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1801016-4 · 4 years ago

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Personal Showase

Design Document: Film Studies

Before I started designing my piece for this project, I began looking for inspiration in the form of short films that deal with the subject of grief. This aims to learn how the experience could be represented through different visuals and narratives, rather than with an informatic, non-fiction animation.

Cocoon

D. Stevers, 2017 [https://vimeo.com/219687902]

Cocoon is a short 2D animation that beautifully visualises the experience of grief; captioned as a ‘modern day Psalm of grief and loss’. The words of Sh’maya, and score of Ryan Taubert are complimented by delicate, poignant visuals, creating a representation of how moving through the raw emotions of grief can lead to new wonders. A cave, storm, cold, and collapse suggest the shock and numbing first reaction to grief, followed by intense sadness. Surreal eyes provoke sensory overload and shadows create a continuing theme of being lost within loss. The motif of a flame is consistent as it grows and is snuffed out over and over again until it multiplies at the end, suggesting a step towards recovery.

A deeply loved animation in the community, many people have come forward with their own experience and how this melancholic piece has comforted them and stayed in their mind as they learn to deal with pain. Though grief is always a subjective experience, and the events of this animation do not apply to all, it can still be used as a gentle, poetic method of educating people on the topic. Created in After Effects by animator Tyler Morgan and designer Sarah Beth Hulver, it aims to be an abstract piece that viewers can find their own relation to.

Borrowed Time

A. Coats & L. Hamou-Lhadj, 2015 [https://vimeo.com/ondemand/100733]

Borrowed Time is a CG animation from two Pixar artists, that took 5 years to complete as part of their Co-op Program that lets animators use resources for independent films. It’s a powerful presentation of the guilt found in grief, and the path towards closure and forgiveness. With each step the protagonist takes, he has to reface a memory is accept the events of the past; though his father’s death was by his hand, it was an accident amidst a sudden and frightening event. Painful feelings resurface but they bring him to the final stage of acceptance.

Whilst Pixar is familiar with showing ‘painful emotions around death in order to underline the joy characters feel around life’, (such as in Up, Toy Story 3, and Inside Out) this animation contains a bigger and bolder shock factor. It’s aimed towards showing that animation can be used as ‘a medium to tell any sort of story’ for any age of audience. By using a familial bond, they have been able to heighten the emotion and more powerfully affect the viewer’s empathetic reaction.

To compare this to Cocoon, you could suggest that ambiguity allows for deeper thinking and relation to the film, but the same affect can be achieved with raw emotional shock power, eliciting honest, relatable reactions

Good Grief

F. Dalwood, 2014 [https://vimeo.com/feedee]

Good Grief is a Claymation documentary and a heartfelt exploration of ‘the lessons we learn from dealing with grief and loss… and what is has taught [the interviewees] about living’. The five voices have all experienced and grown from different kinds of losses: death of a family member, friend, pet, and a leg. In a recognisbale Creature Comforts style, the voices are given to playful animals and vegetables to create a soft visual tone to an emotional narrative.

This film aims to be used as a starting point in the discussion of grief as a transformative experience and used for the education of children and adults alike of a an unjustly stigmatised topic. The interviews are beautifully honest, for example saying, ‘that a really good cry… recharges you’, thus gently stating that grief is a natural experience that shouldn’t be ignored and hidden. Instead that there is a therapeutic power in sharing as ‘relationships matter more’. They do also say that a lot of people around them didn’t care for their grief, or didn’t even ask how they were, reiterating the fact that grief is a topic people are not educated enough about so just avoid (suggesting a need for more content I hope to build upon). I feel this is a great animation to showcase the different causes and reactions to a universal emotion.

Claire Obscur

Students from ESMI Bordeaux, 2017 [https://vimeo.com/257307223]

Clair Obscur is a CG animation from several students at Ecole Superieure des Metiers de l’Image, that shows grief through the eyes of a child. After the death of her brother, a girl is terrorised by a personification of grief every night. On this night she uses his sword to defeat the threat and reach acceptance. The use of a truly terrifying and shapeshifting monster brings the intense emotions in grief to life and imply what you will experience without listing emotions a child can’t relate to yet. This film also makes great used of colour and lighting to exaggerate the emotions linked to the childlike imagery; moving from night to day, and dark monster with danger warning red, and a deep yet peaceful tropical blue ocean.

After going through grief myself with minimal preparation, I think a children’s animation is a perfect way to educate people from young ages in a delicate way that can also let themselves come to their own conclusions by presenting the experience as a monster that can be defeated. This film is another example of how animation is a hugely diverse medium, perfect for telling light and hard-hitting stories with clear underlying messages.

Death of a Father

S.Pal, 2017

Death of a Father is a 2D animation that shows the grief of an individual and his family, and how the involvement and incorrect support of others can unintentionally take a great toll on recovery. The protagonist is experiencing a consistent numbness (complimented by a sombre colour palette), yet is being made to move on with ceremonial funeral arrangements and even pushing his father into the crematorium himself. Minimalist in style and dialogue, yet rich in character animation, it creates an intimate tone that makes the ending montage (of the dying father in hospital) even more heartbreaking. Pal notes the body language has ‘subtle nuances no one really cares about, but this is what I fell makes it relatable because of body language is based on our cultural upbringing’.

This film shows that you don’t always get a choice in how, and for how long you grieve. As people aren’t educated enough, they may try to force a perception of normal grief onto others, creating further long-term problems. Furthermore, cultures often have strict rules or customs on the matter, trying to make it an objective experience and leading to disenfranchised grief.

Pal shared about the unstable beginning of the film’s production, highlighting that it can be difficult to work on such a personal project as a collaboration. This could predict problems for me should I decide to continue this idea into the next project, but I think with an abstract retelling of the experience of grief, it could bring the team together as an opportunity to share their own stories.

I also tried to watch Dcera [Daughter] (D. Kashcheeva, 2019), Memorable (B. Collet, 2019), and Sister (S. Song, 2018), which were all Oscar nominated short animations which had themes of grief. However, I was unable to find anywhere to watch them online (and I can’t afford extra rental fees at the moment). From trailers and plot synopses, I could determine that Sister dealt with the ambiguous or disenfranchised type of grief from something never being there (as the protagonist wishes for the sister his parents had to abort amongst China’s one child rule). Memorable deals with the topic of Alzheimer’s, so could suggest anticipatory grief. Dcera is about a strained relationship between a father and daughter, with the daughter not feeling she has received enough love and support with her pain, therefore creating a sort of grief around the loss of an important relationship.

Looking at these animations (in different specialisms from creators with different backgrounds) reiterates the fact that grief comes in many forms, due to many causes, and effects life to different degrees; it is not always due to death and no one will react the exact same (comparison is never a good idea). This suggests that it is difficult to predict how viewers will react to a subjective film, but as long as the narrative is left ambiguous and doesn’t enforce the notion that there is only one real type of grief, it should be a thought-provoking success.

Sources:

Chatterjee, S., (2018). Somnath Pal’s Journey of Self-Discovery. [online] Red Bull. Available at: https://www.redbull.com/in-en/somnath-pal-death-of-a-father (Accessed 25 Sept 2020).

Dalwood, F., (2014). Good Grief. [online] Vimeo. Available at: https://vimeo.com/91157088 (Accessed 25 Sept 2020).

Morgan, S.B., (2017). Cocoon. [online] sarahbethmorgan.com. Available at: https://sarahbethmorgan.com/cocoon (Accessed 25 Sept 2020).

Robinson, T., (2016). This Powerful Short by Two Pixar Animators is darker than Pixar had ever gone. The Verge. [online] Available at: https://www.theverge.com/2016/10/17/13306394/pixar-borrowed-time-animated-short-interview (Accessed 25 Sept 2020).

Sh’maya, (2017) 1 June. Available at: https://www.facebook.com/shmayapoetry/posts/its-finally-here-cocoon-a-film-on-grief-and-loss-the-mighty-dan-stevers-commissi/1788377031179628/ (Accessed 25 Sept 2020).

#w1 #ps

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anhed-nia · 5 years ago

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BLOGTOBER 10/27/2019: THE HOST (2006)/PARASITE (2019)

I had the privilege of seeing PARASITE at Fantastic Fest this year, and although I don’t know that it is far enough on the horror end of thriller for my Blogtober program, it inevitably became the movie of the day at this point in its theatrical release in October, due to pressing friendship demands. So, I’ve combined it with a quick review of THE HOST--which is very convenient for me, because I don’t have a ton to say about either!

Don’t get me wrong, I like both of these movies a lot. It’s just that Bong Joon-ho is such an articulate artist that there remains little to say about his films, that they don’t say about themselves. He leaves almost nothing in the way of accident, mystery or subtext. PARASITE in particular is so carefully engineered that even saying that it is about capitalism and class struggle feels embarrassingly redundant. In some ways, it almost says too much--and I guess I’m just going to be a little bit critical about this terrific production, because if I don’t, who will? I am currently resisting the urge to focus my entire writeup on the hype around this movie, which I found rather bizarre in the end. Even up to the minute before my Fantastic Fest screening started, I was getting an earful about how this movie was going to shock me out of my mind with a twist that I couldn’t think up if I had a hundred years to guess. This had the effect of sending my imagination into overdrive to cook up the most surreal, outrageous possibilities in the world...only to be met with something that I found appropriately surprising, but completely rational in the context of the story. I mean, you shouldn’t be able to predict exactly what will happen and in what way, in a movie, but I thought it was completely unfair of everyone including the festival programmer to suggest that I could never have my mind blown like this if I were able to watch every movie ever made in human history. So with that said...

There is no doubt that PARASITE is a really finely crafted satire, but on some level I find it a little too mechanical. Bong Joon-ho’s movies are typically funny and moving, regardless of how dark and threatening the premise is, but in this case, I think that his cleverness overshadows his compassion. While the twists and turns are interesting in this story, about a family of impoverished con artists who insinuate themselves into a rich family’s lives, I don’t always find that they are substantiated by the amount of emotion I get from what is on the screen. I think that Song Kang-ho, who plays the poor family’s beleaguered patriarch, is one of the most compelling actors alive today; I saw an interview in which Bong Joon-ho refers to him as “a magical actor who casts a spell”, an incredibly corny statement that is really the only truly accurate way to describe this man. However, his journey from put-upon dad who has only love to give, to homicidal revenge machine, feels a little rushed, and a little gestural. I would say something similar about Lee Sun-kyun’s performance as his loser son, whose criminal indulgences lead him to wonder what kind of person he really is--suspecting that he cannot grow his sham performance of elitism into actual social superiority. On some level, I think the shallowness that irks me has to do with the fact that there are no fewer than 10 main characters, all of whom have to have a distinct personal relationship to the idea of wealth, which has to evolve over only 130 minutes. You will rarely hear me say this, but I almost think that PARASITE would have done better as a miniseries than as a feature film.

THE HOST, on the other hand, overflows with emotion and surprises both. With only one family of characters to manage, Bong Joon-ho tells a much more concise and moving story about struggling with the notion of failure, even against the absurd backdrop of a giant monster attacking the city. THE HOST made me very aware of the fact that I had grown up with this immature attitude in which I put Stephen Spielberg in this bucket with Disney, as a producer of exclusively toothless, placating family fare. People like to compare this movie with JAWS due to the use of a creature feature premise to expose and explore the complicated emotional lives of realistic characters. THE HOST is broader than JAWS, but its psychological impact is undeniable. Not everyone is going to live, and people that you care about may die under tragic and even unnecessary circumstances. I love the patented fashion that Bong Joon-ho has developed for communicating that life is unfair and your best may not always be good enough, without being sadistic and smug. I especially enjoy the way that he deals with grief--an emotion about which viewers can be so precious that if you pitch it wrong, you can be condemned by the public to some sort of artist’s hell from which you can never pay enough dues to escape. (*cough cough* Ari Aster *cough hack ahem*) My favorite scene in THE HOST, besides the rampaging mutant voluminously barfing up human skeletons, involves the central ne’er-do-well family mourning the kaiju-related loss of Song Kang-ho’s young daughter, their only unimpeachable relation. At a public memorial for monster victims, the family makes an increasingly outsized display of their Olympic-level grieving, which builds and builds until the four of them writhe helplessly on the floor like a bunch of mud wrestlers. It is unmistakably comedic, even though they, and we, take the little girl’s demise completely seriously. This produces a special kind of meditation on loss, in which the chief emotion is not diluted or undermined, but the audience is allowed to embrace it with warmth and humor. It’s a neat trick, and the combination of realism and entertainment value forms a perfect example of what is so special about Bong Joon-ho as an artist. I’ll be excited to see him try it again.

#blogtober #the host #2006 #2019 #bong joon-ho #sci-fi #science fiction #monster movie #creature feature #black comedy #satire #thriller #song kang-ho #lee sun-kyun #spoilers #parasite

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scifigeneration · 6 years ago

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Friday essay: how speculative fiction gained literary respectability

by Rose Michael

Biologists are gathering evidence of green algae (pictured here in Kuwait) becoming carbohydrate-rich but less nutritious, due to increased carbon dioxide levels. As science fiction becomes science fact, new forms of storytelling are emerging. Raed Qutena

I count myself lucky. Weird, I know, in this day and age when all around us the natural and political world is going to hell in a handbasket. But that, in fact, may be part of it.

Back when I started writing, realism had such a stranglehold on publishing that there was little room for speculative writers and readers. (I didn’t know that’s what I was until I read it in a reader’s report for my first novel. And even then I didn’t know what it was, until I realised that it was what I read, and had always been reading; what I wrote, and wanted to write.) Outside of the convention rooms, that is, which were packed with less-literary-leaning science-fiction and fantasy producers and consumers.

Realism was the rule, even for those writing non-realist stories, such as popular crime and commercial romance. Perhaps this dominance was because of a culture heavily influenced by an Anglo-Saxon heritage. Richard Lea has written in The Guardian of “non-fiction” as a construct of English literature, arguing other cultures do not distinguish so obsessively between stories on the basis of whether or not they are “real��.

China Miéville in 2010. Pan MacMillan Australia/AAP

Regardless of the reason, this conception of literary fiction has been widely accepted – leading self-described “weird fiction” novelist China Miéville to identify the Booker as a genre prize for specifically realist literary fiction; a category he calls “litfic”. The best writers Australia is famous for producing aren’t only a product of this environment, but also role models who perpetuate it: Tim Winton and Helen Garner write similarly realistically, albeit generally fiction for one and non-fiction for the other.

Today, realism remains the most popular literary mode. Our education system trains us to appreciate literatures of verisimilitude; or, rather, literature we identify as “real”, charting interior landscapes and emotional journeys that generally represent a quite particular version of middle-class life. It’s one that may not have much in common these days with many people’s experiences – middle-class, Anglo or otherwise – or even our exterior world(s).

Like other kinds of biases, realism has been normalised, but there is now a growing recognition – a re-evaluation – of different kinds of “un-real” storytelling: “speculative” fiction, so-called for its obviously invented and inventive aspects.

Feminist science-fiction writer Ursula K. Le Guin has described this diversification as:

a much larger collective conviction about who’s entitled to tell stories, what stories are worth telling, and who among the storytellers gets taken seriously … not only in terms of race and gender, but in terms of what has long been labelled “genre” fiction.

Closer to home, author Jane Rawson – who has written short stories and novels and co-authored a non-fiction handbook on “surviving” climate change – has described the stranglehold realistic writing has on Australian stories in an article for Overland, yet her own work evidences a new appreciation for alternative, novel modes.

Rawson’s latest book, From the Wreck, intertwines the story of her ancestor George Hills, who was shipwrecked off the coast of South Australia and survived eight days at sea, with the tale of a shape-shifting alien seeking refuge on Earth. In an Australian first, it was long-listed for the Miles Franklin, our most prestigious literary award, after having won the niche Aurealis Award for Speculative Fiction.

The Aurealis awards were established in 1995 by the publishers of Australia’s longest-running, small-press science-fiction and fantasy magazine of the same name. As well as recognising the achievements of Australian science-fiction, fantasy and horror writers, they were designed to distinguish between those speculative subgenres.

Last year, five of the six finalists for the Aurealis awards were published, promoted and shelved as literary fiction.

A broad church

Perhaps what counts as speculative fiction is also changing. The term is certainly not new; it was first used in an 1889 review, but came into more common usage after genre author Robert Heinlein’s 1947 essay On the Writing of Speculative Fiction.

Whereas science fiction generally engages with technological developments and their potential consequences, speculative fiction is a far broader, vaguer term. It can be seen as an offshoot of the popular science-fiction genre, or a more neutral umbrella category that simply describes all non-realist forms, including fantasy and fairytales – from the epic of Gilgamesh through to The Handmaid’s Tale.

While critic James Wood argues that “everything flows from the real … it is realism that allows surrealism, magic realism, fantasy, dream and so on”, others, such as author Doris Lessing, believe that everything flows from the fantastic; that all fiction has always been speculative. I am not as interested in which came first (or which has more cultural, or commercial, value) as I am in the fact that speculative fiction – “spec-fic” – seems to be gaining literary respectability. (Next step, surely, mainstream popularity! After all, millions of moviegoers and television viewers have binge-watched the rise of fantastic forms, and audiences are well versed in unreal onscreen worlds.)

One reason for this new interest in an old but evolving form has been well articulated by author and critic James Bradley: climate change. Writers, and publishers, are embracing speculative fiction as an apt form to interrogate what it means to be human, to be humane, in the current climate – and to engage with ideas of posthumanism too.

These are the sorts of existential questions that have historically driven realist literature.

According to the World Wildlife Fund’s 2018 Living Planet Report, 60% of the world’s wildlife disappeared between 1970 and 2012. The year 2016 was declared the hottest on record, echoing the previous year and the one before that. People under 30 have never experienced a month in which average temperatures are below the long-term mean. Hurricanes register on the Richter scale and the Australian Bureau of Meteorology has added a colour to temperature maps as the heat keeps on climbing.

Science fiction? Science fact.

A baby Francois Langur at Taronga Zoo in June. François Langurs are a critically endangered species found in China and Vietnam. AAP Image/Supplied by Taronga Zoo

What are we to do about this? Well, according to writer and geographer Samuel Miller-McDonald, “If you’re a writer, then you have to write about this.”

There is an infographic doing the rounds on Facebook that shows sister countries with comparable climates to (warming) regions of Australia. But it doesn’t reflect the real issue. Associate Professor Michael Kearney, Research Fellow in Biosciences at the University of Melbourne, points out that no-one anywhere in the world has any experience of our current CO2 levels. The changed environment is, he says – using a word that is particularly appropriate for my argument – a “novel” situation.

Elsewhere, biologists are gathering evidence of algae that carbon dioxide has made carbohydrate-rich but less nutritious. So the plankton that rely on them to survive might eat more and more and yet still starve.

Fiction focused on the inner lives of a limited cross-section of people no longer seems the best literary form to reflect, or reflect on, our brave new outer world – if, indeed, it ever was.

Whether it’s a creative response to catastrophic climate change, or an empathic, philosophical attempt to express cultural, economic, neurological – or even species – diversification, the recognition works such as Rawson’s are receiving surely shows we have left Modernism behind and entered the era of Anthropocene literature.

And her book is not alone. Other wild titles achieving similar success include Krissy Kneen’s An Uncertain Grace, shortlisted for the Aurealis, the Stella prize and the Norma K. Hemming award – given to mark excellence in the exploration of themes of race, gender, sexuality, class or disability in a speculative fiction work.

Kneen’s book connects five stories spanning a century, navigating themes of sexuality – including erotic explorations of transgression and transmutation – against the backdrop of a changing ocean.

Earlier, more realist but still speculative titles (from 2015) include Mireille Juchau’s The World Without Us and Bradley’s Clade. These novels fit better with Miéville’s description of “litfic”, employing realistic literary techniques that would not be out of place in Winton’s books, but they have been called “cli-fi” for the way they put climate change squarely at the forefront of their stories (though their authors tend to resist such generic categorisation).

Both novels, told across time and from multiple points of view, are concerned with radically changed and catastrophically changing environments, and how the negative consequences of our one-world experiment might well – or, rather, ill – play out.

