#i tried a while ago doing something art nouveau style but i didn’t really get there!

[banancrumbs]

Hilda Furacão 😌☝️

(i just watched some parts on tiktok but AS A BRAZILIAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ITS MY OBLIGATION!!)

[feralrosie]

Fairy Lights

Hewwo @damagecontroldumortain happy (late) valentine’s day! I’m sorry it took so long, but here’s your @loveinwayhaven gift ♥ hope you like it!

The Wayhaven Chronicles Adam/Janey (F!Detective) Words: 2600 Rating: G Tags: Fluff, lots of fluff; Valentine’s day Read on AO3

On second thought, maybe she was the one delivering spring to that place.

**

It took them a little over one hour to arrive at the botanical garden just outside Wayhaven, although Detective Kingston insisted that they could have done it in less time, if it was not for Adam’s careful driving. Of course, he was very confident in his own skills, but it was the reckless attitudes of humans on the road that could endanger this trip—mission. That could endanger this mission.

“You know that I’m going to drive on the way back, right?” Janey joked as soon as they parked by the gates of the garden, where vines intertwined along the fences, chipping the white paint to expose the coppery colour of the metal underneath.

“I am far more qualified to drive. I have better reflexes, sight and training.” His tone was as stiff as his muscles, button-down shirt marking every line of his chest as he turned off the Agency’s SUV. “And besides, a vehicle this size is too big for you. You wouldn’t reach the pedals.” 

“How dare—” 

“Let’s get going.” A hint of a smile formed on his lips as he pushed his aviators up the curve of his nose and got out of the car. Was fast enough to walk around it and open the door for the woman, offering a hand for support as she jumped out of it. “Mind your step,” he mumbled, but her attention was already focused on the garden ahead. 

Despite the ancient appearance of its entrance, the place itself was impeccable. A path of cobblestone, with no signs of moss, guided the guests among thousands of trees, contouring an icy lake in the middle of the park. The woods, dark and imposing, also had trails of its own, winding through in irregular shapes. In a bright late afternoon such as this one, the scene was idyllic. The sun leaked through the canopies, trying to deliver life to the garden, but meeting the silent landscape of dormant bushes and leafless trunks covered in glittering snow instead. Only the pine trees tried their best to add some colour with strokes of dark green reaching the clear blue sky.

Must have been a gift for the garden to welcome the deep red of Janey’s hair among them. Adam noticed, as she led the way in front of him, how contrasting she was to the scenery, bursting with life and colour. Even the soft breeze that danced around them and waved her locks seemed to agree that whatever beauty nature had was no match for her.

“Alright,” Janey clapped her hands while turning on her heels to face the Agent, pulling him back from his thoughts in a startle. “What are we looking for, exactly? What do we need for this mission?” 

Ah, yes, the mission. It was more like a simple task, really. Recently, a lesser kingdom of fairies took residence in Wayhaven, attracted by the Detective’s powerful presence, but even a small town like that could overwhelm such tiny creatures, and so the Agency needed to find another place for them. 

“The Firefly Fairies will need a place safe from humans,” Adam stated, wrapping his coat around his torso and crossing his arms. “But it must also be a place safe from this weather. Perhaps somewhere distant from the pathway.” 

She agreed with a simple nod, and in no time they were walking side by side into the woods. If it was just her body heat or something else, Adam could not tell, but the cold was not so harsh next to her. Maybe this was the reason for the fairy kingdom being drawn to her in the first place; she felt comfortable and welcoming to everyone with her charm and friendly personality. It was impossible to not let yourself be engulfed by someone like her, and Adam wasn’t the only one who felt like that… Right?

“I must apologise, Detective.” He broke the silence between them after a few minutes, not because it made him uneasy, but quite the opposite. Janey aimed a puzzled look at him, waiting for him to proceed. “Surely I impeded other plans you must have had for today.” 

“What do you mean?”  

“It is Valentine’s Day, is it not?” The words almost got stuck in the back of his throat, suddenly dry. “I believe many consider this to be a special date.”

“Oh.” The sound escaped from her lips, and Adam couldn’t help but to look at her for just a moment. Her heart was beating a little faster, which explained the rosy colour forming on her cheeks—delicate and unexpected, but not slightly fragile. “Don’t worry, I didn’t have any plans.”

“Hard to believe—” 

“And even if I had,” she bursted, shoving her hands inside the pockets of her jacket. Their gaze met for such a brief moment that he thought he imagined it when those light brown eyes faced the path ahead once more. “I would rather spend the afternoon with you, anyway.”

He came to a halt, as if the words had taken him off balance. The idea of inviting her to spend a couple hours with him, not for a mission but for leisure, was not new, and crossed his mind multiple times (it was, what, the third time that week?), but the implications that Janey might actually have accepted if he asked sent a wave of electricity down this chest. Could it be that she also noticed the date on the calendar and agreed to come along in this foolish mission because of him? 

True that her presence was everything Adam had in mind when preparing for it. He was hoping that she would accompany him to this botanical garden, under the excuse that she, as a Wayhaven citizen, had been there before and could guide them better. But he was an agent and had a job to do. No matter how much she instilled wonderful and alarming new sensations in him, he should focus on the task ahead.

“How about this place?” Janey was a few meters away, and Adam didn’t have to force his feet to reach her. She was pointing at a lonely oak tree, large enough to accommodate a house for humans. A kingdom of fairies would fit there just as well, except… 

“This tree is in a clearing,” he said, resting his hands on his hips and taking a look around the place. “They would prefer a denser area, with more flowers.”

“What about that one?” 

Adam’s gaze followed where she was pointing, taking its time to also notice that she was not wearing any gloves. Felt an urge to hold her hands, take them closer to his lips and blow gently a warm breath to provide her just a glimpse of the comfort she brought him. 

“Adam?” He might have taken too long admiring her fingers, and when Janey called again, the icy green eyes finally landed on their next destination.

A greenhouse on the other side of the park.

“Worth assessing the place. Lead the way.” 

Janey’s subtle frown, followed by an amused smile also did not pass unnoticed. Adam knew she was studying him, from the way he talked to how close he was to her—that’s how Janey was, always attentive to people, always curious—and should probably have figured out he was acting different. His mind was not where it should be, and it was showing. 

