#juxtapose magazine

[hotcomicstv]

Juxtapoz Halloween Special

[pagingdrmusic]

From a day about town: magazines from Barnes & Noble and vinyl from Block Street Records!

[6toru]

Reader(pref. Female, but you can choose whoever you are comfortable with) caught Kento jerking off to her photos

PS. They are not in relationship or moreover in a platonic relationship

𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐊-𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 ! — nanami kento.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. fem!reader, horny!reader, brother's best friend au, suggestive themes -> mdni, reader & nanami are in their early 20's 𝐖𝐂. 1.3k

Despite the many years of growing up with 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎, you’d honestly be lying if you said you knew any little thing about him — in truth, you hardly even knew him; only ever knowing him as one of your brother’s best friends. Ever since childhood and adolescence, he was known to be super quiet and composed; heavily juxtaposing your brother’s rather playful attitude. You could’ve built a solid friendship with the guy, but to be fair, he looked pretty damn intimidating. The blond male always often appeared calm and collected, yet there was always a look of complete disinterest – and there was yourself, the girl who’d rather rot in her bedroom than stay in a bedroom with Satoru and his friends for a single second, as they would probably be busy ogling at models on the Playboy magazine. 

Oftentimes you two would exchange extremely curt greetings, like hi or hello — either one of the two, whenever you both cross paths in high school and even in the comforts of your own home. Usually, you would pay little to no mind towards Satoru and his group of friends whenever they came over, as you were often too far up into your own business to even concern yourself with their own tomfoolery. However, Nanami was different. You weren’t at all close with the guy, yet you could easily tell he was the good apple of the bunch — therefore, he was the most tolerable out of the bunch. 

However, what you didn’t expect to see in the next couple of years was to accidentally walk into your brother’s best friend, Nanami Kento — a.k.a The Good Apple of The Bunch, The Super Quiet and Composed One in The Group, and The Guy Who Always Looked so Damn Disinterested — sitting on your toilet, pantless; dick out, and his hands occupied as he fapped away staring intently towards his phone; low and guttural grunts escaping his lips as his hand’s pace escalated, indicating that he was nearing his much needed release.

He looked so lewd. The way little beads of sweat and a couple strands of his bangs were stuck to his forehead along with his flushed face; his brows furrowed and his jaw clenched as he worked himself closer to an orgasm. And the groans, god.

Heat rushed into you like a fucking train.

You could only stare at the obscene sight in silence, your mouth hung agape as you could no longer control the heat that was rushing towards your cheeks. There was no way you could get that image of him out of your head now, it was definitely stuck there with gorilla glue now. And god, you wished that you could slap yourself at this very moment for even eyeing his dick.

For fuck’s sake, you didn’t even know him like that, either! Just as you were about to turn away, the end of your towel ended up being stuck onto the handle, thus escaping your grip.

Surprisingly, the sound of your towel falling to the ground was enough for the blond male to take notice; snapping his panicked gaze towards your shocked ones, and he began to fumble with his phone and clumsily pulling his trousers up — despite his desperate attempts to protect his dignity — it all ended in vain when his phone flew out of the grasp of his hands and slides towards your feet, his screen facing up.

If your face didn’t feel hot before, then it definitely did now.

“Holy shit,” you said aloud, unintentionally. “It’s me.”

Nanami Kento desperately wished that the ground would swallow him whole. 

“Y-Y/N,” he stammered your name pathetically, the embarrassed expression plastered all across his face was definitely new to you. Actually, all this was new to you. “Fuck, t-this isn’t what it looks like at all. I’m so sorry.”

You waved it off with an awkward laugh. 

“Uh… Haha, it’s okay… Erm… It’s just surprising, that’s all. Just, you know, maybe lock the door next time.”

Or, you could’ve come over to me. It’s my picture you were jerking off to, after all — was what you would say if you had enough gall during that moment. 

Your brother’s friend hung his head low, burying his face in his hands. God, the embarrassment. Kento was visibly burning up at this point.

“Where’s Satoru?” Kento questioned, averting his gaze and his voice quiet, and he covered his flushed face with the large palms of his hands. Though, the incarnadine flush in his ears easily gave it away. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him either, you felt embarrassed at what just happened and even more ashamed for feeling aroused from this. This all felt so wrong, yet the heat pooling in between your legs said otherwise. You gulped, trying to formulate your sentences without sounding like you were an animal in heat.

“I honestly thought you left with him, but he left a while ago to order takeout.” You replied to Kento, finally gathering the courage to look at him bashfully. “I-If you’re worried about me telling him, I won’t. I swear.”

A heavy sigh of relief escaped his lips, and his once tensed shoulders slouched. “Thank you, Y/N. And I’m so so sorry again, it was wrong of me to even think of doing....”

Absentmindedly, your mind and gaze wandered. You could barely catch wind of whatever he was saying, and your eyes trailed lower; your gaze now stuck onto the large bulge growing beneath the rough fabric of his trousers. He’s still hard. You thought to yourself, and gulped. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

You could’ve ended the conversation right there and turned around, and continue to mind your business — like how you always did the years prior. However, your feet stayed planted onto the bathroom tiles; unable to move. 

“Y/N?” His voice, low and baritone, brought you back to the present and the warmth present in your face merely seemed to worsen as well your juices that couldn’t stop soaking your panties. Shakily, you pointed a finger downwards, directed towards his raging erection. Kento tensed, and blushed profusely. Just as he was about to utter out an apology, you cut him off.

“You didn’t finish earlier ‘cause I interrupted you earlier…” You began, your voice shaky, mixed with both nervousness and arousal. You could barely control your heart that was beating rapidly against your chest, and more so the ache dwelling between your legs. You closed the door behind you, and with slow movements, you stepped towards Kento — inching closer and closer towards him.

There was a look of anticipation in the blond male’s eyes, yet he didn’t utter a single word. The air had grown unbearably thick — you couldn't bear it any longer, and you were certain he felt the same way.

A hitched breath escaped the man’s lips when you lowered yourself on your knees, your fingers inching towards the hem of his pants. 

“Y-Y/N,” he stuttered out. “Are you sure?”

You hummed in response, giving Kento a bashful smile; staring up at the blond with a look of wanton plastered across your cute face. Clenching his jaw, the once calm and collected male struggled to maintain his composure that had long since crumbled. 

“I wanna help you finish this time. After all, I’m pretty sure this would feel better than jacking off to a picture of me. Don’t you agree, Kento?”