Catherine McKinnnon’s Storyland is a more recent example that similarly has a fantastic aspect. The author describes her different chapters set in different times, culminating – Cloud Atlas–like, in one futuristic episode – as “timeslips” or “time shifts” rather than time travel. Yet it has been received as speculative – and not in a pejorative way, despite how some “high-art” literary authors may feel about “low-brow” genre associations.

Kazuo Ishiguro in 2017. Neil Hall/AAP

Kazuo Ishiguro, for instance, told The New York Times when The Buried Giant was released in 2015 that he was fearful readers would not “follow him” into Arthurian Britain. Le Guin was quick to call him out on his obvious attempt to distance himself from the fantasy category. Michel Faber, around the same time, told a Wheeler Centre audience that his Book of Strange New Things, where a missionary is sent to convert an alien race, was “not about aliens” but alienation. Of course it is the latter, but it is also about the other.

All these more-and-less-speculative fictions – these not-traditionally-realist literatures – analyse the world in a way that it is not usually analysed, to echo Tim Parks’s criterion for the best novels. Interestingly, this sounds suspiciously like science-fiction critic Darko Suvin’s famous conception of the genre as a literature of “cognitive estrangement”, which inspires readers to re-view their own world, think in new ways, and – most importantly – take appropriate action.

A new party

Perhaps better case studies of what local spec-fic is or does – when considering questions of diversity – are Charlotte Wood’s The Natural Way of Things and Claire Coleman’s Terra Nullius.

The first is a distinctly Aussie Handmaid’s Tale for our times, where “girls” guilty by association with some unspecified sexual scenario are drugged, abducted and held captive in a remote outback location.

The latter is another idea whose time has come: an apocalyptic act of colonisation. Not such an imagined scenario for Noongar woman Coleman. It’s a tricky plot to tell without giving away spoilers – the book opens on an alternative history, or is it a futuristic Australia? Again, the story is told through different points of view, which prioritises collective storytelling over the authority of a single voice.

“The entire purpose of writing Terra Nullius,” Coleman has said, “was to provoke empathy in people who had none.”

This connection of reading with empathy is a case Neil Gaiman made in a 2013 lecture when he told of how China’s first party-approved science-fiction and fantasy convention had come about five years earlier.

Neil Gaiman. Julien Warnand/EPA

The Chinese had sent delegates to Apple and Google etc to try to work out why America was inventing the future, he said. And they had discovered that all the programmers, all the entrepreneurs, had read science fiction when they were children.

“Fiction can show you a different world,” said Gaiman. “It can take you somewhere you’ve never been.”

And when you come back, you see things differently. And you might decide to do something about that: you might change the future.

Perhaps the key to why speculative fiction is on the rise is the ways in which it is not “hard” science fiction. Rather than focusing on technology and world-building to the point of potential fetishism, as our “real” world seems to be doing, what we are reading today is a sophisticated literature engaging with contemporary cultural, social and political matters – through the lens of an “un-real” idea, which may be little more than a metaphor or errant speculation.

About The Author:

Rose Michael is a Lecturer, Writing & Publishing at RMIT University

This article is republished from our content partners at The Conversation under a Creative Commons license.

#science fiction #speculative fiction #literature

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briefhistorybriefhistory · 7 years ago

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Looks Like Frida: The Problem with the Frida Barbie

Recently, Mattel produced a new range of Barbie dolls. The range, designed to represent inspiring women, features dolls based on athletes, artists, scientists and film directors, amongst other professions. In the glossy publicity images, nestled snugly between Amelia Earhart and Katherine Johnson, sits a doll with flowers on her dark up-do, a few stray hairs between her brows suggesting her iconic monobrow.

Amelia Earhart, Frida Kahlo and Katherine Johnson as Barbie dolls

Of course, Mattel is striving to keep its profit margins healthy in a struggling industry of toy manufacturing. The corporation is also trying to deflect years of criticism around the Barbie franchise and the hideously unrealistic proportions of the Barbie body. Unsurprisingly, the Frida doll has drawn a huge amount of criticism.

A lot of this criticism comes from feminist circles, where the idea of a Frida doll, softened and sculpted into a vaguely ethnic Barbie mould, has been thoroughly rejected. And that criticism has a lot of merit. Frida has become a feminist icon, inspiring generations with her fearless exploration of femininity, the body and the self.

But western feminist thought cannot completely contain the entire argument as to why the Frida Kahlo Barbie not only disrespects her memory, but also the politics in which she very deliberately placed herself. While it is fine to discuss the way Kahlo would have likely abhorred the unrealistic body proportions of her little plastic representation, it is also important to discuss how Kahlo, and her legacy, have become distilled down into a toothless symbol of generic resistance, stripped of her ethnic heritage until she becomes a universal catch-all for womanhood, performed as fridge magnets, phone cases and tote bags.

Frida as a symbol

Firstly, we must look at how Fridamania became as it was. Although Kahlo enjoyed a relatively successful career in her lifetime, it wasn’t until after she died that she began to be lauded as an international feminist symbol. After a biography was published by 1983 by Hayden Herrera, Kahlo shot from artist to celebrity. Her work underwent a massive revival and during the 1980s and 1990s, the price of her work skyrocketed. In fact, it wasn’t only her artwork which shot up in value - in November 2000, at a Sotheby's Latin American art auction in New York, a box of Kahlo memorabilia, including ribbons, photographs and dried flowers, sold for over $55,000 USD. At exhibitions of her work, you will find not only the usual memorabilia of postcards, posters or t-shirts. Now, the ranges of Frida-inspired products include jewellery, cosmetics and cookbooks. A quick search on Google reveals depictions of Kahlo on nail varnish bottles, back packs and even, bizarrely, as a Daft Punk fan.

Whoever made this, turn on your location. I just want to talk.

Kahlo was even the subject of a 2003 biopic, Frida, perhaps the nail that sealed the coffin - we can no longer differentiate between Kahlo’s work and the enthralling drama of her life. In Devouring Frida: Art History and Popular Celebrity of Frida Kahlo, 1999, Margaret Lindauer writes,

'the drama of her life has become zealously coupled with her paintings. Indeed, there often is little distinction between Kahlo and her paintings, which converge into a single entity, Frida's-life-and-art.'

Of course, it is natural in some ways to want to relate the life of an artist to their work - it is an established technique of literary and art criticism. But to solely interpret Kahlo’s art through her life is to do a great injustice to her work and reduces it to the story of a single woman, as opposed to recognising it as a rich tapestry which draws upon a vivid cultural and political landscape.

To truly understand the essentialism of Kahlo, we have to look at the wider view of how artists from outside the traditionally narrow scope of the Western art canon - in particular, Latin American artists - have been interpreted.

Looks like Frida

Gerardo Mosquera wrote in his 1992 essay, The Marco Polo Syndrome, Some Problems Around Art and Eurocentrism,

Third World artists are constantly asked to display their identity, to be fantastic, to look like no one else or to look like Frida... The relatively high prices achieved by Latin American art at the great auctions have been assigned to painters who satisfy the expectations of a more or less stereotyped Latin-Americanicity, able to fulfil the new demand for exoticism at the centres. As a consequence, Rivera is valued well above Orozco, Remedios Varo more than Torres García, and Botero considerably more than Reverón.

By this, Mosquera means that the Western art world - and the Western art market - demands a sort of twisted “authenticity” from artists from outside of its narrow scope. These artists must be completely unique or must fit into an already established, comfortable, understandable mould, shaped by artists like Kahlo who have been accepted into the canon (in a narrow, binding way, something that we’ll return to later). Where those artists do not comply with this, they are undervalued and held to be “derivative” of Western practice.

This was horribly exemplified by Jean Fisher, who, in her essay The Syncretic Turn, Cross-Cultural Practises in the Age of Multiculturalism, 1996, wrote about the posthumous retrospective of the Brazilian artist Hélio Oiticica at the Witte de With in Rotterdam in 1992. European art critics were heard to remark that, while they recognised Oiticica's conceptual thinking, it was “inauthentic” - his practise was just a reflection of Euroamerican practice, and therefore was not “Brazilian” enough.

Hélio Oiticica’s Grand Nucleus Grande Núcleo, 1960–66

Kahlo as a brand

Unlike poor Oiticica, Kahlo has remained as the commercially and critically acceptable face of Latin American art, and much of this is due to the Kahlo brand and the way that her identity was boiled down. The essentialism of Frida Kahlo allowed her to be turned into a non-threatening and marketable product. In Isabel Molina-Guzman’s 2010 book, Dangerous Curves: Latina Bodies in the Media, the author writes:

Central to mainstream media representations of Latinidad is the production of ethnic authenticity, of an authentic ethnic or panethnic identity often grounded in familiar and marketable characteristics. Furthermore, media produced by U.S. ethnic and racial minorities equally depend on a mode of 'strategic essentialism' to produce authenticity.

Molina-Guzman was writing specifically about the film Frida, but her words are applicable too to the mass-branding of Kahlo. “Strategic essentialism” here refers to a strategy which is discussed in post-colonial theory where oppressed groups simplify their mass identity, even when there are vast differences between members of the group, in order to achieve certain goals. However, as Molina-Guzman writes, this same tactic is also used by the creators of the film - and the wider art market and media - in order to create the kind of “authentic” identity that was not granted to Hélio Oiticica. The producers and director of the film created a very specific interpretation of Mexican identity in order to create a piece of media which is commercially viable in the Western world. Molina-Guzman writes:

the characterization of Kahlo as an anti-establishment, defiant rule-breaker remains consistently romanticized within global popular culture—making her an alluring and profitable multicultural and political icon for contemporary audiences invested in multicultural identity politics.

This essentialism of Kahlo’s identity is applicable not just to the biographical film made about her, but also to the way that Kahlo is now interpreted by the Western art world as a whole, and by the audiences hungry for a taste of non-threatening ethnic glamour.

Frida as generic radicalism

This essentialism of Kahlo, and therefore the distillation of the Mexican identity into a marketable product, is of course something that can - and has been - exploited by the free market in order to make profit. Not only can one buy countless Frida-inspired products, but one can now also use them to signal a type of political affiliation which says very little at all, a politics which has been watered down by capitalism into easy to swallow, vague ideas of non-conformity. These politics have little to nothing left of Frida’s revolutionary spirit.

Do you want to suggest - but not too radically - a half-hearted idea of individualism? Why not use the Frida Kahlo emoji pack (the creator of which, Sam Cantor, by the way, said: “Frida was just perfect for the project. She conveyed her emotions so honestly and openly in her work. What better artist to translate into emoji, which we use to express emotion today?”)? Like Theresa May, do you want to project an image that of feminism, of loving and protecting women, while actively working to destroy the support systems which have helped to provide women with a basic standard of living? Why not wear a bracelet with her self portraits on it as you rally your troops to further dismantle the welfare state?

Honestly, I have no idea what emotion this is supposed to convey.

The image of Frida Kahlo has become so generic now that Oriana Baddeley, in her essay Reflecting on Kahlo: Mirrors, Masquerade and the Politics of Identification, wrote:

By the end of the twentieth century Kahlo's signature mono-brow had become recognisable to a mass audience outside of those interested in Mexican art history or Surrealism. Her self-portraits appeared on fashionable clothing and accessories. The face of Frida was used with the same regularity, and often with a shared symbolism, as images of Che Guevara or Bob Marley, so that her art and her appearance were forever confused in the public imagination. By buying into this Frida, the consumer can declare a non-specific radicalism, an acceptable declaration of nonconformity. As one contemporary website sales line puts it: 'Give your vehicle the revolutionary spirit with a Frida Kahlo car window decal.'

The image of Kahlo has become so distorted that we can no longer differentiate between Kahlo, the revolutionary Marxist artist, and the Barbie doll wearing a red shawl as a subtle nod towards her ethnicity.

Frida Kahlo’s politics

Of course, there is another reason why Kahlo would have likely hated the legacy which has resulted in the doll. While the world has not dwelled heavily on Kahlo’s politics, she was a communist, her politics and world view heavily influenced by Marx. She was a member of the Mexican Communist Party, although left when her husband, Diego Rivera, was expelled. At her funeral, her casket was draped with a red flag as mourners sang The Internationale.

Her 1954 painting, Marxism Will Give Health to the Ill, depicts the disembodied head of Karl Marx floating above her, his god-like hands gently embracing her as she casts off her crutches and walks unaided. The painting, a metaphor for her belief that Marxism could heal the world, shows the strangling of a bald eagle, neatly dividing the image into good versus evil, the power of the people versus the imperialism of the powerful state.

Marxism Will Give Health to the Ill, 1954

In order to truly do justice to Kahlo’s work, we must never forget the politics which shaped her worldview and influenced her art. Part of this is about rejecting the vapid representations of her which have been so readily commercialised - the fashionable t-shirts, the twee cookbooks and, yes, the doll. But we must also remember that Kahlo’s identity was not a tool to be used to signal our own radicalness or gender politics. We must remember that it is not useful to pick or choose from her rich, complex identity the parts which best support our own agendas. As Kahlo wrote in her diary, she was:

Always revolutionary, never dead, never useless

#frida kahlo #frida kahlo barbie #useless art criticism

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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

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The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 17 Review: Burger Kings

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This The Simpsons review contains spoilers.

The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 17

The Simpsons Season 32 episode 17 ” Burger Kings,” continues to charbroil Springfield mythology into tasty nuggets of classic comedy. With so much grease built up over the years, the cooks are unafraid to refry old dishes as new cuisine. This season has seen quite a few instances where old storylines are transformed into surprisingly fresh installments.

In spite of all outward evidence, and the best testing indicates, Mr. Burns never gets old. Yes, he has made “The Top 100 Most Evil People Over 100” list more times than he cares to admit. But not in the comic sense. We’ve seen him do good many times, only to revert to the evil capitalistic monster which lies at his black, barely beating heart. Over the years, he’s rebuilt himself by plundering all ocean life, protected the town’s children from an anti-child group in order to keep ensure their supple young organs will be available when he needs them, and stole the winning glory from a championship bowling team.

Unlike Dick Cheney, Burns won’t live forever. So, when he turns a mouth-watering near-death experience into an animal-cruelty-free shot at redemption, long-time audiences are primed to see how it’s going to turn sour. The Simpsons consistently pushes the inner logic of each character to their most hilarious limits. Burns is an ancient being, who is also tremendously wealthy. This foreknowledge makes the idea he has all of the wrinkles from his one breakfast raison ironed out palatable. Wearing a live bat for a night eye patch works because he’s just evil.

Burns’ final request, as he lay on his deathbed, to have Smithers fire someone, preferably an employee who just bought a house, is perfectly reasonable. When Burns gets his epiphany about doing good, he says he knows how Edison felt when he invented the electric chair. His reference to a beloved airman is Rudolph Hess. We buy it as easily as we believe he lived past 100 without ever eating a hamburger. And this, we believe because we don’t doubt that Burns believes hamburgers are made of people from Hamburg.

Burns’ twisted line reading of “People don’t like me. They really don’t like me” is a nod to Sally Field’s memorable second Oscar acceptance speech. Burns is on the same level of public transformation, but he’s no flying nun. Though he can take some comfort in knowing there is a little extra radiation in every drop of water on the planet because of him. Burns does have a point when he disagrees with Smithers on how the townspeople hate him because he’s sic’d the hounds on each of them by pointing out everyone loves dogs. The writers twist his logic perfectly.

It isn’t even surprising how Burns, who made his fortune at a nuclear plant, only realizes what fission is during this episode. We should have some sympathy for Burns. We learn he’s always craved praise because it was something he never had as a child. Monty’s father died the same day he found out his mother doesn’t like fake art, like a crayon drawing he made of her hugging him. But the newspaper headline begins with “Finally some good news” when it announces Burns is near death.

Music has been very important this season, filling the gaps in almost every installment. This episode is bookended by a lounge singer, who also does double-time as a Greek Chorus, improvising the verses to match the inner conflict in both Homer and Burns. Homer learns more from dreams than can ever be taught in books. In the opening Burns learns people think of him as a fat cat no one really likes, and the singer serenades him with wishes he never fall asleep. One song teaches Homer he sold out all his values.

Homer the perfect spokesperson as a stand-in for the common slob. Not only does he have it on his business card, but the card itself is stolen from Ned’s store with the name and number of his Leftorium crossed out. Lisa’s expertise in meat bypass products is as impressive as it should be. She’s been vegetarian since meeting Paul and Linda McCartney, and she’s intelligent enough to know her phony baloney from her ghost beef. It is a truly rousing moment when Burns wins the Simpson family over with a tasty meatless burger. The artistic rendition of Lisa’s tastebuds is inspired.

While it’s not explicitly stated, it looks like the Ex-cellent Burger stock movement brings out the compulsive gambler in Marge. It begins with a comment on the efficiency of Alexa voice commands. After Marge is misinterpreted into buying a thousand shares, Alexa tries to pawn herself off as Siri, but Marge is already hooked. The shareholders subplot, with the E-Trading and the “More money for Marge” stock ticker tongue, is as scary as it is funny because it is animated in Lisa’s childlike point of view.

The Burger Wars segment is ingenious, and benefits from the subtle seasoning. The medics arrive on the battlefield as Hamburger Helpers, and the mushroom clouds make for perfect burger toppings. One of the great mysteries of Springfield is how long “The Krusty the Clown” show has been on the air, when Krusty was made for cancel culture. When Burger King did an inclusionary ad promotion, Krustyburger rolled out the “Burger Queer.” The environmentally, and apparently humane food product Burns is selling inspires Krusty to introduce the LGBTQBLT. “My hero is a loser,” Bart notes sadly. Ultimately Krusty wins by doing exactly what he’s always done, nothing. He’s just waiting for someone to round up the donkeys before he gets back in the burger business.

The blatant social subversion of townspeople, including Fat Tony, holding up signs like “Blessed are the rich” and “We’ve got no beef with Monty” is brilliant subtle satire. The commentary continues as Burns finally gets to join the very exclusive “Beloved Billionaires Club.” It only has two members, Warren Buffett and Bill Gates. Mark Zuckerberg gets left out in the shade. Not only is he not allowed into the club, The Simpsons takes on Facebook’s privacy issues in a scathingly funny way.

The episode is loaded with quick references to quickly disposable culture. In one scene, Homer is reading the book “Harry Potter and the Apologizing Author.” It looks like the Stranger Things kids get eaten by the alien they’re apparently trying to save. In the Burns’ food rendering plant, one of the workers kills the vegetation with the same implement of death used in No Country for Old Men (2007).

“Burger King” is also supersized with the quick passing tone comedy bits which make for classic Simpsons episodes. It is overloaded with comic shorts. We say goodbye to the “Sad News Reporter” as he streams away with the burst dam water so Kent Brockman can present sponsored news. As the French chef is running from the hounds he yells “cordon bleu.” During one fantasia, Homer sees himself as the daddy of a fly family who “has put all his kids through garbage.” Burns shoves the Krustyburger bag into Homer’s mouth to shut him up and take his burger.

The Simpsons even puts a spin on the comedy law of threes. When Mr. Smithers is worried that Burns has doubled his weight by eating hamburgers, we see Burns top the scale at 42 pounds. This is funny, and works as a punch line because of Burn’s known frailty, but when Smithers says “tripled,” it extends the joke, and the surrealism. It almost forces the audience to do math. Lisa’s climactic pursuit of Burns is classic series traditionalism. The slow-moving old man can’t get away from her on foot, and she beats him to his mansion when he tries to escape her in his ancient car. She even has enough time left over to tame his hounds.

Because of the NDA, Homer can only speak in pre-approved corporate phrases like “yes, ve gan,” “I guaran tree it,” and “abso-lettuce.” He’s only learned one lesson in his life, and that is not to bite the hand that feeds you, even if there’s delicious marrow inside. Homer’s generation did what it did, and he imparts timeless wisdom. Lisa’s future will have its own problems to face, like inventing new bees and learning to live peacefully with fire tornadoes. But she reasons, like the promotions promised, “The fate of the world is in your mouth.”

When Lisa wants to know whether she should tell Burns his company is only using endangered plants, Bart says “he already knows. He’s evil.” Lisa believes people do change for the better even though there’s no evidence to back it up. She wants Burns’ life of evil to be completely forgotten with one good deed. She even believes he will do the right thing when he learns the Amazon is the lungs the planet.

