Will adjusting their position to better fit his own comfort.

While more movement did not follow, the filthiest words did, instead. With his hands gripping either side of Hannibal’s neck, Will used his leverage to tilt Hannibal’s head up until they were looking eye to eye.

“You look good like this – completely undone. Your clothes are less than immaculate, there’s wrinkles and sweat stains. Your pants are barely open and, in this moment, there’s nothing that could get you to care any less about it. I wonder what you would say if you saw yourself – splayed open like the pigs we hunt, looking at me like I’m both judge and executioner. Do you think you would like what you saw?”

Biting down hard on his lip, Hannibal fought each second to keep their eye contact – the words were delicious, and so eerily on point. Nodding his head seemed to be the best course of action – words were failing him, his brain short circuiting one neuron at a time.

How did Will get to the very core of him? With all things considered, Hannibal constructed walls that no one else came close to touching, let alone blowing apart the way Will seemed to. It felt like losing himself in a way – giving up those pieces to be cared for by this beautiful monster of a man.

Sensing Hannibal’s dilemma, Will started to move his hips in earnest. His rhythm a perfect distraction. There was a subtle roll down Hannibal’s length, then a powerful drive up until only the tip occupied space. Up and down, over and over – Will drove him closer to a new kind of insanity. This one would take everything from him; mind, body, soul – even the heart that didn’t seem to exist until the murderous temptation that Will embodied walked so easily into his life.

For a few exquisite minutes, Hannibal clenched Will’s hips tightly in his hands while the man worked him over. At one point, Hannibal wondered if Will got off more on the power, than the actual physical closeness – but, a particular hard drive into the man’s prostate made the answer obvious. Power over Hannibal drew him to madness. The power of Hannibal’s body and the pleasure he could achieve from it – that gave him strength.

“Don’t hold back anymore, Hannibal. I want you to own me,” Will whispered against raw lips.

With the permission to do so, Hannibal surged up – their barely there kisses turning into something brutal as his grip tightened on Will’s hips, his own finally breaking free of the self-induced confines to pound ruthless up and into the tightest heat ever experienced.

He felt wild and completely undone – his being only used to this adrenaline pumping feeling after the satisfaction of a hunt well done. It was crazy to be so unleashed, and yet, Hannibal let himself go, anyway; what Will wanted, he got.

When finality became something he could no longer hold back, Hannibal leaned forward and dug his teeth into Will’s shoulder – his teeth marks from previous encounters still there, getting deeper and more defined by the bite. He clenched his jaw down and with the skin still between his teeth, came harder than ever before (which was saying something, because sex with Will was always an adventure). The rhythmic pulse and flutter around his length signaled Will’s jump over the cliff edge with him.

Sticky cum in the space between their chests seemed pedestrian after such a connection. Physical representation of their joining didn’t matter – the mental connection overwhelmed it all.

The come down a few minutes later consisted of blood in his mouth, long drawn in breaths, and the feeling of Will’s palms on his cheeks. It felt like too much effort to fight anything from that point on, so he leaned back, his eyes catching Will’s. Their shared look made his stomach clench – the overwhelming feeling of being taken apart more alive in that moment than their entire coupling.

“Will – “ Hannibal tried to say, his voice so thick and scratchy from pulled out moans, new feelings, and heavy sighs.

Will’s thumbs brushed chiseled cheekbones, the flat of his fingers settling on the edge of Hannibal’s square jaw. “Shh,” he said in reply, their lips joining for a surprisingly soft kiss. “I know – me too.”

----

After that night, something shifted. For so long, Hannibal conducted himself as a solitary creature – life was simpler when his plans consisted of his own wants and desires. Even after meeting Will initially, Hannibal figured things would stay separate – work, play, and the occasional murder taking up their own sphere in his life. The sudden realization that neither he, nor Will, wanted any sort of separation, was monumental. In almost fifty years, Hannibal never saw something like this coming.

With the addition of Will in mind, Hannibal went about planning his next tableau. The Ripper hadn’t made an appearance in a while and his sounders were due. Will understood what it meant to take someone’s life – their shared desire to see the light in someone’s eyes fade was apparent. And yet, Will chose to elevate his prey by making them into meals that anyone would drool over.

In his own experience, Hannibal appreciated the consumption of his victims because of the control it gave him – they weren’t worthy of anything in life and as their flesh passed his lips, their sole source of meaning was to feed him, to nourish him – to provide the needed macro and micro nutrients that were essential to life.

Even still, The Ripper’s message took things a step further. The elevation of murder into widespread art truly spoke of Hannibal’s innermost feelings. Most people were beneath him and their only redeemable quality was their ability to be changed into priceless beauty. In his attempt to boost the lowest of low, Hannibal found himself – power of the hammer and all.

If anyone were to truly understand him and the tangible personification of his darkest and most intimate thoughts, Will Graham continuously proved he could be that person. With eyes that already saw so much, Will simply needed a nudge to truly see Hannibal – in every way.

Though completely terrifying, the thought brought about a new sort of excitement, too. To truly be seen and understood – Hannibal never even fathomed the occurrence. Living outside the confines of society came at a price, and no matter how many people graced his dinner table or laughed at his well-timed jokes, a divide between him and them existed. People turned a blind eye to what they didn’t want to see – it was easier to ignore the things in front of them than genuinely accept inferiority.

Will, though – he gripped the chains of normalcy and broke them between his fingers. Still trying to piece together the extent of his empathy, Hannibal didn’t quite know the complete depth of Will’s ability to truly see. In the same breath, Hannibal swore that he could feel the intensity of the unique gift in everything Will did. While Hannibal wore a finely tailored person suit, Will used his ability to become the things people revered and those they feared whole heartedly – so simply, with just the roll of his shoulders and a long, deep breath.

The Ripper deserved the right audience and finally, after so much time of not knowing how much he truly wanted the echoing applause, Hannibal found someone worthy of it.

Planning such a grandiose thing took time. For weeks, Hannibal went about everything as usual. On the nights that Will cooked late, Hannibal made the trip out to Wolf Trapp – his Bentley eating up the miles with relative ease. Winston, who took a liking to Hannibal immediately (he was sure the freshly made sausage had a lot to do with that), expected play time and pets before Hannibal could even think about joining Will in the kitchen.

The weekends, however, those belonged to Hannibal. Unless otherwise occupied with a last-minute client, Will spent both days in the glorious confines of Hannibal’s fancy brick and mortar. Most of that time, admittedly, was spent in the kitchen – Will’s passion for food (and not just that of the human variety) kept things interesting. There was always a new knife technique to try or a rare ingredient to add to the mundane. When they weren’t cooking away, or eating their weight in their creations, both men simply existed together.

Will let Hannibal sketch him in whatever way requested, and in return, Hannibal brushed his fingers through Will’s hair as he perused cookbooks and academic articles. A give and take existed that shouldn’t – not between two very peculiar men who took to murdering others as a hobby. And yet, Will kissed him goodbye when Hannibal mentioned something about hunting on his way out the door. Picture perfect domestic bliss.

One particular weekend a few months after falling into such a routine, Hannibal convinced Will to join him at the opera. After weeks of preparation and recognizance, he finally felt ready to reveal his most coveted persona to the man that quickly became the most important part of Hannibal’s existence. Why not make a night of it?

As usual, they made dinner together – Will’s latest victim’s kidney made for a delicious steak and kidney pie. The crust was buttery and flaky, rolled thin to perfection. When it came out of the oven, Will preened at the proud look on Hannibal’s face.

“Looks amazing, Chef,” Hannibal complimented, his fingers already twitching to scoop a fork into the molten confines of golden pastry.

Will continued to beam as the table was set and Hannibal, in all of his unselfish glory, handed over the serving spoon. Despite being the one to take the lead on most of their meals, Will gave the dishing out honor to Hannibal – even at his own table. There was a power dynamic that existed, and each man understood their role.

Will sent him a genuinely intrigued look, his eyebrow lifting. Instead of questioning, however, he simply gripped the utensil and went about portioning out their meal.

They made small talk throughout the devouring of their joint efforts – Hannibal spoke of his latest client’s swiftly developing obsession with him and watched delightedly as Will grew more menacing by the second. Franklyn never stood a chance, but the opportunity to push at Will’s boundaries wasn’t something he wanted to pass up. Jealousy, though such a base emotion, could lead a person astray very quickly. For the first time, Hannibal wanted the tenacity and rage that came with the juggling act. Someone he craved wanted him just as much and would fight tooth and nail to keep it that way.

And though not entirely thrilled to be amongst the masses in a “penguin suit”, Will cleaned up nicely – the tailored tuxedo was midnight black, enhanced with a single, dark pinstripe down the side of each pant leg. He finished the look with a stark white shirt and black bow tie – elegant and simple, yet dangerous at the same time.

Finishing up his own look, Hannibal retreated from his walk-in to find Will casually seated on the edge of the bed. Merely lounging there, he looked absolutely exquisite.

His eyes were closed and for a moment, Hannibal wondered if he were asleep sitting up. He cleared his throat in an attempt to rouse Will, his long legs carrying him until there was only a couple of inches separating them.

Blue eyes blinked open slowly, a faraway look overtaking Will’s face before finally registered Hannibal’s presence.

“Are you feeling alright?” Hannibal asked, concern heavy in his voice. He reached to press a hand to Will’s forehead and found the skin there warm, the slightest bit of moisture sitting just barely on the surface. All tell-tale signs of an oncoming fever.

Reaching up to grab Hannibal’s hand and lacing their fingers together tightly, Will attempted a smile – the man’s mask not as secure as usual.

“I’m fine – just a bit of a headache. I haven’t been sleeping very well the last few nights, so it’s probably just some fatigue.” While he spoke, Will got up from the bed, his persona shifting with a soft roll of his shoulders. Now cognizant, the process came easily. His eyes were already a little clearer and any sort of weakness that existed in seconds before, was completely gone. Will Graham, the unsuspecting chef, Hannibal’s partner, stood in front of him once more.

“Are you finally ready?” Will asked, an eyebrow quirking.

Shaking the worry off, Hannibal grinned at the cheeky question. In their time together, certain habits made themselves known. Will drooled when in deep sleep and didn’t always pick up his wet towels. And while completely put together outside of the walls of his room, Hannibal was fussy and took a lot of time to get ready – the construction of his person suit more time consuming and labor intensive than Will’s would ever be.

“Snarky thing,” Hannibal immediately remarked. He pressed forward to press a chaste kiss to Will’s forehead. “Let’s go, darling. I have something for you after the show and am suddenly impatient to gift it.”

Will’s simple nod brought a brief surge of panic to his chest, but he quickly brushed it off. Though not the reaction he thought he’d get, the line of sweat still painting Will’s brow reminded him of the blurriness he encountered just moments before.

Leaning in again, Hannibal tucked his nose into Will’s neck and took a deep breath. Apart from the normal smells of bergamot, vanilla, and the slightest bit of wet dog, Hannibal scented something warm and sweet – the rising fever in the other’s skin taking on the body of over-ripened fruit.

He was met with the same intrigued look from their time at the dinner table when he pulled back. In an instant, Hannibal suddenly realized that was Will’s way of expressing his curiousness. Will usually pieced together the situation before it happened and reacted accordingly. Most people broadcasted their thoughts and feelings unconsciously, and Will’s intelligence made it easy to fill in the blanks. Hannibal, however, kept things locked tight – meticulous thought and effort went into making sure people received the exact message he wanted them to.

Though completely disarming himself, Will found a peculiar sort of mystery in Hannibal – the appeal of the unknown one of the things Hannibal could easily tell attracted Will to him so holistically. Like the true predator he was, Will enjoyed the chase. One that they both knew would probably never dull with the lifestyle they both kept.

The realization made his heart drum rapidly; love never took on a definition before, but in that moment, Hannibal finally understood. How interesting the realization came barreling towards him so out of the blue, yet so naturally. Like companionship – love didn’t ever seem like an option.

A soft touch on his cheek brought Hannibal back to the room – he blinked quickly, smiling to cover up the absentmindedness. The same curious look was on Will’s face, eyes never leaving Hannibal’s.

“Are you okay?” Will asked, his other hand pressing against Hannibal’s chest. “We might be late if we don’t go soon.”

That was all Hannibal needed to get back into gear – they made quick work of getting into jackets and climbing into the car. Hannibal held the door open for Will and before he could sit down, pressed a kiss to his lips.

“You don’t have to butter me up – I’m already in the tux.” The words came out of his mouth, yet Will couldn’t hide the blush on his cheeks or the duck of his head.

The drive over was uneventful – there wasn’t any talking, but the soft tones of Mozart kept the atmosphere calm and serene. Will’s hand landed on Hannibal’s thigh halfway to the venue – Hannibal dragged his bottom lip between his teeth to stop the megawatt smile from overtaking his face. Instead, he wrapped Will’s hand up with his own, their fingers tangling effortlessly.

Out of all the reasons why Hannibal donated to the arts, the preferred parking had to be one of the best among them. He pulled into his designated space a while later and shot will a playful wink.

Will snorted, his head shaking – “pretentious prick.”

They arrived just in time to schmooze for a few minutes before having to take their seats – a fact that Hannibal was over the moon about. Through months of dating, he never got the opportunity to show Will off. Aside from the fact that the man shone with impressive energy, Hannibal selfishly wanted everyone to see who he managed to attract; a very special man came into his life and despite it all, chose to stand proudly by his side.

With a soft kiss to Will’s cheek, Hannibal gestured to the bar. “I’m going to grab us a drink. I’d like to introduce you to a few people, if you’re not opposed.”

“I don’t mind – you’ve been dying to show me off for ages. I’m surprised you were able to wait this long,” Will retorted, a look of absolute knowing on his face. He casually slipped his hands into his pockets, the needed mask for the occasion slipping into place. “You know where to find me.”