So much so that Adam couldn’t even describe the landscape on their way to the greenhouse. As they crossed the garden, only the sound of Janey’s voice asking questions about the fairies would take shape in his memory. Her voice, and the feeling of their elbows touching here and there occasionally, fluttering the rhythm of their breaths.

The last rays of sunlight had sunken down behind the trees by the time they arrived at the greenhouse. The place was enormous, made entirely of glass and decorated with an iron structure painted in white in art nouveau style. The rounded edges and curvaceous geometry felt organic, as if the building was a living part of the garden, housing an astonishing amount of plants like a nursery. Adam had to take off his aviators to take a proper look at the explosion of colours and shapes of every single bloom, realising in a second that Janey didn’t have the same advantage. 

“Well, it’s dark here.” She pointed out, pursing her lips while looking up as if to check for the lightbulbs. “Weird that there’s no one here. I was expecting some couples, or at least the scientists that work here.” 

I’m glad there is no one else here, Adam wished to say, but instead he followed the obvious, most logical response, “It is already late to be so far away from the city. Everyone must have left a few hours ago.” 

He searched for the switch, a small thing hidden behind a bush by the front doors, and turned the lights on. Expected to see the usual fluorescent white from the Facility, but watched as hundreds of tiny yellowish spots popped to life all around them, bathing the greenhouse in warmth. Strings of fairy lights followed a design like the canvas of a tent from the external walls to the central piece: a weeping willow tree, so tall that its canopy filled the space of one of the three glass domes on the roof. 

Upon reaching the tree, the lights seemed to transform into vines, embracing the branches and falling along the dangling leaves like a waterfall. There was no magic in the entire botanical garden, but the look in Janey’s eyes as she admired the images around said otherwise, as if Adam had just brought her spring itself as a gift. He might just have, if such a thing was possible.

“Will this be enough for them?” Janey asked, voice low and smooth, lost in the glittering lights.

“For whom?” Adam returned, lost in the shine of her eyes. 

“The fairies, of course.” And she giggled while approaching him, suddenly locking her gaze on his. “What else do they need?”

“Well, they have enough water and flowers here,” his feet moved by an unconscious desire, “There is shelter from the external weather and…” he swallowed hard, unsure if he should continue but, eventually, he did, "A lot of space for partying." 

“Partying?” 

“They are known for hosting week-long dances. Love to drink and to waltz.” 

“I never really learned how to waltz.” Janey’s voice was only a whisper, eyes drifting away from Adam’s and reflecting the hundreds of lights around. He, however, was not paying attention to anything else but her and the way her lips curled up, almost in slow motion, overflowing with warmth. On second thought, maybe she was the one delivering spring to that place. “Must be wonderful to see.”

“Truly beautiful.” Not even Adam could conceal what he meant. He had no interest in the practices and lifestyle of fairies or of any other creature, and despite being an admirer of arts, it was clear that something else was marvelling him. Someone else. His breath of confession drew her back to him, and disarmed by hypnosis, he bursted, “Would you like to try?”

“What?” She took another step closer, graceful as a ballerina.

“Waltz.” Words seemed to tangle on each other before leaving his lips. “With me.” 

From the moment he suggested going on that mission, Adam had done nothing but improvise. All the control he kept for over nine hundred years was slipping through his fingers, he could not think strategically anymore, and it was infuriating how he could not—simply could not—keep himself away from the detective. She was a fire burning inside of him and he should be turning to ashes by now. And yet there he was, surrounded by light and that warmth that was not coming just from her body heat. 

He waited for an answer, pursing his lips in a thin line, questioning his careless attitudes, feeling like his chest was about to set alight, and—

“Yes. I would love to.” 

A sigh of relief came from both parts, tension crumbling like a sand castle. If Adam was going to be that reckless, then so be it. 

He ventured forth, right hand falling featherlight on Janey’s waist. She held his other hand, resting her palm on his and falling into his arms completely. Not once they took their gazes out of each other, eyes heavy-lidded when Adam began to lead them in circles carefully, slowly, like she was made of crystal. Terrified of breaking her. 

It was nothing close to the waltz of the royal palaces of Vienna during the New Years, and much less to the Russian ballet, but still nothing felt wrong. Janey was tiny compared to him, his large hand spread almost entirely over her upper back, but it was her delicate fingers pressing into his shoulder that made him feel safe. The way she would not shy away from him, how she would spin on her axis every time he stretched out his arms just to pull her back closer and closer, was like magic of its own. Perhaps he was enchanted. She could have bewitched him. Or maybe, just maybe, it was something else. Something he was afraid of saying out loud, of letting it take form, but undeniably something he could not, would not, control. 

Their feet moved together with remarkable precision, as if the spring of the greenhouse itself choreographed their movements, and even the floor felt softer. Janey slipped her fingers up to his neck, brushing his skin and leaving a tingling sensation before resting on his nape. A shiver ran up his spine, sharp enough for her to feel the dark blond hairs rising. 

Their dance concluded slowly when Adam bowed down, holding her firmly in his arms as if laying her gently on a mattress of clouds. Janey held on to him, trusting him entirely, and didn’t let go afterwards. With no one to witness, their world felt silent, existing only in each other’s embrace. Adam saw when her lips parted just enough, hesitant, getting closer, increasing the thundering sound, trying to tear open her chest like a war drum so powerful that it could make him dizzy.

“Do you hear my heartbeat?” she whispered, eyes locked on his.

“Yes.” 

“Can I listen to yours, too?”

“Yes...” 

Janey wrapped both arms around his neck and rested her head on his chest, nose tip carefully fondling his sternum. Only then, with her cheek pressed against his white shirt, Adam realised that the drumming of hearts was a duet. His own perfectly synchronised to hers, still dancing, and he couldn’t help but to wrap his arms around her as well. In a garden of blooms, they formed a bud—secret, beautiful and new. He wished to stay in spring, with her, forever.

Alas, they were both ripped apart from dreaming when a too-loud bzzt bzzt emerged from the agent’s pocket. Distracted by each other, both rushed to untangle themselves quicker than their blood could colour their faces. Adam turned on his heels, reaching for the damn phone and answering the call.