Of course, Monty can’t keep it up. It’s what we expect, but The Simpsons still finds a way to twist it further. Once you’re known for doing something good you have to continue doing good things. “That’s why Jesus retired at 33,” Burns notes in an amazing realization. He’s no longer crushed by morality. Evil always wins, and he’s even planning on opening a school for the blind so he can convince them aliens have landed.

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“Burger Kings” is the leanest fast food The Simpsons have served up in an already-satisfying season. With only one fat joke for texture, it is crammed with gags, jokes, sarcasm, and funny lines within funny lines. It crackles with cynicism and dashes dreams of little girls in mustaches asking hopeful questions. Even the opening couch gag offers an abstract appetizer to the story. The Simpson family are rendered as pre-French-fried potatoes. It’s only garnish, but it completes the meal.

The post The Simpsons Season 32 Episode 17 Review: Burger Kings appeared first on Den of Geek.

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greybat · 7 years ago

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Tomorrow

Summary: It's execution day for the deadly roach, Dr. Julian Devorak. He stands at the gallows, drenched in dismal self-pity, realizing not even Xixa is there to support him. Nadia feels a quiet sense of triumph, finally seeing the murderer with a noose 'round his neck.

However, she gets a surprise when the citizens of Vesuvia - the very ones she's striving to protect from the bloodthirsty Devorak - march to the square, chanting: Free Doctor Jules!

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This is ~4.5k long. So, be warned!

A thick cord of rope, pulled taut against his throat, scraped against Julian’s pale skin. Tight bindings criss-crossed his wrists behind his back, lacerating his flesh. Already, he could feel red welts rising, fading thanks to his curse, and rising again with every shift of the damned ropes. The thick knot pressed against the base of his skull, at the edge of his occipital bone. He breathed unevenly, shallowly, staring out at the audience. Courtiers and their families shifted impatiently, quietly giddy for the macabre spectacle. His stomach lurched, realizing there were children in the crowd.

Farther, on a lavishly decorated dais, seated on above the upper-crust and the elite, the Countess stared at him. Her cold red eyes stabbed against Julian’s heart. A tent of fabric shielded her from the sun. However, the day turned out to be overcast and grey, the scent of oncoming rain on the air. Dreary and dank, like his future.

Briefly, with a smarmy thought, Julian thought Nadia shielded herself behind rich tapestries from her own guilt, her own retribution from the heavens. Though, he was the one that sat beneath the bare sky, noose around his neck and life line slowly dwindling to an end. There’d be no tomorrow, no next week, no next year. Just today and then… nothing.

Beneath the curtained dais with her, a silver-haired magician sat at her right-hand side, a white snake coiled up their arm. Asra.

Julian’s eye quickly moved away, seeking another. Looking for dark teal hair and opalescent eyes. He didn’t expect to find Portia in the crowd – to think his little sister watching him do the Dead Man’s Jig was too much – but he thought Xixa would be there. Silently offering him support in his last moments. However, it seemed the apprentice didn’t find him worth the effort.

His heart floundered in his chest. So, this is how it would end. His gaze shifted to the boards beneath his feet, tracing the outline of the trap door. Once that door gave way, once the world flew out from under his feet, cheers would erupt from the crowd. A cold chill writhed its way through his stomach. No friendly face, no sobbing for his fate. Just smiles and laughter as he jostled at the end of the rope. How long would the curse allow him to struggle, gasping for breath? Or would the rope be kind, snapping his neck quickly and efficiently?

A chill sunk into his bones, resisting the urge to glance around for Xixa again. Oh, how utterly alone he was.

Unaware – not as if she’d care – of Julian’s inner swamp of loneliness, Nadia rose from her makeshift throne. The courtiers and elites hushed as she moved, watching her with eyes wide. Mentally, she could see some of the more vicious salivating at the thought of the upcoming spectacle. Despite her sense of victory, Countess Nadia found a tiny sliver of disgust with the proceeding. However, that roach had killed the Count – her husband – on the night of his birthday with merciless fire. He should be glad she didn’t choose to flay and quarter him, as punishment.

Even as she considered that thought, Countess Nadia knew she never would issue such a ruling. The very idea churned her stomach. No, hanging was much more civilized… At least, that’s what she tried to convince herself.

“Today, we finally put an end to Dr. Devorak’s reign of terror.” Nadia’s crisp voice rang out over the assemblage, echoing down the quiet streets. Her hand sliced through the air, as if illustrating the definite end. “He shall no longer stalk the streets of Vesuvia, threatening the good people with his miasma of death, his aura of-”

“Are you seriously talking about that man?” A grizzled cackle from Nadia’s left elbow broke her speech.

The Countess started, spinning on her heel to stare at the spot the voice came. It seemed to sound from the very fabric. As attention turned to the spot on the curtain, though, a shrouded figure stepped forward. A second ago, everyone would have sworn that the shawl blended in perfectly with the curlicue pattern of the rich fabrics. But, upon closer inspection, the figure’s shawl wasn’t of a luxurious orange and pink, but a dusty blue.

At the interruption, Julian managed to bring his head up. Staring toward the Countess’s dais, the man could hardly believe his eye. Was that figure truly… “Mazelinka?”

Nadia glared down her nose at the woman, bewildered at the sudden interference of her longtime triumph. The woman didn’t appear to be a threat, though guards were scrambling toward the stairs of her dais. Nadia raised a hand to her protectors. There was no need to hassle an old woman. “Who are you?”

“That doesn’t matter. Listen,” Mazelinka, unperturbed by the bristling guards, pointed to the sky. A hum buzzed on the wind, faint and far, yet coming from all around Vesuvia. Nadia’s eyes widened, deciphering the words a moment before they became clearer.

“Free Doctor Jules! Free Doctor Jules! Free Doctor Jules!” The words echoed on the breeze, becoming louder with each passing moment. In the distance, a raven cawed in time to the beat.

For once, Nadia and Julian shared a look – across the gallows’ audience – of utter bewilderment. She looked to him, imagining a smug smirk on his roachy lips. He thought he’d find a calm complacency on the woman’s features. Instead, their wide eyes met over the people, and their hearts jolted with shock. What in the world was going on?

“The reason your guards had problems hunting down this lad isn’t due to his criminal ingenuity,” Mazelinka sucked at her teeth, a wry smirk curling at her lips at the thought. Her grin only broadened as Nadia returned her gaze toward the old woman. “The boy trips over his own feet trying to make an impression, dear.

“We hid him.” Mazelinka pointed to herself then motioned out toward the city. The demands for freedom echoed off the buildings, ricocheting around the gallows and audience. Nadia’s eyes widened, slow comprehension dawning in her mind as Mazelinka continued, “We bungled your guards’ investigations. We cared for him when he’d deny himself that luxury.”

Julian, caught up in the surreal unfoldings, started at the touch of cold fingertips fluttered across his neck. The weight of the abrasive noose lifted. He turned, finding opalescent eyes and a smile.

“I’m here,” Xixa whispered as the tears flooded his eyes. Her fingers felt like a salve on his flesh and her presence a sheer blessing. His heart sang, unable to believe the sight. Perhaps he had already hanged and this was merely a dead man’s dream.

Whatever this was, he couldn’t stop himself. Julian threw himself at her, sobs bubbling up from deep in his chest as he buried his face against the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Her warmth kissed his cold body. Relief burst through his confusion. No matter what happened, Xixa was here. The woman cooed softly, rubbing his back with one hand as her other went to fumble with the ropes at his wrists. Her stomach reeled slightly, finding blood-slick ropes, but she had a job.

“We, the citizens of Vesuvia, do not fear Doctor Ilya Devorak.” By this time, a great many bodies were flooding the city streets. Mazelinka had managed to get close enough to Nadia for the Countess to see the hard gleam of ferocity in the old woman’s eye: “And that begs the question: Why do you fear him, Countess?”

“Free Doctor Jules! Free Doctor Jules!” The mantra echoed around the square, punctuated by the raven. The courtiers and upper-class held their breath, eyes wide, drinking in the sheer drama of it all. Some glanced at each other nervously, recognizing their vulnerable position as more and more people surrounded the square. Revolutions didn’t end well for the upper-crust.

A wave of dizzying shock and uncertainty crashed over Nadia. What in the world was happening? Had these people truly protected her husband’s murderer? She raised a hand to her temple as her red gaze flickered over the growing sea of people. They ranged from young to old; skinny to portly; sickly to healthy. Lowly peasants, with more grime on them than clothes, to middle-class merchants.

The gleam of palace gilt caught Nadia’s attention; even some guards and servants?! Nadia’s heart thrummed, painfully, as her gaze snagged on a redheaded handmaiden. Shaking the sickly recognition away, the Countess turned her gaze elsewhere.

Her eyes skimmed across the square, onto Devorak, and her blood went cold.

The apprentice held the accused in her arms! The man hunched over, shaking – was he crying? - as Xixa managed to slide the restraints from his wrists. He didn’t pull away, didn’t make a break for freedom. Instead, his arms looped around the woman, crushing her close, breathing in her scent. Xixa buried her head against him, one hand sifting through his hair and the other on his shoulder.

As if feeling Nadia’s gaze, Xixa pulled away far enough to turn her eyes toward the Countess. A fearless look in her puffy, red-rimmed eyes. The woman didn’t look as if she had slept all night, though it didn’t seem she had been sobbing into her pillow, either. Nadia grasped tightly at her shawl, the silky fabric kissing her fingertips. Was Xixa part of this? Was she responsible for this? A flush of anger mingled with confusion, Nadia’s brain trying to solve this sudden puzzle.

“Nadia.” From her right, someone’s soft voice soothed. She turned flashing red eyes toward Asra. Was he, too, going to betray her? He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, worry gleaming in his violet eyes. “The people have spoken.”

The Countess remained tight-lipped and wide-eyed. She stared down at the magician, brain scrabbling to make sense of this. Did everyone simply pretend to assist her? Were they all laughing at her, behind her back? Oh, the foolish Countess! Nadia clenched her fists, the flash of rage arching across her cheeks and landing in her chest.

“Lucio was not a kind man. He overtaxed the lower-classes, terrified the servants, and mutilated anyone who stood up to him.” Asra swallowed, giving Nadia’s shoulder a squeeze. Faintly, her rage subsided as the magician recounted memories she had lost. He glanced across the audience, toward Julian. The doctor seemed to be an intense conversation with Xixa, both making harsh and abrupt motions with their hands. Nadia followed his gaze toward the doctor, her attention briefly caught by his eye patch. Mutilation echoed in her brain. Asra murmured, pain laced in his words, “Where did that leave these people?”

Nadia fell silent, her mind mulling over the refreshed details. Around her, the chant ‘Free Doctor Jules! Free Doctor Jules! Free Doctor Jules!’ continued, though it had become a background hum with raised fists, clapping hands, and stomping feet.

“The whole city of Vesuvia is chanting for your release,” Xixa’s screech cut through the turmoil, “And you’re not going to escape!?”

The apprentice had pushed Julian to arm’s length, her opalescent eyes fiery with annoyance and frustration. Only this man – this man – would not take the opportunity the very community gave him. She wanted to scream. Again.

When the sudden silence filtered into Xixa’s ears, she looked around, face going red. So many eyes turned toward her. From poor beggars to the richest of courtiers, everyone turned their attention to the apprentice.

“I told you to be careful with screaming.” Julian softly chuckled, somehow finding humor in such a setting. Though, the amusement didn’t quite reach his sad gaze. “Now everyone’s heard you.”

“Oh, don’t you fucking start, Julian.” Tears pricked at Xixa’s eyes, threatening to down her cheeks. It was too late to convince the doctor to run. The protest had been silenced – even if it wasn’t intentional – and now all eyes were on them. Julian couldn’t sneak away, now.

The man pressed a gentle kiss to Xixa’s lips, before pulling completely away. Her sniffles sliced through his heart, but his feet guided him down the stairs of the gallows. The crowd parted before him, fright emanating from the courtiers and nobles. Oh, the touch of a plague doctor, a murderer! He could imagine the things they thought…

Then, beyond the rich, were the regular people. The poor and downtrodden, those who struggled to get by, then the merchants – who hovered between poor and rich. So many had filled the streets, so many chanting his name, demanding his freedom. A warmth swelled in Julian’s chest.

“I don’t know if I killed your husband, Countess.” His grey eye locked on the Countess. She watched him coming. A small contingent of loyal guards lined her viewing stage from the crowd, swords unsheathed as the doctor came closer. He stopped three feet from the guards, ignoring the gleam of swords as he continued to speak, “If my life for his will soothe your pain, I’ll accept that. What I won’t accept are these people giving their lives for mine.”

Julian motioned out toward the crowd. Toward the peasants, the beggars, the cityfolk, the shoppe owners. If he ran, Nadia could punish these people. Devorak sympathizers could be tortured or put to death, in his place. Though, the Countess didn’t seem like the sort, being denied a long-time victory could warp many a mind. He couldn’t swallow the thought of so many people giving up so much for him. He wasn’t worth it. Didn’t they see that?

“Damn foolish, boy!” Mazelinka hissed, fists at her sides as her fiery gaze turned to him.

The Countess stared down at him, eyes narrowed. Was this a ploy? Or genuine? But what fool would stand before a line of guards if he intended to flee?

“I’m inclined to agree with this woman.” Nadia finally announced, eyebrows lowering. Her hand arched out toward the crowd, motioning to the writhing, silent mass. “These people didn’t come together by predetermined destiny, Devorak. Someone had to rouse them, someone had to convince them, someone had to make them aware. That… endeavor took time. Someone lost sleep over this shenanigan.”

The realization struck Julian. Someone had lost sleep over him to organize this protest. It should have been obvious, of course, but he could miss the obvious. His gaze flickered toward Mazelinka, who crossed her arms and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Julian’s gaze flickered back toward Xixa, shocked to find her at his elbow.

Shrouded in silence, arms crossed, she didn’t turn to meet his gaze. It didn’t matter. The bags under her teary eyes were evidence of more than one sleepless night, recently. Guilt clawed at his guts. How could he have overlooked that? How long had she stayed up, concocting this plan? Getting people to agree? Finding people to fight for him?

“And you aren’t even going to give them the honor of seeing you run off, to live another day?” Nadia’s voice bordered on revulsion. What kind of self-serving murderer was this roach, Devorak?

Julian turned away from Xixa, hanging his head. His eye concentrated on the ground, the dirt, where he belonged. He felt weak. His knees gave out under him, lowering himself to the dust. He closed his eye, croaking out, “You’re right, Countess. I don’t deserve their good graces.”

“Ilya,” Asra quietly snarled, voice a mixture of annoyance and disgust. How much could one man shrug off this much providence?

Nadia raised her hand to the magician, cutting off any other harsh words he had for the doctor. Asra tossed the woman a curious look. The Countess’s red eyes didn’t break from Julian’s bow-headed form, though. Calculations and judgment ticked away behind her gaze. Her line of guards silently waited, grasping their weapons, for their lady’s final decree.

“My husband was not kind. Compassion was not a mercy he gave.” Nadia’s voice sounded across the square, strong and vibrant. Her lips pressed together, faint memories – translucent and watered down – and feelings rising to the surface. “He thought he was fair, at least. An eye for an eye.” She paused, briefly, as Julian twitched. Apparently, the saying struck a cord with him. “If I take your life to avenge my husband’s, what does that make me?”

The doctor remained silent, hands weakly folded in his laps. He barely heard the Countess. He simply waited for his fate. He didn’t deserve mercy and he doubted he’d receive it.

Nadia continued to stare at the redheaded doctor. Lips pressed together as she considered the man. He looked pathetic, kneeling in the dust, bent double. Waiting for death. What ever did the apprentice – did Vesuvia – see in this man? However, could she send him to the gallows for being pathetic? That was something Lucio would do… and that thought made a sickness clench at her chest.

“It… It makes me wrong. It makes me no better than the late Count.” Nadia’s volume increased, her voice ringing out over the accumulated bodies. Her gaze tore away from the doctor, piercing the poor with her livid red gaze. With a grand, sweeping gesture, she indicated the people surrounding the gallows and the audience, her scarf flying out like a wing. “I see the lifeblood of Vesuvia in this square. Pumping and beating and willing to spill for your safety, doctor.”

The Countess fell silent, hazarding a glance toward Asra. The magician watched her, attention rapt. Her gaze flicked to Xixa, the woman’s opalescent eyes dull, yet hopeful. Then, finally, Nadia returned to Julian’s bowed head. She narrowed her eyes, her lips pursing around her words. “I will give the people what they want.”

Xixa’s eyes widened, hand pressed over her lips, her gaze flickering to Julian. He didn’t move. Confusion rippled through the crowd, uncertain of Nadia’s meaning. They were too used to double-talking politicians to take her words at face value.

“We want blood!” A courtier shot out of their seat, shrieking.

“It will not be the doctor’s blood that is spilled,” threatened the Countess, whipping her red gaze to the courtier. She was tired and exhausted from the strain of the day. Her eyes widened with anger, pinning the courtier with rage. “I’m sure the citizens of Vesuvia have suggestions. Wish to try them?”

The courtier visibly gulped, shaking their head and returning to their seat, a bit more stiffly than before.

Annoyed, Nadia added with a bite, “You’re free, Julian Devorak.”

That seemed to jostle the man from his continual melancholia. The man turned a wide, grey-eyed stare toward the Countess, mouth agape. The blunt words sunk into the crowd at the edges, cheering and singing began from the corners of the citizenry. Malak screamed triumphantly. Julian swung his gaze toward Xixa as she dropped to her knees in front of him.

He barely had a chance to brace himself as the woman fell into him, head lolling against his chest. Julian yelped, grasping the woman by her shoulders as he peered down at her. Worry teetered into his voice, “Xixa?”

“Child’s dead tired. She was running all over the city with your sister, last night. Stirring people up, putting boots up drunkards’ asses.” Mazelinka seemed to appear out of nowhere. The last of the loyal guard regiment were dispersing, following their beloved Countess and her magician back to the palace. The old woman peered over Julian’s shoulder, watching Xixa. “This wasn’t her only sleepless night, you know.”

“She hadn’t come to visit me the last couple nights.” Julian sighed, his fingers rubbing absently into her shoulders. Tears welled up in his eyes. Residual despair, guilt, newfound happiness, inability to accept Nadia’s ruling. There were so many reasons – both sad and happy – to cry.

“Mmm, people do crazy things when sleep-deprived,” Mazelinka sighed and gave a nod. “And in love. Well, congratulations, Ilya.”

Julian nodded absently, eye drawn to Xixa as he caressed her cheek.

“Wait, what?” Mazelinka’s words finally sunk into his brain. His gaze flashed toward her retreating back, his brain a hurricane of thoughts and emotions. His breath came out in a haggard gasp, excitement licking up his throat. “What has Xixa told you? Mazelinka!”

He moved to go after the woman, before Xixa’s weight on him gave him pause. Julian forced himself to ease, settling back on his heels again.

“Juli…lya... shhhh,” slurred Xixa, shifting against Julian, bringing his gaze gack to her. His heart stopped, heat racing up his spine as the woman inadvertently combined his names. His ears burned, embarrassed by how much her voice weaving around those syllables affected him. Heart thundering, spine-tingling, skin prickling reactions at merely mashed up syllables. Xixa’s hand shifted against his sides, grabbing at the dirty fabric of his shirt. She sighed, nuzzling her face against his chest, her breathing returning to its deep, even, sleepy pace.

She wasn’t able to keep her eyes closed long, though. The sounds of song and cheering increased, the crowd of citizens pressing closer as courtiers and guards made their exit. Xixa cracked an eye open as people clapped Julian on his shoulder, delivering equal parts congratulations for his freedom and derision for his prior surrender. She sighed, pushing back from Julian’s chest as the words fell onto his ears. “Congratulations! Not many can walk away from the gallows!”

“We marched all th’ way here, ‘nd you were still gunna give yerself up, y’turd!” Someone clipped Julian’s ear, playfully, before ruffling his hair and moving on.

“That’s Ilya for you, idn’t it,” cackled a woman.

A thick-armed man, smelling of ale and alcohol, gave a hearty laugh as he clapped both hands on Julian’s shoulders. “I’m going to charge you twice as much for the trouble, boy!”