Turning, Hannibal glided easily to the bar, ordering the same vintage chardonnay he always did and a whiskey neat for Will. The bartender recognized him immediately, the gold membership card that sat in his breast pocket unneeded.

“I’ll put it on your tab, Doctor Lecter.”

“Thank you, Tyler. It’s a pleasure, as always.” He saluted the younger man with the drinks in his hand and set off to find Will.

Without even having to try, Will drew people to him. The ever-curious Mrs. Ellen Komeda stood proudly in front of his beau, her eyes cataloguing him sharply. In a lot of ways, the two of them were very similar. Where Ellen lacked the empathy, she made up for it in pure grit and tenacity. She could read a room because she knew just about everyone and everything in it. Someone like Will, a gorgeous outsider, more than likely called to her from the moment she saw him.

“Where have you been hiding this one, Hannibal? He’s an absolute delight,” Ellen remarked the second he was within conversing distance. She eyed him up, then nodded approvingly.

Handing Will his drink, Hannibal let his now free hand wrap around Will’s waist. A moment existed where he thought Will might tense up, but he simply leaned in closer – the doting boyfriend act both natural and highly manipulative. What a delightful boy.

“We’re both busy men. Will here is the mastermind behind that delectable pate from my last dinner party.” The pride he felt carried over in his voice – people knew how Hannibal felt about food; the compliment held a lot of weight.

From the surprise on Ellen’s face, she too understood the sentiment.

“That’s high praise indeed. When I didn’t see you still wrapped in your apron when I arrived, I should have figured something was up.” She turned to Will then, her smile challenging. “Tell me Will, how did you charm the good doctor so?”

Seemingly unable to stop himself, Will chuckled, then pressed himself closer to Hannibal. “I bumped into him in a gourmet cheese shop. My refined palette was the major selling point.”

Before anyone else could say anything, a gentleman making his way into their little group stopped the conversation in its tracks. Hannibal watched Will’s eyes flash, the other man’s arm tightening around him. It was a minute reaction but telling all the same. He pulled at the seams of his person suit, the edges tightening up imperceptibly.

Luckily, Ellen saved them all, her social graces without fail. “Mr. Bowerman, it’s been some time since I last saw you at the opera.” Her mouth quirked as she spoke, like the words were bent nails in her mouth.

“Yes, well – since my wife’s passing, getting out to these fancy shindigs isn’t nearly as fun.” He took a long sip of his drink, his eyes shifting to Hannibal, only to linger on Will a second later.

“Walter Bowerman,” the man announced. The words were spoken into the open nothingness of the air, but his eyes – they were glued to Will.

A rush of murderous rage ran down Hannibal’s spine, his nostrils flaring.

Will didn’t miss a beat though, the brilliant boy he was. Tossing back his drink, Will waved the empty glass at the newcomer, a neutral look on his face. “Walter.” The single word was dismissive, only to be aided with a subtle turn of his body. He flashed a smile at Mrs. Komeda next, his expression softening slightly. “Ellen, it was glorious to meet you. Have Hannibal pass on my information – I’d love to cook for you some time.”

Understanding without any further prompting, Hannibal bid them both an absent goodbye and let himself be led by Will. He watched blue eyes track down a waiter, where he deposited his glass before continuing towards the theater door.

There wasn’t a sound made until they were alone in Hannibal’s booth – Will’s face was sweaty again, eyes slightly hazy. “Is it common knowledge that Walter Bowerman killed his wife?” Will asked lightly, breaking the silence. He swiped at his brow, looking a little off kilter.

Thrown off by the bluntness of Will’s words, Hannibal tuned out everything but the question. A sliver of pride sat in his chest at the other’s deductive abilities – Hannibal instantly knew there was something off but wasn’t able to pinpoint exactly what. Will’s mind – it was a beautiful thing.

“Tonight happened to be the first time I’ve made his acquaintance – Ellen seemed put off, but I think the interruption to our conversation played a big part in that. You are very charming,” Hannibal admitted easily. Even he had been impressed.

“He got pleasure from mentioning his wife’s death. There was that murderous glint in his eye that just felt – wrong.” He moved to continue, but the stage lights flickered, and the heavy curtain started to pull back.

For a while, previous interactions fled from Hannibal’s mind – the mind-numbing drift a welcome gift after the stress of the evening. He let Will take his hand before the aria started, the touch the only anchor he wanted to the present. After a beat, the soprano opened her mouth and started to sing. Merely relaxing back, Hannibal let the music wash over him.

About halfway through the first act, a tightening grip on his hand brought Hannibal out of his mind space, a confused look on his face for a split second before it was quickly replaced by worry. Will’s face was covered in sweat and his chest seemed to be heaving, despite the dwindling awareness. He looked at Hannibal helplessly, mouth opening around unspoken pleas.

Finally, Will managed to grab ahold of himself for a second – his words a little slurred when he babbled out – “I think there’s something wrong.”

Acting quickly, Hannibal jumped out of his seat, suddenly glad for the privacy of his usual booth. Getting up wouldn’t disturb anyone, so there was room to get Will out however he needed. The man was cognizant enough to help Hannibal pull him out of the chair, but that only went as far as the hallway outside of their seats before Will went limp. The seizure that followed so nicely allowed Hannibal to get Will to the bathroom, the convulsions starting the second he got them pressed against the solid surface of the door.

His hands cupped Will’s cheeks, the grip of them strong to keep the back of his head from smacking against anything. Will’s eyes were open, but the pupils were completely blown – there was no focus or constriction whatsoever. Holding Will as tightly as possible, Hannibal rode out the storm.

When the shaking stopped, Hannibal counted out five minutes before Will came back around – his once slack body clenched all at once, fear and confusion flowing through him. “H-Hannibal?” Will chocked out, the syllables running together.

Bringing his face up to do a quick check of blue eyes, Hannibal let out a breath. There was finally some response in the dark pupils. He ran his thumbs softly over the apple of Will’s cheeks, maroon eyes roaming everywhere at once. “Are you with me, Will? You just had a seizure and you’re burning up. Can you hear me?”

“Hannibal?” Will questioned again, his chest heaving once more.

Unable to stop himself, Hannibal leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to Will’s cheek – the contact just as much for him as it was for the confused man in his arms; an earthshattering need for comfort overwhelming. They needed to get out of there while Will was still upright and conscious. The increased heart rate and continued confusion meant there wasn’t much time left to do that.

Instead of forcing Will to respond anymore, Hannibal got them into a position where he could take most of Will’s weight – thankfully, Will was with it enough to walk with the help. The lobby was empty – an absence of sound appropriate to the situation at hand.

Being in the heart of downtown made getting to a hospital quick and easy. Every couple of minutes, Hannibal reached across the middle console to check on Will, his heart slamming into his chest in the scant seconds between touching and feeling the rise and fall of his chest. Though the seizures didn’t return, Will’s consciousness diminished with each passing second.

The Bentley skidded to a stop outside the emergency room doors, Hannibal hopping out in a fit of adrenaline – he threw open Will’s door to pick him up bridal style. There was a second where their eyes met, a brief connection before Will slumped into him, his fight with whatever was burning him up coming to a swift end.

----

It took two days for Will to completely regain consciousness.

Throughout those two days, Hannibal worried incessantly, sat by Will’s bedside, and didn’t think once about the tableau he set up that was probably discovered by the authorities, already.

Being so thorough in his work, Hannibal didn’t use a sing brain byte to dwell on it – there wasn’t any evidence. There never was.

After carrying Will into the ER in the most dramatic fashion as possible, the hustle and bustle of brain scans and medication deployment took up all the space in Hannibal’s mind. In the bouts of time that Will got swept away, Hannibal went home to shower and change; once, he made the trip out to Wolf Trapp to get Winston and clear out the remainder of Will’s fridge. No matter what happened, a hospital stay was in Will’s future. The least Hannibal could do was take care of his dog and make the already harvested meat into delicacies to be eaten when Will felt better.

Despite trying to keep busy with arrangements and appointment reschedules, the minutes between Will’s decent into unconsciousness and his waking were long and torturous. The encephalitis diagnosis made a lot of sense after thinking about Will’s behavior over the last few weeks. The increase of headaches and nightmares, a dwindling appetite, and large periods of losing track of time were all there pointing in brain swelling’s direction.

It was pure luck that Will’s body had such a severe reaction to the neurological change. If things were different, he might’ve dived very slowly into madness; both visual and auditory hallucinations were common symptoms of Will’s particular brand of encephalitis. The spike of fever came at just the right time – the majority of his treatment would be minimally invasive and able to be given outside of the hospital.

The most confusing part of the whole situation was Hannibal’s feelings towards it all. Of course, Will couldn’t help the fact that he thwarted plans that were many months in the making. Yet, the anger he figured would sit under his skin, waiting to erupt, didn’t exist. Instead, Hannibal felt the claws of worry drag along his back.

Every second that Will didn’t wake up, Hannibal dipped a little further into unease. Going fifty years without the look in Will’s eyes was one thing, but now that he knew – now that the feeling crept under his walls, there was no going back. How did he exist without the rambunctiousness and intelligence that accompanied the experience that was Will Graham?

His earlier thoughts about love came back to him with a not so delicate slam to the chest. The world felt like it was ending without the shine of Will’s personality surrounding him because of the love he felt for the man. And what a thought – being in love with a soul so similar to his own. The match they made was perfect and for many reasons, shouldn’t exist whatsoever. Yet, Hannibal could barely remember what life felt like without Will in it.

He didn’t want to, either.

When Will eventually completely came to, Hannibal had his forehead pressed against their joined hands – his eyes closed in a desperate attempt to escape to the happier rooms in his mind palace. It was getting more difficult to filter everything out, so the halls were more cluttered than usual. The immense distraction almost made him miss the gentle squeeze to his hand – Will’s fingers tightened around his own for the first time in more than fifty hours.

Sitting up, Hannibal didn’t have a chance to stop the affectionate smile from slipping across his lips. His chest felt a little lighter – Will’s eyes were the same shade of deep blue and shining just as brightly as he remembered. The glassy nature of them was to be expected, the physiological expression of symptoms a reassurance that the body was actively fighting. After what seemed like years of waiting and worrying, Hannibal found comfort in all of Will’s disarray, bed head and sleepy smiles included.

“Hannibal?” Will questioned softly, his voice hoarse and scratchy from being unused. Upon hearing it, Hannibal reached to press the nurse’s button to get Will some water – they would want to know he was awake, anyway.

“Will – I’m so glad to see you,” Hannibal admitted easily, his body ditching the chair to sit on the edge of Will’s bed. He craved the length of Will pressed against him, any sort of familiar weight, really. Just the sign that the man was alive and with him was more than enough.

Reaching up to brush a curl from Will’s forehead, Hannibal spoke up again. “It’s been a couple of days since you last opened your eyes. How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted,” Will mumbled immediately, his brows pinching together with every move as he adjusted. “You said two days? Did this happen at the opera? Hannibal, I’m – “

“Don’t even begin to apologize, Will. Your brain was on fire – the last thing I’m worried about is a subpar rendition of Don Giovanni.” There was a beat, then a subtle move forward to press lips to Will’s still clammy skin. “I’m relieved you’re going to be okay, Will. Everything else is moot.”

There wasn’t much talking after that – the exhaustion Will complained about took him under shortly after coming around. The nurses were able to document his stats and get a doctor in to see him before fatigue won out and Will became lost to sleep once again.

To occupy himself, Hannibal let his emotions run wild across the pages of his sketchpad. Despite being exhausted himself, sleep did not come. Memories and things yet to come crept through the halls of his mind – his hand manifesting them on the smooth paper at record breaking speed. With all of his energy drained, Will made the perfect model. Hannibal found himself able to get the man’s lips right for the first time he laid pencil to paper. Drawing his partner in a much happier state of being made coping a little easier – the smile he could replicate brought a warmth that Hannibal couldn’t admit he wanted with him at all times. Though, he so desperately did.

A hand on the top of his sketchbook brought him out of his artistic stupor. Hannibal moved quickly, sliding his fingers between Will’s before the hand could retreat, or suddenly disappear like he feared. The skin there was warm, but not scalding like the days previous. When their eyes met, the blue depth of Will’s seemed much clearer – like the rest was actually doing him some good.

“She looks like you,” Will said, turning his attention back to the sketch pad he reached for initially. “Who is she?”

The feeling of being exposed washed over him for a second, Hannibal pulling in a deep breath in a desperate attempt to calm himself down. A Thursday in the middle of the night wasn’t how he figured his past would come to light – dark news needed an ideal setting. And yet, what better way to break down the last wall between them?

“This is Mischa, my sister. Even after all these years, I’ve never been able to do her true justice,” Hannibal replied, his voice just steps away from melancholic. “She was this beautiful spirit – free and intense. Kind of like you, actually.” A soft smile overtook his features, the truth of that statement ringing in his ears.

No wonder.

Will’s hand tightened slightly, the fatigue keeping him weak in his touch. “Mischa – I like that. She’s beautiful. You both have that little curl in your nose.”

A laugh escaping Hannibal’s chest broke whatever tension remained – the depths of his chest finally clear. The days of worry and not-sleeping were catching up to him, and like it was so natural to do, Will cleaned the chaos up, his words sweeping out the cobwebs Hannibal let develop. Sucking in another long breath, Hannibal let that last bit of himself in hiding step out into the light.

There was another clear shift in the air between them then, the softness in Will’s eyes something that didn’t exist before that very moment. While so wrapped up in his own masks and Will’s ability to see through them, Will was sneakily putting himself up for display, too. Breaking down walls brought about a gentleness that didn’t befit ruthless murders, and yet – Will caressed Hannibal’s hand softly, the touch for comfort’s sake alone.