Oh, Satoru was going to end him — that was for sure, but right now, at this very moment — there was nothing Kento wanted more than to have his best friend's sister's lips wrapped around his cock. 

© 6TORU do not copy, repost, or translate my works on any platform.

[reedandstorm]

Woven Webs is a new online (non)literary magazine, run by Reed and Storm Editing and funded by Carclew, allowing us to pay creatives $100 per piece.

The magazine is inspired by “web weaving”, an online practice created here on Tumblr in which disparate media are presented together, united by a common theme, usually juxtaposing art traditionally seen as high and low brow.

Submit here!

[somuchforsnakes]

Leo's character design is one of my favorites from The Next Chapter's main cast, as it accurately reflects his character and the new series in an appealing way. Let's analyze it.

Starting with the colors, the design's most prominent ones are tan, green, and pink, loosely following a split complementary color scheme. Tan is a versatile ingredient here: it conveys Leo's kindness and dependability, its association with the outdoors reflect his athletic hobbies, and it's visual shorthand for him being Latino (if you're concerned about all Latinx Friends characters looking like this, Leo's little sister and abuelita have diverse skin tones and hair colors). The green on his shirt reinforces his kindness and connection to nature while introducing a positive, lively color to the mix. It all comes together with a generous helping of watermelon pink, tying into his overshirt's motif alongside the green. It associates Leo with lighthearted summertime fun and all but yells at the viewer that Leo has a sweet personality. Already, this color scheme is giving us solid and informative visual design.

It also hints at how the rest of Leo's design plays with traditional gender expression. While an overshirt and cargo shorts typically read as men's clothes, the colors on said clothes say otherwise. His hair is just long enough on the sides and back that you could put it on a female minidoll and pass it off as a messy bob cut, and he's the only male Friends character with visible eyelashes. This balance of masculine vs. feminine is Leo's core conceit.

His key art, one of the first things a child would see on a Friends box, conveys one of Leo's central conflicts though his body language. While he might be smiling here, notice how Leo keeps his legs close to each other and arms inside his silhouette:

It suggests apprehension despite Leo's friendly demeanor, like he's keeping something to himself. Sure enough, that's exactly what's happening: Leo is hesitant to share his baking talents in the cartoon's pilot, and in some episodes, he learns to be more open about his thoughts and feelings.

Having a distinct personality is crucial for characters in Friends; character interaction is part of its appeal, and not everyone will watch the cartoon or read the magazine for further context. Yet through Leo's design alone, a child with no prior knowledge could get the gist of who he is, what he might do in a set, and what conflicts could arise between him and the other minidolls.

That's all fine and dandy, but what does Leo's design say about The Next Chapter?

In an interview with Brickset, the Friends design team explained how the relaunch represented all kinds of young builders. This included boys who wanted to try Friends' relationship-based play but might have felt alienated by the original run's presentation.

Leo's design fulfills two of The Next Chapter's objectives in a single minidoll: representing diverse ethnicities (he's the first Latino main character) and representing boys in the main cast (alongside his comrades Zac and Olly). While the trio explore masculinity and femininity in their own ways, Leo strikes me as the perfect middle ground: his design has more masculine elements than Olly while being more outwardly feminine than Zac.

This balance makes Leo an excellent choice to sell Friends to a new demographic while staying true to the theme's feminine foundation, and if you don't believe me, believe the marketing. When the whole octet isn't needed but a boy is, Leo is often the series' rep. LEGO Channel's old Roku icon deserves a shout-out, as it juxtaposes him with Captain America and Spider-Man in front of a neon electricity backdrop; he's the only Friends rep in this mostly masculine image.

While I'm past the age range of The Next Chapter's core demographic and can't speak from firsthand experience, I'd be shocked if Leo wasn't resonating with boys at all. With how well the character design's fundamentals convey his personality while reflecting masculine and feminine traits, I'd say his place in marketing alongside the relaunch's actual mascot, Aliya, is warranted.

Friends sets are fantastic. If Leo helps more people build and play with the sets, even better.

Author's Note: Thanks for reading my first character design analysis! Friends is one of my favorite themes to dissect because of all the details and emphasis on characters, plus it's great that more people are being represented through the minidolls. Making this essay was a journey and I've learned a lot so far, and I can't wait to learn more.

Comments, critiques, and requests are all appreciated. The next analysis probably won't be about the same theme for variety's sake, but I'll certainly talk about Friends in the future.

[nexility-sims]

𝐍𝐎. 𝟓   ❛ 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 ❜   |   THE DEN & NAKAWE PALACE, AUGUST 1991

❧  𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲  /  𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠  /  𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬  /  𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

   ❛  She’ll be here any minute.' Arnaut proffered yet another empty explanation to fill the silence. The premier granted forty-five minutes, but he had already spent fifteen giving intermittent assurances that Leonor was en route, delayed in some unpreventable way. Although known as gregarious and energetic, Premier Eladio Guillen sat across from Arnaut this entire time with a small, static smile. The anticipatory silence that dragged on seemed not to faze him. Waiting grated Arnaut’s nerves, meanwhile, as did attempting to puzzle out Guillen’s thoughts. Every minute of quiet that passed constituted some kind of failed test, he was certain. Yet, he exhausted his list of aide-approved topics within the first three minutes, and Guillen resisted his efforts to sidetrack the stillborn conversation into small talk. It could only be taken as a clear, loud message that the premier preferred to sit in total silence than humor Arnaut’s attempts. 

❧ important psa: leonor is her grandmother's granddaughter; additionally, i did not proofread much and should've so sdjfsdf if you notice anything off, no you didn't !!!

𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝 & 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

In fact, Leonor was due to be there any minute. She was in the parking garage of Nakawe Palace's complex, and she had arrived there just ten minutes past the appointed time. What kept her was the newspaper she’d snagged from a stand on Oceanside Avenue. It wasn’t a respectable publication, certainly not Nakawe’s paper of record, but its headline for the day caught her eye. That was rare. Even if tabloid chatter affected her subliminally, she wasn’t one to read the stories or pay much attention to the headlines. The newsstands she passed in the course of daily life were easy to ignore; someone delivered her preferred papers and magazines each morning, whether or not she planned to open them. This paper’s claim cut through the inane, sensational fabrications about her body, her love life, the silly woes with which some two-bit copywriter claimed to empathize.