Julian flushed under all the attention, allowing himself to be rocked to and fro by the jostling touches. He mumbled gratitudes and flashed charismatic smiles at the people. Shock settled over his shocks, numbing the sheer impossibility of it all. These were the faces of past patients, shopowners, bartenders, barflies, market goers, beggars… he didn’t know how he touched all their lives, but apparently he had, in some way. At least, enough for them to be bothered to request his freedom.

There was a sudden silence, a parting in the crowd, a wave of whispers as someone shoved their way through the throngs. Xixa’s eyes drew to the cleave in the crowd, an understanding passing her features as she got to her feet. Julian’s brow creased, following her lead. Before he could ask Xixa what was wrong, his little sister barreled through the people.

“Ilya!” As she broke through, her gaze fell on him. Large tears welled up in her eyes, streaming down her cheeks as she rushed to him. Using her inertia, the young woman shoved at her brother, anger and relief mixing in her voice as she cried. “You damnidiot. We got all these people together and you still wanted to get yourself killed!”

“Pasha…” Julian’s voice came out strained, tears blotting at the corners of his eyes. Portia’s arms came around his middle, hugging him tightly as she cried and berated him against his chest. He couldn’t stop himself as tears streamed out his eyes. His arms came around his sister, holding her close. Julian didn’t think he’d ever get a chance to hug his little sister, ever again. The realization broke through his thoughts that this was just one of many more hugs, many more laughs, many more memories he could have. If he did things right.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve a sister like you,” he sobbed, shaking his head as he looked up, over the surrounding crowd. Something warm – a previously forgotten sense of community? – swelled in his chest as he met so many eyes, so many smiles and grins. “Or all this support. I’m not going to throw it away.”

“You better not!” Someone hooted, further away. A chorus a laughter and claps echoed around the square.

“You better take care of yourself, boy!” Mazelinka’s familiar voice popped out of the crowd, loud and obstinate. More laughter and agreeing jeers met with her demand.

Portia swiped her tears away with the palm of her hand as she pushed herself away from her brother. She fixed him with a hard look, lips twisted into a serious frown. “You forgot Xixa. What in the world did you do to deserve Xixa?”

“I don’t know if I deserve her, to be honest.” He glanced over to the aforementioned woman, who had taken a few steps back from the siblings, giving them space.

Xixa’s tired eyes drew up to his face, slowly. Julian shifted under her stare, his ears inexplicably going hot. The woman finally moved toward the doctor, reaching a hand up to stroke his jawline gently. The heat from his ears crossed across his face, leaving a red blush in its wake. Eyes hooded and voice ragged from exhaustion, Xixa smiled softly, “I’m not going to tell what you deserve, Julian, in polite company.”

His heart thrummed. Oh, yes, what did he deserve? Delight and excitement licked over his bones, realizing their time was unlimited and without the threat of guards ruining their fun. His breath hitched, just slightly, at the thought. A sudden burst of energy flared through him.

From the throng of people, someone crowed, “Who’s the wanker that told ya’ we’re polite?”

“Still too polite for that conversation,” Xixa retorted, loud enough for nearer people to hear. Her eyes never left Julian’s face as laughter rippled through the crowd. He bit his bottom lip, finding a heat in her gaze – beneath her exhaustion – that promised something sensual and painfully pleasurable. Perhaps, after a well-deserved nap.

The doctor couldn’t help himself. He arched down, catching the woman in a kiss. Her arms curled around his neck, a soft breathy whimper against his lips. Electricity danced over Julian’s body, the scent of her surrounding him. Heat and joy blossomed in his chest as his hands traced her sides, wracking a small shiver from her body. Xixa sunk her teeth into his bottom lip, almost – almost – provoking a groan of delight from him, in front of such a large crowd.

“If you all will excuse us,” Julian announced once he surfaced, forcing to make himself heard over the whoops and jeers. He swept the woman into arms, cradling her bridal-style to his chest. Xixa squeaked, but settled against his chest, her hands pressing to chest. Feeling her in his arms, a subtle satisfaction coiled into Julian’s core. A broad smirk curled at his lips as he waggled his eyebrows at the hooting crowd. “Xixa and I have much to… ah… discuss.”

As he maneuvered through the crowd – congratulations and compliments lapping against him – Julian could feel excitement bubbling up in him. Excitement for tonight, for tomorrow, for next month, next year. When was the last time he held such anticipation for the future? He glanced down at Xixa, cuddled against his chest, eyelids fluttering against sleep. The doctor gave her a slight squeeze. When she tilted her head back, deigning him with a look and a sleepy smile. “Mmn?”

“Rest, my dear,” Julian murmured, feeling Xixa’s body relax a little further against him. Involuntary, elated tears pooled in the corners of his eye, voice cracking a little, as he added, “We have plenty of time.”

#thearcanagame #the arcana game #julian devorak #julian devorak x mc #julian devorak x xixa #xixa #nadia #asra #portia #mazelinka #my writing

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janeofcakes · 7 years ago

Text

Chapter 73

***This chapter is a doozy. I hope it makes sense toward the end. It gets kind of weird and surreal. I was listening to Inception while writing and I think it influenced me a bit.***

(With his work at Parliament finished for the time being, Mycroft steps onto the lift and pushes the floor for his office. When the doors open, he walks briskly to his office, nodding at his many operatives along the way as they make short reports on the status of several different operations. Anthea hands him a file folder and opens the office door, leaning close for a moment and whispering close to his ear. Mycroft closes his eyes and sighs as he walks into the room to find Sherlock, Greg, and Molly waiting for him. Before anyone can say a word, the elder Holmes updates them on Parliament.)

M: Moriarty’s informant has been identified and taken care of. He will no longer be a danger to anyone.

S: Did he give you information on John?

M: (pursing his lips) No.

S: We’ve hit a dead end, Mycroft.

M: I don’t have any information for you.

S: (clenching his teeth) That may be now and, as much as it pains me, my...friends can be very convincing.

M: No!

(The others are startled into silence by the man’s uncharacteristic outburst. He glances at Molly, who stares back with sad eyes, and quickly schools his expression. He looks at his brother and continues calmly.)

M: I cannot help you, Sherlock. I asked Miss Hooper and the Inspector to intervene on my behalf so you were able to use your very talented braind to find your beloved.

S: You ask my friends to forcibly detoxify me without showing your face once.

M: You wouldn’t have listened to me.

S: You ask them to work with me to find John, but you won’t lift a finger to help.

M: I can’t, Sherlock.

S: That’s very considerate of you, Mycroft. So helpful. Thank you SO much.

M: (raising his voice to snap at his brother) I can’t! I have to protect someone who is more important to me than… (He closes his mouth with a click, suddenly realizing what he was about to say.) I’m sorry.

(No one says a word. All eyes are on Mycroft as he licks his lips and speaks quietly.)

M: I have not been looking for John. I can’t help you.

G: Goddammit, Mycroft! This is John we’re talking about!

M: I am fully aware of that.

(Greg continues shouting while Sherlock remains silent with a stony glare on the older man. Mycroft eyes him uneasily and tries to speak over the furious detective inspector.)

M: Inspector, Miss Hooper, would you allow me a private audience with my brother?

MH: Of course. (tugging Greg’s arm) Come on, Greg.

(Mycroft looks at Sherlock warily once they are alone.)

M: Sherlock…

S: You unbelievable bastard. (eyes blazing) You have interfered in my life from day one.

M: This is different, Sherlock.

S: How the HELL is this different?! Oh, I know, because this is the only time it would make a difference to me! The only time I ASK you for help and you refuse!

M: Rehabilitation was just as important!

S: NOTHING is more important than John!

(Sherlock lunges forward and punches Mycroft square on the jaw. He staggers backward and puts a hand to his bloodied lip. Sherlock stares at him, his fists clenched at his sides. Mycroft curses and pulls a white handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiping it across his lips and glaring with hard eyes.)

M: John would understand.

S: (eyes widening in shock and anger) John would understand? John…

(Sherlock considers hitting him again and even takes a step closer, but stops himself. Instead, he looks at his brother with the fury of hellfire blazing in his eyes, his voice like poison.)

S: I. Am. Done. With you.

(Sherlock pushes passed him and walks out of the office. Mycroft presses his hands to his forehead and closes his eyes, knowing Sherlock meant it and will not return. He promised their parents he would always look after his baby brother and has always done his best, but look now how terribly he has failed him.

Mycroft raises his head proudly and sits at his desk primly. He carefully places the folder Anthea gave him on its surface, his elbows on top, and then bows his head into his hands.)

***

(John opens his eyes. He is still lying on the floor, but in a room with plain white walls and floor. Bright light surrounds him with warmth. He has no idea where he is, but feels safe and relaxed. He lets out a deep breath and closes his eyes. There is a familiar scent in the air around him. A deep, rich voice finds his ears.)

Voice: Hello, John.

(John’s eyes fly open. He turns his head to face the man at his side.)

J: Sherlock!

S: How are you?

J: (smiling warmly) God, I miss you. You look gorgeous.

S: (rolling his eyes upward in thought) Not really what I asked.

J: I’ve been better. It’s hard, Sherlock. I’ve...done...things. Awful things.

S: It’s all right.

J: (plunging ahead) How can you say that? You don’t know. I’m afraid you won’t want me back. If...I ever get away.

S: Nothing, John. Nothing will ever make me turn away from you. (He touches John’s face gently.) I will love you until the day I die. (His thumb slides over John’s cheek to wipe away a tear.) And you will escape. You will leave this place.

(He moves closer to John. Their faces are inches apart. They breathe the same breath. Share the same soul.)

S: Or I will find you. Hold on, John. I’m coming.

(Sherlock gently touches his parted lips to John’s and stays still, giving John the chance to feel the softness and warmth of his lips. John slowly parts his own and allows his tongue to explore cautiously. Sherlock responds in kind and deepens the kiss.

John is in heaven. With Sherlock’s mouth against his, hand on his cheek, scent filling his nose - John feels like he is home.

When their lips finally part, Sherlock looks deeply into John’s eyes. The corners of his mouth twitch up.)

S: I’ll find you.

***

MM: John! John!

(Mary sounds panicked and far away. John struggles to open his eyes. Slowly Mary’s face comes into focus. He tries to sit up.)

MM: Oh, John, thank god. No! Don’t try to sit up. (He winces and lies down again.) God, I knew there was something wrong when you didn’t come to lunch. What has he done to you?

J: Lunch? I missed lunch? What time is it?

MM: After two. When did this happen? Last night? You’ve been out all this time?

J: Jesus. (John tries to sit up again, but stops and looks at her apprehensively.) Where the hell are my clothes?

MM: I don’t know. You weren’t wearing any when I found you. John, you’re covered with cuts and bruises.

J: I’ll be fine. Just help me up.

(Mary helps him up and holds him steady while he tries to get his bearings.)

J: I need a shower.

MM: Right. Not too fast now.

(John clutches at the blanket to keep it around his body as she helps him walk to the next room. When they reach the shower, John reaches in and turns on the water. Leaning forward to rest his forehead against the wall, he closes his eyes in pain.)

MM: Are you okay? Do you need help in the shower?

(John’s eyes snap open and he turns toward her quickly, crossing an arm over his chest and wincing.)

J: No! No. (breathing as deeply as he can, trying to calm down) Thanks, I’ll be fine. I just need to go slowly.

MM: You’re sure?

(John nods and, although her eyes are still filled with worry, Mary nods and walks to the door.)

MM: Yell if you need anything.

(John sighs when the door clicks shut and allows his shoulders to sag. He drops the blanket and steps into the warm water. Closing his eyes and losing himself in the comforting streams cascading down his body, John tries to block out everything in his mind that isn’t Sherlock.

He can’t remember much from the night before, but scenes and feelings drift in and out of his consciousness without warning. Hitting, kicking, hands on his throat, his head slamming into the floor again and again. Jim’s voice shouting and cursing Sherlock. Pain. The feeling of being ripped apart. Then Jim’s face. Those murderous, hungry eyes. Those lips pressing against John’s body. Against his…

John cries out before he can even process the thought creating the sound and his knees buckle under the overwhelming force of the memories. But instead of hitting the floor, a hand catches him under each arm, trying to hold him up. He falls back against the body behind him, pressing her to the wall.

John tries to face Mary and fails, falling back into her arms again. He knew it was her the moment she caught him, but he still sighs in relief that his defensive instincts didn’t kick in.)

MM: It’s only me. Don’t worry. I’m here to help.

J: (mumbling, his voice full of pain) Mary, you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t…

MM: Shh. It’s okay.

(John suddenly realizes Mary is also nude. The soft skin of her breasts presses up against his back, a faint tickle of coarse hair at his bum. Regaining his sea legs and panic welling up in his chest, John stands up straight and pulls away from her. Mary’s hands remain firmly latched to his arms to keep him steady. A thousand words like “What the hell are you doing” flood through his mind, only to be pushed out by Sherlock. Everything else quietly disappears and there is only Sherlock. John is filled with an unbearable sadness. He twists in Mary’s arms, meeting her worried eyes with a sad, lost look in his own.)

J: Sherlock. I’ll never see him again, will I?

MM: Oh, John. (pulling him close, his head to her shoulder) You’ll see him again. You will.

***

(Both dry and dressed again, John in only boxer shorts, Mary helps him take stock of his injuries and then get into bed. She cringes at his every movement because each one obviously brings him pain, though he tries to hide it.)

J: Concussion, a few bruised ribs, nothing broken. A LOT of superficial bruises and lacerations. Nothing that needs stitches. Not nearly as bad as I feared, given the amount of pain.

MM: I don’t know you can be so casual about all this. You’re badly hurt, John.

J: (shrugging) I was in the army.

MM: Were you?

J: Captain. Fifth Northumberland… (He trails off, not sure if he wants to tell her about that part of his life.) I’ll be fine.

MM: John, he… (She can’t bring herself to say the words and takes a different tact.) This isn’t a healthy relationship.

(John starts laughing, which she finds more than mildly disturbing.)

MM: He’ll do it again. (pausing) How many times has he done this?

J: It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.

MM: Jesus, John! Stop trying to protect me or deny it or whatever the hell it is you’re doing. Just tell me what’s going on. (She crosses her arms, and gives him a look of annoyance and determination.) How many times has he done this?

J: (sighing) Sometimes you remind me so much of Sherlock.

(Mary’s face softens. She sits on the edge of the bed and takes John’s hand in one of her own. The other sweeps the fringe off of his forehead gently.)

MM: John, listen to me. Let me help you. (pausing a moment to let that sink in) How many times has Moriarty done this to you?

J: (meeting her eyes) Every night since he brought me here.

(Mary’s mouth falls open. She has no idea what she was expecting, but that was not it. She wants to say something, do something, but can’t find the words and she can’t seem to move her body.)

J: The sex has always been rough, but the real violence only just started. The two times you’ve been party to only.

MM: (her eyes shining) My god. It’s been… (She swallows hard and asks in a small voice.) Why didn’t you say anything?

J: I had no idea where this place even is until you told me yesterday. (He pulls his hand from her grasp and scrubs both through his hair.) I didn’t know you or whether you worked with Jim or just for him.

MM: Okay. I can understand that. You needed to know which side I was on. What are you going to do? (They look at one another for a moment.) When you get home, I mean. Are you going to tell Sherlock?

J: I have to. I can’t keep it from him. (shaking his head) I’ve kept things from him before. I won’t do it again.

(Mary looks at him for a long time, watching his face. The way the skin under his eyes flexes when he is resolute. The way his brows arch and then furrow when he is in pain. Oh, how she would love to know this man. To know everything about him. What must it be like to be boyfriend Sherlock?)

MM: What will he...do? How will he…

J: It’ll destroy him. (Silence fills the air around them and then John continues, sounding a bit hopeful.) But we’ll be okay. Eventually. I love him, Mary. I love him so much.

MM: (with new resolve) Tell me where he is. Who he is. And I’ll find him.

J: What? No. I won’t put you in that kind of danger. I won’t ask you to do that.

MM: You aren’t asking me, I’m insisting. And I’m already in danger. You said yourself what Moriarty will do if he finds out about us.

(John opens his mouth to speak, but the words die on his tongue. They hear noises outside the bedroom door. Footsteps on the stairs getting closer. John’s eyes go wide.)

J: Shit. He’s back. He’s back early. Get out of sight.

MM: (quietly) Give me his name.

J: Just get in the closet!

(Mary scampers silently to the closet door and pulls it nearly shut, but leaves a crack open.)

MM: (whispering tersely) John, tell me!

(He shakes his head emphatically, looking from her to the bedroom door.)

MM: (whining) Jaw-awn!

(His eyes snap to her mostly obscured face, then back at the turning doorknob, and then back to her.)

J: Sherlock Holmes.

(Mary ducks out of sight as Jim walks into the room. He stops in front of the door and smiles at John, closing it behind. John sits still as stone on the bed, eyeing him uneasily, hoping he didn’t see or hear anything that would lead him to suspect Mary.)

JM: Good evening.

(John watches as Jim walks slowly to the bedside, examining every inch of John that he can see. John pushes himself up so he’s sitting tall and straightens his neck defiantly.)

J: Admiring your handiwork, you son of a bitch?

(Jim licks his lips and steps even closer. His hand cups John’s purple cheek. His palm cradled around a long wound, red with clotted blood.)

JM: I’m glad you fixed yourself up. I knocked you around too much this time, I admit that. I’m glad you’re all right.

J: All right? You call this all right?

JM: That shot with the gun was a sucker punch. I’m sorry about that, love, but you’re so strong. I needed the upper hand. (His hand slides to John’s bicep and gives it a squeeze.) I love feeling those muscles strain against me. I have some handcuffs that would certainly make things interesting.

J: (growling) You try it and I’ll…

JM: (laughing) You’ll what? Kill me? And Sherlock right along with me? (He leans in closer and shakes his head.) Oh, no, John. You won’t do that. You’ll do exactly what I tell you. What I want.

J: Fuck you.

(Jim swiftly covers John’s mouth with his own, forcing his tongue passed those soft lips to manhandle the tongue within. When he pulls away, he licks John’s lips slowly and then whispers in his ear when John turns his face away.)

JM: I don’t think I have to tell you what will happen if you choose not to obey. (John’s body goes taut, every muscle tensing in an instant.) If I say kiss me, your lips are on mine. Touch me and you get to work. Suck me off… (He smiles and licks John’s ear. John can’t stop from shuddering.) You know where your mouth will be.

(Jim kisses very slowly along John’s jawline, brushes their lips together, and hovers close.)

JM: Did you just shiver? (feeling John’s warm breath, he closes his eyes and whispers) Kiss me, John.

(John complies immediately, thrusting his tongue in Jim’s open mouth. It moves over Jim’s tongue in ways he has never before experienced with his captive. Fireworks blast behind Jim’s eyelids. He grabs John’s body tightly as he flops on the bed unceremoniously and presses his own against it. John tilts his head to deepen the kiss and places his own hands on either side of Jim’s face. Jim melts at his touch, every touch.

When their lips finally part, both men gasp for air, breath still hot on one another’s face.)

JM: God damn, John, are you sure you’re not trying to seduce me?

J: (smiling against his lips) Not likely.

(He whips his head back and headbutts Jim. Shoving him off the bed and out of his way, John tries to climb off the other side of the bed as quickly as he is able. Unfortunately, it is not nearly fast enough. Jim pops back up from the floor and grabs John, pulling him down onto the bed, flat on his back.)

JM: (smiling viciously and biting out the words) I love that spirit!

(He punches John’s ribs four or five times in rapid succession.)

J: God damn it!

(Jim yanks at John and thrusts his face dangerously close to John’s.)

JM: That didn’t hurt as much as I thought it might. Just bruised then and not broken. I can change that.

J: (through clenched teeth) I hate you so much.

JM: I can change that too.

J: You will NEVER change that.

JM: So you say. (touching his fingers to John’s face gingerly between bruises and bandages) What have I done to you?

J: (without looking at him) What did you expect? This is what it looks like when you kick the shit out of someone.

JM: (quietly) I’m sorry, love. I shouldn’t have done that.