Without being prompted or asked, Will moved until a spot that maybe half of Hannibal could fit into appeared. Taking the offer for what it was, Hannibal dropped his sketch pad on the table, the pencil sitting lovingly over the cupid bow of Mischa’s lip. He climbed in, the two of them rearranging limbs until Hannibal’s arms were wrapped tightly around Will. It took a second to settle – then, sleep came quickly and kept them under for the rest of the night.

Will spent another two days in the hospital before Hannibal could convince the staff of his capabilities as a doctor. They were willing to release him after all of the intravenous drug administration was finished – the rest of Will’s recovery would be based around rest and recuperation, anyway.

There wasn’t any discussion about where Will would end up – the man simply climbed into Hannibal’s car, curled up in the passenger seat with his head in Hannibal’s lap, and slept on the trip back to Baltimore from the hospital. Hannibal made a quick trip home while Will sat in the MRI machine for the last time during his stay – both Winston and the kitchen were ready for Will’s arrival.

It took Will most of his energy to get from the car to the door, but when Winston came jogging around the corner, a burst of joy sent him two steps forward until he could easily wrap the dog warmly in his arms. The whispered “I missed you” into the dog’s fur more than making up for the hair on all the surfaces of the house.

When the reunion was over, Hannibal helped Will walk upstairs, the man already dead on his feet from just a couple of short encounters. That previously unnamed warmth took up space in Hannibal’s chest again – the overwhelming feeling of being so deliriously dedicated to another human being exhausting in its own right.

“I thought maybe you’d like to take a bath,” Hannibal said, his legs already carrying him towards the bathroom to start the water.

“Will you hold me, instead? I know I probably stink like hospital and it’s killing that nose of yours, but all I really want to do is be in your arms.”

Looking over his shoulder, Hannibal stopped in his tracks. There were no masks on Will’s face, in the moment, so raw and open. The man who stood before him was stripped bare and asking for something – when he usually did nothing of the sort. The warmth bubbled a little bit more, the intensity of it growing with every passing exchange. He didn’t need to think about what to do next – instead, he kicked off his shoes and went about turning the bed down.

Hannibal climbed in, reclining back against the nest of pillows. Though he figured he wouldn’t sleep, Hannibal was more than willing to simply sit and catalogue Will a little more. The replica in his mind palace wasn’t quite what he wanted, and the perusal of finer features was exactly what he needed to make the perfect rendering.

For a while, that’s how things went – Hannibal kept Will against his chest until the call of food preparation took precedence. It usually took all of Will’s energy to get downstairs to the table, so the first few meals were taken in bed.

Little by little, Will spent more time awake than asleep, the clarity of his thoughts returning as the days past. Surprisingly, the only thing that didn’t return was the mask Will wore. Maybe it was the lack of energy, or maybe – after all was said and done, there was no need for them anymore. Seeing and being seen – it did something to a person. Especially ones like Will and Hannibal.

Then, a Saturday morning two weeks after his diagnosis, Hannibal woke to the feeling of Will’s hands running down his chest and arms, nimble fingers pressing into skin, fingertips tracing and memorizing with every touch. Hannibal kept himself still, letting Will have whatever he wanted before the realization of having an audience occurred.

The rise and fall of Will’s chest sped up a little, his body heat rising for a much better reason than the earlier fever that ravaged him. Without meaning to, Hannibal shifted back into it – giving himself away in an instant.

“I know you’re awake,” Will mumbled against his spot on Hannibal’s neck, hips pressing forward ever so lightly.

Rolling over, Hannibal used the quick movement to pull Will under him, their bodies lining up from head to toe. Will’s legs opened just enough to allow Hannibal access to gap, the length of them wrapping around Hannibal’s hips in the next instant. There was a clench of muscle, then no space between them at all.

“I see you’re awake, too,” Hannibal whispered, his hips pressing down – erections grinding together with the barest of touches. “Are you feeling better?”

Hips pressing up for a longer drag of cock on cock was his only answer. Unable to ignore the call, Hannibal moved against him, the friction building there absolutely exquisite. They shifted and moved until their lips met and the oxygen in the room steadfastly escaped. Every pull of breath in was more of Will – more of his scent, more of his presence – more.

Though neither made any move to takes thing further along, Hannibal could feel the intimacy building up between them. It wasn’t so much about the heat of the physical, this particular moment more than just a sexual connection. Where Hannibal pulled, Will pushed – their hearts beating in tandem.

A crescendo didn’t carry them away – instead, a sort of peace overtook the room. The feeling so foreign that they looked and touched just to make sure the other existed – that after everything, the other was there and the affection that zinged between them wasn’t one sided. Two psychopaths falling in love was never on the top of anyone’s love story list, yet – it happened without either of them knowing.

When Hannibal pulled back this time, the words on the tip of his tongue, he let them fall effortlessly from his lips.

Brushing his nose against Will’s, Hannibal stayed close, the words “I love you” leaving his chest and sitting in the air. It felt odd and for half a second, he thought Will might not feel that way about him after all. The two, three, four beats of his heart before any sort of response were agonizing, both too short and much too long.

Those warms hands were there, though, Will’s palms cupping his cheeks and fingers digging into the longer hair around his temples. Their eyes met, maroon holding blue – and the worry melted away. No mask, after seeing past it, could hide the devotion existing in the ceaseless pools of gorgeous blue.

“I love you too, Hannibal.”

#hannigram #murder husbands #will graham/hannibal lecter #hannigram fanfic #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal fanfic #persephone will have her fill #bobbie writes #will graham #hannibal lecter

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lavalampelfchild · 4 years ago

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Lava’s Art Masterpost

Hey, all! Welcome to my art masterpost! I have no idea if this is a thing that is done typically for art, but oh well, I like organizing things, so here we are! What you’ll find here is mostly Dragon Age, with a few non-DA pieces in there, and there’s a range of styles I like to use, depending on my mood. But a lot of what you’ll see will most likely combine lineart with some other form of coloring/shading.

Feel free to browse at your leisure, and I hope anyone who stumbles upon this enjoys what they find! :D And thank you to anyone who sees this and likes, or reblogs, or even just stops by to peruse a bit!

All that said, away we go!

Digital Portraits:

1. Portrait of Nameless Woman, 2020 - This one is just an experiment with a watercolor brush that I did. It’s not anatomically perfect, but I enjoyed playing around with shading.

2. Sketch of Aja Amell, 2020 - This one is basically sketch practice with my Amell~ Not really the most expressive pictures, but it’s a start toward drawing her more expressively. Full disclosure: Aja is one of those OCs of mine that I have had trouble with deciding on a definitive appearance for several pictures, and I really want to work on upping my level of consistency when drawing her.

3. Long-Haired Fenris, 2020 - Exactly what it sounds like; this was for practice drawing Fenris’s features (I love how distinct they are), but with long hair because I am weak for it. This one was a fun piece to shade, and mixing the stylized lineart that I normally use with a greyscale shading spectrum was really enjoyable.

4. Portrait of Ilorin Lavellan, 2016 - This is an oldie. Basically practicing expressions, and it is technically a WIP, but I’m still very happy with how the shading turned out, especially because this is actually (aside from the unfinished hair) one of the more minimal pieces I’ve done in terms of lineart It’s still there, and it still shapes the flow of the picture in some ways, but it also ends up flowing with the shading instead of standing out next to it, which I like. (Both styles are good, though, and I love seeing other artists try both too.)

5. Old Portrait of Aja Amell, 2016 - Much older picture I did of Aja; she... honestly looks very little like the newer one, I think, and that consistency is something I’m still working on, but this one was the first picture of Aja with that particular hairstyle I drew. What I like about this picture is how young she looks; it fits with her image as a fresh and sheltered Circle mage who’s only about 20 years old at the time of DAO.

6. Old Portrait of Trilyn, 2016 - They very first piece of art I posted to tumblr~ It’s not exactly how I envision Trilyn anymore, but it was still very fun to draw, and helped me get a feel for drawing him in the future.

Dynamic Movement Pictures/”Moment’s in Time”:

1. Tabris in Arl’s Estate, 2020 - TW: blood. I am super proud of this one. My ultimate goal is to draw all of my Warden DAO OCs, and I could not believe I’ve never drawn my Tabris, and so here she is. This was, in large part, practicing expressions because I absolutely love art that depicts characters in motion, or capturing some kind of expression.

2. Velyn in the Rain, 2017 - This one was actually based on some art that I saw in a Teen Wolf fic! It was an experiment with a more expressive style (and one of the first pieces I did without lineart left in the finished version) and it was a huge step out of my comfort zone. But overall, I am extremely happy with how it turned out.

3. Jem Nocking an Arrow, 2016 - And here is the lineart version. This was entirely an excuse to draw my DAI baby, Jem, and to do a cool archer pose because archers are my fav, and I love characters in motion.

4. Solas Teaching Trilyn Fade Magic, 2016 - This one was a painterly picture that was also (like the Velyn picture) something which I tried to keep lineart out of. Overall, I am proud of a lot of parts of the pic, but I think I would definitely go back over it and change a few things now if I had the patience.

5. Trilyn Closeup WIP, 2016 - TW: injury, blood, mention of abuse in the author’s note. A lot of early pictures I have are of my OC, Trilyn, and this is one of my absolute favorites. His entire upper body is technically in the picture, but I hadn’t finished rendering it yet, so this was what I posted. And it was an experiment with a cross-hatching style with the pencil tool for some texture, with air brush shading and a blurring tool. It’s a style I had fun playing around with!

6. Trilyn Blood Ritual, 2016 - TW: blood, injury (the slight cut used to supply the ritual with blood). This one was definitely a sort of “captured moment” from a backstory I gave Trilyn, and I think what I was really going for was an atmospheric piece that could fit with any potential fic I wanted to write for Trilyn. And then it ended up being practice for extreme lighting/shading techniques, and drawing the blood and the gross mass of demon ichor (or whatever the heck that is) turned out to be highlights of making the piece for me.

Art + Text:

1. Freedom and Control, 2020 - TW: scars, but very difficult to see. This one was ambitious for me! It started originally just as Solas and my Tal-Vashoth OC, Saara, facing each other, because I love the dynamic I’ve built for them in my head, but then it turned into an attempt at a tarot-esque background, and just sorta grew from there... Overall, I’m happy with how it turned out, especially with how Solas and Saara themselves turned out. The version you can actually see a larger view is here.

2. Marianna and Delia Codex and Art, Pt. 1, 2020 - I love writing my own codex entries, first off, and I love combining art with text to create a (hopefully) seamless work. This work was an attempt to flesh out these OCs of mine with both art (because unique facial structures are hard for me to get down, but so important regardless) and text (because writing~). I think it turned out well overall, but there are elements of the portraits that I might at some point touch up a bit.

3. Marianna and Delia Codex and Art, Pt. 2, 2020 - Part 2, with what I refer to as a “DAI Outfit Change” because I have always loved seeing fans show their own OCs as they look in DAO, DA2, and then finally DAI. So I absolutely wanted to jump on that bandwagon myself. The skin tones are a little off (and I’m sorry about that!) because I was playing with the watercolor brush at that point, and it dilutes the colors I use. Still working to figure that out, but I was very happy with the overall lineart and structures of the faces.

4. Alistair/Aja Amell Picture with a Blurb, 2017 - Ooooold, old, old, old, OLD! I still love the art, and I’m soooo happy with how the interaction between Alistair and Aja turned out (drawing kisses is extremely difficult for me; I always end up creating a distorted weird lip-creature, instead of realistically puckered lips...). I’m not as happy with the blurb that went with it? At that point, I was still very much figuring out my own DAO worldstate, and the characterization for everyone, so, eh. Take it with a grain of salt!

Unfinished Costume Designs:

1. Ancient Elvhen Armor with Dwarven Influence, 2018 - People who do costume design work are amazing and mystical beings, and I wish I could do what they do. This was an attempt at merging the Keeper robes from DAI with a more dwarven armor aesthetic, solely because I created an ancient elvhen character, Ceda, who was taken in by the Cad’halash dwarves mentioned in the Witch Hunt dlc, and I wanted this character to have a mix of the elven style of armor and the dwarven style. I’m overall decently happy with it, but there’s still that persistent level of self-criticism present.

2. Herald of Andraste Outfit WIP, 2016 - This was a very old picture, not one I showed around a lot, but the idea for this was entirely born of my intense interest in how fashion and outfit designs could be used to create a symbolic image for the Herald of Andraste. In general, I love the combination of ceremonial armor with long and flowing cloth, so that was what I went for here. I’m still actually very proud of how this came out, and headcanon something similar for my Herald in my canon DAI worldstate.

Pencil Sketches:

1. Quick Saara Sketch, 2019 - TW: saarebas mouth scars. Exactly what it says; very quick sketch of Saara I did in a small notebook I carry around with me. This was basically a test for myself to see if I could manage to draw Saara with the features and facial structure I envisioned for her without needing to use a lot of references.

2. Mass Effect Character Sketch; Jesse, 2018 - Similar reason for drawing this one as the above Saara sketch! With these characters, I love sometimes the way they can turn out with the specific character creator used for them, and when I draw them, I enjoy trying to create a definitive look for them using what I get from the CC, and my own knowledge of Hooman Faces.

3. Saara Sketch, 2017 - TW: saarebas mouth scars. A more detailed sketch of Saara than the one above, and one I definitely put more time into overall. It’s currently the profile picture I’m using for ao3, and is the definitive go-to reference picture I use whenever imagining Saara in a fic, or for other Saara pics I make. I am extremely proud of this picture, and feel like I should work in graphite more often. It’s such fun, and the texture is so nice to look at.

