#i also bought another copy in original french despite not speaking it ups

[flamehairedwritings]

The Fiancé: Chapter Six

Characters: Steve Rogers x Female Plus-Size Reader

Rating: The whole series will be E, 18+ ONLY

Summary: A lie about your best friend at a Christmas party spirals into world news, but a previously unknown threat leaves you having to now live the lie of Steve Rogers being your fiancé.

Originally based on the prompt ‘Character A’s ex will be at the Christmas Party A is attending. Character B poses as A’s fiancé,’ by @alloftheprompts.

A/N: The whole series will include swearing, alcohol, threat, violence, apartment sharing, protected sex, and more tags to be added!

The title has been taken from the Ella Fitzgerald song of the same name.

The Fiancé Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

Read on AO3

Please don’t copy or steal my work, and please don’t post it on any other sites; credit does not count.

It’s Only A Paper Moon

WEDNESDAY

“I am in heaven.”

“Doll’, this is Y/N’s wedding, not yours.”

“We have the whole place to ourselves, I can try on one thing, right?” 

Well, the first part of that is true. Sitting on a couch not designed for sitting on, you play with your hands in your lap as your gaze travels the room. Nat had, she’d told you before you’d left that morning, bought the whole place out, for the sake of sensationalism, security and it just seemed like something a very famous person would do.

‘Sensationalism’ is so far so successful; there is a crowd of people similar in size to the one at the cake shop outside, trying to look through the French windows, though you’re located at the back of the shop. As for security, it means Nat doesn’t have to plant people inside and you won’t get crowded and overwhelmed by people coming up to you, and for seeming like something a famous person would do? Yeah, probably, you don’t know.

“Just have some fun,” Nat had said as you’d gone down in the elevator. “It’s just trying on some dresses and having a fun time with your friends.”

Fun.

You’d nearly laughed. But, you’d just smiled and nodded, because that’s what you do now, smile and nod and go along with things. If you don’t, that leads to conversations, and conversations lead to you having to admit to things, like the panic attack you’d had that morning as you’d dressed or the fact you have feelings for your best friend and every moment of this week is both wonderful and torturous. 

Speaking of... you haven’t seen Steve today.

Last night, after you’d woken up from your nap, you’d showered, masturbated while in there, ‘cause, hey, things had only gotten more stressful, and changed and wandered downstairs, but Steve was nowhere to be seen. Then you’d heard sounds of machines in the gym room and realised he was working out. He’d left a note for you on the island, though, saying there were leftovers in the oven of what he’d cooked. You’d eaten alone, watching TV.

You did that for about two hours, and Steve didn’t emerge once, still working out. You hadn’t thought anything of it, though, he is super-human. So, you’d gone to bed, leaving him a note in return saying thank you, you hadn’t wanted to disturb him and that you were going to bed, with a little drawn smiley face.

There’d been no note when you’d come down after calming yourself and pulling your shoes on, not wanting to be caught out like yesterday morning, just Nat.

But space is good for you two.

Even if you never usually go this long without at least messaging each other.

But this isn’t a ‘usually’ time.

“Y/N?”

The Christmas jazz music filters back into your hearing as your head snaps up to look at Dolly, sat on a gorgeous pale pink shell chair, her big eyes wider than usual.

“Yeah, sorry?”

Her smile is wide and her eyes seem to be only getting wider. “I can try on one thing, right?”

You nod as you smile. “Uh, yeah. As bridesmaids, you probably actually should try something.”

She releases a sound akin to a squeal and claps her hands together. “Great! What colour do you want for us?”

“Uh...” Oh, you know this, you talked about it with Nat in the car... “... Red.”

Bridget looks at you, then exhales a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God, I thought you were gonna carry on and say ‘white and blue’.”

Your lips twitch as you tilt your head. “Come on, we’re not gonna be that on the nose.”

Bridget raises their eyebrows but before they can retort a woman, Sally, appears with an ice bucket, a bottle of champagne inside, and three glasses. All three of you give some kind of very grateful sound before thanking her as she sets them down on the glass table before you. You also all cheer as she pops the champagne, (God, who are we... desperate for free alcohol, that’s who), and thank her again as she fills the glasses and hands one to you each.

Beaming, she stands back, her hands clasped together. “Can I get anything else for y’all?”

You hum as you quickly swallow your mouthful. “Mmh. Yes, please. Do you have any dresses in red, for these two?”

She glances at them, her gaze sweeping over them and you realise she’s expertly measuring them, and nods. “Absolutely. What style would you like?”

“Uh, any, we’ve got time.”

Her beam grows as she nods. “Wonderful, I’ll be five minutes.”

You take another sip as she trots off to the back room. Much like at the cake shop, you’d said to the shop attendants assisting you, all five of them now having nothing to do but assist you, that you will try everything and anything. Like Damilola, they’d looked delighted, probably used to, as you’d seen on reality shows, people coming in with very specific requests.

And, boy, do you all have the time to try every damn thing on. Dolly and Bridget have the day off, Yvette being very understanding at the short notice, officially, though unofficially she probably isn’t too pleased to not have her best receptionist and the Head of IT on the same day.

Who am I kidding, she never breaks a sweat. Probably a good time to get those interns trained up, too.

You also have the time as you were meant to be visiting two places today, though the first hadn’t exactly gone to plan. In other words, you��d walked out.

“Oh, our, uhm, our plus-size section isn’t very large.”

You fold your arms as Bridget raises their eyebrows and Dolly narrows her eyes.

“Oh? And why not?”

The woman, Candace, looks between you, her cheeks pink. “Oh, because we, uhm...”

You raise your eyebrows, placing your hands on the counter. “I’m about to blow your mind, Candace, but bigger people get married, too. And you’ve just lost my custom.”

You’d walked out seconds after, a smug smile hinting on your lips as Candace had called after you, practically begging for you to return, that they could order whatever you wanted in, but you’d just kept walking, Bridget telling Candace to save it as Dolly looped her arm through yours.

Nat had apologised profusely once you’d gotten into the SUV she was going to spend the day ferrying you three around in, saying it hadn’t occurred to her to check, as Dolly and Bridget had stared at her, still unused to being in her presence.

Of course it hadn’t occurred to her.

This place, though, The Pearl... It’s gorgeous. Despite not having felt offended at the last place, just angry and exasperated, you couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated. What if this was going to be your whole day? Going from place to place just because they were dumb and exclusionary? You’d felt welcomed the moment you walked in, though, all five assistants and Sally smiling as they greeted each of you in turn, and all Sally, obviously the senior member from how she led the conversation, had done was ask you your usual dress size and that had been it.

You look at the interior again, taking in the pale pink and white walls, framed photos on them of dresses or models in them, or real people on their wedding days in them, the plush cream carpet, the crystal chandeliers, the gorgeously decorated Christmas trees in each corner, the fairy lights adorning the counter by the front door.

Yeah... I can have fun here. And why the fuck not? Trying on dresses is always fun, no matter what, and there’s free champagne and I’m here with Dolly and Bridge’.

Sitting back on the pale pink couch, the tightening in your chest easing, you sip your champagne with a smile.

Am I a champagne person now? This week’s telling me yes.

Bridget stretches their legs out as they sigh contentedly. Looking at you, they smile softly. “How are you feeling about the interview?”

You pull a face as you hold the glass between both hands. “You know about that?”

“Uh, it’s been trending on Twitter for the last two days is all anyone’s talking about.”

You groan as you take another, longer sip.

“So how do you feel?” Dolly gently repeats the question.

You smile lightly, looking between them with raised brows. “How do you think?”

She smiles softly, endearing assurance in her tone. “You’re gonna be fine, Y/N.”

 You open your mouth, then close it. Then again... you can talk about it freely with these two, they’ll understand without feeling guilty or worrying too much or treating you like a breakable vase.

You exhale a breath, one you feel like you’ve been holding for days. “I don’t know, it’s live and we haven’t been able to get an idea of what they’re gonna ask yet and... I just don’t want to think about it too much, really.”

Bridget rests their arm on the back of the couch, turning their body to you. “That’s not like you. I’ve watched you spend months preparing for one meeting.”

“That’s different.”

“No, it’s not.” They point a finger at you. “This is a meeting, and you’re pitching your marriage.”

You have no idea how close to the truth that is.

You take a breath. “Can I practise on you two, then?”

Both of them perk up, smiles wide.

“Absolutely!” Dolly enthuses. “We’ve been dying for you to tell us all the details, we’ve been so patient.”

“And a little bit offended,” Bridget adds good-naturedly with an arched brow.

“I know, I know,” you smile, even as your chest twinges.

“It’s fine, two birds, one stone, you can make up for it now and practise,” Bridget says, holding their glass on their knee and fixing you with an expectant gaze and adopting a stereotypical news reader voice. “So, how did this happen, when was the first kiss, the first fondle, the engagement, I want every dirty detail, and the romantic details, too.”

“Okay,” you say through your laughter as Dolly giggles. “All right, all right... God, I’m gonna need more champagne.”

—

He could see the headline now; Cap Goes To Seek Former Flame’s Approval!

At least it would be better than the one’s that had been written when he’d gone on two dates with Sharon. Had that been why they’d both ended it? The media pressure, the questions, the constant hounding? No, but maybe that had been a factor in it. Sharon is great, but... He hadn’t felt a real connection, and neither had she.

He’d only felt that connection a few times in his life, so he knew when something was worth fighting for.

"Engaged, hm?” Peggy Carter fixes him with her gaze, an eyebrow arched, and, God, nothing ever passes her by, not even now.

A smile pulling at his lips, he raises his own eyebrows a little. “Peg—”

She exhales a laugh. “You can’t tell me, I understand.” Lacing her fingers together on her stomach, she smiles. “I do like her.”

“You’ve never met her,” he reminds her gently.

“I know,” she adjusts her head on her pillow, “but the way you talk about her makes me like her. How is she doing with all of this?”

He nods, his own hands clasped together. “Okay, I think. She’s tough.”

Peggy looks at him, her jaw moving minutely. “Hm.”

“What?”

Her lips lift a little, her features soft. “People called me tough. Said I handled things okay. But I can’t tell you how many times I cried in my office, then pulled myself together. I don’t mind crying, it’s very therapeutic, but I would have hated them to see me do it, hated what they would have twisted it into. Or even some of my friends, how they might have gently told me to maybe cut back my hours or something like that, to take on less. But just because I cried it didn’t mean I couldn’t handle matters.”

Steve opens his mouth when she continues, “Did you know that after you went into the ice our relationship is all anyone wanted to talk to me about? Interview me about? Even when I became Director of SHIELD the same questions followed me around, ‘What do you think Steve would think? Would he be proud? Do you still miss him?’”

Something in him twists as he looks at her. “I’m sorry, Peg.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Lord, I’m not saying it to make you feel bad, Steve, still so dramatic...” Her features soften again, but her gaze fixes on his. “I’m just trying to give a little perspective, having been in the position she is. It’s not easy.”

He exhales a long breath, his shoulders dropping a little. “That’s what I’m afraid of, actually.”

Her brow dips. “What do you mean?”

“Like you just said, it’s not easy being with me.”

“Steve Rogers...” His gaze, having lowered, meets hers again, and he finds it faintly incredulous. “... It’s the easiest thing in the world being with you. You are easy to be with. It’s the rest of the world that’s the problem.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “I liked where that was goin’ but that last part doesn’t make me feel any better.”

She huffs out a laugh, tilting her head. “But the rest of the world doesn’t matter, though, does it? Not if you’re with someone you love, hm?”

He looks at her, his lips lifting a little higher. “No, it doesn’t.”

—

“... So, it was only a couple of weeks ago... We were out at the park we like to walk in, you know the one, I go on about it all the time, the trees are always on my Instagram ‘cause it’s just so pretty, ‘nd it’s quiet, y’know, we’re in the middle of winter, and it’s dark, no one wants to really be out walking, except us...”

 You’ve had a bit more champagne than you probably should, but, hey, go away, morals, this is a nice story.

“... so we’re walking, and we’re just talking, and then we stop, and we’re looking up at the stars...”

Dolly, Bridget, Sally, and the other five shop assistants, Donna, Nicole, Max, Jamie and Priya all sigh together at the imagery, and your eyebrows raise and you nod in an expression of, ‘I know’.

“... and then he just gets down on one knee and asks me to marry him.”

They all sigh again, a couple of them putting their hands to their chests and ‘aww’ing and you nod as you sip your champagne because, yeah, that is very cute.

Good one, me.

“What did he say? How did he ask you?” Max asks, all the assistants bunched together on a long couch they’d dragged over.

You take another, longer sip of champagne because what did he say...

“... Oh, well, that’s just between me and him,” you say with a coy smile and they all boo good-naturedly.

Nice one.

“That’s such a lovely story,” Sally smiles warmly and you return it before raising your eyebrows.

“Shall we carry on trying these gorgeous dresses?”

They all cheer and the assistants get to their feet and scurry off to the back to find more for you and Dolly and Bridget. You look at your two friends, Dolly in a yellow ballgown, Bridget in a multi-coloured floral suit, and beam. You are wearing an ivory lace number that hugs your figure and then flows out just below your hips, and are trying very hard not to spill champagne on it.

The session had quickly escalated into Dolly and Bridget trying on whatever they wanted between red dresses, and you just putting on whatever was brought out. You’d told Sally you were here to get an idea of what you wanted, but that you’d be returning very soon. Nat has scheduled in another dress shopping day for Friday and you’d quickly messaged her about half an hour ago while you were changing to cancel wherever that was and make it here. She hadn’t argued.

You’re also giving little bits of details here and there to practise for the interview, your first kiss (at your place after watching a film), when you’d said I love you, (at his place after having dinner and watching a film together), and the story of how he proposed. You’re going to have to remember all this to tell Steve, though, so you keep making notes on your phone as you get changed.

You’ve also sent him a message because you still haven’t spoken.

You know he’s with Peggy, though, so he absolutely won’t be checking his phone, but... 

It just feels strange.

���Right...” Your attention comes back into the room as Sally and Jamie appear with an armful of dresses each, “... We have a vintage style one here that we think y’all are gonna love.”

Dolly claps her hands together as Bridget gasps dramatically.

“Vintage? Oh, he’s absolutely gonna love that.”

You don’t know why that makes you feel warm. It’s not like he’s actually going to see you in it... Unless...

—

“... Thank you so much! ... We will! We’ll see you Friday!”