J: What the fuck is wrong with you?! Why are you acting this way? (John is shouting, mad with fury, and tired of being jerked around. No of this makes sense. None of it.) You try to break my ribs and then apologize! You’re a fucking psycho!

JM: No! (He forces John to meet his eyes.) I took you because I wanted you and I have loved every minute. But I want more. I want to worship you the way he does. I want you to worship me. I love you, John Watson.

(John’s eyes widen in disbelief. This can’t be happening. Or Jim is fucking with him again, but he looks so terrifyingly sincere.)

J: (in a low, dangerous voice) You do not love me. You will never know what love is. And you will never get it from me.

(At first, Jim looks sad. All around is silent and it feels like the world is moving in slow motion. Jim’s voice drifts through the air between them. I was angry. It won’t happen again. Then Jim’s lips spread open to reveal that heinous smile and time moves in fast forward. He punches John’s ribs again and laughs loudly.)

JM: Or maybe it will. You’re rather more fun when you fight me. More likely to make some noise too.

J: (grabbing his ribs and shouting) You fucking prick! If I can ever guarantee Sherlock’s safety, I will snap your fucking neck!

JM: (with a furious gleam in his eyes) Back to Sherlock again. You’re so noble, John. So noble. Too bad it isn’t going to help you this time.

(In spite of the pain and the risk of breaking a rib, John grabs a handful of hair and pulls Jim close to his face again.)

J: Noble? You misjudge me. I am more like you than you think. And I. Will. Burn. The heart. Out of you.

(Jim’s eyes widen and his face pales at the sound of his own words thrown back at him. Acting quickly, he punches the same spot on John’s ribs. The doctor crumbles and lurches away from Jim, clenching his teeth and groaning sharply, but Jim drags him back.)

JM: You will not defy me, John. You are mine, so get used to it. Your life will be a lot happier.

J: (breathless with agony) Never be happy with you.

(Jim takes John’s chin in his hand and meets his eyes.)

JM: Try, love. Not for me. For you.

J: Fuck…off.

(Jim presses his lips to John’s and bites hungrily. He mauls John outright, ravaging his mouth viciously. When he pulls back, the poor man’s lips are pink and swollen and sure to bruise. John glares at him through his exhaustion. Jim just smiles back and kisses his nose.)

JM: Let’s have a kip, shall we, love? You look so tired.

(He climbs onto the bed and pulls John’s body to his. John resists as much as he can, only to be punched in the ribs again. He clenches his jaw hard to keep from crying out in pain and relents, now seriously concerned that a rib or two may be broken. As Jim snuggles nauseatingly close, John resolves not to sleep and to leave the bed as soon as Jim is asleep. Unfortunately, his mutinous body fails him and he is asleep in minutes. Jim buries his nose in John’s delicious blonde hair and and dozes off.

Much later, long after Jim has awoken and left the island again, Mary sneaks out of the closet and goes to John. She touches his face gently so as not to wake him and kisses his forehead.)

MM: God, John. I can’t… (She swallows back a sob and hardens her eyes.) I’ll find him. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

#Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock loves john #sherlock fanfic #johnwatson #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #sherlock and john fanfic #Moriarty is a bastard #moriarty kidnaps john #mary morstan

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modestmondays · 7 years ago

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one of the most important money-makers for kid-centered media is merchandise, right? so i do wonder about this. because as far as i can tell, su is genuinely very popular and is consistently one of the most talked about shows on online platforms like tumblr, but the thing is, i don’t know if that’s true for the product-selling side of it. for some perspective - i live in norway. there are some cartoons you *cannot* avoid in nerd stores, like adventure time. at first i thought maybe su was "too

new” to have that status, but now that’s happened to rickand morty, which is newer in terms of being “big” online. so i wondered aboutdemographics - maybe rick & morty is more popular among the “typical” nerdy+ gamer demographic (teen boys) - but i visited america and saw that actually,there IS a lot of su merch being prominently sold, so i wonder two things: isthere any way to know whether the su merch is doing *well*, and is there anyway to know whether it’s doing well *internationally*?

as popular as su is in the US, i’m not sure whether that’strue elsewhere (and i’ve heard that that actually matters to CN US, and is partof why they still have certain shows that aren’t huge ‘talkers’ nationally, butsell merch and do well elsewhere). i certainly love SU, but from what i can tell,it’s not… actually a household name among nerds here, and it’s hard to findany merch… so i do wonder if being big in america and online is enough,though i agree there aren’t warning signs yet

I was actually in Denmark recently for a cousin’s BarMitzvah, and I can anecdotally confirm that Rick and Morty is waaaay morepopular in your part of the world than I expected, although kids there had heard of StevenUniverse too. The Szechuan Sauce nonsense shows that R&M already has a strongUS fanbase as well. I think the US R&M fanbase is a bit older, it’s not reallya “for kids” show here. But either way, it’s certainly a closer fit for the nerdy/gamerdemographic than SU is, on both sides of the Atlantic. I’d expect to findR&M stuff at comic book stores, Gamestop, that kind of place. And whilethose places may have SU comics/toys, I think you find more SU merch at Barnes &Noble, Hot Topic, and other non-geek stores.

I’m definitely seeing a lot of SU merch here, and it feels likethe quantity and scope are both increasing (strongly suggesting that salesnumbers are good), which is a big part of why I’m not worried about thefinancial future of the show. But it’s interesting that you’re not seeing thatinternationally.

edit: this got really long, so I’ll put the rest under a cut.

I tried to do some research. The CN website was totallyunhelpful because it has zero business info, just stuff for the target audience,which is kids (although I did see that the volleyball game is finally up!), and moving up thecorporate chain to Turner didn’t help, since CN is too small a part of theirbusiness to get much press.

But some more searching took me to http://www.licensemag.com/license-globalwhich was more helpful. Here’s some CN articles/press releases that I foundinteresting. I’ll pull out some key highlights.

http://www.licensemag.com/license-global/cartoon-network-has-something-everyone(June 2016)

A big push for CNE moving forward will also be for theseries “Steven Universe.” Created by Rebecca Sugar, “StevenUniverse” follows the misadventures of Steven, the ultimate “littlebrother” to a team of magical guardians of humanity–the Crystal Gems–asthey band together to save the universe.

The series premiered on Cartoon Network in November 2013,but now is beginning to be supported by more robust offerings at retail.

“We’ve seen a huge pick up for ‘Steven Universe,’”says Yoder. “It’s one of those brands that has always rated reallywell–there is such a rich mythology within the storytelling–but it just took alittle longer for fans to really get to know the characters.”

According to CNE, theseries is a top performer on the network, coming in as the top grossing seriesper episode, and will now be expanded with a consumer product program.(emphasis mine)

Twenty-five-plus licensees have been tapped to expand thebrand to accessories (Accutime, Buckle-Down, Hot Properties and HighIntenCity), apparel (Bioworld, Underboss and Mighty Fine), gaming (USAopoly),home décor (Surreal Entertainment and the Northwest Company), novelty toys(A&A Global Industries, Funko, Just Toys International, Phat Mojo, ToyFactor and Zag Toys), costumes (Rubie’s Costume Co.) and more.

CNE will also leverage show creator Sugar for a publishingprogram with Penguin, and Boom! Studios will launch comic books and graphicnovels.

The products will sit at mid-tier retailers and hit shelvesin time for back-to-school, with stores such as Kohl’s, J.C. Penney and Searssigned on for inventory. Yoder says the program will expand to mass retailersand reach further into the kids’ demographic next year.

http://www.licensemag.com/license-global/cartoon-network-energizing-evergreens(February 2017)

“The network has done a great job not just saying that wecreate multi-platform content, but actually doing it,” adds Yoder, who has beena member of the CNE team since 2006 and reports to Cartoon Network presidentChristina Miller. “We are giving our fans true multi-platform experiences, sowhile we are creating linear content, we are also offering additional contentspecific for CN apps as well as evaluating how we expand with SVODopportunities and how we support kids creating their own content.”

As Cartoon Network is responding to the changing dynamics oflinear television and kids’ viewing habits, the network is still deliveringstrong ratings and viewership, which bodes well for its brand licensing group.

CNE is a well-recognized global licensor, ranked No. 30 inthe world, according to the Top 150 Global Licensors Report published annuallyby License Global, reporting $2 billion in retail sales of licensed merchandiseworldwide.

While the challenges facing the rapidly changing traditionalkids’ TV sector have been well-documented, Cartoon Network has several keypoints of differentiation, including a well-established audience, the abilityto promote its shows, development of content across different platforms andstrong evergreen properties.

http://www.licensemag.com/license-global/portfolio-programs(July 15, 2017)

“The idea of putting together long-term portfolio dealscame about rather organically,” says Christina Miller, vice president ofconsumer products, Cartoon Network Enterprises, which has inked multi-propertydeals with Mattel, Hallmark, and to a lesser degree, FunKo Toys.

According to Miller, “There were two primary reasons wechose to explore this strategy. First, Mattel and Hallmark are leading licenseesin their respective fields, and we have solid relationships with each.Secondly, our shows receive a good deal of cross-viewership, so kids who watch'Fosters’ are likely to stay and watch 'Billy & Mandy,’ and so forth. Wedecided, rather than spend time looking for individual licensees for eachproperty, it would be more efficient to have a single company developingproduct for all properties that target ages 6 to 11.”

Not to mention, she adds, “it fosters a strong creativerelationship between our creators and artists and their design teams.”

Hallmark’s vice president of licensing acquisitions, KarenMitchell-Layton, agrees, adding, “The multi-year, multi-propertyarrangement will allow us to spend time and creative energy in not onlycreating products for today, but also to take an innovative approach as thecharacters and storylines evolve.” Under its agreement with CartoonNetwork, Hallmark now holds the exclusive licensing rights in the U.S. andCanada for a range of everyday and seasonal social expression products,including greeting cards and party-supply items. “Social expressions is anincredibly extensive category,” says Miller, “so we’d like to spendmore time on the creative and less on making multiple deals, which ultimately willlead to better, more sophisticated products. Similarly, the Mattel deal coversmultiple toy and games categories including vehicles, action figures, playsets,roleplay, board games, puzzles, and youth electronic items.” While Mattelnow has a first-look option on all newly created original series andprogramming, Miller is quick to point out that existing relationships such asBandai’s master toy deal for “Ben 10” will remain untouched.

http://www.licensemag.com/license-global/cartoon-network-bolsters-experiential-initiatives(October 2017)

It takes more than great content to create a devoted fanbase, and Cartoon Network is putting fandom front and center to keep fansdeeply engaged with its properties.

“At a corporate level, Turner has put fandom veryfirmly in the center of our global strategy. We don’t talk about audiencesanymore, we talk about fans and fandom,” says Johanne Broadfield, vicepresident, Cartoon Network Enterprises EMEA, a part of Turner Entertainment.“For the past 18 months, we’ve been all about a 360-degree brandexperience.”

Putting fans at the heart of the business ups a property’sgame by fueling growth and fan commitment. In creating a foundation based onstrong core content, Cartoon Network is building its brands out to engage fanson a deeper level with a wide and varied set of temporary and permanentexperiences.

“We’re creating authentic, personal experiencesspecifically designed for fans of each brand to interact with the properties innew and unique ways,” says Broadfield.

Far from a one-size-fits-allapproach, Broadfield says the company is designing experiences tailored to eachbrand and its retail partners so that activations are meaningful and connectwith fans in a personal way.

Some analysis:

First, I don’t know how much to read into the lack of SUmentions in the later articles. It may not be one of the top sellers, but thatdoesn’t mean it’s doing poorly. “Top grossing series per episode” sounds prettygood, although they did see it as slower to grow on the merchandise side. Theymay be going for a similar slow burn internationally? I know the dubs arepretty far behind in some countries, and especially for younger kids, they’regoing to need the show in their native language. This would also hit stuff likecomics and books pretty hard. The Answer is a wonderful kid’s book, but it’sonly available in English.

Second, it looks like a lot of the licensing agreements areboth broad and exclusive, so if some of those retailers are US-only, so is themerch. Are Hot Topic or Funko international things? If not, then some of thetoys and clothing won’t be available—which exacerbates the previous problem,since toys and clothes could otherwise be sold to kids who aren’t nativeEnglish speakers with no trouble.

It seems like app and mobile tie-ins are a big part of theirholistic approach, and SU seems to be fine on that front. There’s hugeengagement from the fans across multiple platforms, although I’m not sure how much of that is from kids.

The last part, about unique fan experiences, made me thinkof Estelle’s “Stronger Than You” performance at SDCC. They went all out withthat one, giving out “Made of Love” t-shirts, reserving and decorating the stage, and gettinga huge crowd of fans together. They gave away more of those promotionalt-shirts during the panel at NYCC, too. I think they realize that the SU marketis there, and they’re doing a good job of engaging with us, even though we mostlyaren’t “boys age 6-11”.

Demographics may be a challenge, since CN was, up until recently,all about the boy’s programming (old Turner press releases emphasize thatsuccess). They’re branching out into other target demographics with shows like the PPG reboot or R&M, but it may beharder to nail down the SU fanbase into an easy target demographic. But they’re finding various ways to “engage” us(read: sell us stuff we want), and I hope that’ll continue.

I guess that didn’t really answer your questions, but hopefully it’s interesting anyway! It might be possible to get more specific sales data by reading SEC filings or calling them, but I don’t want to do that.

#steven universe #Cartoon network #faelapis

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my-cup-runneth-over · 5 years ago

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MY FAVORITE KINDS OF ART

1. Minimalism

It might be a little harder to understand than high content art with apparent symbolism but the context is still there. It just takes a little deeper digging or research, and there’s nothing wrong with doing a little extra thinking. So despite the possibility that minimalist pieces can take less work to create, and have a more simplified appearance, that makes them more complex in that they are more challenging to decipher. So they look easier but they’re actually more complex! Crazy how those two factors can be inversely related. This piece is called Rainbow Pickett by Judy Chicago. It’s named after Wilson Pickett. I have yet to find any more information as far as that but you know, the beauty of art is also that it doesn’t have to mean anything.

2. Surrealism

I like surrealism for so many reasons. To me, surrealism is a mixture of old and new. The old masters conquered realism--getting down every little excruciating detail in order to obtain optimal accuracy--so that the new masters could use this ability to warp reality. Surrealism is a juxtaposition of old and new, real and unreal. I don’t have to choose which one I like more because now I have both. I can pay homage to those old techniques but use them in a modern way. The works are so accurately inaccurate. It’s like the way things feel so convincing in your dreams. This is one of Magritte’s many Le jockey perdu.

3. Useless Objects

I love all art that can be perceived as provocative. If an art object incites powerful feelings of confusion or frustration, then I believe the work has been done. Useless objects have been manipulated or warped, or created in a way that is impractical. There are designers that work hard every day to create sustainable and efficient products, and then there’s Katerina Kamprani. Some artists just want to watch the world wince. It was actually really hard to limit myself to one image for this category so I’m going to link the rest of her works here(x). This kind of art to me is like surrealism through sculpture. Tangible, concrete, surreal objects that you can physically perceive and or touch. Lovely.

4. Rococo

Okay let’s go ahead and take a step back into the late baroque! Rococo is the original Kawaii. It’s cute and pink and fluffy and sumptuous. It’s ornamental and dramatic and luxurious. I think of Marie Antoinette and the times where people lived in excess and gluttony and lived footloose and fancy free. This is Fragonard’s The Swing. In this painting, a rich woman swings highly and dramatically within a lush, green garden. She bathes in the spoils of her rich spouse, seen in the bottom right corner of the painting. He pushes her on the swing because he pampers and overindulges her. Her opulent pink dress flies freely through the air as she dramatically kicks her slipper off. Seen below, hidden in the bushes is her lover, stupefied and reaching out to her. The dog in the right corner is barking. Dogs in paintings are a symbol of fidelity, or I guess infidelity in this case. Maybe that’s why he barks, because he wants to reveal the truth. So many different aspects that can be analyzed and dissected. I could write a whole essay about this, I love it so much.

5. Conceptual Art

Ah yes, Duchamp and dada and the readymades. Marcel didn’t make his famous Fountain. He used a found object for it, deemed it his artwork, and thus began a revolution. He instilled in the art world the notion that the concept can be the artwork all on its own. This is taking a million steps back and questioning what art really is. This changes the definition of art altogether. This either made everyone crazy because it was so introspective, or mad because to them it was lazy. I think it’s genius.

6. Immersive instillation art

There are so many artists to name: James Turrell, Yayoi Kusama, Lauren Halsey, Phillip K. Smith III, and Carlos Cruz-Diez (pictured above.) that have created one or many installation pieces that allow the viewer to be completely immersed within their environment. I think all art can be immersive but only room installations give you the literal, physical experience of it. I think it’s the goal of all artists to engross their audience so that they may share in their experience, their vision. It’s almost like taking a step into their idea or their dream or hallucination.

7. Word art

Regardless of there being words in a piece, the artist always has a message they are intending to convey. I guess when there is an literal message it’s just slightly more obvious. So word art has the potential to add a little more conspicuous context to the art piece. I say potentially because there are a lot of times where the word has nothing to do with the painting, much like the above pictured Wayne White. (But what’s the opposite of sensical? Thought provocative!) Wayne White is my prime example for this because the words in his paintings are almost architectural or sculptural or part of the landscape. He had the chance to simply paint over the found portraits but instead he makes the words seem as if they always belonged there. He literally gives the words dimension.

8. Trash art

There are very few things better than an amalgamation of recycling and creation. It reduces pollution by turning it into art. This gets me going because it means the possibilities of medium are literally endless; you really can use anything to make art. Humans are very wasteful creatures and sometimes it’s very disenchanting to be part of the only species on earth that doesn’t form a symbiotic bond with the rest of the ecosystem but instead contaminates it. So I guess this gives me a little hope that we’re making something of all the waste we’ve produced.

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bk-lostintranslation · 5 years ago

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ESSAY: Globalization - Limits & Liminality as Explored in “Paprika”

Kon’s animated film Paprika, through symbolic and stylized means, serves as a critical frame for the phenomenon of globalization.

X-Posted at Pangaea Journal

Inspired by Yasutaka Tsutsui’s titular novel, Paprika begins much in the same fashion as it ends: in medias res, with a phantasmagorical montage of cultural iconography, quirky characters and surreal scenery interwoven at a frenzied pace, each scene jumping into the next with a fluidity that coalesces time and space itself into a distinctly Einsteinian continuum. Audiences are left dazed, disoriented, yet intrigued: there is no way to know whether the introductory sequence is chronicling a dream, or reality, or a freakish blend of both. This destabilizing visual narrative is fairly typical of Satoshi Kon’s craft, yet what calls for critical focus is the unique symbolism underpinning his work. Beneath its rich and densely-layered imagery, the film tackles a number of pertinent issues: from whether multimedia has warped from a benign platform into the jealous architect of our desires; to the tragic dissolution of individual ideas and complex cultures into a miasma of grotesque transnationalism; to whether the weakening friction-of-distance within a digitized world has brought us closer together, or merely distorted the very axes upon which time-space functions and is perceived. Indeed, at its crux, the film embraces a broad spectrum of issues uniquely linked to globalization, all while invoking relevant aspects of human fallacy and social degradation.

Central to Paprika, from the beginning, is its clear disdain for the linearity and two-dimensionalism of traditional narrative. Instead, like a hallucination, there appear to be no distinguishable boundaries between characters or places, no fixed destinations or rational coordinates. The most vivid example is the introductory sequence, where the eponymous protagonist, Paprika, leaps winsomely out of a man’s dreams and into the physical world: flitting from brightly-lit billboards as static eye-candy to a well-meaning sentry spying through computer screens to a godlike specter freezing busy traffic with a snap of her fingers to an ordinary girl chomping hamburgers at a diner to a stylized decal on a boy’s T-shirt to a motorcyclist careening through late-night streets (0:06:12-0:07:49).

Space and time are rendered meaningless – or, rather, are reshaped into something entirely novel and surreal. As Paprika navigates through a complex and dynamic mediascape, she effectively embodies the spilling-over of the virtual into the physical world – and, more significantly, of both the subtle and blatant permeation of media-based globalization in every step of our lives. Indeed, with its alternately fascinating and disturbing chaos of imagery, the very premise of Paprika blurs the boundaries between the inner and outer-worlds, conveying through both symbolic and subtextual allusions the phenomenon of globalization run riot – a dreamscape that unfolds with the benign promise of forging new connections, only to seep past the barriers of reality and engulf and reshape the world to the imperatives of dystopian homogeneity at best, and the subjugation and disintegration of individual autonomy at worst.