4. Sketch of Nameless Alamarri Woman, 2017 - This was a sketch I did of what I envisioned some Alamarri tribes to look like; I used artistic depictions of Gaul tribes and hairstyles for inspiration, and have used this as a go-to reference for my version of Alamarri tribes. Nothing super notable about this one, but I really liked the way the shape of her face turned out.

Events and Gifts:

1. Another Scar, 2020 - TW: blood, injuries, gore. The most recent piece of art on the list, and a gift for @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold; featuring sisterly love between Rica and fem!Brosca, which was her requested prompt. This was a tough piece for me because of the difficulty with the lighting I dealt with. For some reason, that one particular element of it gave me so much trouble. Overall, I’m very happy with how it turned out, though, especially the skin tones of the sisters; Brosca I always sort of like as having this greyish, more gaunt look to her, while Rica I like seeing with a darker, richer, and warmer tone to her.

2. A Very Cousland Christmas!, 2019 - This was for a holiday exchange for a server, and I drew a friend’s Cousland (Elissa, the girl on the left) with my Cousland (Gazza, the girl on the right). I love kid-fic, and I love kid-art, and so I decided... baby Cousland art! Drawing kid proportions was the toughest part, I recall, and I thiiiink it turned out well, and I’m still quite proud of it overall. Elissa’s design came entirely from my friend, but I added the holly~

3. Exchange Gift with Dis Brosca and Mabari, 2018 - This was an exchange gift for @fanfoolishness, using her lovely Dis Brosca, and was my first real attempt at backgrounds... I struggled with the coherence of the foreground and background a bit, but I’m still very proud of how it turned out, especially with the colors I had to work with. What I also really enjoyed working with was the lighting and the expression on Dis’s face. Backlit subjects are always fun to play around with!

4. Inktober Picture, “Deep”, 2017 - TW: scars, injury, mentions of abuse in the author’s note/attached dialogue snippets. This was for an Inktober prompt (the only one I’ve ever done, sadly... because I am bad with deadlines...), and again features Trilyn. Trilyn’s backstory has him a former slave in Tevinter, and a lot of the early works I do for him are sort of deep-dives into his life there. It’s all meant to be an exploration of the things he endures, and then those moments when he overcomes it all and takes back his own autonomy and self. This art is definitely provocative, and I can understand if not everyone likes it, but to me, I just wanted to show just what he faces (without glorifying it) before showing the moment of his own triumph.

5. Christmas Holiday Picture with my Brosca and a Friend’s Amell, 2017 - This was a piece of art drawn first by a friend of mine, @nanahuatli~ She drew the Amell, the background, the mistletoe, etc. All I did was add my Brosca to the mix to finish the image. It was a lot of fun to do, 1) because it was fun trying to match her style so that the picture looked cohesive, 2) because I love doing collabs with friends, and 3) because it was just such a fun thing to imagine my surly short Brosca, looking at this weird plant/fungus/thing dangling over some puckering human! It was an absolute joy to do this collab with her!

6. OC Kiss Week Pic of Jem and Saara, 2017 - TW: saarebas mouth scars. A spur-of-the-moment thing meant to demonstrate just what kind of dynamic my OC, Jem, has with my other OC, Saara (both of whom are members of Leliana’s network in DAI). This was a very quick picture (deadlines...) and was mostly just to have fun drawing these two characters interacting, and to see if I could make them look like themselves. I think I did a decent job with it overall, especially with Jem’s kissy-face! (Again... drawing kisses are the bane of my existence, although hands and feet take a close second.)

#lavalampelfchild's art #masterpost #dragon age #some not DA stuff

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perpetuallurkernazanin · 6 years ago

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Toby Fox spoiled my novel-length fanfic’s ultimate plot twist (an “it happened to me” story???)

New content in the Switch release of Undertale last week contained a major revelation about a canon character… and confirmed a major headcanon / plot twist that I had been gradually foreshadowing in my WIP backstory fanfic for over two years and almost 100,000 words (and the fanfic is only about 2/3 done, so the twist wouldn’t have been revealed for like another year yet.)

For a week I’ve been caught between amazed elation and an undertone of exasperation. I feel like I need to make some public record now… as proof it happened this way??

(The fic is “The Problem of Bodies” by Mz_Mallow on AO3.)

Explanation / spoilers under the cut.

With the addition of the Mad Mew Mew battle, Toby Fox revealed that Mad Dummy is a trans woman, just like Mettaton is a trans man.

TBH when first planning The Problem of Bodies I was going to simply make Mad Dummy a grouchy uncle/aunt… It was my amazing fiancée & beta-reader who convinced me to write MD as sibling to Mettaton and Napstablook and as a trans girl.

So, as a record, here’s an account of the foreshadowing in The Problem of Bodies. (EDIT: I had forgotten one instance of foreshadowing when I first posted this... it’s item #3)

1) No pronouns used for Feisttablook in narrative voice. Other characters refer to Feist as they/them in dialogue, but the narrator avoids pronouns for the character altogether. Happstablook got no narrative pronouns either until he had a personal revelation of his gender at the end of Part 1, Chapter 7, the final line of which is, “Happy hovered at the sideline for a minute before yelling, loudly, deeply, a crow of pure joy; and he threw himself into the pile-up.”

2) Feist’s first experience wearing clothes in Part 1, Chapter 7, which is meant to be an echo of that classic narrative of the first time a trans femme person sees herself in feminine clothes. Feist’s overall love of fashion is drawn from original game canon, ie the dream of becoming a fashion mannequin recounted in the Mad Dummy boss battle.

3) The first line of Part 2 Ch. 4, when Feist is going to see Hark’s bodies for the first time: “Phasing through the floor into the room below, Feisttablook almost landed directly on top of a pink plush doll [...]“

And then halfway through that chapter, as the city ghosts are talking about their feelings re: becoming corporeal: “Feist felt dizzy as the lingering fear of rejection and ridicule dissipated. In some ways these stories were similar to what Feist felt… but somehow different, as well. It was that undefinable difference that left Feist reluctant to share more.“

4) Feist’s thoughts on first possessing the dummy body, in Part 2, Ch. 4: “Was the body perfect? Of course not. There were things Feist would have changed in the design — a more rounded head, more like the cute version of the everyman design used for smaller dolls; a lower center of gravity; curved mammalian-type lines — but it was so much better than having no body.”

5) The fact that Feist becomes pregnant in Part 3, but is unable to impregnate another ghost.

6) Feist’s experience of being pregnant in Part 3, Ch. 3: “The idea of pregnancy had been frightening — expecting restlessness, volatile moods, compulsively chasing away other ghosts — but instead, Feist had found a sense of deep calm, like making a new family this way wasn’t just life-affirming, but self-affirming. Finding new ways of expressing love, through courtship and now through expecting the child, felt intimate and important; like when Feist found clothes that fit just right.”

Contrast with Happy’s reaction to the suggestion that he might be or could become pregnant, from Part 2 Ch. 2: “Comprehension hit, and for a moment Happy was terrified that Staid saw something true, that there were strangers growing inside of him. (Not strangers, he would later correct himself, More of us, more of myself.) The beat of fear and repulsion he felt at the thought gave him reassurance: ghost pregnancy came from satisfaction and hope, not anxiety and doubt. He was all set for prophylactic cynicism.”

(These reactions are NOT intended as statements on how all men or all women feel, or are expected to, or are supposed to feel; the contrast is simply a part of fleshing out these two characters)

7) Feist’s thoughts on trying to find a new body in Part 3, Ch. 11, in which she longs for a feminine body the way Happy longs for a masculine body, but unlike him is not yet able to recognize her feelings as having to do with the way the body will be gendered: “A body. Not just a tool made for someone else and repurposed; a personal, personalized body. With personality. One that was strong and flexible and adaptable. One that expressed the soul inside instead of obscuring it. A body to fuse with. The dream grew and took on dimension and weight, as if the dream itself were becoming corporeal.

“What stood in the way of realizing this dream? The curiosity or censure of other ghosts? After all that had happened, Feist was beyond worrying about what other ghosts thought. The impossibility of the body itself? The dummy body wasn’t bad, it was just insufficient, lacking in some way… and that could be figured out, with a little room to experiment.”

Sooo… TPoB fic will proceed as it’s been planned from the beginning, moving forward to and through and beyond in-game events… Except that I never guessed that Alphys would have a life-sized plush Mew Mew Doll in her house (WTF, Alphys), and that it would be found by Mad Dummy / Feist… so that will be written in, when the plot eventually gets to that point.

I do have another major plot twist planned for Part 4 that is not in Undertale canon… and I know Toby Fox will not spoil this one, because (1) it’s based in originally existing game canon, and (2) it involves mature-rated thematic elements. Take THAT, Toby you marvelous troll. XD

#fanfic #fanfiction #Headcanon #undertale #undertale switch #mad mew mew #mad dummy #at this point Toby Fox has trolled me probably more than anyone else in my life #got me good with the one-year anniversary taking fan questions ruse

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johngallianotheking · 7 years ago

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John Galliano

FALLEN ANGEL Maison Margiela Artisanal designed by John Galliano coat

Maison Margiela designed by John Galliano jacket

Photographed by Paolo Roversi

John Galliano Is Taking Things Step by Step at Maison Margiela - The Wall Street Journal

OPPOSITE AN orthopedics store and a scruffy bar in Paris’s 11th arrondissement sits an old convent building, its facade saturated with decades of grime. Across a cobbled courtyard lined with old latrines, a few flights up a stone staircase, is a rambling room decorated with antique eccentricities—from a vintage model ship to an articulated mannequin—like an attic of curiosities pilfered from Miss Havisham’s house. Into this room bounds a Brussels griffon, followed by a man wearing an odd assemblage of long trouser shorts, sneakers, a yellow T-shirt and a wool sweater slightly unraveling at the collar. “That’s Gypsy,” he announces. “She’s a recovery dog. I never had a dog before—it was just very good for me to be responsible and to not always think about myself.” He chuckles happily.

This is John Galliano, and he could not have chosen a more fitting place to hole up, if that is what he had intended to do. For the past three years, Galliano, 57, has been creative director at Maison Margiela, the fashion house founded in 1988 by avant-garde designer Martin Margiela, who elevated privacy to performance art: Only a few photographs of Margiela are known to exist, and he often veiled the faces of models in his runway presentations, or forwent humans altogether to show his clothes on stark clothes hangers. “Anonymity: A reaction against the ubiquitous star system, the desire to let the ideas do the talking,” reads an official Margiela ��glossary” from 2009. In 2004, Maison Margiela took over this 18th-century building, whitewashing the crumbling interiors in keeping with the designer’s affinity for white, both for its cleansing properties and because it highlights imperfections. The space is just four miles but a world away from the primly perfect dove-gray hallways at the Avenue Montaigne headquarters of Dior, which Galliano helped build into a pulsing $1.1 billion empire—until he was fired days before the fall/winter 2012 show when a video of him drunkenly making anti-Semitic remarks at a Parisian bar became international news.

It would be easy to conceal oneself within Margiela’s cloistered heritage, but Galliano has nothing to hide. He says he has been sober for nearly seven years—he attended rehab after losing his post—and in that time has tried to face his demons head-on.

“I said what I said. I didn’t mean it,” he says now. “And I continue to atone. Some people have forgiven me, and some people will never forgive me. But that’s something that I have to take on board.” He says he is also still grappling with legal issues stemming from the incident.

Before Galliano became a symbol of how the mighty can fall, he was a symbol of how the mighty had risen. Fashion, an industry that can sometimes seem as though it’s busy proving that nothing exceeds like excess, portrayed him as the apotheosis of romantic genius. He was appointed att Dior in the late ’90s, in an era when bold deal-makers like Dior’s owner Bernard Arnault, the architect of luxury conglomerate LVMH had discovered there was a fortune to be made by applying the go-go strategy of M&A to the antiquated luxury world.

Galliano was the perfect creative partner, his Vesuvian imagination and virtuosic technical abilities unleashed by burgeoning budgets. He became the ultimate celebrity designer, paparazzi’d during nights out with supermodels like Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell, his long hair braided into plaits, his body buff and tanned. He delighted fashion editors with the imaginary tales behind his collections, told in a dizzying array of accents—jumping from the diction of a Shakespearean actor to “mockney” slang to his native Spanish to upper-crust French. He even supplanted his fabled predecessor, calling the line Christian Dior by John Galliano and taking runway bows as theatrical as his catwalk shows: dressed as a matador with pink stockings or a pompadoured astronaut or Napoleon. The French emperor, though, found Versailles too extravagant; not so Galliano, who staged Dior’s fall/winter 2007 haute couture show there in celebration of Dior’s 60th anniversary. Four years later, it was all gone: Galliano’s gilded fantasia vanished in a cloud of ignominy.

“I’m not God. But I realize that now,” says Galliano, who these days wears his dark hair pulled back by a simple black head wrap instead of the crown he once rakishly cocked for a photo shoot. “Whereas before I would self-will and self-will and self-will. When you are driven by perfection, you miss out on something beautiful that happens in between that is unfinished—that does have emotion that is relevant in this house,” he says, referring to Margiela’s appreciation for experimentation.

When owner Renzo Rosso first approached Galliano in 2013 to take over Maison Margiela—the founder had officially retired in 2009—Galliano’s response, he says, was “ ‘What?’ I didn’t get it at all.” (The Italian fashion impresario knew the designer from having manufactured the children’s line of Galliano’s eponymous brand.) He turned down the offer several times, but the persistent Rosso slowly seduced Galliano by taking him cruising through the Greek islands and the French Riviera on his motorized yacht, the Lady May. “I just loved the idea of working with this guy, the most important designer in the world,” says Rosso, who was unfazed by Galliano’s controversial history.