“Commanding Agent du Mortain.” 

“Adam, it's Nate. I’ve been trying to call for a while, is everything ok?” 

A deep sigh left his lungs, “Yes, Nate. Everything is fine.”

“Are you still with Janey? Did you find a good place?”

He looked over his shoulder, gaze meeting Janey’s again. A shy grin on her rosy cheeks invited him to smile too, and so he did.

“Yes, Nate. I believe we found the perfect place.” 

[elsarah]

Favorite clips of s5

Thank you so much @smblmn​ for tagging me, I love the idea! While the season as a whole was kinda underwhelming, it was full of amazing clips and I do have a lot of favorites. Here’s my top 10 and a few honorable mentions. I tend to have one favorite clip by episode, except for episode 8, which I REALLY didn't like. I didn't rank my picks, I'll just list them chronologically.

And since I didn't have the opportunity this season, I'm also making gifs to illustrate my picks :) I need the practice, as you can see.

Ep.1: Samedi 0:25 - Le choc

One of my favorite things this season has been the symbolism and the metaphors around sound and silence. In the first episode, there were 2 occurrences: Arthur seeing Noée for the first time underwater at the pool and him looking in the street as snow falls and slowly realizing he's gone deaf. I thought this was an amazing idea and that it gave disability more depth and beauty.

And that look at the camera in the last seconds… And the piano music… It was so chilling.

Ep. 2: Jeudi 20:59 - La nuit de

Globally, the scenes at the association were my favorites, even though I have a complicated relationship with them. Before shooting started in October, someone from the crew promised they would invite me on set during the filming of these scenes, but they ended up breaking their promise. I try to be as drama free as possible on the internet so I didn’t talk about it publicly but now that the season has ended I’m like “Why should I bottle this up, I’m not the the one who screwed up and I’m still hurt about it”.

The first time I watched that clip in January, I was heartbroken. Not just because of the missed opportunity but because I realised I never got to experience what Arthur did; there was no association for me, no one. But I still have a really soft spot for this scene because it's just gorgeous. The aesthetic is incredible and I totally understand what Arthur feels (minus the alcohol). Overall, as bittersweet as it is, it's probably one of my top 3 scenes this season (and it looks like it's one of David's too, this man has great taste). I can’t help but feel for the teenager I was and I wonder how I would have felt watching it then.

Ep.3: Vendredi 13:12 - Check de frérot

Arthur and Basile's friendship was one of the highlights of this season, heck Basile WAS the highlight of this season. Basile and Arthur never shy away from hugs and I'm living for it. I'm so looking forward to see more of Basile in season 6 (since I guess we'll see more of his relationship with Daphné). I loved seeing him be so well-intentioned, despite his usual clumsiness. Seeing Paul in a more serious register (for instance when Arthur lashed out at the boys in episode 6) was delightful.

Ep 4.: Lundi 19:02 - Les entendants

This one also belongs in my top 3. This is the representation I was looking for when I learned Skam France would tackle hearing loss and deafness. It doesn't come in the same package for everybody, and I love that they tried to show it through so many different characters. The situations described here are universal among deaf people.

On a more personal note, I loved that the extras were actual deaf people and sone of them well known. The lady interpreting is Jennifer Lesage-David, co-director at IVT, and she helped David and Niels a lot this season. And the girl speaking about her relationship with her dad is Lulu, she has a YouTube channel with her sister where they raise awareness about hearing loss. The instagram post that was published that day also featured a lot of people I more or less know.

Watching this clip was an experience in itself. I was attending a conference that night about deaf TV archives. The clip dropped 2 minutes before it started and I had to wait for it to end to finally watch. It was excruciating. Also, half the staff of IVT was there and I actually ended up watching the clip in front them. There were like "Wait? Jennifer was in Skam?".

Ep.4: Vendredi 20:43 - Ma vie a changé

While I'm still sceptical about Noée falling in love with Arthur so quickly (this sign song is unambiguous), I think this is one of the most beautiful scenes in the whole series. I don't care very much about this being romantically coded, I just choose to focus on the sign song, because I'm so happy they featured deaf visual arts.

My friend and I spent hours trying to decipher what the song could be about and our interpretation differed a lot from Winona's original text but we loved doing this. David was curious to see how my friend would understand it (especially the part where Noée signs a growing love which she cradles) and he was so happy when she understood it right.

For those interested, here’s what we interpreted (roughly translated into English):

Like two souls lost in the storm, Swayed by the tide, Never really seeing each other Until ours eyes meet. Something is growing inside me, something new, That sets my heart beating. You take off my mask and the truth in your eyes, Fills my heart. Look at me, I also see you.

Ep.6: Mercredi 18:31 - Un simple bout de métal

Also one of the scenes I was expecting the most this season, especially when it transpired that Noée was a bit radical. Her letter echoes my own fears and I thought it was really on point. Arthur admitting he needs her made my heart melt, he's so lucky to have met her. And Winona was amazing in that clip.

Ep.7: Vendredi 20:31 - Sourd dating

Just like for "Un simple bout de metal", I was also expecting that scene. I like that they made Noée and Camille voice their opinion like both faces of the same coin. It was a great way to address cochlear implants as they're a sensitive topic in the deaf community. I think this is one of the most shining example of the research work they did. They could have just stopped at Noée’s letter. But since they had deaf actors like Lucas, who is also implanted and has faced prejudices from radical Deaf people in the past, they had to show implants were not evil and that the situation was more complex than just “Doctors who want to act as gods”.

Learning Noée’s backstory was also interesting, although I didn’t expect her to be an "ex-implanted" deaf. She explains that she learned sign language at the association, which can't be more than 3-4 years ago (and if you look closely in ep 3, when Arthur checks the website, she says she joined the association at its beginning), but there's no way Noée would have that proficiency in sign language in just 4 years of practice. Winona's fluency in sign language is clearly that of someone who grew up with it. I loved being able to notice these subtleties.

Like all the clips at the association, it was a joy to watch because of the atmosphere and the sign language. The deaf extras were lovely. I actually got to meet a few of them last month and had an amazing time with them.