It can be argued, of course, that it is hypocritical for animation – in many ways the nexus of metamedia in its most intrinsically illusory form – to lambaste globalization. The media pivots on globalization in all its multifaceted vagaries, and vice versa. Renowned social theorist Marshall McLuhan, who coined the phrase ‘the global village’ in his groundbreaking work The Medium is the Message, was one of the first to point out that the form of a medium implants itself inextricably into whatever message it conveys in a synergistic relationship: “All media work us over completely. They are so pervasive in their personal, political, economic, aesthetic, psychological, moral, ethical, and social consequences that they leave no part of us untouched, unaffected, unaltered (26).” That the media and the phenomenon of globalization go hand-in-hand, shaping and influencing one another, therefore goes without saying. However, what the imagery of Paprika draws attention to is how the multiplicity of media leads to unpredictable consequences and vicissitudes – which are not always quantifiable or even tangible. Much in the same way technology and global interconnectivity have narrowed – at times even erased – the demarcations of time and space, so too have they led to paradigm shifts of what it means to belong to a static, physical place as a cultural and individual identifier.

Globalization is often defined as fundamentally kaleidoscopic, with a dizzying mobility of ideological, economic, physical and cultural interchanges across a rhizomatous network – but one that is increasingly powered by its own unstable energies and its own besieged and untidy logic. Of particular interest is the ‘disembodied’ component of globalization, where the flow of information and capital is increasingly encoded and abstract, and thus increasingly more likely to permeate local spaces that may not always be open to such profound transformation, imposition and redefinition. In their work, The Quantum Society, Zohar and Marshall liken the chaotic, fractal nature of the modern world to quantum reality, stating that it

…has the potential to be both particle-like and wave-like. Particles are individuals, located and measurable in space and time. Waves are ‘nonlocal,’ they are spread out across all of space and time, and their instantaneous effects are everywhere. Waves extend themselves in every direction at once, they overlap and combine with other waves to form new realities, new emergent wholes (326).

Unarguably, the focal point in Paprika is globalization as a catalyst of “new realities.” But while these can be captivating and edifying, allowing us to create or explore new identities, or to grow more closely tethered together, they can also represent the sinister infiltration of exploitative elements within our most intimate lives. This is made chillingly evident through the plot of the film, which centers on the theft of the DC Mini – a futuristic device that allows two people to share the same dream. While intended as a tool to help treat patients’ latent neuroses and deep-seated pathologies, the film makes clear that, if misused, this prototype can not only allow an intruder to access and influence another’s dreams, but can unleash the collective dream-world into the sphere of reality itself. The DC Mini, on its own, would function as a tepid metaphor for the symbiotic dance between globalization and technology. But following its theft, the resultant chaos it invokes sets the riveting, psychedelic stage upon which the inner-world of dreams erupts out into mundane reality, a fantastical convergence that not only threatens the safety of the entire city, but also denies each citizen their own private realm of dreams, within which they have the freedom to nurture a true inner-self. As Dr. Chiba – the no-nonsense alter-ego of our dreamscape superheroine Paprika – remarks: the victims of the abused DC Mini have become mere “empty shells, invaded by collective dreams… Every dream [the stolen DC Mini] came into contact with was eaten up into one huge delusion.” The scene is made particularly memorable by its vivid visual symbolism: two droplets of rainwater on a car window merging into one, highlighting the irresistible flow between not only dreams and reality, but the liminality of globalization as a fluid force that cannot be bound by temporal or spatial delineations (0:52:12-0:52:37).

It is precisely this unpredictable fluidity that runs rampant across real-life Tokyo in the film, wreaking havoc in its wake. Of particular interest is the gorgeous riot of imagery employed to represent the collective ‘delusion:’ the recurring motif of a parade, in all its clamorous splendor, that unfurls through the city streets, infusing spectators with its own peculiar brand of madness. For its eye-popping and mind-bending details alone, the sequence warrants close examination. But accompanying the visual feast is the nightmarish gamut of cultural, technological, social and historical commentary embedded within its imagery. To the cheerful proclamations of, “It’s showtime!” a procession of Japanese salarymen leap with suicidal serenity off of rooftops; below, the bodies of drunkenly-staggering bar-hoppers morph into unbalanced musical instruments, while families frolicking through the parade transform into rotund golden Maneki-neko to disturbing chants of, “The dreams will grow and grow! Let’s grow the tree that blooms money!” Here, in a scathing political lampoon, politicians wrestle one another in their eagerness to climb to the top of a parade-float; there, a row of schoolgirls in sailor uniforms, with cellphones for heads, lift their skirts for the eager gazes of equally cellphone-headed males.

Satoshi Kon does not bother with coy subtext; he announces the mind-degenerating effects of globalization on both dramatic and symbolic planes: a parade that swells into disorder and eventual destruction, headed by a clutter of sentient refrigerators, televisions, microwave ovens, vacuum cleaners, deck tapes and automobiles. Traditional Japanese kitsch competes with lurid Americana; cultural symbols like Godzilla and the Statue of Liberty waltz alongside such religious icons as the Virgin Mary, Vishnu and the Buddha, while disembodied torii arches and airplanes soar overhead to the discordant serenade of money toads and durama dolls. The effect is at once hypnotic and horrific; the vortex of collective dreams lures in countless spellbound bystanders, transforming them into just another mindless facet of the parade, from a robot to a toy to a centerpiece on a parade-palanquin. Witnessing the furor, one character dazedly asks, “Am I still dreaming?” and is informed, “Yes. The whole world is” (1:11:09-1:12:42)

In her book, Girlhood and the Plastic Image, Heather Warren-Crow remarks that Paprika “…proffers a visual theory of media convergence as not only an issue of technology, but also one of globalization… [Its] vision of media convergence is one in which boundaries between cultures, technologies, commodities and people are horrifyingly permeable… While our supergirl is eventually able to stop the parade… these multiple transgressions cause mass confusion, madness, injury and death (83).” If this seems a dark denouncement of globalization, one cannot deny that it is in many respects fitting. With the vanishing delineations between nations, cultures, ideas and people arises the phenomenon of “cultural odorlessness,” or mukokuseki. The term was first applied to rapid social transformations in Koichi Iwabuchi’s book Recentering Globalization: Popular Culture and Japanese Transnationalism, although the phenomena can just as readily be applied to postmodernity in all its miscellaneous facets (28). While globalization has engendered new intimacies and easier connections (on the surface), this overwhelming grid of interconnected information has simultaneously become a web trapping human beings inside it. Individuality – on a national, local, or personal scale – has been pushed aside in favor of a real and virtual superhighway powered by pitiless self-commodification and voracious consumership, within which the cultivation of a true self no longer holds meaning. One particular scene in the film captures this with wistful succinctness. As a weary Dr. Chiba gazes out of the window of her office, her livelier alter-ego Paprika (real or imagined) appears superimposed before her reflection. “You look tired,” Paprika says, “Want me to look in on your dreams?” to which Chiba replies, “I haven’t been seeing any of my own lately.” Against Paprika’s winsome overtones, her own demeanor strikes a chord that is dismal in its flatness. Although Chiba’s profession is to dive through the colorful welter of others’ dreams, it is her grasp of her own self that proves the ultimate fatality in this venture (0:24:10-0:24:23).

Indeed, it has often been argued that as both the physical and disembodied aspects of globalization grow increasingly more pervasive, so too do diverse organs of surveillance – from institutionalized dogmas meant to restrict personal development by branding it as outdated or subversive, to internal and external disciplinary structures meant to monitor and subjugate a person’s ‘inner-self:’ the very stuff of his or her dreams. Such themes, while hardly novel, are nonetheless relevant, tethered as they are to such iconic works as George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, and Michel Foucault’s Discipline and Punish, both of which – through literal and metaphorical means – examine societies wherein people are subject to relentless government scrutiny, mind-policing and the absolute denial and denigration of privacy. Foucault’s work, in particular, is useful for deconstructing social mechanisms. Utilizing a genealogical historical lens, Foucault traces the slow and oppressive transformation – as opposed to ‘evolution’, a phrase often touted by proponents of liberal reform – of the Western penal system. His main focus is to illustrate how, despite our self-congratulatory complacence at moving away from the barbaric model of medieval punishment, in favor of gentler and more civilized modes of discipline, we have in fact simply transferred the imperatives of controlling human beings – be they deviants or conformists – from their bodies to their souls. As Foucault states, “Physical pain, the pain of the body itself, is no longer the constituent element of the penalty. From being an art of unbearable sensations punishment has become an economy of suspended rights,” thus intimating that the organs of institutional control have not grown less harsh or restrictive, but simply less overt (11).

Certainly, by relying on a framework of internal rather than external constraints, it has become possible to erode the very modicum of individuality, reducing human beings to what Foucault describes as “docile” bodies complicit in their own exploitation. Foucault lays the blame for this phenomenon on a capitalist system whose economic and political trajectory has led society to a place of commodification and classification (“governmentality”), where the complexities of dynamic individuals are pared down into reductionist categories of ‘acceptable’ or ‘unacceptable.’ According to Foucault, surveillance and regimentation as a means of producing compliant individuals is the crux of modern economies, to the point where society has transformed into an industrial panopticon – a nightmarish perversion of Jeremy Bentham’s original ideal. As such, whether individuals live as offenders within a prison, or as free citizens, is irrelevant. The scant difference in both their constraints is measured by mere degrees (102-128).

In Paprika, these issues are not explicitly announced, but are instead woven through the story’s fabric in an alternately lulling and disquieting fashion. Noteworthy scenes – such as where Paprika, a captive chimera with butterfly-wings, is pinned to a table while a man literally peels away her skin to paw rapaciously at the prone body of Dr. Chiba, nestled pupae-like within, to the moment where Detective Toshimi Konakawa, harried by recurring nightmares, bittersweetly comes to terms with boyhood dreams he had suppressed in order to survive by the dictum of a cold and prescriptive adult world – are all reminders that it is our inviolate inner-space that makes us uniquely human. To allow it to be invaded, subjugated and erased is to reduce ourselves to passive automatons, our every desire governed, our every choice predetermined. In Paprika, this knowledge blossoms only when each character delves deep into themselves, to find at their core the dream-child that remains untouched by reality’s smothering hold, and to discover within that dream-child both untapped softness and strength. “She’s become true to herself, hasn’t she?” Paprika playfully remarks of the somber Dr. Chiba, when the latter finally comes to terms with her repressed affection for the bumbling genius Tokita (1:15:42).

For Paprika, it is evident that social or technological transformations cannot be powered by the erosion of individual dreams. To do so is to condemn the world to an eldritch darkness sustained only by greed. The film’s penultimate scene, where the egomaniacal chairman – the true thief of the DC Mini – looms as a monstrous giant over the despoiled city, proclaiming, “I am perfect! I can control dreams and even death!” could almost serve as the critical foreshadowing of globalization taken to its bleakest conclusion: the desecration of nature and humanity alike by a self-serving force that, in its thirst for absolute control, will cancel out the very diversity of dreams that once made globalization possible. It is only when Paprika – fusing with Dr. Chiba and Tokita – reemerges in the form of a baby to battle the chairman, is equilibrium restored. “Light and dark. Reality and dreams. Life and death. Man and woman. Then you add the missing spice [Paprika],” she recites, as if listing ingredients to a recipe (1:19:50-1:20:32). Yet, in keeping with theme of liminality and indeterminacy, the key to vanquishing the chairman is not in these binary oppositions, but in their capacity to combine together and shape the world into more than one thing at once. As Paprika swallows the chairman whole, reversing the shadowy post-apocalyptic city to its original state, battle-scarred but still intact, the audience is reminded of fluidity of the quantum world. Life and death, dreams and reality, destruction and rebirth, all coalesce within an ever-transforming continuum.

So too, as the film’s open-ended yet distinctly uplifting ending makes clear, is the process of globalization inherently free-flowing and malleable in its interaction with its environment. Rather than focusing on the split between globalization as a force of cultural erasure versus a celebration of differences, the film highlights the alternately delicate or brutal negotiations between the two: a friction that is necessary to keep the phenomenon in flux. Zygmunt Bauman’s book and selfsame concept of Liquid Modernity proves especially useful here, in that in order to comprehend the mutable nature of the modern world, it is necessary to look beyond traditional models and regimented perceptions. As he makes clear:

Ours is … an individualized, privatized version of modernity, with the burden of pattern-weaving and the responsibility for failure falling primarily on the individual’s shoulders… The patterns of dependency and interaction … are now malleable… but like all fluids they do not keep their shape for long. Shaping them is easier than keeping them in shape. Solids are cast once and for all. Keeping fluids in shape requires a lot of attention, constant vigilance and perpetual effort – and even then the success of the effort is anything but a foregone conclusion (8).

Of course, the exchange of images and ideas across a would-be deterritorialized realm does not mean that the myriad components within must lose their separate identities. Rather, those identities become more essential than ever, bringing with them their own consequences and questions – all of which must be understood through the dynamic lens of globalization, until we come to understand not only the frailties of the social order, but how they can improved, in order to make connections both genuine and mutually-beneficial for a polyphonic future. The answers lie not within the inherently-shifting structure of globalization, but rather in its creative use. In the film’s final segment, where Detective Toshimi Konakawa purchases tickets to the movie, Dreaming Kids, after decades of stultifying self-repression, speaks of the capacity of globalized multitudes to enthuse as well as to ensnare the individual’s dreams. Globalization does not exist in a vacuum; even as it threatens to engulf nations, localities and persons into a bilious swamp of depersonalized shells, so too can it be transformed by the nature of the worlds it encounters. The change is double-edged and double-sided; the effect is a living, breathing bricolage that grows and alters as we do – and how we do.

That said, it is evident that Satoshi Kon’s message is not one of a facile globalized utopia. Rather, it is about the dangers of losing ourselves within such a seductive phenomenon, whose effects can too easily be maneuvered toward mass surveillance and subjugation. For Paprika, the cross-flow of cultures, ideas, commodities and people is illustrated as an unceasing process, but one that we ourselves are responsible for shaping. If done right, there is the tantalizing promise of a happier, freer life, within which globalization may enhance rather than exploit our dreams. But if done wrong, Kon’s narrative is bleakly apocalyptic – a world fallen victim to a hostile and all-pervasive force that gnaws away its very humanity. While the film’s content-driven, as opposed to structural, formula can be mystifying and overly-abstract at times, there is no denying its visual ingenuity: a multimedia extravaganza that beautifully translates the welter of dreams into reality. With its alternately fascinating and disturbing chaos of imagery, Paprika blurs the boundaries between the inner and outer-worlds, conveying through symbolic and subtextual allusions the phenomenon of globalization run riot – a dreamscape that yields both brighter possibilities and special connections if we do not allow it to diminish us, yet also a sinister agency of mass domination and dystopian homogeneity if we fail to put it in its proper place.

Works Cited

Bauman, Zygmunt. Liquid Modernity. Cambridge, UK, Polity Press, 2015.

Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. New York, NY, Random House LLC, 1977.

Iwabuchi, Koichi. Recentering Globalization: Popular Culture and Japanese Transnationalism. Durham, Duke University Press, 2007.

Kon, Satoshi, director. Paprika. Madhouse Studios, 2006.

MacLuhan, Marshall. The Medium is the Message. Corte Madera, Gingko Pr., 2005.

Warren-Crow, Heather. Girlhood and the Plastic Image. Lebanon, University Press of New England, 2014.

Zohar, Danah, and I. N. Marshall. The Quantum Society: Mind, Physics and a New Social Vision. New York, Morrow, 1994.

#essay #review #academic writing #paprika #satoshi kon #japan #globalization #anime #published

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spamzineglasgow · 5 years ago

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The Reach of a Root: An Interview with Laura Tansley and Micaela Maftei

Cover illustration: Naghmeh Sharifi ~ Author photo by Stewart Ennis (@StewartEnnis)

“Life isn’t threads, it’s actions. Deeds. Childhood is when you get everything wrong and nothing makes sense.” She shuddered theatrically. “Can you imagine if that extended into…today?”

(‘The Reach of a Root’)

> The Reach of the Root is a collection of short stories with a transatlantic twist. Co-written by Canada-based Micaela Maftei and UK-based Laura Tansley, the collection features an entirely interwoven voice, whose stories tell of everyday life, secrets, sexuality, gender, work, place and displacement. Many of the stories focus on characters at the point of change, rupture or transition, women at various stages of their lives. Drama is provided from scenes of flat-sharing, dinner dates, office politics and daily commutes. Maftei and Tansley flirt with the dark and gothic, Joyce Carol Oates style, while maintaining a satisfying crispness and existential friction that puts you in mind of Lorrie Moore or Lydia Davis. Still, there’s a Scottish humour in there that feels generous and warm, if often delivered through wry or slightly absurd situations – a little Alan Warner even, although unlike with much of Warner’s fiction, it might be tricky to call any of Maftei and Tansley’s characters heroines. But even as their protagonists are often held at an ironic distance, the wit of the prose makes every situation seem recognisable, relatable, even as the narrative then dashes your expectations.

> Craftily, the authorial power duo handle objects, arguments, moments of being, sex and a general contrariness. Title story ‘The Reach of a Root’ begins: ‘Clare got caught looking at her cunt’. The book depicts desire and dislocation with the cool directness and menace of Mary Gaitskill updated for the age of Facebook, ‘wellness’ and Fjällräven backpacks. Many of the stories bear a surreal quality, held in the turn of a sentence. You think you know where things are going, this seems a familiar scenario…but then the twist. Somehow, even the weirdest parts are delivered with a smarting matter-of-factness: ‘Christy often found herself thinking, What would Caroline do? She’d throw pieces of popcorn chicken at boys she liked the look of’ (‘The Woods from the Trees’). Whole stages of life are condensed in a sentence, with the ease of your wittiest aunt telling tales of divorce down the pub: ‘She also left behind Tim, the latest example of why independence trumped headaches and someone else’s post filling the hallway and dark curling hairs left in the drying bottom of the bathtub’ (‘The Reach of a Root’). In many ways, most of these stories are about characters on the edge. Sometimes we fear for their lives, other times we laugh at them or question their poor judgment. Sometimes the characters are on the edge because they’re the dangerous ones, as in ‘What Lies Ahead’, where the narrator torments unsuspecting coffee shop customers with incongruous questions of identity.

> What the collection captures is the strangeness of contemporary life through these mundane situations, staged askew. It feels like everybody is plotting something – maybe there’s a dash of Muriel Spark in there. Maybe it’s something in the capacity of collaboration that allows for this containment of surprise or distortion with economy. Sharp and addictive, these stories are earthy, rich and tactile to the highest detail: ‘From then it was wild mushrooms, vibrant broccoli, a fat heirloom tomato that lasted two days, and then eventually on to a final graduation of avocado, goat’s cheese and fresh blueberries that she burst against her palate with a slender finger that she then drew out of her mouth, sucking the purple skins from between her teeth’ (‘Blind Spots’). For all this talk of the New Weird in fiction, what The Reach of a Root is doing, perhaps, is a twisted realism where the clarities of familiar mise en scene are knotted, crooked and contorted with the existential intensities that grow out of contemporary confusions around identity, cohabitation and hospitality, intimacy, precarious labour, leisure and general urban living. Twisted realism is a distorted sociology of the present moment that nonetheless carries us through timeless dramas of human relations; its woven voices reach towards that space, a something else, a desire in excess of what we see.

> After attending a workshop Maftei and Tansley hosted at the University of Glasgow on the topic of Collaborative Short Fiction, Maria Sledmere interviewed the pair over email to find out more about their writing process, friendship and the book itself.

I believe you both met on the Creative Writing PhD at the University of Glasgow. What got you starting to write together?

We were doing everything else but! Shortly after we met we realised our lives and interests overlapped tremendously – in terms of work, research, friends, writing, everything. Writing fiction together was the last in a long list of co-‘s – we organised a conference, led postgraduate skills workshops, worked together in Glasgow-area secondary schools, became flatmates… we figured if everything else was working out, why not try this too. Initially we responded to a call for submissions for a short story collection, Tip Tap Flat, and because that process was fun and was accepted into the anthology, we kept writing.