It was almost certain that her having bought a copy of the day’s paper accusing her drug abuse would become tomorrow’s headline. At any rate, the shocked vendor stared. So too did other pedestrians as they passed. The speculation wrote itself. Why, after all, would she have bothered if there wasn’t something to it? Incensed, morbid curiosity wouldn’t do. There had to be a more salacious explanation; it was the one that argued her interest was somehow proof of guilt. But, the simple truth was that she had gasped at the sight of it: a grabby headline, juxtaposed photos innocuous on their own but damning in this contrived context, an authoritative quotation of concern from some anonymous acquaintance. The front page promised a full story unfurled inside, and Leonor, who had never been accused of wrongdoing in her life, became consumed with the need to know every lie printed within the pages. 

As she sat in the car, reading about how her alter-self had become obsessed with benzos and tried heroin with a hard rock band, she knew there was no recourse. The Crown wouldn’t respond. These papers could publish whatever they liked, and they weighed that freedom against the constriction of access it only sometimes engendered. Leonor’s people had been silent and inflexible since winter—a moribund policy rolled over from before, when she was an off-limits teenager regarded as inseparable from the entity of her mother. Perhaps that was why she became fair game once the mourning moratorium lifted. More likely, the press’s the dark underbelly dwellers knew the larger apparatus of the royal family saw value in any public discourse about its members. Individual reputations were less of a concern, especially when the Crown itself and more reputable papers churned out flattering, factual stories to complicate any emerging narratives. For some time, gossip and relevance went hand-in-hand. Beatriz’s vision of the monarchy was increasingly a flirtatious one, winking when provocation paid off and demurring when it didn’t. Leonor had never needed to think too hard about it. Her mother went through the grinder time and time again, but her popularity remained intact, and she hadn’t ever let on, at least to her daughter, how terrible it felt. 

It was within Leonor’s power to huddle her team and insist they at least pretend to respond. Her little household was hardly autonomous, but it didn’t need to be. Leonor complaining to her grandparents about rude tabloids would get her nowhere; a conversation among aides about public relations, on the other hand, at least created an official paper trail of bureaucratic value. Yet, that was why she found herself frustrated. This paper she held in her hands trumpeted glaring, clumsy lies. Those lies, however, didn’t need to be rooted in fact if they had been planted in a context that made them feel plausible. For the average Uspanian, the takeaway wasn’t in the details. Most people cast idle glances at the newsstands, noticing ugly candids and buzzwords, passively gleaning less of a coherent story and more of an ambient sense. Leonor’s new friends and hangouts weren’t the kind of blank slate she had been. They came with their own public associations, jumbled facts, wild fabrications. These particular details were false, and The Den remained a locked vault to the public, but it wasn’t outlandish to imagine her as part of the scene if ample photographs and videos suggested she was. 

Leonor closed the paper and laid it on the passenger seat. It sat there, folded, for just a few seconds before she snatched it up again. Quickly, angrily, she tore at it. It wouldn’t rip down the middle, so she yanked out the pages instead. They shredded into scraps as she pulled wildly with haphazard, hurried fingers. Almost as fast as the impulse struck, it ran out of steam. Leonor stopped what she was doing and, feeling satisfied but far from content, tossed the mangled paper into the backseat. 

When Leonor entered the premier’s sitting room, Arnaut watched with disbelief. She strolled in appearing unperturbed by her tardiness, and the apology she offered to Guillen as he rose to clasp her hands was simple at best. It didn’t bother him. His reception of her made his demeanor toward Arnaut earlier that afternoon seem lukewarm—unwelcoming, even. They interacted like people who were well-acquainted; Guillen’s famed charm leapt out as he kissed her cheek and made a joke about Nakawe’s drivers, and Leonor took up space in the room with ease.

Arnaut knew, in theory, he had received an upbringing not dissimilar from hers. They learned the same rules of comportment, and they learned the art of politics from the same teachers. In preparation for today, they had received the same briefs with identical preparation from the same team of aides. Yet, as Leonor settled into the sofa beside him and suggested with unimpeachable authority that they get to work, Arnaut felt the distance between them stretch to its true size. There was no substitute for experience, and there was no hiding its absence. Arnaut had been on the periphery of Uspanian public life for over a decade. Everyone remembered him as the immature, troublesome spare he had been. They viewed his life abroad as suspect. Worse, each day brought a litany of small reminders that no one much cared about who he was now or who he intended to become. 

The television summarized it well just a few nights prior. These days, Arnaut watched news broadcasts as if it were a ritual, often doing so with a pen and pad that Lorraine politely ignored. USB’s evening news hour aired interviews with passersby on the streets of Nakawe as part of its programming. One elderly woman, prompted for an opinion on the crown prince, had furrowed her brow deep and hard. ‘Well, I think he is in for the most tragedy,’ she said finally. ‘People don’t change at forty. They just don’t. I lived long enough to know. You grow up right into who you are. So, what Uspana needs, he isn’t.’

Arnaut had been so immediately agitated by despair that he leapt from the couch and began to pace, talking aloud of how easy it would be to identify the woman, to find out where she lived, to go there with a box of sweets and get on his knees and beg her to change her mind. ‘Let me prove it to you,’ he would plead, holding her frail hands. Perhaps he would cling to her feet and even  pepper the crooked toes peeking from her sandals with supplicatory kisses. ‘Give me a few good years to show you that I’m different.’ That was how he would frame it, too. She was right that it was a fool’s errand to prove he could change. What he hoped—the hopes that were, almost daily, dashed to dust—was that someone different lurked under the surface, suffocated for too long but real enough to show his face if Arnaut somehow found a way.

That way was elusive, although Arnaut knew he would never find it if he capitulated so easily. Today’s meeting felt bungled already, but he pushed himself to see Leonor’s arrival as a reset, as a reinvigoration, rather than a performance of naturality that he could never possess. He struggled to believe in his heart that the ability to rule flowed through his veins as much as hers, but it was more compelling to remind himself that he had been trained for this, too. Had he been as serious about it as she had, that deceptive distance between them would be more of a trench than a canyon. What mattered now was exactly that: he was serious now and, if the unexplained absence meant anything, perhaps even more serious than she was. 

As the conversation turned to business, Guillen let out a sigh. “Fast-tracking legislation when there’s a passing is no way to run a government,” he explained, his tone light and wry even as he regarded them both with an earnest look of condolence. 

“We’d be doubling offshore drilling in memory of Mario Esparza,” Leonor quipped. The comment prompted a laugh from Guillen, who pointed at Leonor and nodded emphatically. 