You have to practically drag Dolly out of the back doors of The Pearl, the three of you giggling as you wave at the assistants. Who knew you could become such firm friends with people in the space of in five hours? Well, two bottles of champagne will do that.

You’re on the higher end of tipsy, in a lovely, warm, chatty way, and you have lined your stomach and soaked some of it up, Sally having ordered you all food so you wouldn’t have to leave and 1) Face the crowd, and 2) You couldn’t be bothered to leave, really.

The crowd is also the reason you’re leaving out the back doors, none of you wanting to face the horde outside. It has grown throughout the day, people desperate to get even the tiniest glimpse of you and what you’re wearing. Priya had closed the curtains after an hour, though, and they’d had two of their security guards stationed outside the front doors and it was just bliss. You’d had the chance to forget all about the outside world and just have some fun. Moving across the staff parking lot for The Pearl and a couple of surrounding shops, people haven’t had the chance to get in because it’s guarded, and the man whose job that is looks up from his newspaper in his little station, then looks back down.

Bliss.

Nat waits for you in the SUV, those sunglasses on, one hand leaning against the steering wheel.

“Such a ‘top’ pose,” Bridget stage-whispers and you’re all falling into giggles again.

You’re still gigging as you climb into the car, you in the passenger seat, Dolly and Bridget behind you. Nat’s lips twitch as she raises an eyebrow.

“Did we all have a fun time?”

“So fun.” Dolly, who is usually the most intimidated by Nat, which isn’t surprising considering she has a crush on her and they’ve both only met her three times before, including today, launches into a glowing review of the shop and day, “Everyone was so nice and the dresses and suits and jumpsuits and shoes are gorgeous, I can’t wait until we go back, oh my God, it’s all I’m gonna think about tomorrow...”

Nat’s smile lingers on her lips as she heads towards Dolly’s apartment, Dolly carrying on for the whole journey with Bridget occasionally butting in to add a comment. You laugh the whole way, your cheeks almost hurting from how much you’ve been grinning.

Nat parks up outside Dolly’s building, and turns in her seat, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head and meeting Dolly’s gaze, which provokes a pink blush to rise on her cheeks.

“Sounds like a really good day, then.”

Dolly just nods now, swallowing lightly. “Yep.”

Glancing from her to Bridget, Nat smiles and you think you hear Bridget let out the quietest of sounds. Wanting to save them both, or maybe they don’t want to be saved, they could be loving gazing into her eyes, who knows at this point, you turn to them, too.

“Oke doke, we’ll see you later, Doll’, I’ll text you when Sam and I are on the way.”

Bridget’s eyes whip to you, their mouth dropping open. “Sam’s picking us up?!”

You can’t stop your smile from widening, your eyebrows rising. “Yeah.”

“Oh my God, right, I need to go home and get ready now, Doll’ get out, I only have three hours, oh my God...”

Dolly is laughing so hard she nearly trips out of the SUV, and one hand is on your chest as the other wipes at your eyes as you laugh. Dolly waves from the pavement as she grins before she trots into the building, and all feelings of intimidation have left Bridget as they point ahead.

“Step on it, Nat, this is a national emergency, go...”

Nat just shakes her head as she turns back around, but she’s still smiling and you’re still laughing. “All right, all right, don’t worry, hold on...”

And, boy, does she mean it.

How does she drive this fast and this safely.

—

There’s just something about getting ready for a night-out while you’re tipsy. 

Sometimes, if you haven’t had a chance to pre-drink, you have a few moments of ‘ugh, do I really want to go out, I can’t be bothered, there’s that new show out, I’m so tired, oh my God, what if I do something embarrassing...’ but now, the champagne having only worn off a little from what you made yourself for dinner, and, okay, it probably didn’t help that you also made yourself an alcoholic beverage to have with it, you’re still quite buzzed.

Steve hadn’t been home yet and Nat had left a few minutes after making sure you were inside the penthouse so you’d been able to play your music and yell along to it. You’d been able to take your time getting ready, trying on a few outfits before settling on a true classic number that makes a lot of appearances on nights out because 1) you look amazing in it, and 2) you look really damn amazing in it.

You’d even, Nat having requested it, taken a selfie once you were ready and uploaded it to your Instagram story, along with a few gifs of glasses clinking together and someone dancing.

Job done, you’d returned to the group chat you have with Dolly and Bridget and sent them the picture, accompanied with, ‘time to fuckin party’. You could send them a picture of you in a bin bag and they’d still reply with the same thing they do for every photo, and you would for them.

Bridge’ 🌟: Y E S

Dolly ✨: WHO IS SHE???

Bridge’ 🌟: INCREDIBLE, SHOW STOPPING, AMAZING, ICONIC, LIFE CHANGING

Dolly ✨: I LOVE IT

They swiftly send their own photos.

You: LOOK AT US

Bridge’ 🌟: WHO ARE WE

God, they’re great.

You ignored the slight, unpleasant flip in your stomach at seeing Steve’s message, that he sent an hour ago and you haven’t replied to yet.

I hope you had a good day, have fun tonight x

You message each other every day so you never send ‘kisses’, so this just makes you think he’s done it to soften the blow of a slightly blunt message. Is it blunt? Or are you reading too much in to it? He has had a busy day based on what Nat told you when she’d driven you to the penthouse. He was seeing Peggy all day and then going over to Bucky’s to see him, and then they are going to have their own night out.

That’s busy, right.

Whatever, he doesn’t have to reply all the time, it’s fine.

You reply:

Thanks, you too! :-) x 

Which is the kind of reply you’d give to someone at work.

You’d ignored your phone vibrating as people, strangers, react to your Instagram story, slipped it into your bag and headed downstairs.

If you were an ego-maniac, Sam’s reaction on top of your friends would just make your head explode.

“Well, hello, ma’am!”

“Oh, stop it.”

“Nu-uh, let me look at you... Wo-ow. You look amazing.”

“Stop it... but thank you, I know.”

The moment you got into his SUV, (does everyone get one the moment they join SHIELD?) he has music playing that you can both sing along and dance in your seats to. Bridget had told you to pick them up last to give them more time so you swing by Dolly’s place first and she looks gorgeous as always in a short, glittery pink dress with matching eyeshadow and lipstick, her blonde hair curled and bouncing.

You give little squeals as you see each other, despite having only seen each other a few hours ago, and she’s definitely still buzzed, too. Sam gives her the same reaction he gave you and, God, you love him.

As you pull up outside Bridget’s building, you can’t stop meeting Dolly’s gaze in the rear-view mirror, your lips twitching. She’s doing a worst job than you at hiding her smile, her hand in front of her mouth, and you’re both trying so hard to stop a laugh.

It escapes when he gets out of the car and closes the door and you’re both turning in your seats to stare at Bridget as they walk out, gorgeous as always in a buttoned up, black blazer with no shirt underneath and matching black shorts, one side of their head freshly shaved. Dolly’s hand darts out and grips your arm as Sam approaches them and kisses their cheek and they’re both smiling but you can’t hear what they’re saying and you hate SUVs, are these things sound-proof, I’ll ask Nat...

As they climb into the car, you and Dolly are staring at Bridget, smiling. They just raise their eyebrows, grinning and say, “Hey, girls.”

“Well, hello.”

“Hi.”

You have to once again stop a laugh as Sam starts to drive, turning the music up, and you were all soon yelling along to the songs.

Now here you are, at a roof-top bar, being escorted to a table that had been reserved for you. Usually, you’d go to your favourite bar opposite work but Sam had gently insisted that you move it to another place he was more familiar with and where he could have better access to an exit and eyes on you. For a place simply titled The Venue, it’s very nice up here; it’s large, fire pits and heaters dotted around so you can’t feel the cold, a stunning view of the city, low, sultry tunes playing, a dance-floor in one corner, everything either purple, red, or gold. There’s even table service, and you recognise a few people dotted around.

“Is that—”

“Oh my God, yes...” Bridget whispers back to Dolly’s question as they stare at a table a little way away.

Your lips twitch as you each take a seat at a wooden table with a candle on it, the chairs red and plush. Your server informs you that a tab has already been set up for you, so you each grab a menu and debate for a good few minutes about what to get, the server standing patiently. Settling on cocktails, the server leaves with a beam, promising to be back in a few minutes.

“God, this place is fancy,” Bridget says, turning in their seat to get another look at everything. 

“And we actually have a table!” Dolly sighs delightedly.

“Perks of being Mrs America, huh?” Bridget turns back around to look at you, their eyebrows raising with a smirk.

You snort, your cheeks heating. “Not quite yet.”

Bridget opens their mouth but Dolly gets in first, gasping suddenly. “Did you see the news by the way?”

You pull a slight face. “No, I don’t tend to look at it anymore.”

She beams, her eyes sparkling. “Well, what happened at the dress shop, at the first place, everyone’s talking about it. People are so happy you said something and brought attention to it, there’s so many discussions being had about the wedding dress industry and the fashion industry in general when it comes to plus size clothing.”

The server returns before you can reply, and as she sets your drinks down you feel heat rise on your face again as you bite at your lower lip, pride spreading through you.

Well... Great power, great responsibility... I could get all kinds of stuff to be talked about... Note to self, change world tomorrow.

The three of you take long sips of your chosen drinks, humming in delight at the taste. As you lick your lips and set your glass down, Bridget places their arms on the table and leans forward.

“Now, come on, Y/N...”

Your eyebrows raise. “... What?”

Bridget tilts their head. “What’s he like in bed.”

You give your best scandalised gasp as Dolly laughs and Bridget smirks, continuing, “He’s kinky, isn’t he? It’s always the quiet ones...”

“Bridget Sanderson,” you gasp again, even as you grin, Dolly’s laugh infectious, “A lady never tells.”

“Well, you ain’t no lady so spill.”

You take a long sip of your drink to buy some time.

Could you? Should you?

Well, I’m in this far... And they won’t let it slide...

Licking your lips, you lean forward and lower your voice. “All the details?”

Dolly giggles and claps her hands together as Bridget grins. “All of them, you saucy bitch.”

—

Who knew you were so imaginative. Who knew you could remember every detail of every fantasy you have ever had about your best friend. Who knew you could think up such filthy, delightful things. Who knew you’d start comparing these imaginings with actual things you’ve done in your life, and that Dolly and Bridget have done with their sexual partners.

Who knew all three of you could drink so much.

Sorry to whoever’s paying the tab. The government? Shit, sorry, government, no wait, no I’m not, another round!

As the server, Melanie, you found out is her name while ordering the second drink, brings you your fourth drinks, you’re currently in the middle of laughing so hard it hurts at a story Dolly is telling of a sexual encounter, tears streaming from your eyes.

“... and then...” She dissolves into laughter herself, leaning over. “... and then her cat came in and it just, it just sat on the bedside table and made eye contact with me and...” God, you bloody love her laugh. “... she was doin’ such great things and sayin’ such good dirty talk but all I could do was stare at this cat and I just felt like apologising to it... and then it just started licking itself!”

Bridget is practically curled up in their chair as they laugh and you’re having to wipe at your cheeks, practically crying. Once you’ve all calmed down, you blow out a breath and massage your stomach.

“Oh my God, Doll’, I can’t believe you never told us that story...”

“I’m gonna wanna hear it again every day,” Bridget says, running a hand through their hair as they grin.

Dolly beams, sipping her drink. “I’d forgotten ‘bout it, think I repressed it.”

“So Steve’s into dirty talk, too, huh?” Bridget asks, sipping their own drink.

You nod several times, because part of you had always just thought, with him being such a great commander and leader, that he would be... and you’ve already told them that he is. “Mmhm, he’s made me come by jus’ his words alone.”

“No.”

“Get th’ fuck outta here.”

You nod smugly, your tongue catching your straw and you take a long sip. Not a total lie, you’ve imagined his voice in your ear several times... with a vibrator helping you along. And, hey, you won’t feel guilty about any of this ‘cause this is boosting his image... to your friends.

Dolly’s eye are wide and she and Bridget lean in, wanting more sordid details. You grin, happy to oblige and divulge more of your fantasies.

“So, it was when he was away one time ‘nd he called me ‘nd—”

“Excuse me?”

All three of you pause and turn to look at a woman, close to your age, smiling as she pushes her brown straight hair over her shoulder.

“Hi.”

“H’llo.”

“Hiya.”

“Hey,” she says, holding a phone in her hands as she looks at you. “I’m sorry to bother you, but can my friends and I get a photo with you?”

You blink, and look at her. Did... Yeah, you heard it right. Photo? With you?

You nod quickly, realising you’re just staring and silent. “Oh, yeah, sure, absolutely.”

What the fuck is happening. I hope I don’t sound as drunk as I feel. Or look it, oh my God, are my eyes open properly?

You push yourself up and, oh, fuck, yep, you’re drunk, and step around your chair as the woman beams and beckons her five friends over.

“Thank you so much!”

Bridget offers to take the photo, the woman very grateful, and she and her friends introduce themselves, a little tipsy and giddy with nerves and being with a celebrity, oh my God, I’m a celebrity, this is hilarious...

You stand in the middle, your arms around the girls either side of you, and you smile, making sure your eyes are open properly, as they pose. Bridget takes a few photos before smiling and handing the phone back to the first woman as they break away from you.

“Oh my God, thank you so much!”

“You’re so pretty!”

“We’re so jealous of you!”

You just smile and nod, trying to appear a little more sober.

“Thank you, have a nice night!” you call as they wander off, still giddy with excitement and all wanting to look at the photo.

Sitting back down, blinking, you look at Bridget and Dolly. They’re looking at you, blinking, too. It’s Bridget who finally speaks.

“... So, as you were sayin’ ‘bout gettin’ absolutely railed by America’s Finest?”

The three of you dissolve into giggles again, Dolly throwing her head back as Bridget leans over the table and your hands cover your mouth.

“Hey!”

Oh my God, I really am a celebrity.

Your wide smile lingering, you lower your hands and look up at the woman. You hear a chair scrape back on the stone floor somewhere as you pause. Hang on, you know this woman—

“You worthless bitch!”

Dolly screams as the woman throws some kind of small can at you and you’re suddenly drenched in a thick, liquid, your eyes closing just in time. Someone else screams as you hear Bridget shove their chair back and yell obscenities at the woman, lunging for her, but suddenly other voices are there, and they must be pulling the woman away because her own screams are coming from further and further away.