How did the idea for the book come about?

We pretty much just had enough stories to start thinking ‘we can definitely get enough for a collection’. That and our conviction that the work needed and could find an audience. It began to feel like readers would benefit from having a longer engagement with the work, and how the stories were informing each other by building themes.

Did you take inspiration from any previous examples of co-writing?

Not really. If anything, we took inspiration from the lack of co-written stories we saw around us. In other fields, working together is necessary/the norm, but we didn’t see anyone else co-writing short fiction.

In the co-writing fiction workshop you hosted at the University of Glasgow back in June, you spoke of how many publishers you initially approached were suspicious of your process. Although interdisciplinarity and collaborative practice are becoming more popular across the arts, often there’s still this material or institutional resistance to having your work recognised and supported. Why do you think this is?

Maybe a few reasons, or a mix of a few. I think there’s still a sense of fiction writing as the product of a unique, inner voice. We hear a lot about ‘writing what you know’ or your advantage as a writer being your own unique worldview. Which isn’t wrong, but does underscore this idea that good and/or true and/or authentic writing can only come through one person’s life or voice. I think in writing programs, which we were both part of and trained in, there’s encouragement to find that voice, to control it, access it, etc.

MM aside: I also frankly think that a lot of people don’t want to co-write. For a lot of people writing is deeply personal, and that’s one of the things that’s important about it. I have a lot of interests that I like to pursue by myself and wouldn’t want to do in a pair. I think for many people writing is something they don’t want to share. Which I completely get.

LT aside: Perhaps our experience with specific publishers was also framed by their particular need to invest in projects that are commercially viable. We’re maybe a little risky. Luckily for us we found a publisher who thought that could be exciting.

How did you manage the writing process in practical terms, given your busy lives and geographic distance?

We use email, sending the work back and forth as an attachment. We don’t have any schedule or timeframe in place when we write; I think doing so would really be detrimental to the process, in fact. We don’t push it – we’ve had stories that were more or less done within a week, and stories that have taken months. But the process is so energising that we often really want to get to it and work on it and send it back for more.

Did anything happen that surprised you? Were there any significant comprises made?

No. Together we made a choice to drop one of the stories from the collection because we thought the collection as a whole would be stronger without a story that explored a similar experience to “The Reach of a Root”. We love the story though, and it was recently published by Mechanics Institute Review.

MM aside: I wonder if the fact that we both write other material has helped offer another space in which we don’t have to feel any sense of compromise. If I have some idea, or bit of characterization or whatever, that I feel absolutely hasto exist in writing, I can just go ahead and make it come to life exactly on my terms in another piece of writing.

So far as surprises go – it wasn’t much of a surprise, but I’m always grateful to get a hit of ‘being seen’; I find often between Laura and I there’s a really deep level of understanding. We are quite different people, I’d say, and we move in the world differently and seem to want and need quite different things, but in some way, in some particular slice of life, we’ve just had so many interactions or conversations or exchanges where I feel like she absolutely knows what I mean, what I’m after, what I’m saying – I just feel convinced of it.

LT aside: I genuinely can’t think of a reason or a situation in which a compromise would be needed; that’s been my experience of co-writing with Micaela. Would a compromise have to occur because of a singular vision? Or an idea that one person is convinced of and the other isn’t? If so, that experience or practice just hasn’t been part of our process. I wonder if that’s because we have always been interested in the co- part of the writing. When I begin a project I don’t think, ‘this is an idea I want to explore’; I think, ‘this is an idea Micaela and I could explore’. That mindset is imperative. It also helps that by some piece of fantastic fortune, combined with our own work and development as people, we have a deep understanding of each other. It’s sickening really.

So much of the collection is about the movement between private and public, the space of conversation and inner monologue, motivation versus social performance. How does collaborative writing challenge your sense of ‘privacy’ as writers?

Great question. The privacy of early drafts and experiments had to go straight away, but we do write separately and always have done – even when we lived in the same city. So we do retain a sense of privacy in that the act of writing doesn’t happen in front of each other.

LT aside: I’m not sure that I would describe that process as something ring-fenced, personal, or something I feel a right to, however. But I think it’s a really interesting idea to consider writing as an act, and I wonder how I perform it differently as a co-writer, especially when everything we write is a gift intended for the other. I suppose I need to be observed but then we’d be getting in to Physics…

MM aside: We’re like married people where one’s brushing their teeth while the other has a pee. There’s no privacy and I don’t really miss it. But again – I think this is tempered by the fact that I have my own writing where I can go away and be secretive and tentative and private if I want or need to.

Is fiction especially poised to explore the relationship between public and private? Why?

Not sure we understand fully….the relationship, within one person, between their public and private self? Or the more general concept of that which is public and that which is private, and how we might understand both? We don’t think that fiction is especially poised to explore such a relationship.

MM aside: I do think that fiction is working at its best when a ‘made-up story’ manages to access profound truths about selfhood or the human condition – the great messes we make, as bumbling humans, trying to move around each other and in this world, continually fucking up. When it gets it right, and has something to say about that, I think readers can get a deep, inner, ‘private’ sense of understanding.

You both co-edited the anthology Writing Creative Non-fiction: Determining the Form (2015). In the book’s introduction you write, ‘Unclear boundaries between fact and fiction can be freeing, allowing authors to tell stories using the structures, techniques and language of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, creating unique and personal testimony. In this way creative non-fiction can become a highly individual truth’. How do you experience writing fiction versus creative non-fiction, if we are to cautiously permit that binary of forms? Is there something particular about one’s ‘individual truth’ that is paradoxically revealed through co-writing?

Our process – an email exchange, a back and forth – has been the same for all the writing we have done together so far, although our intention is what drives us in different directions and produces those different forms.

As for an individual truth, we don’t think so, although that’s an interesting idea. For these stories, we’re committed to serving the story, and letting the story guide us. Which is such a fuzzy and ambiguous way to describe writing, but there you have it. For example, one of us might change something about a plot, or a character, which moves the story in a direction that the other may not have anticipated. And if that’s the right thing to do, and if that takes the story to the right place, then that’s where we go. If we were using this writing to give voice to our individual truth, then that would be a fundamental conflict of interest. We wouldn’t be able to permit that. Without the openness to let the other change tack suddenly and build something that is truthful for both of us I think the co- experience would be compromised (this links back to your question on compromising, above).

Would you say collaboration is a particularly feminist act? I’m thinking of how Sara Ahmed describes citation practices as a ‘rather successful reproductive technology, a way of reproducing the world around certain bodies’. Although The Reach of a Rootis clearly fiction, not academic writing, I wonder if there is something ‘citational’ about the way your collaboration works, the way you take each other’s voices and make a thicker weave around gendered scenes.

MM aside: I’m not sure I understand – a thicker weave, i.e. using two (women’s) voices to produce gendered scenes (i.e. scenes about women and women’s lives?) such that the two voices amplify each other?

LT aside: I’m curious about the idea of citationality (is it possible to make this a noun?). There’s something apt about describing co-writing as citational if it foregrounds the conversation that occurs. But it also might suggest a reference to something previous, something created separately and then brought in to the conversation, which would seek to diminish the concurrent way we co-write – always with the project in mind, with each other in mind, always simultaneous in the sense that although we might write alone, we are both always present.

You said something about your process in the workshop which really struck me: ‘Every sentence is an offer’. I was thinking about the word ‘offer’ and then ‘tend’, as in tender: an offering, a caring or compassion, a proposition but also a kind of bid, an estimate, a submission. There’s this thing Hélène Cixous says in Stigmata where she’s like, ‘Extend the hand, write, and it’s all over with the end. Writing is the movement to return to where we haven’t been “in person” but only in wounded flesh, in frightened animal, movement to go farther than far, and also, effort to go too far, to where I’m afraid to go’. I love thinking about that quote in the context of the title, The Reach of a Root and the idea that co-writing is inherently a deictic gesture that reaches between text and world, invites the reader as writer, the writer as reader. In what ways do you think fiction can reach towards this ‘movement to go farther than far’, and is fear the affect you experience when attaining a writerly intimacy with this vulnerable beyond?

MM aside: I’m going to approach this sideways, because frankly there’s a lot here, and touch on the idea of fear. I think it’s an important one, and I think very often writing can serve as a way to go to scary places. Writing itself can be scary, and/or a way to remember/explore/understand frightening things, either things that have actually happened to you, or things you are frightened of happening, or both. For me, writing with Laura always carries with it the sense that someone’s there. I don’t feel that these stories are in any way triggering for me, nor do I feel our writing is getting close to any areas where I’m scared to go, but I do feel comforted by the fact that someone else is there. I suppose again this somewhat returns to the privacy question – whatever privacy I may have given up (which is negligible, in my view) is amply compensated for by the good feeling that someone else is there, that whatever the writing needs to figure out will be done together, that wherever it leads, I won’t be alone. And again, I’m stressing that never in these stories have I come close to feeling like I’m anxious or scared about the process or the topics.

LT: There was certainly a sense of trepidation and exposure when we first co-wrote fiction together. First words, first drafts occupy vulnerable spaces I guess. I responded to that with typical self-deprecation, and a lot of our email exchanges at this time offer the other a caveat of recusal, ‘if you think this is shit please delete’ etc. I was conscious that I respected Micaela and her writing a great deal, and I wanted to meet her in that place. I was never fearful or scared, but we did care for each other in these early moments by being sensitive, and in my case, diminishing, in case what I offered Micaela wasn’t worthy of her time.

I love this line from ‘Wednesdays’: ‘Once when Monica was checking Facebook, which she always does at the end of the day, she said, “Oh jeez, look, Urban Outfitters are selling Walkmans”’. There’s this whole irony about the commodification of nostalgia, but also the fact of putting words like ‘Facebook’ within narrative prose. Does it instantly become static, a relic of ‘era’ or a code-word that activates from wherever the reader exists in time?

It’s doing some work to fix the stories in a time and a place but allows it to travel too, to meet the reader wherever they’re at. Readers will respond to those ‘era-specific’ words based on where they are, and that time and place will carry different connotations as time passes, as they move deeper and deeper into the past. That’s fine. That’s normal.

I’m interested in what we mean when we call a work ‘contemporary’. How do you see the interface between material detail in fiction and this thing called ‘the present’? The Reach of a Root feels relatable now, but somehow I reckon it’s immune to the kinds of instant-datedness found in a lot of contemporary fiction which references brands, social media and so on. Consumption, in its various forms, is a big theme of the book. Was the decision to include product names and other concrete details deliberate/critical, or was it more about establishing ‘local colour’ as such?

Ultimately it’s about being true to how the characters see the world and what’s important to them. There’s also a lot of fixedness that deliberately isn’t included – many stories lack a clearly stated setting, for example. We’re excited when writers manage to get a location or an image in my mind without explicitly stating it.

Your publisher is Glasgow-based ‘Vagabond Voices’, who describe themselves as ‘both Scottish and fervently European in [their] aims’. A lot of your characters, while seemingly tied to specific situations, are yearning for something else or somehow cast adrift – ‘vagabond voices’ might be a nice way to describe the way your own voices ‘float’ into another space within the movement of collaborative fiction. How important is this openness, this traversal of borders or spaces, to your practice and creative outlook? What was your experience of working with Vagabond Voices?

This traversal of borders and spaces is key. And as you say, it’s maybe balanced by the way a lot of the people in the stories are ‘locked in’ to certain situations or problems or places. Writing has been a way to cross time and space, to hold on to some things longer than might otherwise have been possible, to propel ourselves into new spaces. Writing is time travel, is space travel.

MM aside: It’s so, so important to me to feel that my writing can help me go places, and take me to new places, and for this project specifically, writing has been nothing less than the thing that has tied us together (but not the only thing).

LT: The funding our practice receives has allowed us to travel, to spend time together, so it has been worth the investment both professionally and personally.

You hosted several workshops on co-writing fiction around the book’s launch in June. Did you find audiences were enthusiastic or curious about collaborative practice or was there some resistance? How are you finding the book’s reception more generally?

The people that signed up were already curious, thankfully. It takes a very specific kind of person to sign up to a co-writing workshop to critique and resist co-writing; those people have been few and far between in our experience. Participants were interested in the practicalities of the process more than expected. We love to engage with the more theoretical, shall we say, parts of it – who do you become when you blend your voice with someone else’s??, stuff like that. In the workshops we felt people were really curious whether we used email or Google docs. No resistance, though – that would have been very depressing.

Anyone exciting you’ve been reading, viewing or listening to lately?

We’ve read and talked a lot about the article “Mother Writer Monster Maid”. We also just read “The Crane Wife” in The Paris Reviewand marvelled at how sometimes good writing just feels like it fell out of someone’s pocket, so easy and deceptively simple. Actually, we talked about that loads with an excerpt from Normal Peoplethat was in Granta, trying to figure out how Sally Rooney did it, before she totally exploded. (Though I suppose she does it the same way now.)

MM aside: I read Rachel Cusk’s memoirs recently. Aftermath felt more brutal than A Life’s Work (which in fact didn’t feel brutal at all),and I think I was expecting the reverse. I’ve been listening to a selection of old Rihanna songs while answering these questions, toggling back and forth between videos. What a fucking goddess. I’ve got Three Women on hold at the library.

LT aside: I’m reading A God in Ruinsby Kate Atkinson and it’s unlike anything I’ve read before. The way it moves between characters and in time, it’s really fun and compelling. I’m watching Documentary Now! which manages to achieve parody without being smug. It’s just really funny. Right now I’m listening to Steve Lacy. I like the Prince vibe and all the sex.

Anything more you’d like to say about The Reach of a Root or what you’re working on now?

We’re cracking the Canadian market with ROAR of course. And slowly building towards another co-project which we really ought to just dive into, but it’s going to be quite different again for us so we have no idea how it will turn out.

MM aside: I’m trying to get a new project. I want to start a new personal novel project. There, I said it. Now I have to do it. I’m at the stage where bits are coming to me, snippets of dialogue or description or setting. I just need to wait until I’ve got enough of them that a frame starts to emerge.

LT aside: I’m always trying to write funny, sexy, odd poems. 1 in 10 of them achieve this maybe. I’ve written a couple of scripts I like; I hope they reach an audience one day.

The Reach of a Root is out in September 2019 via Vagabond Voices. You can order your copy here.

Published 23/8/19

#The Reach of a Root #Laura Tansley #Michaela Maftei #fiction #co-writing #interview #literary #literary interview #Vagabond Voices #Glasgow #features #Stewart Ennis

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10oclockdot · 7 years ago

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10 More Times I Had to Chime In

1. Why, if so many of us claim to have concern about the well-being of the less fortunate, do we not simply walk around handing out money to anyone who has less of it than we do? It's because charity isn't a matter of doing good, it's a matter of control. Even in our giving, through which we claim benevolence, we wish to exercise power. Hence we give to (read: buy, or buy into) name-brand charities. Which is to say, we give money not (directly) to those who need it, but rather we give to an organization which we feel is fit to manage it, and we expect them to manage it, and thereby manage the people who receive it. Because we don't really want the poor to have too much power; we want them to be managed, whether that management comes through government welfare programs, churches, or private charities. We want the money distributed with strings attached, because we do not trust the poor, because we believe that if they could be trusted with money, they wouldn't be poor. And so even when family members or close friends need money, we give in one of two ways. If they ask for the money, we give only with strings attached, to exercise our will and judgment over them (we think this is benevolence), to ensure that they use the money the way we think it should be used. Since they have asked for money, we do not trust them, and they must humble themselves totally to our whims as a consequence. Or, if they do not ask for the money, but we sense that they need it anyway, we give generously, flagrantly, in part to reward the fact that they did not ask (and therefore did not prove themselves morally suspect), but mainly to prove our own power -- we can give freely, even to those who do not ask, because that's how plentiful our resources are.

2. If you take nothing else away from this blog, I hope you'll remember this quote from Hollis Frampton: “There are ecstasies of restraint as well as ecstasies of abandon” (Circles of Confusion, p. 146). I like this quote because there are many things which can manifest themselves through both restraint and abandon. For instance, across art history, there have been realisms of restraint as well as realisms of abandon. Was Poussin's "linear" approach more realistic because he took greater pains to hide his brushstrokes? Or did he simply render objects in a Platonic "ideal" state -- a realism of pose, stability, stasis? Conversely, was Rubens's "painterly" approach less realistic because his brushstrokes are so evident? Or did he instead construe the stuff of reality as somehow more dynamic, more joyful, free -- the Aristotelian reality of continuous becoming? I don't think that one is better than the other; moreover, I don't think that one approach is more real than the other. They merely concern themselves with different aspects of reality.

3. I was looking at some Bridget Riley Op Art (this or this or this) and I was suddenly struck by the idea that it is work of immense realism. After all, Riley constructed it with such mathematical exactitude that some part of your brain will continuously falsely read it as a three-dimensional space. In this way, you have to keep telling yourself that it's not real, because some part of your brain wants so deeply to believe it. And even though you know that it's not "real," the best Op Art causes your eyes to vibrate disconcertingly. A wire feels like it's getting crossed. What you experience as the spectator is simultaneously unreal and very real.

4. We've often said "realism" when we meant "illusionism" -- the trompe l'oeil, for instance, which means "trick the eye." But, of course, verisimilitude is not the only realism. Malevich's realism sought to expose the reality of flat colorful shapes, the fundamental truth of the canvas. Ryman's realism examined the material reality of paint. Kandinsky and Rothko sought spiritual realism (as did others, each in their own way). Surrealism was about unearthing profound psychological mysteries, Cubism devoted itself to mental geometry -- how the brain collapses three dimensions into two, and Futurism endeavored to represent time in a stationary medium. Constructivism put art in the service of revolution -- it sought to create, or at least draft the framework for, a social reality that did not yet exist. Pop Art deftly expressed the means of mass-market commodity production (a kind of capitalist realism), and Abstract Expressionism exposed the commodity fetishism of the art market itself (whether it meant to or not). Finally, Conceptual Art made objects ciphers or carriers of philosophical propositions. All of these movements sought or revealed or transmitted a different kind of reality.

5. If anything, the avant-garde didn't kill realism; it multiplied the forms of and paths to realism. And it revealed, once and for all, the anti-realisms perpetrated on us by the Bougeureaus of the world, who painted nonsense fantasies in specious verisimilitude. Put another way, the avant-garde unlinked reailsm from likeness. It revealed the potential for apparent likeness to beguile, and, simultaneously, the potential for apparent formlessness to enlighten.

6. You know why MRAs and conservatives of all stripes are constantly raging against trigger warnings? For one thing (and this is obvious), they don't want to acknowledge that the status quo damages the mental health of millions of people. The status quo works for them, and in their change-aversion and loss-aversion -- their inertia of fear, which is the essence of conservatism -- they must punish anyone who disagrees and disavow the pain of the oppressed. Secondly, they're afraid of women and minorities expressing emotion. So they make fun of people getting "triggered" in order to try to shame people into shutting down. But most importantly, masculinity often expresses itself in pre-emptive war. Masculinity insists on asserting its dominance by striking first, lest it be suckerpunched and shown to be weak. Which is to say, that masculinity is always looking to trigger itself, because this is how it keeps from being hurt, and it cannot accept that its very essence hurts others. (P.S.: this is why people who can see beyond the rules of masculinity easily realize that Trump is weak -- he's weak because he's trapped in masculinity and has to lash out because he knows no other way -- and it's equally why those under the rule of masculinity (or we might say patriarchy, heteronormativity, etc; the systems interlock) only see strength. So, given this: how do we take down Trump without his supporters thinking he was martyred? How do we make him look weak to them?)

7. Kevin McCallister grew up and became Jigsaw.

8. Every joke is an argument. A setup and a punchline; a premise and a conclusion. A joke's elegance and glory derive from the teller's ability to conceal the path from the premise(s) to the conclusion until suddenly, at the last moment, it springs shut like a trap. This is, in fact, the essence of the joke: that the path to punchline cannot be discerned until after the audience has already arrived there. The laugh is, as Tom Stoppard put it, "the sound of comprehension." It signifies surprise at the improbable destination, but also delight that a theretofore unknown logic connects the points.