Arnaut, meanwhile, sat bemused and wearing a vacant smile. The name didn’t ring a bell. He knew enough about the politics to understand why the policy idea was ridiculous, but he wasn’t privy to the personal backstory that gave it flavor in this context. Arnaut had once believed the capital to be a slow-paced, change-resistant bastion of tradition. The monarchy was sometimes accused of being arrested by its reverence for the old ways, and the legislative assembly had its own superficial but no less real way of doing things. People were the backbone of that. Perhaps naively, Arnaut had expected to find the same names in circulation a decade later. He hadn’t accounted for the turnover, but he also hadn’t accounted for how poorly acquainted with those people—with them, with their place in politics, with their connections to others, with the culture that glued them all together—he had been. It was difficult to insert himself now, knowing he had passed up the opportunity to belong as intuitively to this world as everyone around him did. 

Having noticed Arnaut’s expression, Guillen asked, “You remember Mario, right? You’ve met Paula?”

“His wife?” Arnaut, with the urgency of panic, responded.

Leonor snorted, and Guillen raised his brows before clarifying, “His daughter. She’s filling his seat until the provincial election is held, so I assumed—”

“Forgive my uncle,” Leonor said, casting a look his way. “He’s not in the know about any of this. Good thing it’s not his job to be, huh?”

It was clear Guillen wanted to chuckle, but he remained quiet with his lips quirked in a smile that Arnaut found somehow just as offensive. He looked away from the premier’s expression to regard Leonor with quizzical eyes. 

Apparently not finished, Leonor added, “You haven’t asked yet, but I’m going to assume Diago Tegridia has been talking to you. He’s never been a fan—especially not of the part about funding students’ studying abroad. My mother planned to massage him on it, but he won’t take any of my uncle’s calls, so—” 

Arnaut, growing nervous, laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t say that—”

“No? I suspect it’s because he offended him during a hallway chat,” Leonor said with a shrug. “Like with Paula? Similar misstep. If you don’t know who’s who and what’s what, that makes it hard to do business, doesn’t it?” 

“That’s not relevant, Leonor, is it?” Arnaut asked. From the corner of his eye, he saw Guillen sitting with the same amused, forbearing smirk on his face. “This meeting has nothing to do with Representative Tegridia, and definitely not a casual conversation we might’ve had.”

With an eyeroll, Leonor laughed, “There, see?”

Guillen nodded and offered Arnaut what was, it seemed, his best attempt at a placating smile. “I’ll admit,” he began, looking from Arnaut to Leonor, “Diago does have strong opinions, and I’ve been inclined to hear him out where he has expertise. But, alright, why don’t you walk me through the particulars again—to save time, just make the counterargument to his?” 

Leonor turned more fully to face Arnaut, her expression expectant. They stared at each other for a long moment while he assessed the challenging look in her eyes and what she wanted from him,. He remained all too aware that Guillen was staring and judging, too. More than a challenge, Arnaut saw mischief in her eyes. Leonor was unwilling to look away or say anything. The corners of her lips were curled—not altogether a smirk, perhaps something more predatory, as if she intended to bare her teeth instead of break into a smile. The more seconds passed, the more pleased she seemed. 

He turned back to Guillen with a sigh, concluding, “… I’ll let Leonor take the lead.”

TRANSCRIPT:

RENZO | Have I see you in blue? In person. LEONOR | Maybe once?

RENZO | It looks good. Black is better. Brown. White, whew. LEONOR | It’s for work. Work! I’m going to be late. Poor uncle.

RENZO | He’ll be alright? LEONOR | He’s a big boy. RENZO | Stick around a little longer? LEONOR | Nice try.

ARNAUT | She’ll be here in a minute.

GUILLEN | [Sighs] Fast-tracking legislation when there’s a passing is no way to run a government.

LEONOR | We’d be doubling offshore drilling in memory of Mario Esparza.

GUILLEN | You remember Mario, right? You’ve met Paula? ARNAUT | … His wife? [Leonor snorts] GUILLEN | His daughter. She’s filling his seat until the provincial election is held, so I assumed—

LEONOR | He’s not in the know about any of this. Good thing it’s not his job to be, huh?

LEONOR | You haven’t asked yet, but I’m going to assume Diago Tegridia has been talking to you. He’s never been a fan—especially not of the part about funding students’ studying abroad. My mother planned to massage him on it, but he won’t take any of my uncle’s calls, so— ARNAUT | Well, I wouldn’t say that—

LEONOR | No? I suspect it’s because he offended him during a hallway chat. Like with Paula? Similar misstep. If you don’t know who’s who and what’s what, that makes it hard to do business, doesn’t it? ARNAUT | That's not relevant, Leonor, is it?

ARNAUT | This meeting has nothing to do with Representative Tegridia, and definitely not a casual conversation we might’ve had. LEONOR | There, see?

GUILLEN | I'll admit, Diago does have strong opinions, and I’ve been inclined to hear him out where he has expertise. But, alright, why don’t you walk me through the particulars again—to save time, just make the counterargument to his?

ARNAUT | … I’ll let Leonor take the lead.

ARNAUT | Where are you going? We’re debriefing upstairs in five minutes. LEONOR | Clocking out early. ARNAUT | Did you let Central know? It’s a weekday. You can’t leave the premises without giving them notice. LEONOR | [Chuckles] No, you’re just not supposed to.

ARNAUT | You don’t think anyone will notice the … slacking off? Talk? LEONOR | What, are you going to tattle on me? ARNAUT | I don't have to. I’m just saying it’s a bad look. Trust me.

LEONOR | You should worry about yourself, uncle. Trust me.

[amesliu]

luke's harsh apartment contrasting with his soft lil sweater and curls. the stark boxes of the comic sharing his vulnerable, 'honest' words. the interview for man of the year being printed on slippery magazine paper.. it's all just so.. well-manicured? calculated? deliciously and horrendously juxtaposed? idk just so

exactlyyy soft boy uncanny valley fr. a contrived man of the people. manufactured to make the girlies swoon.

also loved that you pointed out in your tags the wording of "humble" home when it's literally a spacious 1bed with floor to ceiling windows in the middle of NEW YORK CITY. I definitely wanted that contrast so you know that there are PR hands at work here.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

New story announcement!

Because you beautiful besties did nothing but encourage me, I wrote the thing. I am four chapters into the thing, but I need to edit before I post it!

So yes, meet the new couple of the moment, Adrien Brody and his beautiful wife, Jade Burton-Brody. I wrote Jade as an OFC for a previous fandom, but she stayed with me, so I want to use her again as it dawned on me just how cute she and Adrien would be together, so yeah. Here they are! She's a musician in the metal world, who moves into acting, too. Especially with all the support she finds from her adoring husband.