In 2013, he convinced Galliano to visit the Margiela headquarters when it was empty one Saturday night in August, and the building on rue Saint Maur finally won Galliano over. Upon entering, “I felt good—the beautiful decay, the peeling paint,” he says. “I had become so f—ing polished and so finished. Suddenly that rawness and emotion appealed to me, because I was feeling raw and emotional.”

Galliano immediately set about reorganizing the fashion house into the strict pyramidic structure he had mastered at Dior: a high-flying couture collection that garners attention and sets the tone for the ready-to-wear collections, in turn informing the commercial collections, the bags, the shoes and even the beauty lines. “It’s the only way I can work,” he says. “I was really honest [with Rosso]. I need to express myself—the parfum that can then be diluted into the eau de parfum, the eau de toilette.”

“John said to me, ‘I am a couturier,’ ” says Rosso. “I am very happy with that. A designer can just do a collection, but a couturier can dream and invent something that doesn’t exist.”

COUTURIER, God, that sounds grand,” says Galliano, laughing at himself. “I’m a dressmaker. There aren’t many of us who can cut, make patterns, drape.”

Galliano’s extraordinary skills have been his solace and his redemption: Just three months after he left Dior, he was slated to make Kate Moss’s wedding dress for her 2011 marriage to musician Jamie Hince. Without access to an atelier, he was left on his own to create the creamy confection, which featured a skirt of delicately embroidered feathers that appeared to have been dipped in gold sequins: “He sewed every sequin onto that dress himself,” says Condé Nast artistic director Anna Wintour. “People don’t make dresses the way that John does anymore.”

While Maison Margiela has shown haute couture since 2012—an offshoot of Margiela’s Artisanal project, through which recycled and vintage materials became one-off follies, such as leather sandals transformed into a lacy vest—it had become known primarily as an upscale contemporary line, serving reworked staples from the house repertoire. Galliano seized on the Artisanal idea, bringing gifted couture seamstresses to flesh out the Margiela atelier and installing longtime loyalists as his top deputies in the design studios. But how to apply Galliano’s taste for fantastical fairy-tale gowns to Margiela’s conceptualized versions of streetwise boots, sweaters and trench coats?

While Margiela was known for purposefully awkward elements such as the jutting, padded shoulders on his jackets and dresses, or massively oversize coats, Galliano had made his name with a liquid-like bias-cut gown, in which a single piece of fabric is sliced against the grain so that it wraps languidly around the body like a second skin. It’s dressmaking’s triple axel, enough to confound its cutter—and ruin yards of fabric—if not done with precision. But an early meeting with Martin Margiela, during which the designer said, “Take what you will from the DNA of the house, protect yourself and make it your own,” helped ease Galliano’s anxieties about melding their sensibilities.

“It’s exhilarating for me to be inspired by outerwear or a ski jacket. It’s not always a fabulous ’50s couture gown shot by Mr. [Irving] Penn,” adds Galliano, who was surprised to discover he and the reclusive Margiela shared an interest in 17th-century French literature and 18th-century costume. They also employed similar techniques, particularly early in their careers: “Bricolage, recycling, inside out, upside down—that’s kind of what you do when you are a young designer,” he says. “You destroy, you construct, you reveal.”

One of the ongoing motifs that emerged from this impulse is something Galliano calls décortiqué—the reduction of a garment to its inner skeleton, both a witty reference to Margiela heritage and a display of Galliano’s technical wizardry. Along with other themes (which he has given such names as “unconscious glamour” and “dressing in haste”), it appears throughout his couture and ready-to-wear collections as well as Avant-Premiere, which entails broader offerings. (Prices range from $184 for a T-shirt to $8,585 for a coat.) He has even turned out the bias cut in stiff tweed.

Deconstruction has been a preoccupation for Galliano from the beginning: His first Dior dress, famously made for Princess Diana’s attendance at the Met Ball after her divorce from Prince Charles in 1996, was a navy silk bias-cut slip, which Galliano constructed with an interior bustier to protect her royal modesty. But when Diana arrived at the gala to greet him and co-chair Liz Tilberis, “We were like, Oh, my God—she’s torn out the corset,” he remembers, leaving her décolletage scandalously exposed under the negligee-like lace straps, though the other guests—and, until now, Diana fashion historians—remained none the wiser about her last-minute alteration. “It was a reflection of how she was already feeling: liberated.”

Although Galliano himself seems to feel freed by his new home away from the spotlight, he is determined to remain respectful of Margiela’s legacy. He knows firsthand how sensitive it is to take on a living designer’s house, having lost his own eponymous line, which he had founded in 1988 (91 percent–owned by LVMH, it is currently designed by Galliano’s former right-hand, Bill Gaytten). “It was like losing one of your children,” he says. “A lot of work had to be done to stop me from doing anything silly.”

He pauses and looks away. “I was killing myself anyway—it was a slow death,” he continues. “I didn’t realize I was killing myself. I was completely in denial. You think you can deal with it and cope with it, and [you tell yourself] it’s just the creative pressures, and every excuse. The insidious disease that creeps up and takes you over, and I was too weak.”

“We all knew he was going through troubled times. And we tried to look after him,” says milliner Stephen Jones, a longtime collaborator and friend, who points out that for years Galliano was designing 15 collections annually, a rare feat in the industry. “He dealt with it extremely well for a very long time, and it became a huge success. But he was very much in the eye of the storm of fashion.”

The workload was notable to many. “He is such a perfectionist,” says Wintour. “He had the inability to delegate or let go. The job was almost too mammoth—it was the volume of work, and he was so particular about everything.”

“I was just afraid to say no to Mr. Arnault,” Galliano now admits. “I thought it was a sign of weakness and that I would lose my contract. How dumb. You know, when work becomes more important than your health—the work came first at the risk of everything. Health, relationships, family—ruthless. That’s how sick I was. And your world becomes the bottle, the drugs, the ups and the downs.”

He has been able to forgive himself by re-examining his life: the move to England from Gibraltar at age 6, growing up as a closeted homosexual in a strict Catholic family in South London, bullied at school until he found his way to St. Martin’s School of Art. “You see the little Juan Carlos Galliano-Guillen—what happened to him? That poor thing. And that’s where you start to be able to handle it. Because you become this—whatever I became.”

These days, he attends regular AA meetings and retreats four times a year to a wellness center in southern Spain following each fashion show. He’s home every night, he says, at his Marais apartment with longtime partner Alexis Roche, and spends weekends at their country house in Auvergne with their two dogs, pacing his workload according to a concept he calls “step by step.”

“Seriously, I just didn’t get that before,” he says. “Or living in the present—I didn’t understand. It took a long time to get that life is this, now, what we are doing, not my head stuck up my own ass thinking about 2020.” He also maintains a mostly macrobiotic diet, though his taste for cigarettes and coffee are unabated—as is his joyfully wicked laugh.

“Recovery is an amazing journey to go through—to be given a second chance at life, and to regenerate creatively,” he says. “I’m happy to talk about it, because I think it’s nice to hear that you don’t lose it all—that you can’t paint and you can’t write and you can’t sing, because it’s not true. You can. It’s actually more intense, the levels of creative highs. I guess it’s because you are more aware of them as well. Because you are just so electric—all the good things that I love about this industry, the process—oh! It makes me jump out of bed in the morning.”

His name is also being reintroduced to the annals of Dior, though since that fateful day the news broke he has never again spoken to Arnault or the then-president of the brand, Sidney Toledano (“My calls were not accepted,” he says). Pieces from his 15-year tenure at Dior were included in the brand’s sweeping exhibition staged at Paris’s Musée des Arts Décoratifs last year, a moment that was more emotional for Galliano than he anticipated. “It’s quite wonderful that they are letting [my designs] be viewed, because for a while they were locked away,” he says. “It’s really nice to see the old girls getting an airing.”

His slow-and-steady approach at Margiela is also taking hold: For this spring, the house launched a new bag, the Glam Slam, a pillowlike creation that was introduced alongside a travel-themed collection with the sly implication that it could be used in lieu of a neck cushion on long-haul flights. January marked his first men’s show, and eventually he will tweak the look of the Margiela stores, of which there are 60 worldwide (the brand is also sold at retailers like Barneys, Saks, Nieman Marcus and Net-A-Porter/ Yoox).

Rosso’s strategy is not to pump the brand for profits. “It’s a niche brand,” he says, explaining he has already seen double-digit growth. “I want it to have product with real passion, not become the biggest brand in the world.” He doesn’t anticipate that it will more than double in size from its current position (about $160 million in revenue, versus the $5 billion in revenue for a mega-brand like Chanel). “It takes time for the old pyramid to filter through and for people to appreciate it,” Galliano says. “The buyers want to know that you are serious—when they come to the showroom, they don’t want to just hear ‘Fab show’; they want to see what effect you’ve had.”

In the meantime, he’ll be in his drafty studio with “the kids,” as he calls his design assistants, where they are doing fittings for the fall/winter 2018 couture show. He’s been seeking inspiration from all sides, including from “Insta-glam” muses that he finds on social media, or his own experiences, such as throwing on a trench coat tied with a leather belt over a tracksuit to walk the dogs at midnight. “Is it music, is it a film, is it a painting? It’s life—being a little bit more connected,” he says. “It’s the idea of proposing a new glamour, though I never want to be so arrogant to think I could arrive at it—that doesn’t interest me. But the process does interest me and my team.”

He watches his fit model stride across the room wearing the beginnings of a chinoiserie coat redone in a reflective material that creates a holographic, X-ray effect (inspired by a recent viewing of the Blade Runner remake—“Major!” he gasps in operatic tones). As she walks, the material gently floats, and he clucks approvingly. He nods and says quietly to himself, in time with her sashaying feet: “Step by step.”

#John Galliano #Galliano #John Galliano Haute Couture #Love Galliano #Maison Margiela #Haute Couture #Artisanal #wall streeet journal #Article #Interview #Christian Dior #quotation #quotes #Fashion #Art #Paolo Roversi #Artist #Genius

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enaasteria · 7 years ago

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Nightmare // Sehun

Mortal enemies accidentally showing up in matching costumes every fucking year.

// Halloween Prompt #1 // Slightly suggestive but not really

“You’re happier than usual,” Yumi shouts from behind her sheer ninja mask and over the fervent music playing in the club. A bloodthirsty vampire wearing a ragged, sleeveless dress shirt dances alongside her. He’s practically thirsting for something else as his plastic fangs glide against her neck with strong, veined arms curving around her waist. She welcomes his advances with her hand entwining into his bed of unruly hair. They’re in their own little world and my benevolence is in parallel to theirs. My body jumps and sways to the entrancing beats as I answer her with words conveying how happy I truly feel. “I am!” I exclaim. The cranberry vodka she shared with me earlier aids in fueling the adrenaline as the addictive drink trickles through my system.

She raises her brows at me, “Does it have to do with Sehun?”

“This time---yes, yes it does.”

My elation widens and she catches on quickly. I shrug my shoulders and inwardly smile, almost manically laughing to myself.

The reason being among the multitude of costumed individuals, many chose It as their outfit this year. Their faces are painted a cold white and their lips are stained red with crimson lines leading up through their eyes. Some pay tribute to the original 1990’s cult design with a frilled collar and puffed sleeves. Others chose a more seductive approach; they’re barely clothed and or wearing short dresses and ripped white stockings leaving little to the imagination.

But whereas the titular character defines the epitome of nightmares and bad dreams, the vindictive clowns surrounding me at present are my ultimate blessings. As Yumi stated, they’re why I can’t stop smiling and how I’m possibly the happiest person in the club. It’s because my outfit doesn’t mimic theirs---which also means my chosen attire won’t match Sehun’s.

He and I have an odd relationship. And it’s not because I like him or fawn after him. I won’t even lie about how I find him terribly easy on the eyes but my interactions with him have been less than pleasant (and that’s putting it mildly).

We’re not friends. At least from the way things have progressed between us, I don’t believe we’re friends. It seems more or less like his goal in life is being the single reason why my pathetic soul leaves my body once he appears in front of me at a Halloween party.

We somehow always manage matching costumes.

It’s never by my choice. It just happens as if the menacing man is imbued with nefarious black magic to turn up in an outfit accenting mine.

It’s a curse.

It’s a malediction of the acutest kind and I hate admitting how he consistently complements my costume for the better whether I like it or not.

If I showed up as the 10th Doctor from Doctor Who, he’ll come in as TARDIS. If I’m Watson, then he’s Sherlock. Mario, Yoshi. If I’m Pikachu, then he’s the damn poké ball. It doesn’t matter if I go with a female outfit, male outfit, or if I dress up as the obscurest thing in the world---he somehow, in some evil warlock kind of way, knows exactly what I’ll be and wears an accompanying costume.

It’s a peculiarity I don’t understand. Even now, I can picture Sehun’s smug grin every time he arrives wearing something similar to my own. His half-moon eyes, the curl of his mouth, and his tongue flushing against his upper lip are engrained into my brain like a permanent burning scar.

I could never figure out how he copied me or why he did it in the first place. It seemed to bother me more so than it ever did for him---as if he liked or wanted it; as if my unraveled state was his ultimate pleasure and joy.

What I once thought was a rare coincidence now has me wondering if Sehun is doing this to purposely mess with me---or if in actuality it’s the universe and fate being the ones up to no good.

Either way, I made a change this year to defy all odds. I did something I never did before to change my circumstances for the better---

I asked him.

Channeling my true, intended Halloween theme as Kingsman: The Secret Service, I tried my hand at outsmarting the deviant boy at his own game. He was wary at the start but I told him if we were going to match regardless, we might as well tell each other what we’re going to be so we can have the best costume possible.