Ep.9: Vendredi 20:17 - Choisir pour toi

Coline. singing. Do I need to say more? I like that both Noée and Alexia had their shining moment and as clumsy as the story got, I appreciate that the writers didn't try to pin one girl against the other and make one superior. Noée had her sign song and Alexia her own composition. And both were breathtaking. What really gets me in this scene are the colors. I'm a sucker for aesthetics.

And of course, it was great to see Alexia stand her ground and break up with Arthur. I have nothing but respect for her and I'm team Alexia + happiness all the way.

Ep.10: Lundi 10:04 - La même vie que vous

When Melchior, Laura and the brochure subplot was introduced, I was a bit wary because their introduction scene was really, really awkward (it wasn't very well tied at first). By their second scene, at Arthur's place, I was sold. It was great to address accessibility and show that there's no point putting people with disabilities in the same bag, because there are hundreds of them and the needs are different. What doesn't change is our wish to live our life at the fullest, just like abled people. And this scene was precious. Seeing Arthur endorse this new part of him and support his peers was everything.

Ep.10: Vendredi 20:47 - Le meilleur des mondes

I'm still very emotional about this scene. Like… I don't know what to say, the music still sends shivers down my spine.

Honorable mentions :

Ep.1: Mardi 11:59 - 3, 2, 1,…

One of the only things Robin told me about the season when I met him at IVT was that the first clip would drop on New Year's Eve at 11:59 p.m.. That date became a beacon during fall and oh you wouldn't believe how much I waited for that clip to drop and how much I was looking forward to it. And it freaking delivered. The atmosphere, the tense music, that first shot on the loudspeaker, the confetti clogging it gradually… That teaser was a masterpiece.

Ep.2: Like… the whole episode actually. The alarm clock concept was genius.

Ep.4: Samedi 10:15 - Nouveau style

One of these gorgeous clips without dialogues that still say lots.

Ep.5: Samedi 10:03 - Maîtriser le langage

Oh my, this one was so relatable and a joy to watch. Camille explaining that sign language and mimes are different, Arthur being that dimwit asking about swear words and being told off for speaking… Kuddos to the deaf extras who had to pretend they didn't know any sign language, it was so funny (looking at you, Enzo).

Ep.6: Samedi 8:30 - Mythos

Seeing Arthur lashing out at his friends was cathartic. He roasted them so well, I wished I had his ability to speak so well when I'm angry. A+ work.

Ep.6: Dimanche 14:41 - Envie de rien

Alexia being the real MVP, as always.

Ep.7: Samedi 2:15 - Pool Party

It’s strange, because even though a lot of the story went down in this particular episode, it must be one of my favorites, like… tied with episode 2. It has probably a lot to do with the fact there were mostly deaf characters and that they had so much fun together. It’s something I can relate do, the sheer joy of signing the night away, which is something I didn’t get to experience until very recently.

As gorgeous as the underwater scene is, I'm not a fan of Noée and Arthur's almost kiss. I picked this scene because I love the moment of sheer joy that follows; everyone joining in the pool and having fun together. And of course the rise of Camika. I know it's a bit convoluted to have the two openly gay guys fall for each other first time they meet but… it just worked so well.

Ep.9: Mercredi 21:34 - Frère

This clip was about to make the top 10 cut when I remembered about another one and I had to remove it. Just Basile being lovely Basile.

Ep.9: Jeudi 17:30 - T'es pas tout seul

This clip was so important, bless the nurse and bless Jérôme. I wish Jérôme was my audiologist, to be honest.

Ep.10: Samedi 13:39 - Maman

Arthur's mom was so lovely and I'm so sorry she had to go through this shit with her trashcan of a husband. I liked her relationship with her son and her reassuring him he's not like his father was very soothing. I wasn’t the biggest fan of Arthur at the end of this season and I appreciate he’s well looked after after what he went through.

Ep.10: Jeudi 17:46 - Recommencer

Just like "Nouveau style" from ep 4, it's another one of these silent clips that has lots of meaning. Arthur putting back his glasses, slowly accepting his life won't be the same and that he has to move on. Except now things are clearer. Skam France love its symbolism and while sometimes it's very poorly done (like the love triangle emphasizing on Arthur's balancing between two worlds), more often than not it's very compelling.

Now I want to rewatch everything, so see you soon I guess :)

[genyatta-ss]

that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam

from @kaldurrr:

Hey @knisspel! I was so super stoked that you requested sentai au because I’ve been thinking about it p much everyday since it came out. Particularly this one scene that was always stuck in my mind where Zenyatta (a huge fan) after having met Genji (an officiated “marketing agent” for Kamen Dragon’s PR team, think a la Tiger & Bunny) is somehow forced to address the very large infatuation in the room and introduce his new, Totally Normal boyfriend to his huge collection of merch for a superhero whom he may also have a flirty rapport with for the past ten years.

Genji is, for obvious reasons, delighted by all this.

(Oh and in this they’re both in their 30s but that’s not super important, just that I like imagining Genji with greying hair and thinking of settling down with a cute guy.)

I really hope you like it!

—–

Zenyatta doesn’t actually think about what he and Genji might be walking into when they breach the door to his apartment. It’s actually sort of hard to think at all when a beautiful man has his mouth on yours and is kissing you like his life depends on it. From there they stumbled their way across his living room, ricocheting off of furniture, hands reaching to pet and paw at bruises and to feel skin they’ve both been aching for these past few months.

  Zenyatta isn’t thinking when they finally crash through his bedroom door in a flurry of giggles, not when they collapse in a heap on his bed, not when they collide semi-painfully with each other and kiss to make it all better.

  No, he doesn’t stop to think at all, not until Genji moves south along his body, mouthing against his clavicle, “I can’t believe this is happening,” and Zenyatta, feeling like he’s full of divine light, wraps his arms around this beautiful man’s shoulders and looks, looks up at his ceiling and sees–

  “Oh god!”

  Genji is off him in the instant, one arm twisting behind his back as if to reach for something, his face changing instantly from warm affection to steely fury as his eyes jump from Zenyatta below him to whatever’s above them.

  “What is–” Whatever Genji is about to say falls silent. How else would a suitor respond when gazing up at 24 x 36 inch glossy-print of pissfig’s infamous Kamen Dragon “unsuited” design, illuminated sensuously by an official KD merchandise lamp.