A particularly long excerpt from the story, too, from a magazine interview they did together which serves as the opening of the story...

“Tell us something about your wife that people would find surprising.” 

He mulls it over for a few seconds, looking to his side at her, laughing as he takes in her raised eyebrows. “She’s actually quite introverted, unless she knows the people she’s with well. Then her volume and mischief amp up considerably,” he begins, which I must say is perhaps the last thing I expected him to reply with. “No, no. It’s completely true, she is. She’s often quiet, an extreme juxtapose for how she appears up on stage with a microphone in her hand, but yeah. The Jade you see performing live is a completely different entity to the woman she is away from it, and I found that out pretty quickly after we first met.”  

It is a stark contrast to the public persona of Jade Burton-Brody, a woman known for rarely shying away from being outspoken and controversial, whether it be her fiercely penned lyrics, or her opinions on the subject matters she holds dear. She was, after all, the woman who advised legions of young female rock fans to, and I quote, “Burn the patriarchy to the goddamned ground.” 

Before me today, though, I do see a much softer side to the screaming hurricane of a woman I familiarised myself with through the scouring of YouTube videos, a woman more than happy to let her husband lead in the questions, always looking to him to reply first. She has spoken in the past of him being her unequivocal strength and support, and I take her back to that, the moment she first met the man she would marry just six months after their first meeting.

“Jade, you’ve spoken about your first meeting a couple of times in the past, but for the record, would you care to share it again?”  

She laughs loudly at my question, leaning into her husband a little, combing her fingers through her hair as she remembers fifteen years into the past. “I screamed in his face, he liked it, and the rest is history.” 

Indeed, such a meeting did seal itself into history, the moment the iconic pair met captured by a photographer pointing his camera in the right direction at exactly the right time, immortalising the moment where the formidable first lady of metal took to the barriers at the Rock and Iron festival, grabbed the hand of the Hollywood heavyweight, and proceeded to scream like a harpy about an inch from his face. “She blew my eardrums out,” Adrien speaks of the moment, “I had never heard anything that loud in the whole of my life!”

Indeed, like it he did, the first stages of their fledgling relationship captured on film while a documentary team were following her and the band, shooting the footage for the 2010 documentary, “The Devil You Don’t Know.” As the footage shows, the actor found himself with a rare two-week break between projects, one of those weeks spent living on a tour bus with the band, unwilling to be parted from the woman he’d struck up such an immediate connection with. 

“I called my manager and told her to shift all my interviews to telephone, rearranged everything for the following week before I flew out to Hawaii to begin shooting Predators, and yeah, lived on a bus with five insane, but adorable women for seven days.” He smiles a little shyly, his eyes warm as he views her. “Didn’t want to let her go.”

When asked if it was love at first sight, he elaborates a little further. “I’ve never believed in that. Too many components have to fall into place for love to bloom, so I don’t think it can be so spontaneous as to simply view somebody and feel such a powerful emotion right off the bat. After that week I spent with her, though. Yeah. I departed from the tour knowing I’d left behind the girl I was going to marry someday.”

And for Jade? “I knew. He was my person. Still is fifteen years on, too.”  

Just viewing the natural ease the couple have around one another cements that, after battling with so much over their years together. They both freely admit they rarely saw one another for the first two years of their marriage, their relationship plagued by media scrutiny, storms of paparazzi, accusations of their romance serving purely as a manufactured PR pairing for publicity, others stating that it was to give Jade greater leverage as she further embarked upon her acting career away from the world of music. One only has to watch the woman on screen to see that she carries enough weight from her own talents to not need the bolstering of her husband’s surname to snare her hard-earned successes.  

Indeed, the pair have weathered many storms and come through them stronger, standing as one of Hollywood’s most illimitable power couples, yet the term is somewhat lost on them both. “We’re complete dorks,” Jade laughs, “we really are. We set one another off all the time being absolutely ridiculous.” 

“It’s true,” her husband confirms, beginning to chuckle right on cue. “Nobody makes me laugh like her. It’s so corny, but truly, she’s my best friend. Deciding to get on that bus fifteen years ago was one of the greatest decisions I ever made.”  

It can be witnessed quite easily, too. It takes only a few glimpses into their respective social media accounts to see the humorous ease they tease one another with, but always with incredible affection. ‘Baby love! <3 Love you too, Morticia!’ Adrien commented on a heartfelt post his wife recently shared to Instagram, a throwback picture of the pair kissing at the 2016 Oscar’s ceremony, where his beloved won best supporting actress for her role across from Robert De Niro in the 2016 blockbuster, Five Marked Men. 

“It took him about a month to get over me with black hair instead of blonde, so I was Morticia for four straight weeks instead of Jade!” she laughs, obviously taking his teasing with good humour.  

“I was so damned proud of her, even though I couldn’t get used to the black hair,” he laughs taking her hand in his. “Always have been. She’s incredible.” 

The story will chronicle their fifteen years together, from their first meet right up until present day. I said I wouldn't do this, write RPF again, but I did. Arrgh! I just have to hope my beautiful people enjoy it now, lmao!!

Also, as well as the obvious faceclaim of Angelina Jolie serving for Jade, I have a voice claim for her, too! Want to hear the scream she hit Adrien with? Here - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a98LI-arNS4 And for something a little more melodic to acquaint you with her voice - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQNtGoM3FVU So yes, that's how I imagine her to sound in her chosen profession. Half angel, half demon. xD

I hope you love her as much as I do, guys! Huge thanks for my darling @jemmalynette for the beautiful picture manipulation. Her work is flawless, as always!

[abwwia]

Priscilla Roberts, Self-Portrait, 1946, oil on masonite, 29 7⁄8 x 14 1⁄8 in. (75.8 x 35.9 cm), Smithsonian American Art Museum, Museum Purchase, 1991.197

#bornonthisday Priscilla Roberts (1916–2001) was an American artist known for her still life paintings. She employed a precise style in which fanciful objects were juxtaposed in a manner that was seen to approach surrealism and that was often called magic realist. In 1960, a critic writing for Arts Magazine said, "There can hardly be any doubt that Priscilla Roberts is the most talented and accomplished Magic Realist in America." Via Wikipedia

#PriscillaRoberts #MagicRealism #realism #americanrealism #Americanartist #artherstory #artbywomen #womensart #palianshow #art #womenartists #femaleartist #artist

[kolajmag]

COLLAGE ON VIEW

Landscape Vernacular

Todd Bartel at the Art Center Gallery at Anna Maria College in Paxton, Massachusetts, USA through 10 April 2024. Todd Bartel’s “Landscape Vernacular” series is an ongoing, decade-long research-based collage series addressing the history of land depiction and changing attitudes about land use and ecology. Catalyzed by interlocking combinations of dictionary definitions, texts, and images, “Landscape Vernacular” collages juxtapose vintage imagery and ephemera from the 18th- through 21st centuries, chronicling the dawn of the Anthropocene. Read More

*****************************

Kolaj Magazine, a full color, print magazine, exists to show how the world of collage is rich, layered, and thick with complexity. By remixing history and culture, collage artists forge new thinking. To understand collage is to reshape one's thinking of art history and redefine the canon of visual culture that informs the present.