I didn’t think he would agree. I thought he was going to argue with me and say what I’m doing would subtract the element of surprise for him (a part of me honestly believes he revels in my sad misery) but he told me what I wanted to hear. He relayed his plans and I remember his answer verbatim.

‘I’m going as It this year.’

And he smirked.

He exhaled an amused short breath and that mischievous grin was the last thing I remember prancing along the sharp contours of his prim face.

I didn’t think much of his reaction then and I don’t think much of it now as I’m dressed in a high collar black sleeveless shirt under a gray double-breasted wool suit jacket and pants.

One word echoes throughout my mind as I move to the playing song and it’s the word It. Like the majority of the women and men in this club, Sehun will be just like them. He will match them and be dressed as the monstrous clown. The very thought causes my merriment to stretch further up to my pink cheeks.

Yumi shakes her head at my ridiculous behavior, clearly aware of my predicament with the problematic, aforementioned male. Although, I half blame her for my present issues because she was the one who introduced me to him all those years ago. It began with his name and his picture as if she tried to set me up with him. Little did she know Sehun and I would end up as a match in an entirely different manner.

She’s about to say something but it’s cut short as the nameless vampire nibbles on her neck. She falls into his trance and leans into his toned frame as they move in sync to the rhythm beating between their bodies.

I raise my brows at her before pulling on the high collar fabric around my neck, “Too hot.”

She laughs, completely under the vampire’s spell, “Isn’t he?” and he kisses down even harder on her flesh from hearing her reply. I don’t mull on whether she intentionally misconstrued my sentiments or not but motion to the upstairs balcony to let her know I’m going to drop off my suit jacket and get something to drink.

The cool air brushes over the cuff of my bare shoulders as I grab a water from the bartender. I lean over the balcony railing with cup in hand, surveying the eclectic number of inebriated individuals. I perch my chin on a bent wrist and my fingers tap along my cheek to the addictive beats of EDM while I scan over every person in the club.

“Looking for someone in particular?”

My ears barely make out his signature silvery tone and a smile stretches from one end of my face to the other. I straighten and turn to my left, “No, just a clo---” but I’m interrupted as I face Sehun and the happiness I once felt immediately dissipates as I take in Sehun’s presence.

He’s dressed immaculately well and that is where the very problem stems from. My brows furrow into a kneaded knot. It’s full of horror and confusion over why he’s not the frightening clown he said he would be.

There’s no white paint on his face. There’s no red nose or furry orange wig. There’s nothing clownish about his costume because he’s the dapper, glasses wearing, tailored gray suit Eggsy to my Roxy costume and I instantly want to fall to my knees and cry from dejection.

I stutter, “H---How---”

“How what?”

“How do you do it every year? How does this keep happening?”

“Does it matter how I do it?” There’s that vexing smirk again. He’s enjoying this. He’s lapping up this exchange as if I’m the light to his day.

My chest rises up and down with each breath but I’m noticing every time I breathe, Sehun inches closer and closer. He decreases our space but it’s different this year. He’s much more forward with his approaches and it’s causing a bewilderment I can’t quite grasp.

He finally stops in footing and cranes his neck, reading me far better than I can ever understand him. “Does it bother you that much when we’re in matching costumes?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Sehun’s grin is the work of demons as his gaze is transfixed on me with no chance of any spell breaking its connection.

“Because you said It.”

“And?”

I’m internally dying at this point. Perhaps it’s from anger or maybe it’s from my hatred of how irritatingly attractive he still looks in the suit with dyed blond hair (but annoyed nevertheless by how he managed to fool me again). “You said It, Sehun. You told me---letter for letter and I will quote you on October 1 at 6:14 PM, you said you were going to dress up as It this year. This is not It.”

“Who says I’m not?” he slyly refutes and I want to wipe away how his smile is messing with my every patience.

“You’re clearly not It. There’s no way this is a Pennywise costume.”

“Did I say I was going to be Pennywise this year?” Sehun pushes up his gold rimmed glasses before drawing his index under my chin. I don’t shy away from his touch and he takes it as an affirmation to lean down, angling his grand frame to mine. His thumb grazes over my bottom lip as his irises are completely narrowed into me. His face is a breath from my own and I listen to his vindictive words full of deadly magic and lore. “I said I would be It and that is exactly who I am—

I’m your worst nightmare, babe.”

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mensvelvetblazerblog-blog · 7 years ago

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Mens Velvet Blazer with Style

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caveartfair · 6 years ago

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8 Artists Using Silicone to Create Strange, Radical Artworks

I am a woman and I cast no shadow, #17, 2016. Ilona Szwarc AA|LA

Silicone has a meandering, illustrious history. British chemist Frederic Stanley Kipping pioneered some of the first major investigations into the compound (which is made up of silicon and oxygen atoms) in 1927. Since then, its shape-shifting potential has inspired everyone from astronauts to plastic surgeons: Neil Armstrong wore silicone-tipped gloves during the first-ever moonwalk; cosmetic surgery has long relied on the material for breast implants; and it’s a favorite of both sex-toy and cookware companies.

Given its potency in popular culture, as well as its malleability, it’s no wonder that silicone has inspired artists, too. In its solid, rubbery form, it easily conjures distinctions between the natural and the man-made. It evokes a consumer society obsessed with performance, innovation, and the pliability of self-presentation—metaphor is, indeed, embedded in its chemical make-up.

Many sculptors who work with the material are also intrigued by its connection to the uncanny and grotesque. “I like silicone because of its flesh-like consistency and the way it holds light,” artist Hannah Levy explained. “There’s a kind of luminosity to it if you add just the right amount of pigment that makes it look like it has some kind of life of its own.” She’s used the medium to construct works that approximate objects as varied as a pink swing, a massive asparagus stalk, and deck chairs. Below, we examine Levy’s work and that of seven other contemporary artists who use silicone to unique, radical ends.

Jes Fan

Disposed to Add, 2017. Jes Fan Team Gallery

Testo-Candle , 2017. Jes Fan Team Gallery

Jes Fan, Soft Goods, 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

Jes Fan, Systems II, 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

Jes Fan, Systems II (detail), 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

For Jes Fan, silicone evokes early memories. He discovered the material through his father, who worked as a mold-maker for toys. Early on, then, Fan already associated it with both play and consumer products.

Silicone has appeared in the Brooklyn-based artist’s work as platforms for soap and a candle (both made with sex hormones), slippers, and ropy flesh-toned sculptures—smooth in the middle, with screw-like texture on the ends. More recent creations, Systems II, Systems III, and Visible Woman (all 2018), resemble intricate jungle gyms. While lively, the pieces also engage serious perspectives on gender, race, and sexuality.

“Silicone is almost like a liquid skin, an abject net-flesh packed with erotic and queer connotations,” Fan said. “I generally gravitate towards materials that display characteristics of transformation, like liquid caught in a state of solidifying. Silicone is a great material to highlight that.” Yet his inspirations also range far beyond the body: Fan is fascinated by laboratories, factories, East Asian diasporic politics “by way of Chinese bakeries on Canal Street,” and more.

The artist’s oeuvre suggests an extended network of identities, philosophical ideas, and art-historical references (like the use of the everyday object, or “ready-made”)—and a creative mind more inclined to connect such disparate elements than to divide them.

Hannah Levy

Hannah Levy, Untitled, 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

Performance featuring Hannah Levy's work at MoMA PS1, New York, 2018. Choreography by Phoebe Berglund. Courtesy of the artist.

Hannah Levy, Untitled, 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

Hannah Levy, Untitled (detail), 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

For a 2017 performance at MoMA PS1, Levy dressed three dancers in silicone and latex costumes. They all appeared to be wearing transparent rain boots, and two donned what looked like ivory-hued, bubble-textured hoodies with extra-long sleeves. If the outfits were out of the ordinary, they weren’t all that different from what one might see on a high-fashion runway. Levy, who is now represented by New York gallery Casey Kaplan, often riffs on design through creating her own approximations of clothing, furniture, and even objects entirely unexpected in an art gallery setting. For a recent group exhibition at Company Gallery, she created giant orthodontic retainers from alabaster and nickel-plated steel.

Humor pervades much of Levy’s practice, and stretchy, unserious silicone aids her to that end. It lacks the gravity of marble, the gentleness of wood, and the fragility of glass. Levy described the texture of silicone as “relatable to the experience of having a body.” Pinching it inspires a similar feeling of pressure in the viewer. “There’s also a delightful stickiness to the material,” she said. “It’s ultra-clean, ultra-slick, and completely filthy in its propensity to attract nearly all particles to its surface. Everything leaves a trace, but nothing permeates its slick exterior. It’s the material of prosthetics, medical equipment, Hollywood horror films, and non-stick baking sheets.”

Donna Huanca

Performance of Donna Huanca, Scar Cymbals, at Zabludowicz Collection, London, 2016. Courtesy of the artist, Peres Projects, Berlin and Zabludowicz Collection, London.

Performance of Donna Huanca, Epithelial Echo, 2016. Courtesy of the artist.

Performance of Donna Huanca, Cell Echo, at the Yuz Museum, Shanghai, 2018. Courtesy of the artist, Peres Projects, Berlin and Yuz Museum, Shanghai.

Performance of Donna Huanca, Surrogate Painteen, at Peres Projects, Berlin, 2016. Courtesy of the artist and Peres Projects, Berlin.

When asked what she finds most interesting about silicone, artist Donna Huanca offered an equally intriguing answer: “the ephemerality of it, the smell.” The material does, indeed, produce a synthetic reek. Embedded in artwork, it produces olfactory sensations that can intensify a viewer’s visual experience.

Huanca (who shows with Berlin gallery Peres Projects) has long been known for her performances that situate paint-covered models in the gallery setting among her multimedia sculptures, and she’s recently added silicone to her repertoire to heighten the drama. She gives her performers glass vials filled with liquid silicone and their choreography invites them to paint it, intuitively, onto plexiglass. “These silicone paintings are temporary, as they peel the silicone once dried,” Huanca said. “I love the idea of creating ephemeral paintings.” The fleeting nature of the artworks encourages the audience to enjoy the moment.

Huanca said she’s particularly interested in Andean futurism and meditative practices. Her art often suggests an alternate realm, decades from now, where nude women aren’t watched for titillating purposes, but for their own creative potential.

Ilona Szwarc

I am a woman and I cast no shadow, #21, 2016. Ilona Szwarc AA|LA

I am a woman and I cast no shadow, #14, 2016. Ilona Szwarc AA|LA

I am a woman and I cast no shadow, #17, 2016. Ilona Szwarc AA|LA

She was born without a mouth, 2016. Ilona Szwarc AA|LA

She lives without a future, 2016. Ilona Szwarc AA|LA

For a 2016 photography series entitled “I am a woman and I cast no shadow,” Los Angeles–based artist Ilona Szwarc cast a silicone mask from the contours of her body double’s head. The artist regularly employs women who look like her to participate in her projects; she takes on the role of “casting” director, in two senses of the term. Szwarc often paints her doppelgangers’ faces in grotesque new ways for the sake of compelling pictures. A Hollywood element prevails throughout her oeuvre—where else but a Tinseltown stage can we adopt new identities and personas so quickly?

“To make this work in Los Angeles is to dissect the everyday work of makeup artists working on film sets,” said Szwarc. “It’s to slow down and really look at every step of the processes that so many women and actresses go through daily, quickly, fully normalizing the experience.”

The artist is interested in what happens when she photographs the silicone molds themselves, while experimenting with lighting. According to her, “there is a moment of optical illusion in which the mold, although protruding away from the camera, registers in a photograph as if it were facing the lens.” Szwarc’s photographs are haunting intermediaries between fact and fiction, self and other, natural and contrived. They evoke that famous Andy Warhol adage—“I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They’re beautiful. Everybody’s plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic.”

Troy Makaza

Dislocation of Content, Part 1, 2017. Troy Makaza Depart Foundation

Dislocation of Content, Part 3, 2017. Troy Makaza Ever Gold [Projects]

Silicone’s versatility is a major draw for 24-year-old Zimbabwean artist Troy Makaza. “It does not confine me to a particular discipline,” he said. “I can paint or sculpt with it. I can create a wide spectrum of colors and textures, which are permanently flexible. It is a very playful medium, and play is key to my approach to making work.”

At first, Makaza’s works appear to be colorful, wall-mounted tapestries—twists, tangles, and droops of bright yellow, gray, and red threads. Upon closer examination, however, the “threads” reveal themselves to be squiggles of silicone-infused paint. The compositions, then, combine elements of painting, sculpture, and traditional craftwork. Their sheen and slick texture make them distinctly contemporary, even as they reference age-old art forms.

Yet Makaza’s ideas extend far beyond material innovations. “The flexibility, adaptability, and resilience of the medium also speak very strongly to how I see our lives here in Zimbabwe, navigating changing circumstances and balancing traditional modes and contemporary realities,” he said. Geopolitical concerns are especially evident in Dislocation of Content, Part 1 (2017), which resembles a tattered, misshapen red flag, and its sister piece, Dislocation of Content, Part 3 (2017), which looks—with its fields of different hues bumping against each other—like a fractured topography.

Hayden Dunham

Hayden Dunham, Tor, 2016. Courtesy of the artist and Andrea Rosen Gallery.

Hayden Dunham, Ract Ress, 2016. Courtesy of the artist and Andrea Rosen Gallery.

Hayden Dunham, Welt, 2016. Courtesy of the artist and Andrea Rosen Gallery.

Hayden Dunham, Lail, 2016. Courtesy of the artist and Andrea Rosen Gallery.

Hayden Dunham, Flex, 2016. Courtesy of the artist and Andrea Rosen Gallery.