  “Oh my god.”

  “Oh my god,” repeats Zenyatta as he curls up into a ball, using a Kamen Rider dakimura as a shield for what is currently happening in his bedroom.

  Actually, that’s a terrible idea. He tosses the body pillow to the floor, safe side up, where Genji can’t possibly see it.

  Genji is still gazing up at the poster with an odd look on his face. “Is that…m–” He stops himself, mouth opening and closing silently as he takes it all in.

  “Please stop looking at it.”

  “How can I not? It’s huge.” He finally does look away from it, intending to look Zenyatta in the eye for added effect but is then distracted by…. everything else in the room. “Oh my god.”

  Zenyatta decides then that he will live out his days under his bed covers and wait for his brother to come fetch the embarrassing, heartbroken shell of himself when he doesn’t show up for any of their biweekly lunches.

  From under the covers, he can feel Genji sliding off the bed and padding around the room. There’s a click just before the lights flicker on and Genji whistles.

  Zenyatta knows what he’s seeing. On the walls left and right of the bed, heavy-duty shelves have been installed from ceiling to floor in order to store the sheer volume of a decade’s worth of Kamen Dragon paraphernalia. He likes to order the left wall as the site of all merchandise, such as action figures, while the right side has the dedicated projects of all the artists he’s met over the years with all…. sorts…. of lovely takes on everyone’s favorite masked hero. The wall directly opposite his bed was papered in commemorative t-shirts and posters, the floor decoratively littered with plushies and throw pillows with the hero’s face stamped on them.

  “Zen, how old is this?”

  Zenyatta peeks out from under the covers and sees Genji pointing at a fan-made decorated stand where the artist had done an art nouveau inspired take on Kamen Dragon’s earliest armor, the chrome build on synthetic skin body armor with the green LED running lights.

  Zenyatta pulls the covers back over his head.

  “I found it at a fan event about a week after Kamen Dragon had first introduced himself to the public.”

  “…Your shit is ten years old?”

  The covers are flung off as Zenyatta launches himself across the room at Genji.

  “It is not shit, my collection is very important to me–”

  Genji’s hands are already flying up in a gesture of surrender and placation. “Wrong word. I actually think this incredibly impressive. Kinda overwhelming? But mostly impressive.” He smiles, the same warm, delighted smile he’s always given him since they had met all those months ago, like an old friend seeing their other after so long. “I think it’s really cool how much dedication you’ve put into this.”

  Zenyatta nearly collapses where he stands, his hands coming up to cover his eyes and cradle his face. “My brother would very kindly disagree with you.”

  Genji gently pries away his hands, forcing him to look him in the eye before he asks, “Is that why you didn’t ever want me over?”

  “It’s also because my brother only recently moved out, but yes. My brother has also told me in several different ways that if I ever wanted to be serious with you, I either had to tell you about my…. pre-occupation or throw out everything completely.”

  Genji falls over with laughter.

  “It’s not funny! Kamen Dragon’s marketing agent tracks me down after years of not living in Japan just for a documentary piece, whom I actually start to admire and like romantically and, and–”

  “And?” Genji’s smirk is devilish as he waits for whatever comes next.

  “Be honest,“ he dodges. "How would you feel if the person you wanted to date might also bring a camera crew to show the entire world how long I’ve been in love with–” Zenyatta shuts his mouth tight and Genji’s face goes slack.

  “Holy shit.”

  “No. No, no. Genji, I-I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Genji falls to the floor in tears and laughter. “Holy shit!”

  Zenyatta shoves him towards the door. “I can’t do this. Goodnight, Mr. Shimada.”

  “Wait, wait.” Genji twists in his arms and pushes back against any more shoves. “Just wait! I wanna know one thing and I swear I won’t laugh.”

  He, unfortunately, giggles at Zenyatta’s disbelieving look.

  “I swear–I just.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and when it’s over he looks as serious as he ever has. Or as serious as a half-dressed man standing in a room of fan merchandise can look.

  Genji cups Zenyatta’s face, stroking along his cheekbone. “If Kamen Dragon appeared before you right now, confessing his love, would you leave him for me?”

  “Out.”

  Genji howls with laughter, hanging onto the door frame as Zenyatta tries to shove him over the threshold.

  “I’m sorry, I had to!”

  “No, you didn’t,” Zenyatta says, stepping on Genji’s exposed toes with his heel. “And you know what? I’d consider it.”

  “Wait,” and now he sounds wounded, pulling back just far enough to get a good look at him. For a man in his thirties with hair going grey, he looks frustratingly adorable with a pout. “You’re just saying that because I’m being a dick.”

  “Yes, you are and no, I mean it. Kamen Dragon was probably my first love, as strange as that may sound. You said it yourself when we first met, who wouldn’t be charmed by a masked hero who saves them on almost a weekly basis?”

  “I–”

  “When I was living alone in Japan, there was a time I felt Kamen Dragon was my only friend. And as infrequent as our meetings and run-ins were, he was always charming and gentlemanly. He was adventurous and bold and kind and when we talked late into the night I sometimes felt I knew how deep his heart was.”

  Genji stares at him with an unreadable expression as he gestures at the risque poster above the bed. “I’ll admit it wasn’t an entirely pure feeling. Meeting a man with those shoulders and that voice at nineteen? I didn’t want to put that in your documentary.”

  Zenyatta walked over to the fan merch wall and plucked a keychain from a stand, something made with acrylic and glitter. “But I was also proud of him. For rousing together an entire city against a mob that had held it hostage for centuries and for protecting it even when outside forces tried to rush into the power vacuum. He did it with such style and grace–Genji, you’ve met him. You must know what it’s like.”

  Genji hardly seemed reactive but he responded eventually with, “What’s what like?”

  “Just–him,” Zenyatta gestures grandly as if the whole encompassment would explain everything that Kamen Dragon is.

  “If your first love, the person you’ve thought about for the past decade, came before you and said they’ve felt anything remotely similar to what you have held for them all these years, wouldn’t you stop to consider it as well?”

  Genji didn’t respond to that, staring at Zenyatta as if he’d never seen him before. Which made him feel terrible because this was not how he wanted Genji to find out just how far he’s come to admire his superpowered client.