You’re frozen in your seat, hands half-raised. People are shouting around you but you barely listen. Dazed, your hands continue moving up, as they had been doing to protect yourself, and you wipe the liquid away from your eyes, and slowly open them.

You can feel the cold now, the heaters and fire-pits worthless, the liquid sticking to your skin and clothes. Or maybe you’re just shaking because you’re in shock.

You suddenly realise someone has been talking to you. Your head moving, you meet Sam’s gaze, suddenly feeling his hand on your back. His features are soft and his voice is gentle, but you can see the rage in his eyes.

“I got you, it’s all right. Can you get up? And we’ll get you out of here?”

You nod and lower your gaze, going to reach for your bag.

“It’s all right, I got it,” he says and your eyes move to his other hand, confirming that he does.

Getting to your feet, Sam’s arm goes around your shoulders and your feet are moving. People are still shouting, some trying to take photos, but there are people pushing them away, giving you and Sam space to head towards a door he’s leading you to.

It’s paint, you realise suddenly. Blue paint. You look back down at yourself again, watching it stain your skin and clothes.

“Where’s Bridge’ and Dolly?” you hear yourself ask.

“Another agent’s got ‘em, don’t worry, she’s gonna take ‘em home.”

Sam shoves the door open and you step into a stairwell, two men stood inside it. One of them moves to your left and you see an elevator, which the man opens by typing in a code on a keypad. Sam’s hand is still on your back, gently guiding you into it. The doors shut as the man types in another code, and Sam drops his hand from you and presses a button marked ‘B’. The elevator starts to descend and you stare at the doors.

“We’re gonna get you home, all right?” Sam says quietly, and you just nod, not caring to ask if he means home home, or the penthouse.

You hear him unzip his jacket. Yeah, it is hot in here. Your skin is warm all over and your throat feels tight, and you can’t quite take in a deep enough breath. Then you hear the sound of something ripping. Your gaze darting to Sam, he holds a section of his polo shirt in his hand and offers it to you. You stare at it, your brain putting the pieces together, and then you take it. You wipe at your eyes, mouth and face, and Sam zips his jacket back up and looks at you.

“You okay?” His voice is quiet again and you’re grateful for it because even the sound of his shirt tearing has made your heart beat faster.

“That was the woman from my work, who got in, wasn’t it?” you ask blankly, your volume matching his.

He shifts a little, scratching at his jaw as you hear him release a breath. “Yeah.”

You nod, swallowing hard and you wish the lump in your throat would go away. “Right.” He opens his mouth when you continue, finally meeting his gaze, “Why did you do that, Sam? You’ve blown your cover, surely, or they’ll know I’m being watched.”

He gives a light smile. “People will expect you to be watched, it would’ve been suspicious if no one stepped in.”

“Ah.” You start to wipe at your hands.

Sam tilts his head slightly, his smile softening. “And I wanted to get you out of there.”

You meet his gaze again, but you don’t have the energy to smile, despite the sentiment being touching, and just nod. His eyes linger on you as you look back down at your hands, concern swiftly replacing his smile. 

The elevator slows then comes to a halt, the doors sliding open a moment later, and the cold night air washes over you as you both step out into the underground parking garage, yet another one, Sam’s hand returning to your back. The place is silent, and you spot Sam’s SUV amongst a few other cars, both of you heading towards it. He gestures to someone in another car but you don’t care to look, assuming it’s another agent.

He moves a step ahead of you to open the passenger side door and you stop abruptly.

“What?” he says instantly, tensing.

“The paint. It’s gonna ruin the seat.”

He looks at you for a moment, his features relaxing into a smile. “Ah, that’s all right. That can be taken care of.”

You get in after he nods, and he places your bag on your lap. Closing the door, he jogs around to the driver’s side as you buckle your seatbelt then settle your hands over your bag, gripping it along with the piece of his shirt. Your eyes focus and stay on the dashboard as he secures his own seatbelt and puts the car into ‘drive’.

The barrier is more guarded than the other parking garages you’d been in this week but that hasn’t stopped paparazzi and occupants of the building from gathering, assuming that’s how you’d leave the area. You keep your eyes on the dashboard as lights flash and people shout.

Shouting, always shouting.

Sam doesn’t drive as fast as Nat, but he’s goes at some speed when you’re out on the main road. “Steve’s gonna meet us at the apartment,” he says after a couple of minutes, keeping his eyes on the road, “He was out with Barnes.”

“Okay.” Your voice sounds small to your own ears, distant.

Neither of you talk.

You look at your hands, the paint dry and barely having come off from when you’d rubbed at them in the elevator.

You start rubbing at them again, then use your nail, trying to scrape what you can off.

“Shit...” Sam murmurs suddenly.

Glancing up at him, you find him looking in the rear-view mirror every few moments.

“What is it?”

“Someone’s followin’ us.”

Your stomach drops, and exhaustion hits you like a fucking freight train. From his reaction, you guess it’s not a news van.

Sam presses a button on the steering wheel and the sound of dialling fills the interior.

Nat answers on the first ring.

"Where are you?”

“Nat, we’re bein’ followed.”

“Shit. All right, there’s a car on the way. Change your route.”

“Okay.” He takes the next left, and you know your heart should be pounding but you’re just so tired.

“How far away are you?”

“About fifteen minutes,” Sam replies, glancing up at the rear-view mirror. “We’re definitely bein’ followed, Nat.”

“The car will be there in three minutes. Keep taking turns, it’ll follow behind them.”

“Don’t worry, Y/N, nearly home,” Sam murmurs.

“Mhm.”

“Are you okay, Y/N?” Nat asks, her voice a little softer.

“Mhm.”

Sam glances at you as he pulls up at a red light, his lips pressing together. “Not long now.”

“Mhm—”

The sound twists into a gasp as you’re thrown forward slightly, the seatbelt catching you. Sucking in a breath through your teeth, you lift your head and look in the wing mirror as Sam spits out a curse.

A car, its bonnet dented, is reversing... then it speeds towards you again.

“Sam—”

“I see it.”

“Sam, what’s going on?” Nat demands to know as Sam pushes his foot down on the accelerator, the SUV lurching forward.

“We just got hit, they’re tryna ram us.”

“Are you both okay?”

Sam’s expertly weaving through the traffic, leaving horns blaring in your wake, but he just keeps going.

“Y/N, you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” It’s an automatic response, but you think you are. Physically, at least. Whiplash will properly rear its head soon, though.

A faint memory comes to you, however, of Sam telling you all the SHIELD cars have been built to absorb the impact of things like this, it having happened a fair few times, leaving the occupants with minimal damage, if none, so maybe not.

“Are they still following?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. Think we lost ‘em.” He only slows his speed a little, though.

“You’re right, the agents are following them now, just get back here as quick as you can.”

“All right.”

The call ends and Sam glances at you.

“Y/N, you gotta tell me if you’re not okay, are you hu—”

“I’m fine, Sam, thank you.” You swallow hard, the lump still in your throat.

He falls silent, leaving you be, and you’re grateful for it because you’re so fucking tired.

Several minutes later, he pulls up at the penthouse building and he makes you wait, sliding out of his seat and jogging round to open your door. People stare as he ushers you across the main foyer to the elevator that’ll take you up to your floor but you just look ahead. Thankfully, Sam doesn’t say a word as the elevator ascends and you just look at the doors. When they slide open at the penthouse floor and you step out into the tiny circular foyer, you let Sam get his keycard out, opening the door.

And then the noise washes over you.

People talking, to each other, over each other, on phones, demanding, ordering, snapping. You hear the door close and feel Sam behind you as you slowly walk down the short hallway, then into the living room area.

There are agents everywhere, maybe about twenty, all stood around, talking. Loudly.

They don’t look up at you as they continue on with whatever they’re doing, typing on tablets, staring at tablets, standing over a hologram of what you realise is the floor-plan of the penthouse.

“Y/N.” Your eyes dart up to Nat as she approaches, striding across the carpet. “Are you okay? How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Tired.”

“Okay.” Her gaze scans you, assessing, and you’re too drained to care that she knows you’re lying. Her hand settles on your arm gently and she holds your gaze, her voice lowering. “We analysed what this is, okay, we got the can of it from the woman, and it’s just paint—”

“Who is she?”

Nat pauses at your abrupt question, and you know she’s weighing up what to tell you. Her hand doesn’t move from your arm as she speaks, “Her name’s Marise Daniels. She’s one of Steve’s stalkers, we’ve been aware of her for a while.”

Stalkers. One of.

“Oh.”

“She...” Sam starts to say, choosing his own words carefully. “... She isn’t meant to be out, especially after what happened at your work.”

“Apparently there was a system error. Someone’s seriously fucked up,” Nat continues, the information new to you both considering Sam’s hissed release of a breath.

“Is that why these people are all here.” You don’t think you’ve ever heard your own voice sound so lifeless.

Nat pauses again, weighing her words again and, God, just tell me. “Someone tried to break in. They got into the elevator and overrode it, got up here but they couldn’t get in. The tampering alerted our systems but by the time we got here they’d gone. We’re checking CCTV footage now and asking people if they saw anything.”

You look at her, her words barely feeling like they reach you. “So why are all these people in here.”

Her hand is gently rubbing your arm now, and it’s faintly starting to ground you. “They’re checking the security systems in place here, making sure they’re secure or reinforced.”

“Okay.”

“They’ll be gone in thirty minutes, I promise.”

“Okay.”

She takes in a breath and smiles lightly. “How about we—”

“Agent Romanoff?”

A muscle in her jaw ticks slightly but she turns to the agent, her eyebrows raising. “Yeah?”

The agent lowers her phone from her ear. “Captain Rogers has helped to apprehend the suspect. He’s on his way over. Agents Moore and Lane are taking the suspect back to HQ.”

“All right, tell them to...”

Nat’s voice drops out of your hearing, and your gaze drifts to the stairs. Sam’s hand settles on your back, rubbing gently, and you remember that he’s there.

“I’m gonna... gonna go upstairs and wash this off,” you mumble to him, and you don’t hear if he replies as you move forward.

People don’t look at you, continuing with their business, talking, talking, talking. You reach the top of the stairs before you know it, opening your bedroom door. You close it behind you, muffling the sounds of the people downstairs.

Removing your shoes, you drop your bag to join them on the floor as you head to the bathroom. You pull your outfit off, letting it drop to the floor, too, you can deal with it later, hopefully the washing machine will get it out.

You turn the shower on and step under the water. Head down, you watch some of the blue paint start to wash off, swirling and whirling in the water and disappearing down the drain. Only a little, though.

You have to use your hands and the body-wash to get it off. Scrubbing at your skin. Scraping at it.

You’re in there for twenty minutes. Scrubbing. Scraping.

When you finally make yourself get out your skin feels raw. There’s still a faint stain in some parts, though. You grab a towel and use it to continue rubbing at your skin, blue now staining the cream softness of it. The rest of your skin is dry by the time you make yourself stop and you pull the robe on.

Then you look at yourself in the mirror.

The lump returns to your throat and tears fill your eyes. You look... drained. And you fucking feel it. You’re exhausted. So exhausted, in every single way. You’ve spent all week fighting so hard to stay up-beat, to stay positive, to make this work, to see the good sides, but the world isn’t allowing that. You’d just wanted to yell at the woman, Marise, that you are doing this to keep him safe, that he is in danger, and you are just doing this to keep your fucking best friend safe.

The fact there’s still some blue paint staining your cheeks and neck is what makes the tears finally spill down your face. Sniffing, you swallow hard and grab a hand towel, wetting it and scrubbing at your skin once more.

It’s not moving.

You inhale a quiet, shuddering breath, almost a sob, as you stare at your reflection, scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing.

Three gentle knocks sound on your bedroom door.

“Come in,” you say automatically, your voice cracking, and you wipe at your eyes.

You look up as the door opens and see in the reflection... Steve.

He pauses, the door nearly closed behind him. You sniff again as you look at him, his eyes assessing you.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey,” you answer. You shrug then, your features crumbling. “... It’s not coming off.”

The door closes and he’s moving towards you.

“Come here, it’s okay...”

As you turn from the mirror, you’re then enveloped in his embrace, your cheek pressed against his chest as he holds you. A jagged sob escapes you as your arms go around him, holding onto his shirt, gripping it.

“It’s okay...” he murmurs again, and you feel his voice rumbling in his chest, his chin resting on your head.

You’ve tried so hard to stave off tears all week that now that you can, now you don’t care anymore, now that you’re so tired, they’re not stopping. The front of his grey shirt must be damp, now, and your throat hurts and your chest is heaving but you just let the tears come and come, and he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t say anything, just holds you, his hands occasionally stroking your back and arms gently.

It’s not until you start to draw back that he does, guiding you to the sit on the rim of the bath.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, wiping at your cheeks with one hand. “Still a bit drunk, I think.”

A corner of his mouth lifts a little as he crouches down before you and takes the hand towel. “You don’t need to apologise. You can cry as much as you like.”

Your own lips lift for a moment as you sniff, and then you want to cry all over again as he starts to gently dab at the stains on your face and neck. You watch him, your eyes tracing his nose and mouth, the small, concerned lines on his forehead. If he got into a fight with the suspect earlier, there’s no sign of it. His hair doesn’t even look tussled.

Your eyes continue moving and meet his. He lowers his hand and inhales a quiet breath.

“I’m sorry, about all of this, Y/N.”

You’re shaking your head before he’s even finished his sentence. “Steve, it’s not your fault.”

He looks almost pained at that, shaking his own head. “I could’ve prevented you being in this situation, though, I knew the risks of—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt sharply, surprising you both, but you continue on, “I already know what you’re going to say, and I will take it all, all of this, if it means I get to be your friend. Like we’ve said, we’re a team in this. I really wouldn’t want anyone else as my fake fiancé or as my friend.”

A smile pulls at his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You shouldn’t have to take all this, though, you shouldn’t—”

“No, I shouldn’t. But I will.” Your hand has found his free one, and grips it gently.

He turns his hand over instantly, curling his fingers around your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. His smile softens.

“I think the world’s finally gonna see the stubborn pain in the ass I have to deal with.”

You exhale a laugh, and his smile widens at seeing yours.

“Well, it’s only fair others should have to suffer,” you say, shrugging a shoulder.

“You’re right there.” He resumes dabbing at your skin as you look at him.

“How was your day?” you ask quietly after a few silent moments, knowing he’ll just ask how you are if it stretches any longer.