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[chimneyflower]

Kehinde Wiley's "An Archaeology of Silence"

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.xxxviii // All Saints Are Sinners

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A note is played as a sensor detects that the front door has been pushed open. Low tiks, faint against the loudspeaker muzak, as the soles of his shoes dislodge from sticky stains on the white tiled floor. The ambient hum of fluorescent lights, of the air conditioning, of the coolers scattered all around. Gas stations all have that hum.

He makes for the drink aisle with a laziness to his step, loose straps from his backpack tapping at his chest and arms, eyes unenthusiastically scanning through foggy glass doors. Most of the options strike him as entirely unappealing, while some – chocolate milk, protein shakes, yoghurt – make him nauseous to even consider.

Renee hasn’t been high for a full day. He noticed it on waking up, and it’s only getting worse. That lethargy, the grey filter that slides down across his vision. Drowsiness that expresses itself clearly in the way he moves, as if his body will only operate in slow-motion. Boredom exacerbated, but juxtaposed with revolt at the mere thought of actually doing something about it. The hollowness of all the things which normally feel so vivid. His mood, seeping down through the concrete and the dirt.

When Lazarus dropped him off by his car this morning, Renee talked him into a quick deal before they parted, just fifty grams. The look of concern on Lazarus’ face, the begrudging acceptance, sparked a shame in Renee that’s hard to just brush off. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t cracked open that bag yet - because punishing himself with cocaine withdrawals seems more appropriate. Is that irrational? Probably. But what isn’t?

Goosebumps break out across his arms when he opens the cooler and is rushed with a front of cold air. He picks out a couple different energy drinks. As he makes his way back through the store, he grabs a small container of nuts, as well as a handful of protein bars, haphazardly discarding his pile of items on the counter. He’s pretty sure he’s forgetting something, but his mind is hazy, and he can’t really bring himself to care.

The cashier, a girl who doesn’t look much older than twenty, gives him a nod in place of a proper greeting, and starts scanning his items. Renee watches her progress, rubbing his eyes, and then his gaze thoughtlessly drifts to the magazine rack next to the counter. Among celebrity gossip and headlines that fill half the front pages, he catches an image of Conrad – that vacation photo the media always uses, taken on some pedestrian road with palm trees in the background. A black person’s arm – Howard’s, presumably - is draped over his shoulders, but their face is cropped out of frame. Conrad looks at ease in that photo, at least more at ease than Renee has ever seen him in person. There’s still an awkwardness to his posture, he clearly doesn’t like having his picture taken; but his smile looks genuine. Next to the picture of Conrad is a stock photo of a man’s silhouette illuminated from above, face obscured in the shadows cast by a hoodie.

Renee swallows, looking away before he can read the actual headline. Behind him, the door chime goes again, and he hears someone walk up behind him. A deep breath, then he clears his throat at the cashier. “Uh. Give me four packs of Marlboro reds as well.”

 The girl looks up. “Do you have an ID I could see for that?”

Renee blinks. Gives the cashier a look.

“We check everybody, sir.”

Renee lets out a dejected sort of breath, fighting the urge to roll his eyes, and fishes around in his pocket for his wallet. “Driver’s license alright?”

The girl gives him a patient smile. “Just something with your face on it.”

He holds the card out between two fingers, and can’t help but curse himself at the way his hand is shaking slightly. The girl doesn’t comment on it, though, eyes quickly scanning the card before she nods and turns to the shelves behind her.

As he pays credit and shovels his items into his backpack, Renee feels watched, in a way that’s more than a little intrusive, by the cashier, by the customer behind him, by the camera above the counter, by Conrad, grinning from a tabloid shelf. He shrugs the backpack on, pushing past the customer behind him and heads for the door before the cashier is even halfway through wishing him a good day.

Grey clouds swirl like a layer of cotton above the landscape, too light to threaten rain, but none the less suffocating. The wind blows across the concrete field surrounding the gas station, biting at his skin through the seams of his clothes. Would’ve ruffled his hair a week ago – now the lack makes him shudder more easily. He climbs into the Clio, discarding his backpack on the passenger seat, pulls a cigarette and lights it. He takes the first few drags in silence, listening to how the wind swirls around the car, feeling its miniscule tugs on the carrosserie.

It’s such a cliché, framing the bad guy as a menacing figure cloaked in shadows. Something about that image alone feels like a caricature that serves only the purpose of dehumanizing, othering. People always strip away the understandable parts of evil to avoid having to face it in themselves. They shut their eyes to swallow that pill.

A turn of the keys, and the Clio rustles itself awake. The sound of the old motor is starting to become more reminiscent of a tractor than a car. Cigarette burning between his fingers, Renee pulls out to the gas station’s exit ramp, back onto the highway. He loses himself in driving. Everything else becomes secondary to following his own flow, the mindless weaving in and out of lanes.

But he hasn’t been on the highway for more than five minutes before a loud beep from the dashboard makes him look down. The little light next to the gas indicator has turned on. The needle is deep in the red.

Renee lets out a groan, gritting his teeth tight, clutching the wheel a little harder. “Shit.” He fiddles with the different settings on the turn signal lever, barely keeping the car in the center of his lane as he tries to find the setting that lets him see how many miles he has left. How do you go to a gas station and then forget to get gas?

A couple minutes of fiddling with the lever pass, until he finally gives up. There are no gas stations until he reaches the summer home neighborhood, and the highway is separated by a fenced off median strip, so no U-turns, either. He’s just gonna have to cross his fingers and hope.

His teeth are gritted until he finally reaches his exit, somewhat relieved that if he does get stranded, at least it won’t be on the side of the highway. There’s a red light at the end of the exit ramp, and he cringes at having to rev up the car in first gear to avoid stalling on the incline.