  “That doesn’t mean,” Zenyatta tries to start, approaching Genji again. “That I would run off with him just like that. I would need more than rooftop chats from years ago and memories of running for my life when terrorist organizations tried to have him and anyone near him killed. I want–”

  He slips his hand into Genji’s and it lights his heart when the man automatically squeezes it tightly, intertwining their fingers together.

  “I want this. You. Every day or almost every day when you’re not busy. I want to text you when you’re not there or think about you when I can’t and yet be able to count on seeing you later. I want to talk about where we’re going and see your face and not wonder if–”

  Zenyatta has never been kissed so gently before.

  Genji takes his time with it, holding Zenyatta’s face like it’s something precious, mouth traveling from his and across his cheeks, around his eyes, and down the slope of his nose. He comes back to kiss him on the mouth, slow and deep and so, so gently before pulling away slightly.

  “Tekhartha Zenyatta…”

  There’s something I need to tell you.

[ripstocking]

Philadelphia: The night before our interview, Denise Scott Brown called. ‘Hello, Amelia’, she said, ‘This is Denise Scott Brown’. She hoped I didn’t mind her phoning so late, but was I driving from New York to Philadelphia? Which roads would I take? There’s a café she likes in town; could we break for lunch? And had I seen The Garden of the Finzi-Continis? It might help me envisage her garden. Denise is, as they say, formidable. She is considered one of the most influential architects and planners in recent history, known for developing a theory and practice of postmodern architecture that emphasised pop vernacular and urbanist strategies as critical concerns. Her work permeated broader culture in a way such things rarely do; many who don’t know or care about design or city planning have learned from Learning from Las Vegas, the first survey of Las Vegas’ strip urbanism, co-authored by Denise and her husband, Bob Venturi, in 1972. Denise lives with Bob, Grant (their 20-year-old ‘handyperson’), and Aalto the dog in an art nouveau-style house at the end of a cul-de-sac. Inside, constellations of form and pattern cover every surface. Although Denise no longer formally practises architecture, she remains prolific. Her digital slideshows combine her own work with found images of CT scans and Paul Klee paintings in associative digital fields communicating complex arguments about activity and structure. ‘They used to say you can’t learn anything past age 30’, she said. ‘But I say the great lessons in life are in your old age. You have to learn or you won’t survive’. Most of this interview took place as I trailed Denise around her garden, which stretches behind the house on a gentle slope. Like everything she creates, the garden is a nuanced yet intuitive construction of space, on which Denise is perennially and fervently at work. How did you find this house? Driving to Bob’s mother’s house, we saw this driveway. And down it and through layers of window, we spotted the ‘front’ yard behind. I say the garden side is the front—do you have this problem? No, I’d call this the back of the house. Well, English people call it the front lawn. Anyway, like everyone else in the world, we drove down to see how the house could be transparent. Near the end I said, ‘I can’t believe those two windows—art nouveau is not an American house style. In California, there’s mission style, but that’s really arts and crafts. An Australian—an itinerant carpenter, earning a living as he travelled—recognised our woodwork as a Venezuelan hardwood much used in Germany. You can’t believe how hard it is. In the early 20th century a German architect, Hermann Muthesius, wrote Das Englische Haus. Germans loved his descriptions of the English house and landscape. So ours is an American version of a German art nouveau house, in a German version of an 18th-century English romantic landscape. We maintain the garden as the first owners built and planted it; so before an old tree dies we plant a new one of the same species near it. So that it will grow to replace the old one? Yes, the new one’s already begun. We have two locations for each tree; this is part of stewardship. Everything here is to do with stewardship. But although the new one is there, it won’t provide shade for years, and new patterns form in the sunlight. These things here are ‘weeds’, but they’re showing us a new pattern. To fill in gaps, we interpret the changing patterns and follow the forces that condition them—natural, structural, and more. Working with them is fun and inspiring. During our last repainting of the house, my cataracts were removed and my lenses replaced. Before the operation, the sky looked greenish, autumn leaves technicoloured, and the rest shades of parchment. Then one eye was fixed and I had two visions: one Las Vegas, the other North Pole. Today, things have settled down and look merry enough, but at first I missed the warmth of my cataract eyes. While I still had them, I gave instructions for painting the house. That’s why it’s a chalky white. It was meant to be mushroom-coloured. Your relationship to colour is so strong; did it trouble you when you had problems with your eyesight? I see colour well now, and I love what I see—except for the white house. It wasn’t all bad. Given my links to all things visual, I tried to make the most of my temporary bicolour perception, and I returned to photography. Years ago I told myself, ‘Just shoot’, reasoning that if you pause to edit, it’s gone. And then you kick yourself when you work out later why you wanted it. Last year I looked out of my window and saw icicles hanging from the eaves. They were beautiful in the early dawn, and as the sun rose a pink blush moved across them. I caught it by iPhone. I had stopped photographing in 1968. Why did you stop? I dropped the camera and hurt the lens. But basically, with a child, a practice, and studios to teach, I was too busy. But I didn’t really give up, as we used photography in lecturing and in our practice. I’m writing now on how architectural photography has changed during our careers. It was something architects did for the record. Robert Scott Brown and I journeyed to see buildings in the round that we had studied in books; we photographed them while we could. During apartheid, South Africans feared losing their passports and travelled as soon as the opportunity arose. We spent some years abroad studying, working, travelling, and photographing as if we might not go again. Along the way our ideas grew, and we took shots to convey them as well as to record buildings. Later, I used them in lecturing, and eventually they and photographs by our students supported our Learning from Las Vegas study and ‘Signs of Life’ show at the Smithsonian Institution in 1976. In our practice, photography aided research, design, documenting, recording, and marketing. Its role grew over the years and, with computers, it spread throughout architecture. It can now be considered one of architecture’s disciplines, like history, theory, and structures. We worked with many photographers, but Henri Cartier-Bresson is my beacon. Although ‘just shoot’ did not come from him, catching the propitious moment did and seeing the camera as part of your hand. And to learn about urban patterns, I tell students to examine his pictures of people in public places. Do you draw? Architects in English schools learn to draw very well. I took life classes and several forms of architectural drawing and I drafted very well. Bob draws marvellously, but he thinks drafting is more important. And we both had to learn to work with people who use computers. Bob didn’t photograph, but he would sometimes ask me, ‘Can you please get that? Can you make sure you get that?’ We have a couple of pictures taken by his eye and my finger. We also photographed each other in the Las Vegas desert. The differences are telling. Mine of him plays with scale, makes mannerist digs and refers to René Magritte. His of me is a record shot, but in it I was playing—hamming. How often did you go home to South Africa after you left? Twice while I was in England, then in 1957 to 1958 we spent a year and a half working and travelling in South Africa before making for the US. In 1959, when Robert died, I went home, my life upended. But both families pushed me to return to Penn. I went again with Bob in 1970 to show him my childhood. That was the last time. I hesitate when saying ‘I went home’, because in South Africa to call England ‘home’ was to announce your social superiority. An article I wrote, called ‘Invention and Tradition in the Making of American Place’, started with my overhearing three women in a bus in Johannesburg. The first said to the second, ‘I can tell from your accent that you’re from home’. She replied, ‘Yes, I left home 30 years ago’, and the third said, ‘I’ve never been home but one day I hope to go’. They were not just being sociable, they were establishing themselves as members of a caste. I read that your father’s family owned a boarding house and your mother grew up on a farm. Is that right? Not quite. No? We were from Eastern Europe. My father’s father was a businessman, but his parents took in lodgers from the old country. A picture shows my mother’s mother as an elegant 18 year old in Riga, with her hair swept up, wearing a white Edwardian lace shirt. She looks like a Gibson Girl. But when next you see her, she’s wearing an apron and cooking with a three-legged iron pot over an outdoor fire. That was when they had moved to Africa, the family? Yes, there are African huts in the background. My mother’s family went from Courland, in Latvia, to the Rhodesias, and my father’s from a shtetl in Lithuania to Johannesburg. I come at things as an African. Care for the environment—sustainability, we say now—was a necessity there. Robert’s family had a small farm and grew their food. Land erosion was an enormous problem that had involved them in soil conservation and organic farming. And we learned methods of sun protection and water retention in architecture school. But in America, when I said, ‘You’re facing the building the wrong way’, people in the office responded, ‘That’s why we have air conditioning’. Now they don’t say that. Here’s where the water runs down—you can see the lines over there, and the moss. Isn’t this moss lovely? The smell is beautiful. From that end, you see a symphony. Cherry blossoms and azaleas come out first, then dogwoods. Living things answer each other over time and make patterns in our garden through their relationships to sun, soil, and each other. In architecture, too, there are basic relationships. As beginners we learn simple ones: the size of a closet and where it should be in a bedroom, how bedrooms relate to bathrooms, and the living room to the dining room. We know these patterns—although for unconventional clients we might change them, combine rooms or leave the tub in the open, in general, clients want architects to maintain accepted patterns. It’s the same in cities. Forces of nature and society form patterns of settlement long before architects get there. Planners call the basic city-forming relationships ‘linkages’ or ‘city physics’. They’re functionalism for cities. Yet while we accept linkage relationships inside buildings and call ourselves functionalists, we run from them on the outside. Put the word ‘urban’ in the chapter title and architects go on to the next chapter. That’s where I think we lose our creativity, not to speak of our ability to satisfy people. And we have caused a lot of social harm. Urban renewal upsets of the ‘50s and ‘60s, the admonitions of Jane Jacobs, and the reasoning of Herbert Gans derive from what architects would not let themselves learn. When we first moved in to this house we got cold feet— What year was this? It was in 1972. How could we have been so crazy as to buy this old white elephant? The developer who intended to build houses on unbuilt land in the front couldn’t proceed until the old house was sold, so eventually his price came down to one we could afford. But when the deal was done, Bob cried, ‘How can we support all this?’ I was frantic; we had a 15-month-old son and a monster of a house, and I had a husband saying, ‘I don’t know what we’re doing here’. ‘Who can help?’ I pondered, ‘Who might like to?’ Architecture students, of course! We could pay them grad student hourly rates for their work if we also put them up and fed them, and if they saw their summer with us as a seminar. We went ahead on faith. Architecture students painted and mended the house, and pruned and weeded the grounds. We never failed to find a ‘handyperson’. Our attic floor has two small rooms and a bathroom. They stay there. ‘If you want friends to visit’, we say, ‘that’s fine’. And some help to mulch or clean the fishpond. The companionship of these young architects was wonderful for Jim, our son, as he grew up. And Bob and I, having worked with them most of our lives, loved and needed the company, too. We still do, and their architectural training makes them especially useful. They think holistically. In architecture, if you misstep on even one item, the building may fail. So we must research and design in the overall, like it or not. But urbanists from the social sciences see architects as totally intuitive—‘Oh, those artists!’ they say. Yet they’re less holistic than architects. And in deciding what to research, they too can be irresponsible and egotistical. Peter and Alison Smithson were starting their careers in London when I studied there. Although I could not be their student, I turned to them for advice. Peter said, ‘Go to Louis Kahn’. Kahn taught that while an artist may sculpt a car with square wheels to symbolise something, we architects must design them with wheels that work. It’s an interesting difference—perhaps the interesting difference—and if you believe no art can come from it, I think you’re wrong. In the ‘50s, city rebuilding was the main task, and architects with intelligence and talent saw urbanism as a focus for good and for architectural art. Now architects think you turned to urban planning because you weren’t a good designer. Do you want to see our frogs? Yes, definitely. Cheeky things—there’s a tonne of them. They don’t move when you go near. I’ve got too much algae in the pond, but if you take it out, it just grows back. We’ve got a vegetable garden over here, too; when I first came to this house, we got various tradespeople to come and work with us, and they’d always tell me about the old woman who lived here and how they always went off with a basket of tomatoes. She must have been overwhelmed with tomatoes. And, see, these are very old hedges that we’ve planted. What sort of conditions do tomato plants like? Lots of heat, lots of sun. We have done a little urban plan for this garden. It’s got a crossroads where you can take the wheelbarrow and turn it around. We have a whole lot of them down there and we’re going to make sure that they don’t fall on the floor. They’re looking happy, those tomatoes. They’re looking nice and fat. Yes, but we had other trees, which were really more climbing trees than these are. If you look down there, there’s a coach house, but these split-level ranchers were built later. This is a racially mixed suburb, integrated for idealistic