“It was okay.” He’s dabbing at your chin now. “Peg says hi, and that she understands what you’re going through.”

God, you just want to cry all over again.

Your chest warms as you smile. “Really? Maybe I should go on your next visit.”

“I think she’d really like that.” His thumb is still brushing over your knuckles, and you wonder if he realises he’s still doing it. “She knows this isn’t real, though, think she figured it out.”

“Well, I wouldn’t expect anything less. How was Bucky?”

“Fine. He says hello, too.”

“Wow, everyone’s being so kind to me today.”

He arches an eyebrow at you as you laugh, trying to stop himself from doing the same. “I don’t know whether it’s a good sign or not that you’re already joking about this.”

“Humour’s a great coping mechanism, you know that.”

He’s still smiling, but you can see the concern returning, so you quickly continue, taking your hand from his so you can raise a finger, raising your eyebrows, “Well, Doll’ and Bridge’ told me to tell you, by the way, well done, on having me as a fiancée.”

The corners of his mouth lift higher, now reaching his eyes. "Yeah, I know how lucky I am.”

“Oh, and, you proposed to me in our park, by the way.”

He tilts his head as you smile somewhat smugly. “Did I, now?”

“Yeah, under the stars.”

His eyebrows raise as he smiles widely. “Wow, you’re also very lucky, then.”

You wave your hand slightly. “I said a lot of stuff today, I’ll have to fill you in. I made notes.”

He chuckles as he lowers the towel from your face and rises to his feet. “You can show me my homework tomorrow.”

You watch him as he moves to the sink, dropping the towel into it, then raise your hand suddenly. “Oh, there was a dress I actually really liked there, too.”

 “The one you sent me a picture of?”

You freeze, staring at him as he turns to you.

“... What?”

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he moves back towards you, unlocking it, then taps on a couple of things before turning it towards you.

Ohp.

And there you are.

In the vintage style dress, cascading flutter sleeves stopping just below your elbows, tight on your breasts and with a v-neckline, satin gold, your hand on your waist, beaming at your reflection in the gold mirror at The Pearl. 

Ah, now you remember sending it...

“... Yeah, that’s the one.”

“It’s really nice,” he says, sliding his phone back into his pocket as he offers you a hand to get to your feet. “You look great in it.”

Your face heats as you take his hand and get up, shrugging a shoulder and smiling. “Oh, well, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Your hands drop, yours going to your side, his going into the pocket of his jeans. Looking up at him, you give a light smile, which he returns.

“You okay?” he asks softly, and you nod after a moment.

“Yeah. Just so fucking tired,” you say with a slight laugh. “Think I’m just gonna sleep now.”

He nods, his teeth grazing over his lower lip. “That sounds like a good idea. What a fuckin’ day, huh?”

You snort, your eyebrows raising. “Yeah, for both of us.”

He sighs, as if remembering that, oh, yeah, someone had tried to break in, too. “The agents have all gone, now. The place is even more secure, it’s like a fortress.”

“Well, that’s good.”

You head into the bedroom, and he follows you out, moving to the door. He opens it, turning to you, and you share another smile.

“Sure you’re okay?” he asks again, and you bite at your lower lip.

Stay.

You widen your smile. “Yeah. Just very ready for sleep.”

He nods, taps his fingers against the door and smiles. “All right. Goodnight. I’m just down the hall if you need me.”

“Yeah. Goodnight.”

Your smile lingers for a moment as the door closes, then fades as you hear him walk away.

—

Halfway down the stairs, Steve pauses, his hand on the railing.

He considers turning around.

Going back up the stairs.

Opening your door.

Taking you in his arms again.

After a minute, he carries on down.

—

In your pyjamas, phone in your hand, you climb into bed, sinking into the soft safeness of it.

You unlock it, finding several messages in the group chat from Dolly and Bridget, asking how you are, saying they’re home safe, that Sam had filled Bridget in and they’d filled Dolly in, that they both hope you’re okay.

You send a message back saying that you are okay, you’re tired, and that you’ll speak to them tomorrow, and you hope they’re okay.

There’s a message from someone else, too.

I’ve just seen what happened on the news, I really hope you’re okay x

I’d have a normal life with Aaron.

Where the fuck did that come from?

But you can’t help thinking it.

He’d slipped into your mind when you’d masturbated that morning. You hadn’t wanted to think about it. You’d just imagined him, out of curiosity at first, as he’d posted a photo on Instagram of him at the gym again, just to imagine what he’d be like, you do it with most people to pass the time... and then he’d stayed in your mind.

It had seemed... more real than when you’d imagine Steve. Probably because Steve is your best friend and you shouldn’t be thinking of him that way and you don’t want to ruin what you have, you really don’t, and Aaron... Aaron is the kind of person you could take a chance on.

You feel tears start to prick at your eyes because this is fucked, this is all so fucked, and you love your best friend and you can only think that in it’s entirety without your brain shutting down when you’re drunk or tipsy because it’s the only time your mind is free and you love him, you love him, you love him, you love him...

But there is no fucking way you will ever risk losing him as a friend.

—

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[vapormaison]

2019 Best Press 3/4:  カタカナ・タイトル + Kanji Title by TANUKI

While for many vaporwave vinyl is doubtless equal parts collector’s item and audio source, I don’t want to lose sight of the goal of this blog here: developing a canon of the genre for high fidelity enjoyment. That said, when I come across something remarkable or noteworthy about a particular piece of wax, even if it is not a “purely audiophile” object, I want to make mention of it.

And TANUKI’s カタカナ・タイトル + Kanji Title wax release is not only noteworthy, but contends for hi-fi consideration despite it’s status as a picture disc.

But let’s back up slightly.

Going back to the previous thesis on why we buy records, sometimes you just want to own a vinyl just because. Just because you’re a collector trying to compile a discography on wax — or, better yet, just because you truly love the album art. For me, カタカナ・タイトル + Kanji Title (Double EP) was undoubtedly all of the three “just be-causes”.

A while back, I noticed that the LP was going into its 3rd press, and decided to snap up a copy because I like Tanuki, I like Lum, and because of those other just becauses. Unfortunately the only format available was not the pink vinyl, but the picture disc. As I’m sure is well-known (because audiophiles are very loud about things they dislike), picture-discs are a big no-no in the audiophile community. This is because while a beautiful objet d’art, a serious listening session of a picture disc release will usually produce greater amounts of surface noise than any other type of vinyl. You can, of course, with the right system, neutralize and mitigate this process slightly, but true-blue hi-fi heads pursuing that elusive muse of “pure sound” would never give a picture disc a second look.

I’m not one of those people.

Tangentially, I’ve heard whispers of ghosts of rumors from when I was living in Shenzen, China — that various record suppliers (small batch Makers) are working out manufacturing and material processes that minimize these issues on pic discs to create appealing records that cover all the bases: hi-fi suitability, collector oriented visual esoterica, and price. I should also admit I have no idea where those companies are in terms of R&D and/or producing these. I end up catching a lot of very fast talk from extremely motivated enthusiasts, but Chinese is still as elusive a language to me at times as “pure sound” can be. With that in mind, however, it’s logical to surmise that advances in technology will eventually render the differences between picture discs and traditional black wax undistinguishable. So long as the world isn’t destroyed in some cataclysmic climate disaster (very real possibility), or -- as we are watching evolve now: World War 3. My view is that it’d be pointless to dismiss the format out of hand when there are active attempts to innovate it as we speak.

That all said, I know what to expect when a contemporary, big-label picture disc plays. During my college days, I used to spin wax at the university radio station. One of the previous catalog managers had a fetish for this “collectible” format, and was convinced he was doing the station a favor by purchasing all these vinyls, noting a pre-supposed resale value later. I remember throwing these on the well-worn Technics SP-10 we had as our main turntable, and listening to the occasional scratch, frequent popping, and constant surface noise, that for the uninitiated (bless you), sounds like a sustained “cracking” in your Rice Krispies — or for those born in the analog age, CRTV static.

So when I sat down with the Tanuki picture disc, I had this laundry list of preconceptions and prejudices about the format. I thought that I could listen to a moderately scratchy record once or twice, keep it as more a visual boutique item and then eventually include in an article where I bemoan the poor quality of the genre’s releases.

But then, I actually listened.

And it sounded… well, I won’t get ahead of myself. Here’s the full review:

THE MUSIC

BABYBABYの夢 — is doubtless the reason why many of us have bought the EP from a sonic perspective —especially if the band-camp reviews are indicative of trends. I still maintain that this is the Mariya Takeuchi sample/remix work par excellence. Tanuki hits all the essential notes here, a genuine respect and love for the sound-staging of its original source, Yume No Tsuzuki. I still get echoes of the original arrangement in my system, (ever so slightly) with a bright and dance-infused collection of unique sounds — particularly in that delicious, wide mid-range — that flesh out the track into its own sort of masterpiece.

何がGoin' On — the curatorial and conspiratorial side of my brain tells me that Goin’ On will probably go down as one the under-appreciated vintage bangers of this era of future funk. I can envision hipsters two or three decades from now sussing out a neophyte with pretentious questions about this track’s pitch-shifted sample draws from. It has that sort of vibe that you know hits with a certain subset of electronica fans — rich & vibrant, making the tweeters on your system work out in all the best ways — it’s just great.

がんばれ — Tanuki is at his best when he gets playful with brass samples. I firmly believe that the titans in this genre each have their go-to piece in their best arrangement — like Dan Mason’s creative vocal array, or greyL’s manipulation of micro-samples. For Tanuki, it’s whenever her gets a horn — synthesized or otherwise, into his production workflow.

ファンクOFF — continues Tanuki’s magic act, taking another city pop track more iconic for its soulful electric guitar riff and turning it into the most slap-worthy single on this EP. I prefer it when Japanese pop samples are fundamentally re-imagined, although I can see how the perfectionist tweaking of someone like Yung Bae is more appealing for some. Tanuki is undoubtedly one of the innovators of this genre, and there’s no more solid evidence of that talent than this track.

腕の中でDancin’ — if I ended up hosting a sort of mythical vaporwave grammies or something like that, (I’m available, folks!) I would probably go off on a Ricky Gervais style rant on how artists aren’t in touch with “the people” (read: me) because all we really want are more remixes of Meiko Nakahara songs — who given her impact on City Pop should have way more play in this genre than she does. This one, like most of the Meiko mixes I’ve heard, is a banger with an absolute fire bass riff punctuated throughout.

Radiant Memories — this might be my first certified “hot take” in the publication (they’ll be many more, I imagine) — but as far as I’m concerned this is the superior Plastic Love edit. I’ll just leave my thoughts there, so they can soak in with a portion of the fanbase who split my reddit account on an open fire of downvotes for suggesting that other artists than Macross 82-99 (Praise be upon him!) are allowed to touch this song as well. While Macross’s mix is definitely the more up-temo of the two, and that for some is the very essence of the genre, this slightly down-mixed version is both the perfect conclusion for the EP and ideal antithesis.

THE LISTENING EXPERIENCE

Signal to Raise ratio on the following albums:

カタカナ・タイトル + Kanji Title:  ~61.9db (1 db MoE)

Tron Legacy, Daft Punk:  58.4db

Love Trip, Takako Mamiya, Kitty Records Press: 65.8db

(ratings based on averages 5 minutes of sustained play on the testing unit, the machine actually complied this data on its preset, which is another fascinating part about this sort of vintage press-testing tech). The margin of error is because the machine, according to my mentor Dr. Juuso Ottala formerly of Harman International, informs me it was never meant to give accurate readings of picture discs, and to add about a dB of error margin.

One of the benefits of growing up in New England and, subsequently, New York, is that there are no shortage of heritage professional audio brand HQs in operation around a 200 mile radius from Manhattan to Boston. Off the top of my head, there’s Harman/Kardon, Boston Acoustics, Bose, NuMark, Marantz, and Rane headquarters within an hour’s drive from my two hometowns. Early on in my audiophile quest, I got my hands on some cool vintage gear — vinyl lathe testing equipment that has collected dust in both an old Harman technician’s storage unit, and now my parent’s basement. Over the holiday, I recently brought it out to do some surface noise testing on it to get a rough confirmation of what I was explaining in yesterday’s hi-fi guide. The innards of the machine looks eerily like a plinth-less linear tonearm and plate pair attached to a monitor. After making sure I’m not violating some kind of Harman International trade secret, I’ll post it on instagram.

Wanting to also get a firm idea on just how good my ear-test sounded, I grabbed another picture disc vinyl I had received as a gift a few years ago from my brother — the Tron Legacy OST. While I found the film passably enjoyable, my own preconceptions about pic discs, and a general exhaustion with french house — left me with no discernible desire to spin the thing. I hadn’t even broken the seal on the plastic wrap, so it seemed like as good as a blind test as any. I also grabbed what my ears tell me is a “good”, “heavy” press, a 1982 original dead-stock copy of Takako Mamiya’s Love Trip LP pressed by Kitty Records Japan. I’ve played it maybe a half dozen times since I bought it, so it’s as close to “new” 80s audiophile pop record as you can get. The Japanese are infamously anal about low SNR on their vinyl.

And, well, the results speak for themselves. The sweet spot for most black vinyl records is between 60-70db depending on age, weight, and a host of other frankly uncontrollable factors that aren’t worth getting into detail here, as I’d go on forever. The main takeaway here is that Neoncity’s and Tanuki’s record sat at the low end of the audiophile vinyl reference spectrum. Which in itself is a remarkable achievement for a pic disc. It’s worth taking a look at Tron Legacy, which just barely scratches 8db above a cassette tape, and 7db a Japanese vinyl from 1982.

This is all in an effort to say: damn, this is pretty good.

This also somewhat counters the usual “picture discs sound like shit” narrative that’s prevailed pretty consistently in the audiophile community. Tron Legacy? Yeah, that probably sounds like shit if I could bother to suffer through a listen. But whoever Hong-Kong based Neoncity is using actually makes “good” — if such a qualifier needs to be attached — image-pressed records. And that devotion to audio fidelity should be rewarded.

It might be time for me to re-asses picture discs on the whole, and that mind-expanding moment is something I owe to the fine folks at Neoncity.