While some artists believe that their materials are talking to them, Hayden Dunham describes a more significant give-and-take with silicone. She spoke of the material as a personified being with its own agency. “I love how sensitive it is,” she said. “If it is raining out, it won’t cure. It responds to touch. It is a material that is listening.”

Dunham uses silicone in her sculptures, which often resemble solid puddles supporting a variety of other sculptural forms (a block, a pillowy roll) and even gases emanating from tubes: Walk into a gallery exhibiting her work, and you’d be forgiven for thinking you’d walked into a mad (color-fixated) scientist’s laboratory.

While Dunham has used bright blues and yellows throughout her work, she’s particularly fond of jet black—the color of ash and carbon. She’s interested in activated charcoal and its potential to clear out the human body by absorbing toxins and releasing them back into the universe. “Human bodies are large-scale filters,” she said. “They hold material dialogs we come in contact with everyday. When bentonite clay comes in contact with skin, it leaches heavy metals through pores. This process can’t be seen, but is present. So many of these interactions are not visible.” Dunham’s work argues that there’s enough fodder in the human body to inspire an entire artistic practice.

Ivana Bašić

Ivana Bašić, I will lull and rock my ailing light in my marble arms #1, 2017. Courtesy of the artist and Marlborough Contemporary.

Fantasy vanishes in flesh, 2015. Ivana Bašić Michael Valinsky + Gabrielle Jensen

Sew my eyelids shut from others, 2016. Ivana Bašić Nina Johnson

Ivana Bašić, I will lull and rock my ailing light in my marble arms #1 (detail), 2017. Courtesy of the artist and Marlborough Contemporary.

Ivana Bašić’s 2016 sculpture Sew my eyelids shut from others resembles a slab of slick, pink raw meat draped over a thin metal spit. The artist lists her materials as “wax, silicone, oil paint, stainless steel, weight, [and] pressure,” suggesting that invisible physical forces such as gravity are as much a part of the work as tangible media.

It’s no surprise that Bašić discusses silicone in scientific terms. She’s intrigued by the fact that it “has no specific innate state and characteristics, except for its capacity to perfectly simulate reality, which is why it’s used in special effects so much.” For her, it’s “a blank canvas with an endless amount of possibilities.”

Bašić has a background in digital scanning, 3D-scanning, and 3D-printing—which she’s explicitly decided not to employ in her sculpting practice. Instead, her pink or white sculptures often evoke bone or her own skin: They relate more to the human body than to any machine. She even titled a 2015 sculptural series “Fantasy vanishes in flesh.” Comprised of “feathers, pressure, cotton, silicone, [and] stainless steel,” the works look like pillowy bodies, torquing and bowing on the floor.

Amy Brener

Amy Brener, Flexi-shield (earth mother) (detail), 2017. Courtesy of the artist.

Flexi-Shield (earth mother), 2017. Amy Brener REYES | FINN

Amy Brener, Flexi-Shield (bumper), 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

Amy Brener, Drifter II, 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

Suspended from the ceiling, Amy Brener’s colorful silicone “Flexishields” (2015–present) resemble newfangled, feminized chainmail. Many take the shape of evening gowns, with protuberances at the bellies and breasts. Brener (who shows with Jack Barrett gallery in New York) encases found objects such as flowers, leaves, combs, and nails in the material, turning them into repositories for organic and man-made artifacts. She also embeds casts of her deceased father’s face, enhancing ideas about memory and time. “These imagined garments are protective barriers—shields—that are also delicate and translucent, addressing our ability to gain strength through vulnerability,” Brener explained.

While many of the artists on this list gravitate towards silicone’s slickness, Brener favors rough, worked-over surfaces. “Silicone is an amazing replicator of fine detail,” she said. “It has the potential to resemble anything from human skin to computer screens. I’m especially excited by its ability to imitate textures of cat-eye and fresnel lenses to create optical effects.”

For her 2018 “Drifter” series, Brener created silicone sculptures that sit on the floor like tombs or caskets, and filled them with light. Death and preservation still prevail as dominant themes, albeit with a very literal glow. For artwork that addresses morbidity, Brener’s approach is remarkably hopeful.

from Artsy News

#Artsy News

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topmixtrends · 6 years ago

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ALBERT LEWIN’S 1945 ADAPTATION of The Picture of Dorian Gray for MGM has been largely forgotten. Though it won an Academy Award for Best Cinematography, Black-and-White, the shots for which it is most remembered are two brief Technicolor inserts showing the eponymous portrait just after it is painted and then, later, once it has aged. The two versions were the work of two different artists: the Portuguese academic painter Henrique Medina painted the first in smooth imitation of 19th-century style. An American from Chicago, Ivan Albright, did the second.

Albright’s picture, which is on display in the Art Institute of Chicago’s small exhibition of his work, insists that Dorian Gray’s eternally youthful appearance was the least important part of his Faustian pact. The portrait is of an old man, but it is even more of a repulsive one, designed to provoke disgust. In the full-length portrait, Dorian stands with his arms by his side in a pose of mock elegance. Next to and behind him are the accoutrements of traditional portraiture: an elegant side table, a wall clock, a carefully hung brocade curtain. Like his clothes, these objects are rendered incomprehensible by decay. His trousers and jacket are full of burns, slashes, and tears, covered with brown and yellow stains. His face, leering and grimacing directly out of the canvas, is splotchy and noticeably encrusted with what looks like leprosy: small raised bumps cut through with deep furrows.

The premise of Dorian Gray — that moral corruption would manifest as physical decay — seems perfectly aligned with Albright’s concerns, which remained remarkably constant throughout his long career, spanning the mid-’20s until his death in 1983. The painting he produced for MGM is of a piece with almost all of his other work, if more vividly colored (Albright used a brighter than usual palette for the painting to show up to full effect in Technicolor) and perhaps less realistic. Though none of his other subjects have the same renown as Wilde’s fictional character, all of Albright’s portraiture contains the same obsessively rendered detail and, above all, the same relentless fascination with how grotesque the human body can be.

The son of a successful landscape painter, Albright trained at the Art Institute of Chicago and first worked as a professional artist during World War I. Stationed in France, he was commissioned to produce sketches of the injured. A small corner of the exhibit in Chicago is devoted to this first entanglement with the morbid, where the centerfold of one of Albright’s sketchbooks is laid flat behind glass; an iPad allows one to view the rest of the pages and zoom in on the anatomical details. The drawings are largely of single wounds: bright red shapes with highlights of yellow and green, set against much more faintly drawn arms, legs, and torsos. Albright’s first official commission supposedly set the course for the rest of his work, but a world of difference lies between the war sketches and his later paintings. The sketches turn parts of human bodies into objects for observation and study. They are direct: objective, difficult to look at, but entirely straightforward. The portraits Albright started to create are also objectifying: they turn the human figure into something alien and bizarre. They are revolting and seductive.

Even from the small selection of portraits on display in Chicago, one initially has the suspicion that Albright’s disgust with humanity may have favorite targets. Fascinated with corruption, degeneration, and the beauty of decay, Albright’s art — in addition to its strong resemblances to contemporaneous European painting, especially neue Sachlichkeit — picks up on themes favored in writing in a line running from Baudelaire through Lautréamont, Huysmans, and perhaps even Wilde. For Albright, as for the earlier 19th-century writers, women seem, at least initially, to be exemplary disgusting objects.

Into the World There Came a Soul Called Ida takes these elements even further. Ida sits in front of a dressing table covered in perfume bottles and makeup jars. Dressed in a short slip and silk shirt, she holds a powder puff in one hand, pressed against her heart, and a hand mirror in the other. Her legs, which almost overwhelm the composition, are an expanse of bright, pale skin. They are swollen, and around the ankles is a network of varicose veins while higher up, heavy cellulite creates strong shadows on her thighs. The insistence on the tools for the creation of feminine beauty seems like an argument that however much powder, perfume, or makeup Ida applies, she will still be fundamentally grotesque.

Albright was hardly unique in his view of women’s bodies. Baudelaire, after all, had described an animal’s carcass (in a poem of the same title) as having its “legs in the air like a lustful woman / who is burning and sweating poisons.” Baudelaire stands as a particularly extreme representative of a tradition of hyperbolic disgust at the body in general and women’s bodies in particular. Note the direction of his metaphor: it not only compares a woman to a prototypically disgusting object, but it also uses women as metaphors for a corpse. Winfried Menninghaus, in the introduction to his 1999 book Disgust, wrote that “[t]his book about disgust is thus, at the same time, a book entirely concerned with the (masculine) imagination of the vetula, of the disgusting old woman.” There are, of course, artists and writers for whom, less ostentatiously than Baudelaire, women are the default choice when one needs an exemplary disgust-object.

This pervasively misogynist perspective seems at first to sum up what is happening in works like Flesh, the 1928 painting that lends its name to the Art Institute’s current show. Its subject, Arline Stanford, is shown head-on, slumped shoulders, wearing a low-cut undershirt that shows a vast expanse of chest and shoulders, puffy and crisscrossed with wrinkles and folds. Her skin is pale, bordering on sallow, rendered by Albright with a muted but kaleidoscopic variety of reds, pinks, yellows, and purples. The face is perhaps the most shocking, covered in the same leprous combination of crust-like scars and deep furrows that Albright would use on Dorian Gray nearly 20 years later. The insistent equivalence between women and the grotesque is only intensified by the fact that a year before Albright painted Arline Stanford in Flesh, he painted her husband Arthur in The Lineman, a relatively calm portrait of an electrician. Arthur is hunched over, arms hanging by his side, bedraggled and depressed, perhaps, but certainly not grotesque or disgusting. Viewing these twin portraits of husband and wife side by side only confirms the suspicion that, even if Albright’s men are hardly heroic figures, women’s bodies are the real objects of his revulsion toward human beings.

Nevertheless, long before he was commissioned to produce the painting for MGM’s Dorian Gray, Albright had turned the full power of his microscopic style onto male subjects, who would become more and more prominent as his career developed. His 1930–’31 And God Created Man in His Own Image (Albright’s titles continued to grow unwieldy over the years) contains the most leprous image next to Dorian Gray’s: heavily wrinkled and completely covered in pustules, scars, lines. For a moment, the complete engulfment of the face by these accretions makes the image appear easier to stomach compared to the more localized eruptions in Flesh and Ida — there is no contrast to “normal” skin. The subject is shirtless; his arms and face are a brownish-red, while the areas of his flesh normally under a shirt are a pale pink-blue. All of it is sagging and wrinkled, with tufts of wiry hairs on his upper arms and chest. This man has, apparently, just taken off his shirt — one sleeve is still attached to his forearm — and the top buttons of his jeans are undone, as though threatening to show more.

Albright might not have managed to decouple bodily disgust from femininity fully. Nevertheless, his disgust is far more expansive than the tradition epitomized by Baudelaire. Indeed, the most striking pieces in the Chicago show are a series of about 20 self-portraits dating from the last two decades of Albright’s life. All are rendered in the same over-detailed, hyper-disgusted style in which he had been working for four decades. In a painting from 1982, the year before his death, Albright depicts himself with his trademark leprous skin, but also with eyes that are at once tiny, deeply sunk, and bloodshot, surrounded by folds of green-yellow skin. His mouth, hanging half open, is chafed red, as is the tip of his nose and the space between his eyebrows.

Viewed while walking by quickly — or indeed, glimpsed a few seconds on screen — all of these pictures are easily digestible, even attractive. The sheer attention Albright paid to detail (which also meant it took him years to finish work) gives the images a baroque complexity; anything that elaborate generates a kind of pleasure. The level of detail in Albright’s execution also demands more prolonged attention, which does not eliminate all pleasure. There is a pleasure, too, in looking at horrible things. Despite his sense of shame, Leontius in Plato’s Republic cannot stop himself from looking at the corpses piled against the walls of Athens. “Fine, you wretches,” he says to his eyes, as a last attempt to disavow his attraction, “fill yourselves up on this lovely sight.” Being in front of many of Albright’s paintings feels similar: they are horrible, but endlessly seductive. Something is improper, perhaps even disrespectful, about them, but always some new detail, another vein, another hair, lump, or sore avails itself to discovery.

Jean Dubuffet, who contributed a brief essay to a catalog of a 1964 retrospective at the Art Institute and the Whitney, took Albright to be a crusader against the Platonic injunction to turn our eyes away:

Rarely, it seems to me, perhaps never, has the platonic and humanistic spirit been opposed with the weight and authority of so devastating a wind. Never has an assault of such force been given to the rationalistic order, to the secular esthetics which rule in our midst and to the metaphysics from which they proceed.

In the same catalog, the curator Frederick Sweet closes his preface by remarking that Albright “does not think that his interests are morbid, nor does he consider himself a realist, but feels that life and death, growth and decay, are all part of existence.” Death exists, of course, but the hope in those lines seems to be that Albright’s portraiture contains, alongside its relentless disgust for the human body, a more redeeming message. Perhaps he is proposing some sort of empathy: that we may age, gain weight, lose or sprout hair, develop leprosy, but that through all of these bodily changes we remain human, and that all of these supposedly disgusting qualities are simply what it means to have a body. As such, they are to be celebrated. If that reading is right, the closest literary antecedent for Albright would not be Baudelaire but Walt Whitman and his celebration of the body: “All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my or your body or of any one’s body, male or female, / The lung-sponges, the stomach-sac, the bowels sweet and clean.”

Dubuffet and Sweet’s sentiment comes to the same point: that Albright’s unwavering attention to the parts of our existence at which we would rather not look forces a confrontation with our embodiment and finitude. Albright’s portraits would seem to offer the visual analogue to the project of anti-disgust advocated most recently and forcefully by the philosopher Martha Nussbaum, who claims Whitman as a primary source of inspiration. This requires a turn away from thinking of ourselves as detached from our bodies, not to submit to the lure of idealization, to confront the limits but also the peculiar joys of being finite human animals.