reasons during Philadelphia’s post–World War II era of liberal Democrat government. That government had close ties with the University of Pennsylvania, where social planning originated. No one knows how good Penn’s planning school was! And it’s indirectly why Peter Smithson said, ‘Go there’. I was in both the planning and the architecture department. The planners were more interesting than the architects—Bob apart. He understood. His mother, Vanna, was a socialist and pacifist. She went to school hungry as a child and dropped out of school when her winter coat got too short. But before she left, a schoolteacher had noticed her brilliant young pupil. Vanna and Miss Caroll formed a lasting friendship and out-of-school teaching guided the young woman to become the poised beauty her husband-to-be saw at a ball at the Bellevue Hotel. Bob’s dad hoped to be an architect, but left school when his father died to help his mother run the family business, a retail fruit and produce market on South Street—the street we later helped to save. After World War I, Venturi Inc. became a purveyor to institutions and hotels, and it prospered. Bob went to private schools and Princeton and on to the American Academy in Rome. His was not too different a family story from mine, but their ascent was more vertical take-off than upward mobility. We met at my first Penn faculty meeting and, in the debate that day, found we were kindred spirits. To me, other Penn architects seemed aloof and rigid. I felt they were taking the worst, not the best, from ‘30s modernism, and I disliked the authoritarianism of their studios and juries. Planning school was different. In studio, we worked in teams and on one project, which contained many elements of design but also went beyond the physical to include social, economic, and environmental policy, research as well as design, and processes for bringing them all together. By spanning disciplines and working to link our analysis to our design, we hoped our plans would be functional and creative—even beautiful, but in their own way. My approach added a return to early modernism and concepts of ‘firmness, commodity, and delight’ to planning doctrines and methods. And as we critiqued modern architecture, Bob and I took it up in a new way. Form, for us, emerges complexly from more than function, and so does beauty. Forces make form, too, and letting ‘volunteer’ vegetation grow and following its patterns is one way. Another is ‘city physics’. Both bring richness and fun to the far-from-simple search for functionality and beauty. Architects design public places that the public doesn’t use, and sociologists say you can’t name a place ‘public’; the public makes it so when you satisfy their needs. But mapped analyses of our projects’ campus movement systems and activity patterns, and planned sequences of steps to pull them into a design, result in people moving along routes and using places as we had hoped. I suppose architects are often accused of thinking they’re making independent objects—the structure as this sovereign entity, without even necessarily a relationship to the structures that surround it. Absolutely, but I bang them on the head. I think lessons on where vegetation grows help. As small children, my mother took us walking in patches of veld remaining near us on the outskirts of Johannesburg. She showed us, as her governess showed her in Rhodesia, what lived in grass and sand. And like Miss Tobin, her governess, she coaxed musical notes from grasses and leaves and was always making things—with a walnut shell, a scrap of paper, glue, a pin, and a flag, she made a boat to float under a bridge and down a stream. As a beginning architecture student, I excavated for fossils in the wilderness during our July vacations. We camped, and our work was hard, but when I could I lay under a tree, looked up at foliage patterns and listened to veld sounds. My mother kept a pet monkey on a roof near her studio at Wits University. She had three brothers and no sisters and thought playing with girls was not what you did. You played with boys. She thought playing with the girls was boring? Yes, and so, of course, did I. As a student I would say, ‘I’d like to share my apartment with someone, but it’d have to be a man’. Then I found some women I liked, and they too wanted to play with the boys. Later we learned we were wrong: women must move up together or not at all. This group formed women’s lib. When Bob and I married, we each had years of experience—the last seven we’d spent in close collaboration, even teaching together. So when I joined the still-new office of Venturi, Scott Brown and Associates, we adapted our patterns of working together to fit professional routines and practices and to include the creativity of others. Design ideas were generated in many ways, mostly under our leadership, but also under that of others—and often, though not always, via ping-pong with a team. Many offices know the excitement of this unrecognised creative process. But critics in the profession said, ‘Well, she must be Bob’s business manager’ or, ‘She moved up by marrying the boss’. They couldn’t, and many still can’t, conceive that we were colleagues from the start; that I was inspiration to him and he to me, and that our practice was a joint work where design ideas came from both of us, and others. I read your piece ‘Sexism and the Star System’ about the way people have tended to assume your practice was peripheral to Bob’s. This has come up again recently, with the campaign out of Harvard to have your work recognised with a Pritzker. Do you think this has had an impact on your design? Do you think it made you tougher, or fiercer in your convictions somehow? No, I think it made me feel inadequate. It said, ‘You must be no good, they all say you’re no good’. It was debilitating. But as long as I was working with Bob and others, and our ideas were flowing, I felt happy. At Penn, I listened to Bob’s weekly theory lectures and loved his take on things that I loved, too. Feeling incredibly energised, I wanted to run out and do things. So did he. And through our collaboration, our themes crept into each other’s work. When I joined the practice, my abilities expanded Bob’s and broadened our scope. I remember his happiness at discovering I’m good at patterns—I’m an urbanist after all, and I photograph—because they’re necessary, but not quite his thing. And I can say, ‘On the other hand—’ which makes me a pain, but useful. For example, the opposite of collaboration is individual work, and a studio or office must have both. At certain points, people need to go away from the group, think on their own, and come back with something. Each one must offer something. And a project leader’s skills must include sensing when each is needed. All this makes for a full life. I adore practice; I adore teaching. I used to think, how could practice ever be as interesting? Yet I got to love it even more, and now it’s not open to me—no one is going to give us jobs. But everyone wants to do what you’re doing—come and talk with me. This is nice; I love it. And I love making collages of my slides to illustrate my points when I lecture. I call it curating, and I can talk to one slide for 20 minutes. I put together things that are evocative, heuristic, and interesting—but they must also be beautiful or no one will watch them. Sometimes I see two images together that look absolutely wonderful but make no point at all, but I can’t resist showing them, so I do. Then, suddenly, the reason they go together becomes apparent. This is my locus today for creativity, my venue for ‘making things’ as my mother taught me, and for finding beauty. It and writing are what I do now.