[skamfrance]

Skam France - Director’s Interview

After the girl squad and the boys, we give you the interview of Skam France director David Hourrègue (as always, done by SkamUpdates on Twitter: x)

Interviewer: So first question: what's your name? Tell us about your career. David Hourrègue: So my name is David Hourrègues. About my career...I taught myself. Fun fact: I have five sisters, which has influenced my choice, because...you know going from Julie Andem to me was kind of a strange idea, but...I've lived around girls my whole life. I was first assistant director for 15 years, used to a steady rythm. The ability to direct quickly, being sensitive to what is affecting our youth, and having five sisters, I think, made my choice for me. I: Ok. The first important question, then: how did you get to direct Skam? Who told you about it? DH: I was shooting a show in Réunion* when I got a call from prod, telling me "we've bought the rights to Skam", which I had heard about, "and we'd like you to direct it". I then wrote a note of intent called "here's 3 reasons why you won't pick me". First, I want a lot of time spent on casting, because I didn't want to have a gun to my head and pick people I didn't want. I really wanted to feel...people, talk to them, and see if they would work well with one another. Second...so we had three months of casting, which is huge. Three months of casting, for a show...that's huge. The second thing was to have a budget for music like no other in France. In Norway, they had Michael Jackson at the end of an episode. We can't compete with that, but it doesn't stop us from being smart. I told them I wanted about ten big hits per season.  I: "Closer", to start with! DH: Already, yeah. I: Not bad. DH: "Closer", you see? Even Marina Kaye with her big hit, you know? We have Billie Eilish, etc. So we decided to be smart and have cool stuff...I think there are, on the first two seasons, 340 songs.  I: Oh, yeah, not bad! DH: It's huge. It's huge. Sometimes we fade, sometimes it's the song they're listening to. But you see we were very, very careful on the musical aspect. And the third thing was that I wanted complete freedom. Of course I attentively watched the original show, I talked to Julie Andem and the NRK production. But I didn't see the purpose in fighting to make a carbon coby. I really wanted to stay focused on what the scenes had created from an emotional point of view, and arrive on set saying "Ok, I have the same characters, but I have to get to a similar feeling". And then, the production, and it's rare enough that we should take notice, left me in total freedom. For music, for editing, for everything. So it's really my version. I: I was disappointed in one thing, in the first episode, I'm not sure if I'll be able to say what...When the song "Closer" started, in the original Skam it was "Je veux te voir", by Yelle, and that was a iconic moment in the show, and I didn't really like it with "Closer". DH: Well, of course, but actually, the rythm is different, we're saying something else. You see, our night club, when she gets there, it's completely different. I: Yeah, it's not the same at all.  DH: Completely different, it's big. You speal of that moment, and it's very interesting, because I didn't do the thing with the tights. Because it was awesome in Skam, but I didn't want to do what was awesome. How was it awesome? With Julie Andem and her actresses, who were completely relevant...*applauds* Bravo! You're always going to be worse on some aspects. I prefered to focus on different things. See, there are people who are going to love the "Closer" version, because they love the song and they're gonna be like "Yeah, I recognize it", and it speaks to them more. You are a fan of Skam, and you know the original scene. You also have to put yourself in the position of the person who doesn't know it.  I: Precisely, that's difficult.  DH: You see? And that's really interesting. I love the original scene. But ours is in the image of Emma, our Emma. I love the character of Eva, the original. I think she was wonderfully portrayed. She's a nice girl. A very nice girl. Ours? You can tell she's very nice, but a bit nonchalant, she's a bit lazy, you know? And that was really interesting to me, because I know that girl. And an actress like Philippine, who plays Emma, I didn't see her anywhere. She's lazy, a bit...umph, a bit clumsy, and I think the scene is really like her. Sorry, I'm giving my Assa a big kiss! Assa (offscreen): I'll see you soon, ok? DH: Of course, love.  I: I saw that it was much softer as well, like when, in the last scene of episode one, uuuh, I don't remember the name of the French character, the French P-Chris... DH: Lucas? (MAJOR CONFUSION) I: Yeah. He doesn't say: "you've been teasing me all night and now you're leaving". It's not as straight forward.  DH: Yeah, but no. The thing is, if he said the same thing, it'd be annoying. You can't imagine. Imagine...I'll take the example of Batman, because that's the kind of impact I think Skam has on pop culture. If every movie showed the arrival of bats the same way, with Alfred and everything, it's be super boring. You, coming here, you already know the codes, you enjoy recognizing things, but I can assure you that our Chris, our Alex, is going to be horrible in episode 3. You've noticed, what we've tried to do is that...when she comes to talk to him, he's a guy who's always trying to break the distance, he's a guy who looks like he's always about to make out with you, he's always there because he's overconfident. But it'll make him all the more touching in the future. And he is exceptional. You're going to laugh so much, because he's funny, and he's authentic. I loved the original character, but again I did something slightly different. I tried to take a certain storytelling line more slowly in order to be surprising.  I: I'd like to know, if this works really well, do you think you'll do a season 5, 6, 7, 8, etc, like Julie Andem intended to do? Will you take her script, or will you write your own? DH: No, Julie Andem, since I spoke with her...you have to know it's exhausting to shoot this show. And she had a completely different approach to writing. She would write the whole arc, she prepared it for 10 days, she'd shoot one episode over 1 or 2 days, she edited it, she would write the next episode, prepare it over 5 days, and then shoot it, and so on. It's a dream. It's a dream to be able to do that. Because you can adapt your subject and your episodes as they air. We didn't do that. We were told "alright, you have two seasons. We mix it up, and you shoot everything in 31 days". I: Oh, so you're not the "boss" boss?  DH: Ah, I mean, there's production above me. What I could say was "yes", "no", "I want to do that", "I don't want to do that", "I don't want to do it like that". It's the first time in my life that I've crossboarded. Crossboarding is when you shoot, like, the 4th scene of season 1 and immediately after, the 8th, or something. Manon is like all happy about something, "Hi, how are you?", next scene she's at school thinking she was raped by Charles' brother. I mean, you see, it's...it was super complicated. But Julie Andem finished exhausted, completely. Because it required a ton of work, and she dedicated a year of her life to it. I think I was chosen because I also have...how do I put it? I have a similar kind of sensitivity, despite what it looks like. I have plenty ideas, but I think it'd be necessary to have a season 5 and 6 to really set ourselves apart. Because Julie Andem has said that she'd like to be reunited with the characters later. That's what she said in her last message, I think that's very interesting. But if there were seasons 5 and 6, then we'd have to dig deeper with characters that we don't know well. Like, Ingrid, for example. It's a character that...especially ours, she's awesome.   I: Yeah, it's true. And Even in real life, she has the same personality.  DH: Of course! But you know, I thought the original Ingrid, if we have to speak of differences, I thought she was a little too quiet. Charismatic, but that was it. During auditions, I looked for the one girl who I wouldn't want to be mad at me.  I: The bad girl... DH: Actually, the one who has every reason to be mad at you. She's pretty, she's charismatic, you think "woah, if she's ever mad at me, she'll slap me". And all our girls...you'll see it, we have a fight scene between girls, all the girls are like that. That's when I was speaking of "French" character. The group...if you touch one, in France...well, you move. The "smooth Norwegian" is nice for two seconds, but uh...You'll see our Manon, our "Noora", well she's not above slapping people. And when later she's like "violence...", you look at her and you're like "that's nice, but when you were defending your friends, that's not what you were saying...". So you see, a lot of narrative changes that will bring a different light to the characters. But it's fascinating. It's super interesting. I: And do you you have anything to conclude? DH: To conclude, we really tried, myself, the prod and the whole crew, to approach this with as much passion and humility as possible for the original. I think you can feel it when you see it. It's not a simple, gross "copy-paste". That's what eveyone was saying: "France TV will copy and that's it". We really tried to approach it as if everyone was saying "you've got an amazing story to tell, give it everything you've got". And I think if Skam is love, we've put all our love and heart in it.  I: Thank you so much for answering our questions.  DH: My pleasure.

*La Réunion, a French island in the Indian Ocean, near Madagascar. 

[awed-frog]

This is going to be a mess - I had to erase the original post because the bots just wouldn’t stop coming, so here is how it all started -

And here are your kind requests -

So - thank you for your lovely asks and PMs - here we go. 

(Keep in mind that those moments were hugely embarrassing to me, so you shouldn’t find them funny or anything. They’re tragic stories I’m relating for your moral betterment - that is all.)

1) The ‘The Greeks Made Me Do It’ story

As a bit of background, I was eighteen and had just moved to another city to start my studies. I’d been there for a month, knew literally no one, had no idea where half my classes were and my ideals of switching to a Sophisticated Look and becoming A Lady had miserably failed, which means I was walking around wearing this insanely expensive, Managing Director of the IMF coat plus combat boots and frayed jeans plus a lopsided handmade scarf and 'Marilyn going on Morticia’ lipstick (I worried - a lot - about being the only weirdo and the only unfinished person in the entire town, because that was before I met Hamster Girl and Colour Matching Girl and I spend as much on weed as you do for rent but everything I own is see-through, threadbare or ripped Guy). Plus, I couldn’t speak or understand the local language all that well, and I’d taken to nodding and smiling whatever people said, which generally made me look like an idiot and meant I never knew what was going on. 

(And, yes, it’s tempting and it seems like the easier option, but seriously - don’t do that.) 

All of that means I was more or less living in the university library so I could pretend I had a purpose in life and, well, going from a high school library to a real academic library was like stepping into the Restricted Section - I mean, of course, I read what I was supposed to read, and I lost myself in serious books that had little to do with my actual subjects (that was my Minoan period - I’m sure every Classics student had one), but there were also the - uhm - other books, you know? All those studies about homosexuality in the Greek world, and how Mapplethorpe’s pictures were connected with frescoes of Saint Sebastian, and people having sex with statues and kings trying to trick their young wives into anal and truly lurid collections of Greek art which my high school teacher had once described as ‘Something you should probably have a look at, but if I let you borrow my copy your parents would not be happy with me’. And on that particular day, I had actually devoted my afternoon to a no-nonsense book about Eastern influences in Greek art, and well, the study of lovers and concubines on Greek amphorae was a sort of a plan B to relax a bit between chapters, because I was reading in a foreign language and it was hard work and when you don’t know anyone, it’s like you’re the only one working, right, and everyone else is off to wild parties and poetry lectures and screenings of a Guatemalan movie you never knew existed and that’s depressing af, so yay for weird art - but at around five I realized the day was done and I didn’t want to give the dirty book back because, come on, it wasn’t that dirty and I had a right to read it and it was complemented with passages by Theophrastus and Plato, plus it had come to me via the now defunct goblin-based system of tunnels underground the reading room -

~note - for younger readers, these things~

- so I didn’t want to give it back and go through the hassle of requesting it again, and I remember the fuck it moment that came over me - I was eighteen, I was studying the damn stuff, so I’d borrow the damn book and if the librarians disapproved, well, they could bite me.

(Obviously, they didn’t disapprove. The bored guy at the service desk didn’t even look at me, because nobody looks at you, ever, and your life is your own, so go live it.)

And next, I had to go shopping because there’s only so much time you can survive on cold cereal - and suddenly there I was, in a big and foreign supermarket, a dirty book burning a hole through my old Invicta, my Queen of England coat clashing with everything else I was wearing, and I was moving from aisle to aisle without making eye contact and trying to remember what spices were called in French, and I’d almost made it - I was collecting my mismatched groceries on the other side of the till when the bloody alarm started blaring, and two uniformed guards appeared out of thin air and it was like one of those slow-motion scenes in movies, right, when the dust in the air glimmers like gold and sound is no longer a thing and someone’s talking and everybody is staring and when God pushed the ‘resume normal speed’ button the two men were gesturing and smiling smugly and there was this old lady next to me and she was taking in my luxurious coat and my frayed jeans and putting two and two together - I physically felt her horrified, gleeful gaze on me like scalding water - and Jesus, I could see the headlines in my local paper already ‘Young Promise of Sci-Fi Literature Arrested’ (I was writing fantasy back then, but most normal people don’t seem to know the difference) and there were my parents, okay, my poor parents walking with their heads down as formerly friendly neighbours threw garbage at them and someone would interview my history teacher and he was bound to say, ‘She was something of a strange girl, but I never thought she’d end up in prison’ and next, of course, came the walk of shame in front of all twelve tills, with dozens of proper adults (people with families and eggs in their baskets, women with tasteful lipstick and women with kids and doggies instead of books about dead prostitutes) staring at me in disapproval, and What has the world come to and I heard that today, young women are as likely to commit crimes as young men and Do you think she’s on drugs? and then I was forced into the Small Room of Humiliation and asked to please empty my bag, so out came the frosting I was planning to eat raw and the crown of garlic I’d bought because it looked pretty and had no intention of ever using and a giant-ass bag of rice and as I looked on, horrified, I realized nothing made sense with anything and even those burly, middle-aged men could see that just fine - but, well, every single horrifying, meaningless item was on the receipt, so they had me empty my pockets (one condom, safety pins, a Swiss knife, an IKEA pencil and a very smooth and round rock, God have mercy on me) and next we all looked at one another like, What now? and that’s when I truly gave up on rational thinking, okay, because my first instinct is always to be of service, and so I said, in my heavily accented French, ‘The library book has a barcode, maybe that’s the problem?’ and of course, they hadn’t really looked at the book yet - it was face down on the formica table, looking all prim and innocent in its unassuming dark blue cover, but when the older man picked it up with his bear paw, I suddenly realized the front of it was quite different - I sat there and saw his eyebrows disappear into his hairline as he took in the big-ass picture (a painting of a woman fellating a much younger man) and the title (something along the lines of, THE JOYLESS SEX - TALES OF THE PLEASURE WOMEN, in all capitals, because books about Greek art don’t sell all that well, so anything to do with sex is pimped up to trick the unsuspecting general audience into giving it a shot) and of course he had to open it, because that’s how humans are wired, okay, and the thing right in the middle was a goat-like creature doing unspeakable things with two women and every single cell in my body wanted to explode and disappear and shout ‘IT’S MANDATORY READING FOR THIS CLASS I’M TAKING’, which was a lie, anyway, and I couldn’t get the words out and I couldn’t look up and I couldn’t look away - after a few excruciating minutes (seconds? hours?), the guy scanned the book on his barcode machine and yep, that’s when we all learned that library books respond to the same anti-theft thingies that pick up on stolen wine and cookies and fine cheeses, and Sorry, miss, and You have a good evening, now, and he was extremely uncreepy about it, but it was still hard to find my way out because of the WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOUNG PEOPLE UP THESE DAYS bewilderment that was shining like a beacon around his entire body, so, yeah - that was pretty embarrassing.