The country road he turns onto is deserted, fields on either side all rows of plowed mud, interspersed with patches of skeletonized trees. Isolated homesteads placed a respectable distance from the road, and the occasional faded colors of a billboard advertising private insurance or heavy farming equipment.

He's a mile in when the dashboard beeps again, and soon after, the car starts to slow down. Renee curses, changing to a lower gear, which seems to work for all of ten seconds, but then it slows again, even as the pedal is pushed to its limit. The tractor-esque likeness of the sound seems to amplify as the engine struggles to keep up. Eventually, it coughs, lets out a spluttery death rattle, and then stalls completely.

Still rolling with the momentum, Renee stomps down the clutch and switches the ignition off and tries to restart it. Uncertain whirring, in a rhythm that makes the whole cabin vibrate, but it never takes. The car creeps to a halt on the side of the road. Renee tries again. And again. On his fourth try, the engine doesn’t even try to stir – nothing happens at all.

Renee pulls the handbrake and sits back, rubbing his face with both hands, pressing his fingers hard over the thin skin of his closed eyelids. Feels like letting out a scream, but all that comes out is a low groan. He sits like that for a full minute, breathing through his nose. Then he lets his hands dump into his lap, staring bleakly out the windshield.

In the distance, a row of trees parting two fields are being pushed sideways by a rough wind, the last stubborn leaves breaking off, dancing across the horizon.

Renee looks at his backpack, jaw working. Grabs it, finds leverage with both thumbs in a small hole by the zipper and forces it apart by pulling on the fabric. From one of the smaller rooms, he pulls out the bag of cocaine, from another, his wallet. Discards the backpack on the passenger side floor with a little more force than necessary. He fishes his phone out of his wallet and balances it flat on his thigh. Nudges a few clumps of powder onto the screen. It’s all automatic at this point, he doesn’t even have to think about what he’s doing. The clumps are broken with a credit card, and two lines are arranged side by side along the length of the phone screen. His hands are shaking as he rolls a five dollar bill into a straw.

He pauses. Feels like throwing up. Feels like strangling himself with the seatbelt. Feels like bashing someone’s skull in. Feels like...

Closing one nostril with his index finger, holding the bill carefully between thumb and middle finger, Renee lifts the phone up, leans down. It’s a familiar feeling, however gross it felt the first time he tried. Like sucking powdered sugar straight into your brain. It appears at the back of the throat, and then you have to swallow it, despite the bitter taste, like you swallow the clots of a heavy nosebleed. Renee leans back, sniffing hard as he rubs his nose, letting out each breath through his mouth. Leans down for the second line, which goes up just as easily, sniffs some more. His throat is already starting to tingle. He licks the remaining powder off the phone, drying the saliva in his jeans.

Slightly breathless, he slumps back against the seat, hand clutched around his phone. Hits the back of his head against the headrest a couple times, scowling at nothing. Stalling won’t do him any good. He grits his teeth as he unlocks the screen, filtering through contacts until he finds Davin’s number. Rests his elbow on the ledge under the side window, leaning his temple against the root of his hand, lifts the phone to his ear.

The low dial tone, dragging across the ground once, twice, before there’s a click, a muted shuffling. Renee bounces his heel against the floormat.

There’s a faint thud, like a door closing, before Davin speaks. “Yeah?”

“My car broke down,” Renee says. Winces, but keeps his voice even. “I ran out of gas, I mean. I just need a hand.”

There’s a brief silence, and then Davin lets out a sharp sort of sigh. “How do you expect me to…?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” Renee bites, “Figure something out. I mean it, man, I’m stuck in the middle of… piss-all nowhere.”

Davin lets out an exasperated breath. “I don’t have a car, Renee.”

“Then find one. I’m not walking four fuckin’ hours.”

Another silence, longer this time. A deep breath. “Alright. Send me your coordinates, then.”

Renee sniffs. “Shall do.”

A split second after he has ended the call, Renee tosses the phone onto the dashboard, leaning forward, running his hands over his head. Why’s it taking so long to kick in, anyway? Two lines usually get his heart beating in no time. He’s not that tolerant, is he?

Seeping through the dirt, like the roots of a tree clawing to get a proper hold of the earth, or the fluid that leaks out of a decomposing coffin. It strikes Renee as a natural law of sorts. Gravity, but not in the physical sense.  

They see him like an alien, a stereotype. They attribute his actions to something inhuman and foreign, something unrecognizable. A nightmare, a monster. A hooded figure in the dark. Evil as something extraordinary.

It’s actually pissing him off, how delusional people choose to be. The mental gymnastics they have to employ to stay blind. While Conrad sees the good in all people, Renee sees the spiteful, the malicious, the selfishness everybody tries so damn hard to deny. He sees the egocentric note that carries every act of altruism, the spite and jealousy that accompanies every form of love. Ambition is a euphemism for greed, justice always stems from a sense of superiority. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is holy. Once you start digging past the surface, the only direction you can go is down.

Despite the lightness of the clouds, a few small specs of rain have scattered on the windshield. Renee lights another smoke, watching it slowly collect and bleed down the glass. Something inside him is returning, he can feel it. It’s been hell for a while, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe Conrad got his claws into him after all. That naïveté played tricks, in its own subtle, insidious ways. Renee forgot himself in a moment of weakness, and he ended up sharing the delusion. But evil is universal to the point of banality. Despite Conrad’s insistence, there’s nothing extraordinary about what Renee has done, or about his drives. Renee only stands out for honesty.

Davin’s greed is blatant. As is Lazarus’ willful negligence, entirely unjustified despite his efforts to deal conscientiously. Even Conrad himself, so keen to keep up a façade of innocence, gets that hateful look in his eyes, and his attempts to humanize himself occasionally get marred by a vengeful, sadistic desire.

A gun or a knife, hm? Or something else…?

Gun.

Where? …Where would you shoot me?

Head.

That’s the thing: You have to own it, don’t you?

Renee chuckles lightly to himself. Leans back against the headrest, eyes closed. Maybe it’s the coke creeping in, but it feels like a veil has been lifted.

The man he was six months ago, before all of this, before he even met Davin, is still in there. Renee can feel him. That carefree, fuck-all attitude, the easy way he carried himself, the deep sense of independence, remorseless freedom. His head got clouded by the fog of uncertainty, but he can lift himself out of it easily enough. It’s all so straightforward.

You just have to own it.