9. Of course, a premise need not precede a conclusion in a joke. It's perfectly possible to begin with the conclusion (or, rather, the thesis statement), make it sound strange or unbelievable, and then pile evidence upon evidence that fills in the logical gaps which the audience thought were unfillable. Consider, for instance, Carlin's Football vs. Baseball routine (here), or Wanda Sykes's Gay vs. Black routine (here), or especially Chris Rock's Rich vs. Wealthy routine (here). In its more advanced form, the comedian begins with what sounds like an unbelievable or untenable conclusion, secretly embedding a logical framework within the description, until at the final moment they dispense the one (perverse but common) premise from which the perverse and uncommon conclusions follow. I'm thinking particularly of the punchline of Louis CK's "Women should be allowed to kill babies" bit in his 2017 special (here), in which he justifies the right to abortion as "pretty fundamental," given the logic of stand-your-ground gun rights: "If there's a dude in your pussy, you get to kill him. ... You're allowed to kill people if they're in your HOUSE." And in its most advanced form, the comic establishes such a strong and clear framework in the premises that the don't even have to STATE the conclusion -- the audience fills it in for them. The best (and perhaps only) example I know of this comes off an old Redd Foxx party record (here). Enjoy.

10. If we pared down the objects in Borges's Library of Babel from the size of books to the size of tweets, and if we set appropriately relaxed constraints on the kinds of characters permissible in each tweet -- 26 letters (plus capitalization), 10 digits, period, comma, question mark, exclamation point, space, @, #, colon, slash, dash, tilde, equals, and asterisk -- that would mean 75^140 possible tweets, or roughly 3.2*10^262. If we let in more characters, I suppose it could range up to 10^280. Humans currently generate 200 billion tweets annually. Assuming an annual growth rate of 30%, it would take a little over 2000 years to tweet every possible tweet. That's a lot faster than the trillions of years it'll take to make John Simon's Every Icon.

#10 new

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beaft · 7 years ago

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How do you come up with your worlds for your stories? Do you start with a character or a world? How do you figure out the amazing little quirks and details that make it so attractive, without being repetitive or similar to another world? Do you go into the core mechanics of magic when it's present in your world? And how do you brainstorm your world/ideas? How do you know what's a good idea or bad and not worth pursuing?

Oh, man, thank you so much for giving me an excuse toramble about this (although my response is gonna be pretty long, so you mightregret asking). I have a lot of thoughts about worldbuilding, and very few ofthem are coherent, but here’s my best attempt!

(warning: lots of Wordsunder the cut)

1) I don’t really knowhow to answer this one, because…I honestly don’t know? Sometimes it just sortof happens – an idea comes into myhead, and I just put it down and run with it. The “Dearly Departed” ‘versehappened when I got lost in the woods, and found myself wondering what I’d doif I came out again to discover that everyone had disappeared. Pretty basic,but from there it evolved into a weird quasi-horror story with its own set ofrules, to the point where the original concept was fairly peripheral. Other times,it’s just a question of looking at something and asking yourself, “How doesthis work? What would happen if I changed this specific aspect, or addedsomething new on?” Sometimes it feels a bit like engineering – taking thingsapart and putting them back together in new ways, and seeing what happens as aresult.

2) I have kind of a weirdway of working when it comes to characters; sometimes a very loud anddistinctive voice will turn up in my head, and when that happens I spend a bitof time living with them and listening to what they’ve got to say. Then I put themin a sort of mental bank where they can be taken out and inserted into a storythat seems to fit them (possibly adapting some elements of their personality inthe process). Other times, the world itself will suggest what kind ofcharacters might fit into it. In Midnight Calling, a central idea is thatdreams have substance, and can be used as a weapon – so from there it justseemed narratively fitting for the main character to be narcoleptic. I do needto plan out my characters beforehand, though, because if I just try and makethem up as I go they all end up sounding like me (which is to say, confusedsnarky everymen who just want to go home and have a cup of tea and a nicesit-down). As much as we all love Bilbo Baggins, no one wants a story entirelypopulated by him.

3) The fact is, there aren’treally many “original” ideas left. Making something interesting doesn’t generallycome about by thinking of a concept that nobody has ever thought of before, butby combining old ideas in new ways. Occasionally, it’s fun to just mashtogether two completely random plots or genres, and see what happens. Forexample, Six of Crows is essentially justGame of Thrones meets Oceans Eleven, whilst TheDresden Files is what happens when you take a Raymond Chandler story andadd wizards. The weirder and the more seemingly disparate the ideas are, thebetter. (Or so I’ve found, anyway.)

4) While I’m objectivelyterrible at anything vaguely science-related, I do try to go into themechanics, because at the end of the day I like to have explanations for things.It’s…partly why the way Marvel deals with the whole “magic” thing kind ofannoys me? To give one example: we’re shown that Loki can shapeshift, and whenhe does his voice changes to match the voice of the person he’s imitating (whichindicates that it’s a full-body change, not just a superficial illusion). However,when he alters other people – such as transforming Thor into Sif – their voicesstay the same, implying that this is either a different kind of transformationaltogether or that the voice change and the appearance change are two separate spells.It’s little stuff like that which really gets to me, because it takesme out of that world and makes me question what the actual rules are, orwhether there are even rules at all. simply put, it feels lazy. So while it isimportant to walk that line between “over-explaining” and “under-explaining”, youdo need to have some kind of internal consistency in place - unless you’re doing full-on surrealism, in which case you’re probably not going to be doing much worldbuilding anyway.

4) My brainstormingusually takes the form of random scribbled notes with a lot of question marksand crossings-out, and probably makes absolutely no sense to anyone who isn’tme. I usually start with a simple concept, and once I have that down there are afew core things that have to be dealt with straight off the bat, such as: whatdifferent cultures exist in this world? How do they interact? Is there anydiscrimination, and if so where does it come from? (For example, having homophobiajust for the sake of “realism” is pretty sloppy, and just makes it seem asthough the author couldn’t be bothered to conceptualise a world in which gaypeople aren’t treated like shit.) What are the different social classes? What’sthe climate and geography? What important historical events happened that impactedthe world? Dragon Age does this really well, imo – while plenty of people havecomplained about the absurd amount of codexes and random lengthy chunks of socio-politicalinformation, there’s no denying that it does a lot to make the setting feel likea real place with a rich history, not something that conveniently sprang intoexistence right before the narrative begins. The way to stop this from becomingtedious and expositional is to allow it to support the story, rather thanbeing the story. Your audience doesn’t need to know everything that youknow. So long as you slip in details here and there, they can generally be countedon to fill in the blanks themselves.

5) The only way I cantell if an idea is good or not is to write it. Generally, if I find it excitingand I want to explore it further, it’s a keeper. If I’m twenty pages in and it’salready feeling like a slog, I don’t bother. While forcing yourself to grindthrough the tough bits is (unfortunately) a key part of the writing process, ifit doesn’t interest you in at least some capacity, then it probably won’tinterest anybody else either.

Thank you again, andapologies for the essay!

#replies #be shh now

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gibsonsflowofthoughts · 6 years ago

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Bryce Harper or not, Washington Nationals finally have hope

You could feel it in Nationals Park this week, this tension surrounding the future of Bryce Harper. The cheers for the 2018 Home Run Derby were a little more urgent, a little more resigned than they might have otherwise have been.

Harper might leave the Nationals forever. He also might not leave, and build a Hall of Fame career with the Nationals over the next decade. Or he might take $400 million of the franchise’s money and give them 10 injury-marred seasons in exchange. Still, there’s a good chance that he goes away and doesn’t come back.

The Nationals won’t fold the entire franchise if Harper leaves. Life would go on, and considering the team is struggling to stay over .500 this season (with Harper hitting .214 and playing rough defense), it’s possible that they might even get better.

There would be symbolic ramifications of a Harper departure, though. The Nationals are currently in the middle or at the tail end of one of the most engaging, electric periods in the history of Washington baseball. Other than the Walter Johnson era, which ended nearly 100 years ago, it might be one of the only engaging and electric periods in the history of Washington baseball. The baseball gods gave the Nationals the gift of an all-time talent, and it’s possible that they’ll have turned him into four NL East titles, four crushing losses in the first round of the postseason, an MVP, one of the most exciting Home Run Derbies in history, and a sack filled with memories.

It’s possible they won’t have used Harper to finish their ultimate project, their most important in the century-plus of Washington baseball. Harper might leave before the Nationals create an identity that’s different from the current one, which is the sneaky-sad team from the crushingly sad baseball town.

Escaping that identity is something that Washington baseball has been trying to do for the last century or so.

If Nationals Park were a person, its name would be John Anderson. Please, if you happen to be a John Anderson, hear me out. Don’t email your angry thoughts just yet. Being named John Anderson didn’t prevent anyone from appearing in Psycho or running for president or selling millions of records. It’s a fine name. A strong name.

But the people in charge of naming a park for Nationals settled on “Nationals Park,” which is the John Anderson of ballpark names. The ballpark happens to be completely unremarkable, entirely pleasant, and wholly functional. It’s more likely to be accidentally left off a “Best Ballparks in MLB” slideshow than occupy the top slot.

Do you like wide concourses and plentiful concessions? How about a batter’s eye and ample but not excessive foul territory? Are you pro-seats and walls? Well, boy howdy, do I have the ballpark for you.

As a place to watch a baseball game comfortably, it’s great. There’s parking, the Metro is close by, and the views are solid from everywhere in the ballpark, even the upper deck. Functional doesn’t have to be an insult. But if the Nationals are going to build an identity, they’ll need to do it without the assist of a 37-foot wall in left field, a body of water behind right field, or a warehouse to pepper with home runs.

It doesn’t help that the surrounding area is also looking for an identity. Washington D.C. is one of the most historically vibrant cities in the country, but the neighborhood surrounding Nationals Park is almost entirely new. There are condos after condos, construction sites next to construction sites, hip restaurants tucked under the high rises, with plans for newer, hipper restaurants coming. Washington is a city where the plaques seemingly have plaques, but the Navy Yard neighborhood is trying to start over. The section for “projects” on its Wikipedia page is substantially longer than the “history” section.

Surrealism does make a cameo at Nationals Park, though. Around the perimeter of the ballpark, there are ... unique ... statues honoring Washington baseball legends.

That’s Walter Johnson, one of the greatest pitchers of all time, apparently frozen in carbonite while fighting Dhalsim.

That’s Frank Howard, Senators slugger and extremely large man. He has four bats in this representation, which is probably against the rules, but that’s okay. He’s a symbol of power, so he gets extra bats.

CQ-Roll Call,Inc.

On the fringes of one of the more nondescript ballparks in baseball, here are oases of surreal eccentricity. The only problem with them is that once you think about them, they don’t make any sense.

Beyond the aesthetics of the statues, it’s the subject matter that’s odd. The first statue is a likeness of the pitcher with the most wins in Minnesota Twins history. The second statue is of the slugger who ranks in the all-time top ten in at-bats, RBI, home runs, and walks for the Texas Rangers. Johnson might have several arms in that statue, but none of them threw a pitch for the Washington Nationals. Howard might have four bats, but none of them drove in a run for the team.

The best players in this franchise’s history, technically, are Gary Carter, Tim Raines, and Andre Dawson, who played for the franchise when it was the Montreal Expos. You will not find statues or merchandise celebrating them around the ballpark.

What these statues are trying to sell is the idea of baseball in Washington. It has a rich history. It also has a history of crushing the spirits of anyone who makes the mistake of caring about baseball there.

In 1904, legendary baseball writer Charles Dryden wrote the famous line “Washington – first in war, first in peace, and last in the American League,” which set the Washington Senators up as a kind of proto-Cubs to act as a placeholder until the real Cubs stopped winning championships. But from 1907 through 1927, the Senators (known colloquially as the “Nationals,” even then) had Walter Johnson, one of the best pitchers to ever live, and in 1924, they won the World Series. The success lingered through 1933, when they won the pennant and finished second in attendance in the American League.

That was the zenith, though, and the decline and fall was a bloody mess. The Nats played 27 more seasons in Washington, and they were in the bottom half of AL attendance in 24 of them. Correlations between losing and underwhelming attendance happen in every city with every sport, but there’s extra punishment for the teams that play in hot and sticky weather. Sitting through bad baseball on a humid 100-degree day might be an okay way to make a little extra money, but it turns out that the teams want you to pay them. Screw that.

There were other reasons for the decline in attendance. The St. Louis Browns became the Baltimore Orioles, sucking up at least a fraction of the fans who would need to travel from Maryland to see Major League Baseball. Calvin Griffith, who assumed ownership of the Senators when his dad passed away in 1955, blamed the writers for being mean to his perennially last-place teams, and he was also convinced that “baseball in Washington was unable to compete with the heavy horse race mutuel betting in the capital area,” according to a Sporting News article from 1959. Griffith was also unabashedly racist, which put him at odds with a huge swath of his potential audience.

Mostly, though, it was the team sucking.

When Griffith moved the Senators to Minnesota, not all was lost, because the vote allowing them to move came with a rider that required baseball to put an expansion franchise in Washington. There wasn’t even a one-year gap between the old team and the new team. That was the good news.

The bad news was that the old Senators took enough young talent with them to put the Twins into the World Series within five years. Harmon Killebrew played in that final season in Washington, as did Jim Kaat, Bob Allison, Camilo Pascual, and Zoilo Versalles, who all combined to bring 20 All Star appearances, three postseason berths, and two MVPs to Minnesota. The new Senators would be an expansion team.

They, too, sucked.

Those Senators lost 100 games or more in each of their first four seasons, and they finished over .500 just once in their 11 seasons before moving to Texas and becoming the Rangers after the 1971 season.

Combined, these two versions of the “Nationals” played 71 seasons in Washington, and 19 of those teams finished over .500. They finished in last place — in divisions that were usually eight or ten teams deep — about 20 percent of the time.

More importantly, they drew more than a million fans in a single season just once out of those 71 seasons. Washington was always thought of as a logical place for a new team as baseball looked to expand, but it was always going to be a harder sell than it should have been.

Here, I’ll simplify it for you with a one-sentence history of Washington baseball before the current iteration of the Nationals: The teams stunk, and it was impossible for anyone to care.

Intermission: Best names on the 1924 Washington Senators, ranked

Firpo Marberry

Slim McGrew

Chick Gagnon

Mule Shirley

Showboat Fisher

Doc Prothro

Nick Altrock

Nemo Leibold

Goose Goslin

Muddy Ruel

This is what the new new Nationals signed themselves up for. They didn’t need to attach themselves to the fatal misery of the Montreal Expos; they had the intermittently fatal misery of the old Washington teams to celebrate.

While the first team in new new Nationals history finished .500, they quickly lost 100 games with two different unwatchable teams. They were a wayward home for former future superstars like Austin Kearns, Nick Johnson, Lastings Milledge, Wily Mo Pena, and Elijah Dukes.

But you can tell the story of the new new Nationals in one statistic: In their first season after moving from Montreal, they drew 2.7 million fans, which is more than any Washington team had drawn in any three consecutive seasons combined. It was more than the combined attendance for the first four seasons of the Senators team that moved to Texas. Even when the team lost 102 games in the 2008, they still drew more than two million.

The new new Nationals came into baseball at a fortuitous time. The dirty secret about the golden era of baseball is that not a lot of people actually came out to watch it.

In the modern era, people will come out, especially when a team has a superstar to offer. For all of the misery the baseball gods had foisted on the Senators, Senators, and Nationals, a cosmic tumbler finally clicked into place. The Nationals were four losses worse than anyone else, and they got to pick first in one of the rare drafts where there is an obvious consensus first-overall talent who was almost guaranteed to change his franchise.

The Nationals got to select Bryce Harper, who was on the cover of Sports Illustrated when he was 16. That feature article came with a lede that detailed a 570-foot homer and a headline that compared him to LeBron James. It was a gift from the heavens, the kind of gift that eventually gave the Cavaliers a championship and changed the vibe of an entire city.

Photo by Patrick Smith/Getty Images

They made the postseason in Harper’s first season. In his first five seasons, there were as many postseason appearances for the Nationals as there had been in the previous 71 seasons of Washington baseball. If the Nationals were going to stop being a sneaky-sad team from a crushingly sad baseball town, it was going to happen with Harper.

Then the sneaky sadness became more overt. There were more Sports Illustrated covers, mostly to tout the Nationals as the best team in baseball, which they’ve been at various points over the last few years, but there was always a brutal first-round exit waiting for them in the postseason. The Harper window was open, but there was always a trap door underneath the entire team.

None of that had anything to do with Harper, but it all shoved the window down a little bit further. Now the Nationals are hovering around .500, and their special baseball wunderkind, that gift from the heavens, might leave after the season. They flew too close to the sun on wings made out of wonderful, billowy hair, and now they must return to their destiny as a sad team from a sad baseball city.

Except that explanation is as dumb as shit.

The myth is that DC is entirely a transient city, which will keep Nationals Fever at 98.6 degrees for now and forever. But that’s the silly logic that was also used to explain why the Vegas Golden Knights would flop and flounder in a city that wasn’t built for hockey. What actually happens in these situations is the locals — and there are millions of of them — finally have something to latch onto in a way that separates them from the dorks just passing through. It’s something that roughly translates to: “You can take the freeways and the restaurants and make everything more expensive, but this here sports team? This is mine, dammit.” That feeling can be a powerful, defining force. It can become an identity.

It wasn’t a bunch of wonks losing their minds when Jayson Werth tried to jump through home plate. It was people who were wholly invested in the idea that baseball in Washington was something worth caring about.

Maybe there were a few wonks.

And the demise of Washington baseball is, for once, greatly exaggerated. In right field, there’s a 40-foot-wide picture of Max Scherzer’s eyes to remind you that they employ the best pitcher alive. The crowds are still streaming in, even if they’re just as disappointed about the 2018 season as you would expect.

The most remarkable piece of symmetry might be with Juan Soto, the player Yoda was referring to as he gazed into the stars and made his proclamation. Part of Bryce Harper’s mystique is that he was doing things that teenagers weren’t supposed to do. When he won the NL MVP, it was proof that we weren’t wrong to make a big deal about his precociousness. Teenagers just aren’t supposed to do that.

Photo by Rob Carr/Getty Images

Yet just as the previous phenom is about to leave the nest, here’s another one who is somehow off to an even faster start as a teenager. The possibility that your favorite team will go another 50 years without a Soto is a reminder that not all franchise cornerstones have to be on the cover of Sports Illustrated before they’re anointed. Sometimes they just happen.

Even more relevant is the Nationals have an owner who seems to care very much about the team’s success. While that was surely the case with both of the Griffiths, Ted Lerner has shown a willingness to play by modern baseball’s rules and play the part of a big-market bully at times. No owner has a better relationship with Scott Boras, which is practically a Webster’s-worthy definition of an owner who is willing to spend to win.

It’s possible that whoever succeeds Lerner will stumble, and perhaps there will be an ownership change in the near future, but there’s been something of a proof of concept with the Nationals and Washington baseball. The area will support a winning team. The area has probably always been willing to support a winning team, but they just didn’t get enough opportunities. The fans are willing to come out and cheer the superstars, and they’ll continue to hope those dumb hopes.

If that happens to include Bryce Harper, that’s great. If it doesn’t, not a whole lot will change. The Nationals already have an identity. It isn’t tethered to the past, it isn’t tethered to a unique ballpark, and it isn’t tethered to the whims of a single player, no matter how special he was supposed to be or how special he actually was.

The Nationals are a fully functioning part of baseball’s ecosystem now. Their future will hold some ups and some downs, some brilliant seasons and some disappointing seasons, just like every other team. They might take Soto and rule the baseball world one of these Octobers, or we could be back here in seven years, talking about the Soto window closing.

But this is already the most hopeful baseball team in Washington over the last century, and it will probably stay that way, even through the inevitable down years. They were lucky enough to enjoy Bryce Harper for years, and they might get to enjoy him for years to come, but they’ve already forged a new identity out of the ashes of previous franchises. The ballpark features statues of a Twins pitcher and a Rangers slugger because they want to celebrate the idea of baseball in Washington.

Dope article from sbnation.com

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