2) The ‘A Four-Part Seduction’ story

This actually happened almost one year before my adventure with the scanning machine - I was in my last year of high school, had kissed exactly 1 (one) boy, failed to seduce 3 (three) other boys despite my fox-like cunning and my sunny disposition, and I was now ready to sacrifice everything (well: my sanity and my dignity) for The Boy - a basketball player with a long, horse-like face and zero talent in anything whom for some reason I fancied the pants off.

(Looking back, I think I liked he was quiet and kind, and the age-old problem when you’re attracted to mysteriously self-effacing people is that you’re never quite sure - is there a colourful and occasionally wild ocean behind their silent lips and far-off gaze, or are they not saying anything because an evolutionary mishap converted half their brain into a second spleen, and therefore they were left with the mental capacity of a vivacious Mexican mole lizard? The joy is in finding out.)

Anyway, I have a feeling things haven’t changed all that much, but back then when you were intent on romantic hunting, you usually enlisted the help of your closest friends - people who inevitably were: 

your age 

unexperienced

not very familiar with The Boy and

generally speaking, completely unsuited to hatching a failproof seduction plan of any kind.

On this particular occasion, my advisors were: 

a girl who’d been the better half of a couple for time untold (three months, two weeks and five days) and was thus The Expert

another girl who’d done ‘not it, but almost’ with an unnamed boy she’d met over the summer

a third girl who still didn’t quite understand what ‘it’ meant and 

my only guy friend who was actually in love with me and I only found out about that twenty years later and that was one true what the fuck moment, because then I wondered what else I hadn’t seen when I was a teenager even if it was there in plain sight (like the fact my German teacher preyed on young boys, for instance,but that’s another story).

So, well - part A of The Plan - getting to know him better - had failed miserably, because what can you discuss with someone you only see once a week in French class and you have a monster crush on? I mostly pestered him about homework dates and then stared mutely at his hands as he turned the pages of his school diary and my God, he must have thought I was an anxious, forgetful idiot with absolutely zero life, ‘which means he already knows you better than most people,’ my best friend said consolingly, before trying out her married name signature (Alice DiCaprio) one more time. And as for part B - that had succeeded, but at what cost? Because through a string of sleights of hand and corruption, we’d managed to shift half our classmates around on the seating chart, so I was now sharing a desk with The Boy himself, but so far that had resulted in some awkward staring (mine), a couple of embarrassed smiles (his) and about 50 000 volt of electricity going through my entire body every time his elbow bumped into my arm by mistake (which happened a lot, because he was left-handed and I’m not and we were sitting the wrong way around). 

Now, this had been going on for weeks when the skies suddenly opened above me and the teacher, an I’m frankly disappointed in how everything turned out ‘68 hippy, assigned us a written essay on Victor Hugo and socialism, something that, as an anxious, forgetful idiot with absolutely zero life, I knew quite a lot about. Plus, I was good at French, and that’s how The Boy turned towards me and asked if I’d be willing to help him, his hazel eyes all clear and earnest, shining like stolen jewels on his horse-like face, and being a Cosmo reader, I heard myself laugh throatily and ask, ‘Sure - what will you give me in return?’ and fuck, how do these things happen and why are we not in control of our own bodies and also thank God, because he blinked at me and then said, in a slow voice I read as flirtatious, ‘I’ll buy you a drink’. And that’s how we all entered part C - there were weekly meetings with him in the library to write the essay together, and daily meetings with my girlfriends to analyse everything we’d ever said to each other and I think he was looking at you during break and I saw him blush twice now, he must be sensitive and My sister knows his cousin, I can tell her to ask him if he’s seeing anyone and also long walks by the river with my long-suffering guy friend during which I rambled on and on about how shiny The Boy’s hair was and he contributed to this mind-blowingly fascinating conversation mostly in uhms and grunts.

(Again, how could I have been so stupid? I mean, it was for the best in the end, but - ouch.)

And one windy evening of March, lo and behold, it was finally time for part D (no pun intended) - a bona fide D-A-T-E with The Boy, and possibly there’d be fireworks and he’d say, I’ve been wanting to kiss you for weeks and some tourist would snap a candid photo of us and then marvel at it, years and years later, because Do you ever wonder what happened to this couple, Mabel? Look at how happy and in love and beautiful they are and I’m not saying cover of the National Geographic, but cover of the National Geographic. Also, movies had taught me what was supposed to happen, you know?, 

which is why I borrowed make up and rollers from one of my friends and did a clothes pre-selection with her and then a second selection with my guy friend -

(I remember him sitting cross-legged on my bed and strumming my mom’s guitar as I hid behind the closet door to try on The Makeover Outfit and how his expression barely changed when he saw me in a skirt for the first time - how he said, ‘You look - good. He’s an idiot if he doesn’t go for it,’ and how the music turned into something slow and mournful as I disappeared again to put my jeans back on, and what the hell?)

- and at nine pm, I was ready - I had leveled up and transformed, or so it seemed - gone was the windbreaker, and the crappy Converse, and the overlarge plaid shirt - instead, my hair was curled in the right way and my skirt was short but not too short and I’d even bought a push-up bra which was uncomfortable as hell but Who cares, uh?, who cares? And let’s pretend my make-up was still perfect after biking twenty minutes in the half rain, because when I walked into the bar, some catchy song was on and my brand-new hoop earrings were catching the light just so and I was the Goddess of French and Sex and WITNESS ME and we saw each other at once - he was sitting with his friends, the Popular Good-at-Hockey Guys, and he turned as he heard the door open, as if he’d been expecting me, and he immediately smiled and came towards me and ‘So, what can I get you?’ and of course I ordered wine, because I was Sophisticated and also A Lady and as he pushed his way towards the counter I sat down at the only table for two and subtly (I hope) adjusted my cleavage and crossed my legs and wondered whether I should whip my copy of Rimbaud’s Les Illuminations out of my (well: my mom’s) purse just to make it extra clear I meant business, or if that would be considered impolite - a kind of, ‘You took forever to get me that drink’ reproach - and as I was still trying to decide, he came right back, all perfect and tall and horsey-looking in a grey shirt, and he was carrying my wine and a pint of dark beer and some idiotic voice in my head said, ‘Yes, we’d known each other for months, but I remember the night we truly fell in love - your father used to drink these strong beers, you know, and that evening-’ and before that thought could go anywhere, The Boy was there, at my table - he handed me the wine (our fingers touched) and he said ‘Thanks again, really - I would have been dead without you’ and then - and then he walked away and fucking sat down with his friends again because apparently he was a damn sophist underneath that equine disguise and he’d promised me a drink and now I had a drink and what the fuck? and for the second time that night I considered turning to Rimbaud, but you should never turn to Rimbaud because he was an addict and a killer, so I drained my wine in one gulp, looked around desperately, my vision already fogging over, for someone I could bother - there was no one I really knew, only older people and party people and cool people who were already looking at me weirdly - I shrugged my coat on and waved joyfully at The Boy on my way out and man, it’s been twenty years but sometimes I still wonder at it - I don’t think he wanted to be rude, I’m sure he was like me, awkward and empty-headed and inexperienced, and he now works with snakes in Canada so maybe there was something interesting about him, but after I never go to the movies guy and Do you go to this school? guy and Sorry, I’m looking for someone who’ll choke me during sex guy and - mostly - the ghost music / still not sure he existed for real guy, well - that was a crushing moment and the end of my grand plans and when I started to simply tell guys ‘I like you’ and also follow them home before they could realize what was going on and, whatever, if you’re looking for dating advice, that works much, much better. 

[Thanks again for your messages - if you like my writing, please visit my AO3 page!] 

[ciathyzareposts]

Consulting Detective Vol. II – Pair of Pretty Paintings Pilfered, Perhaps Pawned

Written by Joe Pranevich

After a birthday detour back into Infocom-land, I’m back to playing Consulting Detective. Last time around, I solved the first of three cases by finding a lion-murdering thief with a penchant for poisoning his witnesses. That case was pretty fun but not perfect. It did take me a bit to get back into the swing of things this series and I could have solved it faster if I had done a better job with the newspaper and remembering to use my “Regulars”. I’m going to jump into this second case more prepared and see if I do any better. This time out, we are solving the case of the “pilfered paintings” and the case starts with a proper introduction video. Sir Simpson Witcomb, a well-dressed older gentleman, seeks Holmes’s help in the recovery two “De Kuyper” paintings taken from the National Gallery. Six months ago, two previously unknown paintings by the artist were discovered and auctioned at Armitage’s Gallery. De Kuyper, we are told, was a student of Reubens, a Flemish master and someone even I have heard of. Prior to this auction, only six De Kuiper paintings were known to exist: four in the Louvre in Paris, one in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, and one by a private collector, Lord Smedley, in London. Witcomb worked with his head curator, Brady Norris, to acquire the two newly discovered works and add them to the National Gallery’s collection. They were able to snag them for a mere £125,000, far less than expected.

With the National Gallery in London now home to one-fourth of the known De Kuyper paintings, Witcomb set his sights on the first ever expedition of all eight known works. That would have opened tomorrow, if not for the theft of two of the paintings. As such, all of the other works are also in London ready to be moved to the Gallery: the Louvre’s four are stored in the French Embassy, the Rijksmuseum’s one in a separate National Gallery storeroom, and Smedley’s still at his townhouse. With that helpful information, we are off to solve this case!

The newspaper interface is okay, but not great.

Just because I am curious, I did some research on sales of art. I have no idea what art sales were really like in the 1890s, but the £125,000 back then equates to around $725,000 in modern US dollars. That is a large sum, but tiny compared to the millions that art from masters of the period sell for. I also happened to notice that the introductory video appears to have a scripting error: Witcomb clearly states that there were six known paintings before the new ones are discovered, but Holmes later asks only about where the “other four” paintings are (implying a total of six). Either our detective friend lost track of how many paintings were out there, or the scriptwriters did. I doubt that will be too pertinent. That would strike me as unimportant, except the manual and video also do not agree as to the date of the case: the manual says Jan 22, 1891 while the newspaper and video say Jan 1, 1891. However, the lack of any mention of “New Year’s Day” in the videos or newspaper, suggests that the 22nd date is more likely. Again, it’s not a huge deal but it hurts to start a case by noticing errors.

Speaking of newspapers, I search them to see what I can find. The common “abandonware” manuals out there on the web for this game have an incomplete set of newspapers and are missing the dates needed for this case. I have since ordered two copies from Amazon, but neither of them came with the original newspaper either. Fortunately, there is an “in game” newspaper which we can use, but it is impossible to search or skim. I may miss something because of this.

The juiciest details are scattered across a few issues:

June 9, 1890 – Armitage announces the sale of newly discovered De Kuyper paintings; auction to be held on July 1 at 1:00 PM.

June 26, 1890 – Everett Sedwick responds in an op-ed to a previous (not included?) article about Reubens at the National Gallery. He says that Lord Thurlow is correct about how many of his works are in the Gallery, but that he is otherwise an amateur. He corrects him on the spelling of one of the paintings (“Chapeau de Peil” instead of “Chapeau de Paille”). Sedwick compliments the paper’s usual art editor, “H”, for knowing his (or her) stuff.

June 26, 1890 – Armitage re-runs the same ad from the 9th.

January 1, 1891 (“Today”) – Sir Simpson Witcomb announces his retirement from the National Gallery, effective in June. Coincidence?

January 1, 1891 (“Today”) – A thief steals two De Kuyper paintings, “Summer Solstice” and “Blue Unicorn”, shortly before midnight.

There is a lot to take in here, but already my mind is racing. What if the two new paintings are forgeries? Could the whole auction and expedition be a way to flush the other six paintings out into the open? If so, why weren’t they stolen? There was a third even in the Gallery that was passed over! Could Lord Smedley be upset that the value of his paintings are decreased now that there are two more? Does the lower-than-expected cost at auction come into play somehow? We’re going to need to start talking to people and I’m going to reach out to Smedley first.

Not the master manipulator I was expecting.

My theories about Smedley seem to be off base immediately. Rather than a criminal mastermind, he’s a doddering older gentleman wearing a huge white corsage, yet another bumbling British aristocrat. He tells us that he bought his De Kuyper from a Dutchman many years ago, after being alerted to the sale by “Mr. Donet”. He doesn’t even know the Dutchman’s name! Thanks to the burglary, he’s moved his painting to the vault at Cox and Company until the situation is resolved.

I am immediately suspicious that he doesn’t know the name of the guy that he bought his painting from, but he was working through a middle-man. I’m struck with the idea that his painting could be a forgery as well… or perhaps all of the paintings are forgeries? It’s tempting to say that, but someone must have benefitted from the theft so we have to assume they were all valuable.

Everyone in this game has such nice suits.

While Smedley was alerted to his sale by Mr. Donet, someone that we do not know, Witcomb was told about his by Brady Norris, the National Gallery’s head curator. That would seem to eliminate him as a source of suspicion immediately, but it’s worth a discussion if he can shed light on the paintings’ origins. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know about the crime because he was at Dame Agnus’s dinner party last night when the robbery was happening. He claims to have no theories about the thief or how he (or she) could have pulled off the heist. He also explains that the National Gallery has many more expensive paintings than those, none of which were taken in the crime. It’s clear that the thief was specifically targeting only those two paintings (and either was unaware or unable to access the third in the storeroom).

There is no “Dame Agnus” in the London directory so I’m going to move along from that line of inquiry for now. Next up, I’ll talk to one of my “Regulars”, Langdale Pike the society gossip columnist.

That must have been some party!

Mr. Pike turns out to be a better choice than I expected! I had hoped that he could tell me more about Dame Agnus, but he was at the same party that Norris had been and was even nursing a hangover! While he cannot tell me too much because of his incredible headache, I learn about Pierre Donet, the world’s foremost expert on De Kuiper. Only two decades ago, Donet was a starving artist but thanks to his fortuitous discovery of the very first De Kuiper painting in a church in Brussels, he is now living the high society life. That first painting was sold to the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. We know from Lord Smedley that he also helped to sell him his painting some time later. Donet is presently staying in a “luxurious suite” at the Langham Hotel. Very curiously, Pike adds that despite getting his start as an artist himself, Donet has never sold a single one of his own works.