As good as that sounds, it is not at all clear that this is what Albright is up to. Albright’s portraits do at times seem caught between a Platonist condemnation of the body tout court and an honest reckoning with the inevitability of decay and the inevitable difficulties entailed by having a body. Albright’s own pronouncements from the 1964 catalog must rank as one of the stranger artist statements produced for a major museum:

In this eternal smog-land of ours, if the real truth appeared, it would blind us, it would incinerate us as the sun would blind and incinerate us on close approach. We are shadows of the real but not the real; we live by half-truths and half facts. […] The body is our tomb. Shake the dust from our soul and maybe there lies the answer for without this planetary body, without eyes the light would not hurt, without flesh the pain would not hurt, without legs our motion might accelerate, without endless restrictions our freedom greater, our slavery less, without examples all around us our originality might be different. Without a body we might be men.

Albright seems at turns revolted by and deeply empathetic with his subjects. Yet even if his portraits demand that we look honestly and hold our gaze, bodies seem to be unambiguously bad things for Albright. If his portraits are filled with empathy for his subjects (which they are), his empathy is based on the shared misfortune of being embodied. The problem, of course, is that we cannot get out of our bodies. Plato thought that we could, through suitable intellectual exercise and purification, leave our physical vessels behind and attain pure understanding. Albright, it must be said, knew better. But on the more basic point of whether it would be preferable not to have a body at all, he agrees. Without finding anything but pain and encumbrance in embodiment, how could he not? Whitman and his successors’ celebration of bodies in all their many forms — including the ones usually called disgusting — ultimately requires that there be something redeeming in having a body, like the physical pleasures of food and sex. Even those who turn toward bodies with disgust do not deny that they are sites of genuine pleasure (indeed, part of the reason they are problematic is because they are so pleasurable), even if they also bring inevitable pains. Albright categorically denies this. For him, there are no benefits to having a body: not in the straightforward sense championed by Whitman and not even lurking in the background of disgust, as it does for Baudelaire. Albright’s painting is so unsettling because his vision of bodily corruption is uncompromising. Whatever else it is, it is a decades-long argument that in the end, it would be better not to have a body.

Emilio Comay del Junco is an academic and writer based in New York. He is finishing his PhD in philosophy at the University of Chicago; his academic research focuses on ancient Greek philosophy.

The post More Than a Body: Ivan Albright at the Art Institute of Chicago appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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theconservativebrief · 7 years ago

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Before Meghan Markle’s May wedding to Prince Harry, the expectation that she would raise the royal fashion bar was almost unreasonably high. Given that she’s American, ran a lifestyle blog, and supports indie brands like Mackage and Black Halo, Markle’s admirers hoped she’d use her newfound status as a duchess to give the British royal family a much-needed dose of sartorial flair.

“I think she will become the new face of the royal family,” Katharine Polk, a celebrity stylist and designer, told Racked before Markle’s May 19 nuptials to Prince Harry. “I believe that she will remain true to her style and … not be swayed by the pressures of becoming a royal.”

The excitement over her taste in clothing was tied to the widespread delight at what Markle represented to the British aristocracy. As the first openly mixed-race member of the firm, not to mention a divorcée in her late 30s with a history of charity work, Markle’s entry into the royal family marked a historic shift. The actress was not the blushing bride that 19-year-old Princess Diana was, nor Waity Katie, the snide nickname given to Kate Middleton for spending her single years seemingly waiting for Prince William to propose.

Instead, Markle has been regarded as her own woman, one expected to use the throne for social good and to dress in a way authentic to her identity. Before she got married, she showed off this individuality with messy hair, moto jackets, and pants, styles that generally don’t conform to fashion protocol for high-ranking noblewomen.

Meghan Markle in ripped jeans at the Invictus Games with Prince Harry before their marriage. Getty Images for the Invictus Games Foundation

But now that she’s a royal, the duchess of Sussex’s fashion sense appears to be more about blending in with her new family than standing out from them. That’s meant muted colors, loose dresses, and no public outings in pants so far. Fans who anticipated that she would make bold fashion statements as a royal have been underwhelmed. The criticism started on her wedding day, when she wore a wedding dress that was dismissed as “boring.”

The disappointment stems from the fact that Markle, a feminist and activist, appears to be playing it remarkably safe in her self-presentation as a noblewoman. She’s not challenging royal fashion protocol but following the rules, even those that might be deemed sexist, such as the requirement that women royals wear pantyhose. In her first public appearance after her wedding, Markle was spotted in hosiery, an undergarment People magazine noted the fashion world generally regards as “dated and dowdy.”

It’s not altogether fair, however, for Markle’s detractors to expect her to use fashion as either a creative outlet or a source of rebellion. As a newcomer to both Britain and the royal family, Markle is under tremendous pressure to show that she’s serious about fulfilling the obligations of her new role — and dressing appropriately is one way to demonstrate her dedication to being a duchess.

Markle with Prince Charles and Duchess Camilla at one of Charles’s 70th birthday celebrations, following her marriage. Chris Jackson/Getty Images

Fans who imagined that Meghan Markle would walk down the aisle in a trendsetting wedding dress had their hopes dashed on May 19. There were no beads, lace, or tulle. Compared to Middleton’s lace dress, Markle’s looked almost austere. She wore a simple boat neck dress that garnered mixed reviews and some unflattering press. The minimalist Givenchy gown was described as “boring.” Yet Markle, reportedly an admirer of the late minimalist dresser Carolyn Bessette Kennedy, embraced simple looks with clean lines well before her nuptials.

The public didn’t just criticize the style of her wedding dress but the cut as well. “I would have done one more fitting,” Katy Perry said. And the title of a Cosmopolitan article about the gown — “The Internet Is Being *Very* Mean About Meghan Markle’s Wedding Dress” — says it all about the reaction to the bride’s style.

Polk said she also thought Markle’s dress was beautiful but agreed that it was not the best fit.

“As royalty there is no excuse for less than perfection when everyone is looking at you,” Polk said. “For a modern-day woman, I think everyone was expecting something a little more daring, so it was a bit of an anti-climax.”

Still, she said, “The design was sleek and respected tradition. The dress is a timeless classic that will never date, and it spoke of elegance and simplicity.”

Amanda Dishaw, who co-founded the Meghan’s Mirror fashion blog with Christine Ross, said that the wedding dress was designed to be functional. In contrast, the sexy Stella McCartney gown Markle wore during the reception better reflected her personal style.

“The Clare Waight Keller dress Meghan wore to the ceremony did incorporate some elements of her personal style, however it also balanced the fact that she wasn’t walking down the aisle at a private church in a small family ceremony,” Dishaw told Vox. “The steps of St. George’s, for example, needed a dress with some volume in order to ensure Meghan wasn’t swallowed up by their size. This dress was perhaps not universally loved because it was Meghan balancing her personal style with her new role.”

The Givenchy dress Markle wore to her wedding ceremony was panned by some as plain and boring. Owen Humphries/WPA Pool/Getty Images

The Stella McCartney dress she wore to her reception was far better received. Steve Parsons/AFP/Getty Images

Conversely, Dishaw describes Markle’s slinky and sleeveless reception dress as “pure Meghan.” The duchess felt more comfortable expressing her fashion sense at a gathering that wasn’t for public consumption, she said. The newest royal is erring on the side of caution with her style because she takes her role as duchess very seriously and doesn’t want to leave room for judgment, Dishaw argues.

“It’s a balancing act, and one we’ll see her continue to grow into as she adapts to the overwhelming life changes she’s going through,” Dishaw said.

The attacks on Meghan Markle’s style have continued in the weeks since she got married. Markle has worn an assortment of muted oatmeals and blush pinks instead of the green, eggplant, and navy outfits she sometimes sported before her nuptials. At her most recent public event, the Royal Ascot, she wore a white collared dress paired with a black-and-white hat that drew comparisons to Audrey Hepburn’s My Fair Lady style. Almost all the other women attendees wore a similar color scheme.

And while she hasn’t totally abandoned her preference for stylishly mussed hair, she’s increasingly worn her hair in neat chignons and defined waves. Harper’s Bazaar noted that how Markle had ditched “her favorite messy bun for a sleek version” during her first public appearance as a royal. She’s also carried clutches rather than the crossbody purses she wore during the months leading up to the royal wedding.

Polk acknowledged that Markle’s style has become more reserved now that she’s a royal but said that some choices, like the muted colors she’s worn as a duchess, have “been gorgeous on her.”

“However, it has the potential of getting a little boring,” the stylist said of the neutral color scheme. “I think it’s also a seasonal preference. We are in the height of summer, and I think she’s leaning toward a softer, cooler palette. She may experiment with bolder colors in the fall and winter. I think she’ll take more risks as time goes on…”

When Markle accompanied Prince Harry to a recent family wedding, the press and the public skewered the material-heavy Oscar de la Renta gown she chose for the occasion. The white-and-blue floral dress overwhelmed her tiny frame, leading to criticism that she was swimming in all of the fabric.

Yahoo! Lifestyle suggested that by wearing the oversized $7,000 dress, “the Duchess of Sussex may have taken her first major sartorial misstep.”

But as with the wedding dress, there was likely a strategy behind Markle’s decision to wear this outfit. Dishaw of Meghan’s Mirror said that if Markle had worn a chic pantsuit or body-conscious dress, she would’ve made headlines for upstaging the bride, Harry’s maternal cousin. Dishaw believes Markle intentionally wore the baggy dress, which she said is “on-trend” at the moment.

The fact that the duchess has yet to appear at an event featuring just her and her husband explains some of her fashion choices, Dishaw pointed out. She’s not choosing looks with herself as the focus but with other members of the royal family in mind.

With pantyhose and coiffed hair, Meghan Markle may now be presenting as conservative in dress to her fans. And the one time she has diverted from those expectations likely shows why she has generally been so careful. The mere sight of her shoulders at the Queen’s annual birthday parade, Trooping the Colour, sparked a minor scandal. At the event two weeks ago, Markle appeared in a pale pink Philip Treacy hat and Carolina Herrera bardot dress in the same hue.

Because the dress exposed her shoulders, the press suggested it was inappropriate. The Mirror called the ensemble daring, suggesting it “pushed the boundaries of the royal dress code.” And while Vanity Fair and Hello! both questioned if she broke protocol, the Express outright accused her of doing so.

Meghan Markle’s Carolina Herrera dress at Trooping the Colour raised concerns because it revealed her shoulders. Max Mumby/Indigo/Getty Images

“Royal women traditionally wear long sleeves to Trooping the Colour with off-shoulder and revealing styles discouraged,” the Express noted. “The American had the most flesh on show compared with the other royals she stood next to on the balcony. Kate, Duchess of Cambridge, opted for a classy light blue knee-length frock with her shoulders and chest covered while fellow duchess Camilla had a dress suit in the same colour.”

The criticism of Markle sounds similar to that leveled at former first lady Michelle Obama for wearing sleeveless dresses that showed off her toned arms. An undercurrent of misogynoir likely runs through the disapproval these women of color have faced about how much of their bodies they expose. “It seems the new edition to the royal family is a fan of baring the flesh,” the Mirror wrote about Markle’s Trooping the Colour appearance, effectively sexualizing her.

Princess Diana wasn’t afraid to experiment with fashion. Tim Graham/Getty Images

Markle fans disappointed that her fashion isn’t killing it should consider that she’s primarily dressing for her job, similar to how members of any number of professions, from firefighters to flight attendants, do.

“I think she’ll move more to her true personal royal style as she steps out with Harry and by herself in her endeavors, like the trip to Ireland coming up, and then build a little confidence in her royal look that she will translate into the larger scale royal family events,” Dishaw said.

Polk questions the idea that Markle has lost her sense of style. The duchess may be dressing more conservatively, but that’s to be expected, she said.

“Her style choices are constantly under the microscope and I think she is pulling off the modern-day princess look quite remarkably,” she said. “She has a gift for blending tradition with the unexpected. Most of her ensembles are sleek, chic, and relatively fuss-free.”

Polk predicts Markle will use jewelry to add panache to her outfits. So far, Markle has leaned toward elegant diamond pieces that aren’t likely to fall out of fashion. She’s worn pieces by Cartier and Belgian designer Vanessa Tugendhaft.

“I think dainty diamond jewelry is going to be her ultimate enviable style statement moving forward,” she said.

Only a month into her life as duchess, it’s not really surprising that Markle is facing some criticism for her style. More than 20 years after her death, Princess Diana remains a style icon. But it took Diana time to find her footing. Her huge wedding dress, for example, was truly a symbol of ’80s excess and would look outrageous on a contemporary bride.

As Di aged, adapted to, and ultimately rebelled against life in the royal family, she increasingly took more fashion risks. The princess of Wales sometimes wore low-cut dresses but used clutches when entering and exiting vehicles to hide her cleavage, a royal no-no. Unlike Markle, however, Diana was born a member of the aristocracy. A fashion faux pas wouldn’t lead to headlines suggesting that she lacked class.

As an American and woman of color, the stakes are much higher for the duchess of Sussex. Her multicultural wedding service may have signaled that the British royal family was entering a new chapter, but it was just a ceremony, not a way of life.

As the firm’s most unconventional member, one who’s already been publicly humiliated by family members, Markle isn’t trying to shake things up as a royal — she’s trying to master her new role. That means, for now, fashion is not about self-expression. It’s a way to demonstrate that she belongs.

Original Source -> Meghan Markle isn’t the style rebel fans hoped she’d be — and that’s okay

via The Conservative Brief

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yes-bennett-street-gallery-blog · 7 years ago

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