Suddenly, this all seems too obvious. My note earlier that all of the paintings might be forgeries was prescient. It’s clear to me that Donet is a forger twice over: not only has he been creating and selling fake De Kuiper paintings, he likely also invented the artist himself. It’s also possible that the first painting was real, but what’s clear is that he’s spent twenty years living off the proceeds from the sale of only six paintings. The two new paintings did not sell for as much as he hoped for; is it possible that he stole them to increase their value? That seems like a stretch. It is more likely that his crime is completely separate from the thefts. Why would someone steal the two new paintings? If they knew they were forgeries, why bother? If they didn’t know they were forgeries, why just those two and not the third? Or any other painting in the museum? I have no idea yet.

Seriously, everyone dresses so well…

As Mr. Donet is from Belgium, we don’t find his name in the directory, but we do have a listing for the Langdale Hotel. (It’s listed under “H” for “Hotel” for some reason.) We meet him in what appears to be a hotel restaurant and chat over a nice bottle of wine. He claims to have just arrived from Brussels yesterday. More importantly, he tells us about the two paintings that were stolen: he does not know who found them or how they ended up at Armitage, but he was brought in to evaluate the works and sign the certificate of authenticity. Mr. Noir, a Brussels lawyer representing his anonymous client, witnessed the signature. He then saw the paintings for the first time the following day, in Nori’s hotel room. I’m immediately suspicious because he signed the certificate before examining the paintings, although he claims to have spent five hours confirming them the next day. He tells us that the brush strokes, signature, and even type of canvas used all point to the two new works being legitimate De Kuipers.

He’s clearly lying since he signed the certificate before seeing the works and this adds credence to the idea that he’s the forger. I’m just less and less convinced that he’s also the thief. Even if he was trying to increase the value of the remaining paintings, it’s a lot of hoops to jump through if he could just knock out a few new works every couple of years to stay afloat.

This is the “are you some sort of idiot” scene that I see so often.

Even as I feel I’m getting close to the answers, my next moves are all missteps. I still have no lead on Dame Agnus to confirm whether Norris or anyone else left the party early. Everett Sedwick, the expert on Reuben from the newspaper, seemed like a good person to talk to I am only told that he is “chatty” but unhelpful. I revisit Sir Simpson Witcomb from the opening cinematic to see about the painting that he has stashed in the National Gallery basement. In what must be a script error, I also get a message saying that he is “baffled that we had come” and “has no idea about our case”. This case has a higher than usual number of errors.

What a suspicious package!

If Witcomb doesn’t tell me about the painting in the storeroom, I can go directly to the National Gallery. That is the scene of the crime anyway so a good place to look for clues. That reveals an amazing interview with one of the four on-duty guards from the time of the theft. He lays out a timeline of the whole evening:

His shift started at 4:00 PM, prior to the Gallery’s closure. His first job is to prepare for the closing an hour later. At 5:00 PM, the Gallery closes.

By 5:15, all of the employees left except from Witcomb and Norris. That was typical since they liked to ensure the gallery was secured every night.

Witcomb left from the main entrance at 5:30, but Norris stayed as he was expecting a delivery.

At 5:45, a set of three packages arrive for Norris from “Cummins and Goins”: one large crate and two smaller ones. The guard observed that the smaller crates were from Jardins, but he did not observe the origin of the larger one.

As soon as the delivery men left, a guard named Charley barred the door. Norris remained to inspect the packages.

At 6:30, Norris locked the storeroom and left for the evening. He was let out the main entrance. The guards resumed their regular rounds.

At 11:10, the guard observed that all paintings were still in place.

By 11:35, the two De Kuipers were gone, cut from their frames.

While Norris and Witcomb have keys to the interior doors, they don’t have access through the external doors. Only the guards and the guardroom has those keys.

That is a ton to chew on, and I wish that I had gone here first! Three crates is suspicious, especially with two of them smaller than the other. I suspect that someone was hiding in the large crate and would box up the paintings in the little ones to ferry them safely away. Who? I don’t know, but this seems like a plausible way for the thief to get into and out of the building without being detected. I am still missing a motive however for why someone would go through all that trouble for two low-value paintings.

That mustache did it.

Who sent the boxes? Let’s track them back to their sources.I go to the shipping company and speak to someone behind the counter. He confirms that the packages were mailed from Mr. Norris to himself at the museum. The shippers picked them up from Well’s Warehouse at 5:30 PM, arriving at the Museum in an hour. That’s all we know, but it is plenty. I check the warehouse next to learn that it was rented out by someone named Matthew Cole until recently; someone (he doesn’t say who) rented it starting yesterday. That cannot be a coincidence!

Who could have been in the crate? Not Norris because he was at the museum, nor Witcomb since he left at 5:30 and could not have made it to the movers in time to sneak in. Who is left? Donet? I still don’t have anyone with a motive.

What the heck?

My final stop is Disreli O’Brien, the clerk at the hall of records. I hope to discover who rented the warehouse after Matthew Cole, but I get more than I bargained for. For some reason, Watson asks him about some guy named Clifton Maddox. He’s a former art gallery owner who was arrested in 1889 on suspicion of stealing a Turner painting from Sir Charles Chandwick. That sounds like useful information, but this is the first that I am hearing about it. Is that a false lead or am I going to discover that Chandwick is the other accomplice?

With that, I am wrapping up for the night. I still have no motive, but I am fairly sure that Donet is a forger and Norris is part of the theft. But where are the paintings now? And how will I solve this case? I expect we’ll find the answers soon enough. Please feel free to share your theories (please do not comment if you know the answer) below. See you next week!

Time Played: 2 hr 05 min Total Time: 5 hr 25 min

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/consulting-detective-vol-ii-pair-of-pretty-paintings-pilfered-perhaps-pawned/

[drtanstravels]

The annual Euretina Congress was upon us again and this year it was to be held in Paris, France. Anna was speaking at the conference on the morning of September 3 and attending other events as well. We figured that while we were in France on this occasion we should venture out of Paris for the first time once the conference was over. Anna and I got married in Colmar Tropicale, a fake french village in Berjaya Hills, Malaysia so we decided we should take the opportunity to visit the real village of Colmar in northeastern France. However, there were a couple of other events that reared their collective heads during the planning of this trip; first of all, Anna’s cousin, Robin, was to be married in Vancouver, Canada on September 7 and nobody from Anna’s immediate family were able to attend. Secondly, Anna had been invited to speak at another conference in Paris on September 15 so our adventure would be as follows:

We would fly out from Singapore on the evening of Tuesday, September 3, arriving in Paris early the following morning.

We would stay three nights in Paris before flying out for Vancouver on the morning of Saturday, September 7 and, due to timezones, landing the very same morning of the wedding.

After four nights in Vancouver we would return to Paris on Wednesday, September 11 and immediately make a two-and-a-half-hour train ride to Colmar after we landed on Thursday, September 12, changing trains in Strasbourg along the way.

We had two nights in Colmar to see the legit town before making the same train journey back to Paris on Saturday, September 14.

After two more nights in Paris we would make the 13-hour flight back to Singapore on Monday, September 16.

We had a hectic and exhausting itinerary planned and this post is about the initial Paris leg of the trip, but the story begins a little before that — My 40th birthday fell five days before we were to depart, on Friday, August 30. Anna had planned several surprises for me, but they didn’t quite go as secretly as she wanted, nonetheless it was a fantastic night all the same. She had initially organised a surprise party at my local pub, Coq & Balls, complete with karaoke and a bar tab for my friends, however, the surprise was kind of ruined when one of the staff asked me if there was anything else I’d like planned for my birthday after Anna had just finished organising everything while I was in the bar’s toilet. A few days later a package arrived in the mail for Anna, but the contents were written on the outside; my favourite films are the original Planet of the Apes series and Anna had found a copy of the Mad magazine from 1973. She also caught on that I knew what was in the package because I left it discreetly on the bench, as opposed to telling her like I usually do when something comes in the mail for her. None of that mattered, though. When the night came it was so much fun, just hanging out with mates, drinking, singing, and eating an incredible sushi cake that Anna’s friends, Pat and Roshini, made for me, as well as a crêpe cake from Anna’s favourite store, Lady M. Pat and Rosh didn’t want to try their own cake though, because they did a trial run the previous weekend and had been eating sushi all week as a result. A great night was had by all, take a look at some scenes:

I’m pretty pleased with this!

Belting out a tune with Mike in the Trump-ish tie that Anna’s auntie bought me without a hint of irony

Cheers Rosh and Pat for the sushi cake, I can just never get a photo where they all have their eyes open

With Pat and Rosh’s cake

But enough about me, let’s get down to brass tacks here — Our epic journey.

Tuesday, September 3, 2019 There wasn’t much that is particularly relevant to this post that happened on the Tuesday, however, before we left to the airport that evening, Anna had been notified of a promotion she had received. Her official title will soon be Adjunct Associate Professor so that made me feel more than just a little bit proud. Anyway, we had no problems boarding our flight, popped a sleeping pill each, and when we woke up it was time to prepare for our landing in Paris.

Wednesday, September 4, 2019 It took us forever to get out of the airport as there was only one booth open at immigration, but after about an hour we were through and in a taxi en route to our hotel. I remembered from the last time we visited Paris that it was a very dirty city with dog shit everywhere and countless tramps wandering around, the level of both depending on the area in which you were staying, but I had completely forgotten about the large villages of small tents, some legit one-man camping tents and swags, others a folded piece of cardboard propped up with a stick, in which the more privileged homeless dwell, occupying large parks and grass areas, particularly along the freeway in the spaces between entrances and exits as you get closer to the city from Charles de Gaulle Airport. We eventually made it through the insane traffic and checked into our home for the next few nights, the Hotel-Residence Foch, a name that had required us to ask our taxi driver for the correct pronunciation so as not to offend the staff or other potential drivers. Apparently it’s pronounced “fosch.” Once we had checked in we took the tiny elevator that barely had space for the two of us and our suitcases up to our room, one where there was only space for one suitcase on the counter and one on the floor. The only problem was that my suitcase was the one on the floor and when it was open the door could only open wide enough for someone to slide through sideways, but in a strange twist the bathroom was really large.

Once Anna was ready we left the Foch, her for the conference and me to just have a bit of a wander around. Just like our last visit we were staying near the Arc de Triomphe so I just Googled some flea markets and stores that I thought I might like, inadvertently ending up walking quite a distance to where we had spent an entire day on that previous trip. The ever-unreliable Google Maps led me past the Eiffel Tower, where there were endless stalls selling unofficial merchandise, as well as counterfeit and stolen goods, and then I made my way across the Seine to a dodgy-looking market under the train lines that was beginning to shut down by the time I had arrived. I put my wallet in my front pocket and had a look through the stalls that were still open and the rest of the afternoon was spent browsing through stores and looking at statues in the 15th arrondissement until Anna messaged me to let me know that she was done with the conference and to meet her back at the hotel. A bit of what I saw on my walk:

Even Napoleon himself would say that our room was definitely on the small side

Looking at the bathroom from the bed

The view down our street

A statue on a roundabout taken during a split second when there wasn’t traffic chaos

Not sure what’s going on here

The fake goods start well before the Eiffel Tower…

…but this is just a fraction of the knock-offs sold once you are nearby

It doesn’t look all that dissimilar to one of the numerous cranes on the surrounding construction sites to be honest

A chair baked out of bread in a bakery

A bridge over the Seine

A closeup of the figures on the bridge

A statue near the bridge

Carvings on the way back to the hotel

Another carving

“To the glory of the French army 1914-1918”

Once I was back at the hotel Anna told me about an area where there were a bunch of shops she wanted to look at, as well as some decent restaurants, it all just happened to be in the general direction from where I had just come. We wandered to where I had been, albeit taking a few different streets, looking at some cool shops, as well as a really bizarre furniture store. Anna loves French bakeries, especially all of the cakes and macaroons, so we also visited some bakeries along the way, despite the fact we would be having dinner soon, and it became clear it wasn’t just the case with the one I bought a coffee at that morning — The cabinets in the bakeries in Paris that contain all of the sweet pastries, tarts, and cakes also have bees flying around inside and absolutely nobody seems to care at all! The cabinets with quiches and cheesy items are fine, but if I were working there I’d be extremely hesitant to put my hand in one to grab a sugary dessert item. Seriously, some of the bakeries we saw over the course of our time in Paris had swarms of bees inside the cabinets! I guess the flies pay more attention to all of the dog shit on the ground instead.

Maybe it was just the bee-ridden cakes, but Anna was starting to get peckish, it was around time for dinner and she had her heart set on soufflé so she managed to find what was rated as one of the better soufflé restaurants in town, however, they were completely booked out that night. We walked around for a bit, but there wasn’t anything else on the block except for a small restaurant that looked a little suspicious with menus in multiple languages and the word ‘pasta’ stencilled largely on the wall among the names of some French dishes. Still, we were hungry and it had a lot of people inside so we took a seat at the only spare table, one which had to be pulled out so Anna could sit. In fact, if she needed to go to the bathroom while eating, at least three other people would need to slide across the bench seat to let her out. It took forever for menus to come and while we were waiting it soon became abundantly clear that everyone in the restaurant was a middle-aged person from the USA. “This is the best foie gras I’ve ever had, it’s even better than that one in San Francisco!” was one pearl of wisdom we heard while sitting there. We were a tad disappointed at the prospect of what was potentially going to be our first dinner on this trip to Paris, one of the food capitals of the world. Generally it isn’t a good sign when a place has the menus out the front written in several different languages with no mistranslations and there isn’t a single local person eating there, plus the service was so slow so I gave Anna a nod and we both stood up to leave. This got the waitress rushing over with the menus, but I had already prepared for this by looking at my phone with a shocked look on my face as we stood so we could simply tell her we had to go, as if it were an emergency.

Once out, Anna took to Google again and found what looked like was going to be a decent restaurant in the 6th arrondissement. When we arrived it turned out to be unbelievably good and as an added bonus it had a whole bunch of different soufflés so we ordered beef tartare, foie gras, a phenomenal local pasta dish with mushrooms and truffles, and an escargot soufflé to top it off. By the time we had finished all of that food, all of the other patrons had left and it looked like the staff wanted to close up so we went to a nearby bar for a drink or two, but we were tired from the flight and Anna had the conference the next day, plus we were super-full, so we didn’t have a late night. Here’s some shots from that strange furniture store, plus some from dinner:

Just a bed frame covered in pictures of people doing it

This would probably clash with most of our other furniture

Even though it has a tail, this still wasn’t the weirdest bike we would encounter in France, but you’ll have to wait for the other one

I guess it’s kind of cool if you like polar bears or fluffy white dogs or whatever the hell they’re supposed to be

That’s one bad-ass bike

There was some strange stuff in this shop

Notre Dame de l’Assomption

Snail souffle

Beef tartare

Anna with some foie gras

Place Vendôme

The interior of the restaurant as we were leaving

Thursday, September 5, 2019 Anna was at the conference again in the morning so I waited until she was done and then we checked out another part of town, this time in the 3rd and 10th arrondissements with a lot of vintage and retro stores. Much like the previous day, we spent a fair bit of time looking at shops and avoiding bee attacks in bakeries when Anna got it in her mind to check out Canal Saint-Martin, which is described on Wikipedia as follows:

Today, the canal is a popular destination for Parisians and tourists. Some take cruises on the canal in passenger boats. Others watch the barges and other boats navigate the series of locks and pass under the attractive cast-iron footbridges. There are many popular restaurants and bars along the open part of the canal, which is also popular with students.

That seems cool so we walked down through the Place de la République to the canal, but we definitely didn’t end up at the section Wikipedia was referring to. To be honest, I’ve been considering updating that portion of the page to something along the lines of this:

Today, the canal is a popular destination for the homeless and beginner graffiti artists. Some take the wallets, phones, and other personal items of unwitting visitors. Others watch the drunks and strung out junkies while navigating a winding path through garbage and, of course, canine faeces. There aren’t many shops or restaurants along this particular open part of the canal due to a fear of everything in the building, right down to the final length of copper piping, being stolen in order to fund the perpetrators’ various addictions.

Yeah, that sounds like a more accurate depiction of what we saw along the particular length of the canal that we walked. After the canal we looked around a few more stores in a different area, grabbed a coffee each, and then went home to clean the grime off ourselves before we had dinner at the house of Anna’s former colleague from New York, Polina Astroz, and her husband. We took an Uber to meet up with her and instantly remembered exactly how bad Parisian traffic is, especially at peak times. The main roads have many roundabouts with at least six other roads consisting of about the same amount of lanes leading into each roundabout and thousands of drivers throwing caution to the wind, and when it comes to traffic lights, nobody tends to care either, both situations resulting in a massive gridlock. Our driver told us about how the key to driving in Paris is stubbornness, as it is the only way you will get anywhere, you’ll just get stuck or cut off if you obey the rules or give way to other drivers, and when two truly stubborn drivers won’t budge, it usually results in a fight on the side of the road. Just as he finished talking we passed a fistfight between two drivers who both refused to budge. It took us almost an hour to get to where we needed to be, making us extremely late, and it would’ve been almost twice as fast if we had’ve walked, but we finally made it. Prior to dinner we had drinks with Polina and one of her friends at an awesome rooftop bar near her place until Polina assumed her husband had almost finished preparing dinner. When we arrived at their beautiful apartment we spent a few hours that night chatting, mainly reminiscing about old times in New York over home-cooked duck confit with apricots, a traditional dish from Toulouse, the area of France they are both originally from, and a few more drinks. It was quite late when we left and some of Anna’s Singaporean colleagues were meeting up in a bar that night, but that was all over by the time we were done. I didn’t take any photos around the canal for fear of my phone being stolen, but here are some others that I got that day:

The Museum of Modern Art

Me with some of our lunch

Although she had been there before, Anna still wanted the token shot

Place de la République

Walking around

The view from the rooftop bar

A closeup of the church

Now at dusk

Looking out Polina’s apartment window

Friday, September 6, 2019 We did most of the tourist attractions on our first trip to Paris; we walked down Avenue des Champs-Élysées, saw the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower, visited Notre Dame, and saw the Mona Lisa in the Louvre. However, there was one attraction I had always been fascinated with and wanted desperately to see — The Catacombs:

The Catacombs of Paris are underground ossuaries in Paris, France, which hold the remains of more than six million people in a small part of a tunnel network built to consolidate Paris’ ancient stone quarries. Extending south from the Barrière d’Enfer (“Gate of Hell”) former city gate, this ossuary was created as part of the effort to eliminate the city’s overflowing cemeteries. Preparation work began not long after a 1774 series of gruesome Saint Innocents-cemetery-quarter basement wall collapses added a sense of urgency to the cemetery-eliminating measure, and from 1786, nightly processions of covered wagons transferred remains from most of Paris’ cemeteries to a mine shaft opened near the Rue de la Tombe-Issoire.

The ossuary remained largely forgotten until it became a novelty-place for concerts and other private events in the early 19th century; after further renovations and the construction of accesses around Place Denfert-Rochereau, it was open to public visitation from 1874.

The catacombs in their first years were a disorganized bone repository, but Louis-Étienne Héricart de Thury, director of the Paris Mine Inspection Service from 1810, had renovations done that would transform the underground caverns into a visitable mausoleum. In addition to directing the stacking of skulls and femurs into the patterns seen in the catacombs today, he used the cemetery decorations he could find (formerly stored on the Tombe-Issoire property, many had disappeared after the 1789 Revolution) to complement the walls of bones. Also created was a room dedicated to the display of the various minerals found under Paris, and another showing various skeletal deformities found during the catacombs’ creation and renovation. He also added monumental tablets and archways bearing ominous warning inscriptions, and also added stone tablets bearing descriptions or other comments about the nature of the ossuary, and to ensure the safety of eventual visitors, it was walled from the rest of the Paris’s Left Bank already-extensive underground tunnel network.

Although the catacombs offered space to bury the dead, they presented disadvantages to building structures; because the catacombs are directly under the Paris streets, large foundations cannot be built and cave-ins have destroyed buildings. For this reason, there are few tall buildings in this area.

Anna booked an audio tour of the catacombs for us and after we caught the train to that area and walked to the entrance, we were glad that we already had tickets. The line for tickets was around the block, and we even had to wait for about 15 minutes to enter, because according to the official catacombs visitor’s website, despite being 1.5km (1 mile) long, the number of simultaneous visitors is limited to 200 so those people in line for tickets could be there for hours! Once inside we walked down the 131-step spiral staircase to the tunnel network and soon we were in the winding corridor of human bones. One thing that became abundantly clear is that some people can be complete dicks when visiting historic sites. An extreme case you may remember was when a fifteen-year-old Chinese school student was identified back in 2013 as he who had scratched his name into a 3,500-year-old Egyptian artwork in the Temple of Luxor. Although the defacing of the catacombs may not be quite as severe as that, it is extremely frustrating to enter and see that tags have been sprayed and stickers stuck allover the place, some even on actual skulls! However, this soon ceases and we spent over an hour walking through a mile of winding passages consisting of exquisitely arranged human remains, all the while learning how it came to be that way. Take a quick tour of this macabre, yet beautiful construction for yourself via just a handful of the pictures we took during our adventure underground (all translations via Google Translate):

It’s a long way down

There are some areas I struggle to fit

A tunnel leading to the catacombs

I’m not sure why this guy has a bone in his eye

Upon entrance not all of the remains are organised

Arranged into a heart

I guess I shouldn’t try to smile for ALL photographs

“Bones of the old cemetery St. Laurent deposited in 1848 in the western ossuary and transferred in September 1859”

A collapsed cross

“They were what we are, dust, toys of the wind; Fragile as men. Weak as the nether!”

Winding our way around

Don’t let the expression fool you, Anna thoroughly enjoyed it, but just thought this look was a little more appropriate

Continuing either side of a supporting pillar

Random arrangement

A skull bearing torture scars

The amount of effort that went into arranging the remains of six million bodies is staggering

Dick move example #1

A pile of bones beneath an inscription too small to translate

“M.D. bones of St. Laurent Church filed on April 17, 1873”

Still making our way through

“Bones of the Old Cemetery of the Magdalen (street of the city Leveque No. 1 and 2) deposited in 1844 in the ossuary of the west and transferred in the catacombs in September 1850”

Approaching the end

Dick move example #2

The piece de resistance

A little bit of trivia: Scenes from Will Smith’s upcoming film, Gemini Man, appear to have been filmed in the catacombs, although it was more than likely just a set.

Anyway, after the catacombs we had dinner with some of Anna’s colleagues and then went out until the wee hours of the morning to avoid sleeping too much; we had to catch an early flight in a few hours that, due to timezones, would arrive at almost the exact same time in Vancouver, and then we would need to rush to a wedding so we wanted to sleep as much as we could on the plane. But that story is the basis of my next post so stay tuned for Part 2!

Oh, and I just wanted to say that while we were touring the catacombs, I could help but smile as I thought of this classic Michiel Sweerts piece, Self-Portrait with Skull, circa 1660:

It was tempting… (Image source)

The first leg of a trip that would have us covering a lot of distance over a relatively short time The annual Euretina Congress was upon us again and this year it was to be held in Paris, France.

[kiamaartgallery]

  Detail from Henri Rousseau, Surprised! 1891

  Artist Henri Rousseau (1844 – 1910) used a mix of zoological, museum and artistic sources, combined with a strong imagination, to bring exotic locations and wildlife to life.

Rousseau worked as a toll (tax) collector in Paris and had no formal training in art. As a result, his style is considered to be ‘naïve‘ but he is also considered to be a symbolist artist because of the dreamlike quality of a number of his works.

He never left France, but gave the impression that he had travelled to foreign places and had served in the military in the jungles of Mexico. In fact, during his term of military service he had met soldiers who had survived the French expedition to Mexico (1862–65) in support of Emperor Maximilian, and he listened with fascination to their recollections. Their descriptions of the subtropical country were most likely to be the first inspiration for the exotic landscapes that later became one of his major themes. 

When he painted such subjects, such as The Sleeping Gypsy, he worked from his observations at les Jardins de Paris  which contained botanical gardens, a zoo, and natural history museum. The flora and fauna on display there inspired much of the lush and exotic imagery seen in his jungle paintings. 

Stuffed animal specimens constituted a large portion of its collections – there were some 23,000 bird and 6,000 mammal species on view. Placed in glass display cabinets, they were often positioned in dramatic poses, based both on nature and sculptural tradition.

Rousseau also copied other artists’ paintings at the Louvre as well prints from books.

Henri Rousseau, The Sleeping Gypsy, 1897

Rousseau’s Tigers

Henri Rousseau, Surprised, 1891

  Surprised! (or Tiger in a Tropical Storm) was painted by Rousseau in 1891 and was the first of his jungle paintings. It shows a tiger, illuminated by a flash of lightning, preparing to pounce on its prey in the midst of a raging gale. 

The tiger’s prey is beyond the edge of the canvas, so is it left to the imagination of the viewer to decide what the outcome will be, although Rousseau’s original title Surprised! suggests the tiger has the upper hand. Rousseau later stated that the tiger was about to pounce on a group of explorers. Despite their apparent simplicity, Rousseau’s jungle paintings were built up meticulously in layers, using a large number of green shades to capture the lush exuberance of the jungle. He also devised his own method for depicting the lashing rain by trailing strands of silver paint diagonally across the canvas, a technique inspired by the satin-like finishes of the paintings of William-Adolphe Bouguereau.

At this time Parisians was captivated by exotic and dangerous subjects, such as the perceived savagery of animals and peoples of distant lands. Tigers on the prowl had been the subject of an exhibition at the 1885 École des Beaux-Arts and Rousseau’s tiger may have been derived from the drawings and paintings of Eugène Delacroix.

Eugene Delacroix, Royal Tiger, 1829

Unable to have a painting accepted by the jury of the Academie de Peinture et de Sculpture because he had not been formally trained, Rousseau exhibited the painting under the title Surpris!, at the Salon des Indépendants where it received mixed reviews.

Although Surprised! brought him some recognition, and he continued to exhibit his work annually at the Salon des Indépendants, Rousseau didn’t return to the jungle theme for another seven years, with the exhibition of Struggle for Life (now lost) at the 1898 Salon.

Responses to his work hadn’t changed.  Following this exhibition, one critic wrote, “Rousseau continues to express his visions on canvas in implausible jungles… grown from the depths of a lake of absinthe, he shows us the bloody battles of animals escaped from the wooden-horse-maker“. *

Another five years passed before his next jungle scene was painted: Scouts Attacked by a Tiger (1904). The tiger appears in several more of his paintings: Tiger Hunt (c. 1895), in which humans are the predators; Jungle with Buffalo Attacked by a Tiger (1908); and Fight Between a Tiger and a Buffalo (1908).

Henri Rousseau, Fight between a tiger and a Buffalo, 1908

Henri Rousseau, Tiger Hunt, c1895

Henri Rousseau, Scout attacked by a Tiger, 1904

Henri Rousseau, The Hungry Lion Throws itself on the Antelope, 1905

  In 1905 Rousseau was invited to exhibit at the Salon d’Automne where his painting The Hungry Lion (1905) was hung in the same room as the works of the group of avant-garde painters known as the Fauves.  The critics now began to speak of Rousseau in a positive light, and artists such as Matisse, Picasso and Robert Delauney expressed admiration for his style.

 Ambroise Vollard, the most important dealer in modern paintings in Paris at the time, bought Surprised! and two other works from Rousseau, who had offered them at a rate considerably higher than the 190 francs he finally received. 

* Morris, Frances and Christopher Green, eds. (2006 [2005]). Henri Rousseau: Jungles in Paris. New York: Abrams

One of the things I really enjoy about Rousseau’s paintings is his use of colour, which works so well to create atmosphere. In particular you can see how he has used many shades of green (green is not any easy colour for artists to work with)  to great effect, and I think this is one of the reasons why his art is so enduring. If you like Rousseau’s work, what do you find most captivating?

 This blog is just a short excerpt from my art history e-course, Introduction to Modern European Art  which is designed for adult learners and students of art history. 

This interactive program covers the period from Romanticism right through to Abstract Art, with sections on the Bauhaus and School of Paris,  key Paris exhibitions, both favourite and less well known artists and their work, and information about colour theory and key art terms. Lots of interesting stories, videos and opportunities to undertake exercises throughout the program.

If you’d like to see some of the  Australian artwork you’ll find in my gallery, scroll down to the bottom of the page. You’ll also find many French works on paper and beautiful fashion plates from the early 1900s by visiting the gallery.

            Henri Rousseau – Tigers and Imagination   Artist Henri Rousseau (1844 - 1910) used a mix of zoological, museum and artistic sources, combined with a strong imagination, to bring exotic locations and wildlife to life.