💵

Thirty minutes pass. The peak of the high, Renee spends pacing for a hundred yards up and down the country road, wind chill biting at his face, but muted under the familiar sense of euphoria. Once it starts to dip, around the forty-five minute mark, he climbs back into his car and chases with another line, smaller this time, nothing crazy. Sits with his knee bumping against the steering wheel, hands kept warm in his pockets, just enjoying the sensations of being, for a while. The way his heart beats, the way the air feels in his lungs, the numbness of his throat, the back of his tongue. He feels as easy and light as he does resilient, self-assured. Exquisitely fucked up and powerful. He feels like himself.

He sees the car coming from a mile away. A small, dark dot on the horizon that slowly rides the waves of the landscape. A sedan. Renee recognizes the typical design of a Mercedes long before he can make out the logo on the front grill – something about pareidolia, the expressions that cars make. Mercedes always look vaguely pissed off. As it pulls up on the opposite side of the road, Renee can’t help but marvel a bit. No scratches or dents in the warm gray lacquer, shiny wheel rims, tinted windows in the back. The kind of car you can tell has leather seats before you even take a look inside.

Bracing his door against the impact of the wind, Renee steps out on the road in the same moment Davin does. The few strands of hair that aren’t caught in the bun on the back of Davin’s head are instead whipped about his face. The collar of his coat is turned up.

Renee lights a smoke, then points to the Mercedes with the cigarette. “I didn’t think you could hotwire cars that new.”

As Davin shuts the door, he looks at the car briefly. “You can’t,” he concedes. And he holds up his hand, wiggling a key between his fingers.

Renee frowns. “It’s yours?”

“It’s a rental. For now, at least. You reminded me why it might be a good idea to have a second car available.”

He walks toward the back of the car and pops the trunk open, pulls out a red gas canister and a funnel. Hands both to Renee, who, much to his own quiet dismay, has to throw the fresh cigarette away before he takes them.

As he fumbles with the gas cap on the Clio and sets up the funnel, Davin stands a few paces away, watching. Renee can’t help his stomach from churning at that feeling, as if every movement he makes is being noted, jotted down. The stench of gasoline fumes soon serve as a distraction, as he pours the clear, yellowish liquid down the funnel. “Listen, I, ah…” He clears his throat. “I had a bit of a mental breakdown yesterday. After I left, I mean.”

He glances up at Davin, who has only raised a brow in response.

“I don’t really know what happened, it’s just… been a crazy couple weeks, you know? I think it’s been building. But it’s all good, I’m fine now.”

Davin snorts, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat. Looks into the distance for a moment, lips pursed. When he looks back at Renee, his expression is solemn. “I couldn’t have done this alone. So as much as I hate having to rely on other people, I have to rely on you. I have to be able to trust you.”

Renee grimaces. “You can,” he says. “You can, dude. I just freaked out a bit, but I’m back in business, I’m feeling it. I’ll do whatever.” 

 Davin nods slowly. Markedly doesn’t say anything.

For once, the ominous silence doesn’t really bother Renee, at least not to any greater extent. Although brief, he said his piece, so now it’s no longer on him.

The last few drops of gasoline are shaken off the canister, then the funnel. Renee screws the cap back in place, handing canister and funnel to Davin before he ducks into the passenger seat of the Clio, without shutting the door.

On the first turn of the key, the engine rustles awake.

Renee shoots a wide grin up at Davin. “We’re so back, baby.”

Previous / Masterlist / Next

[aidanboyle14]

For my art piece #1, “All Great Artists Steal”, I decided to focus on the Ye album by Kanye West. The album cover itself has multiple tones of blue with a bright green saying on the front, juxtaposing the blues. For my take, I decided to focus more on the state of New York to make the cover pop. I included clipping from the Enchanted Mountains magazine of Cattaraugus County, NY. I also drew in some iconic New York features such as the Empire State Building and Niagara Falls. To finish it off, I made the main focus of the art piece, New York’s iconic saying, “I❤️NY”.

[reedandstorm]

Woven Webs is a new online (non)literary magazine, run by Reed and Storm Editing and funded by Carclew, allowing us to pay creatives $100 per piece.

The magazine is inspired by “web weaving”, an online practice created here on Tumblr in which disparate media are presented together, united by a common theme, usually juxtaposing art traditionally seen as high and low brow.

Submit here!

[cobainqueer]

Kurt Cobain’s Art: Collages & Sculptures

Surfaced Original Collages: 7

(0:12) 1. Anatomical Models, Cutouts and Toys

(0:32) 2. Nevermind's Inlay

(0:52) 3. In Utero's reverse cover

(1:12) 4. Kurt Cobain's self-portrait

(1:37) 5. Heart-Shaped Box cover

(1:57) 6. Early Demos J-card

(2:17) 7. Madonna Statue fragments

Surfaced Original Sculptures: 2

(2:40) 1. Whores Moaning Clay Doll

(2:48) 2. Clay Dolls

ART INFO/BACKGROUND

COLLAGES

1. An assemblage of magazine cutouts, anatomical models and toy figures. This collage includes a Batman toy holding a cotton swab, a picture of The Rolling Stones, a Chim Chim toy, anatomical bodies, baby figures, diseased vaginas, $50 dollars, an emaciated body, a monster baby, etc.

2. Chim Chim toy figure set against a collage of medical magazine cutouts of diseased vaginas and a picture of Kiss, used for the inlay of the Nevermind release.

3. An assemblage of Stargazer lilies, anatomical models, baby figures, skeletons, turtle shells, and a heart-shaped box. Photographed by Charles Peterson for the reverse cover of the In Utero release.

4. Kurt Cobain's self-portrait composed of a Nirvana comic book tearout and a pencil drawn, emaciated body. This collage was published in Journals, but according to an article written by Tim Appelo in the Seattle Weekly in 2002, journalists were banned from printing this page in articles or reviews, ostensibly because of its dark content. Above the drawing-collage are six lines cut-and-pasted from an Alicia Ostriker poem called "A Young Woman, A Tree". The six lines, which begin the poem, describe a girl who passes a blooming tree, and envies its beauty, and on top to the poem is the word "Swingers" (in Cobain's handwriting); it has been suggested that by juxtaposing these lines with his emaciated self-portrait, Cobain was making a comment on his own loss of creativity and his personal image being in contrast to his public one. The poem fragment is:

Be making love,

Be making poetry,

Be exploding, be speeding through the universe

Like a photon, like a shower

Of yellow blazes—

5. An assemblage of Stargazer lilies and a heart-shaped box on tin foil, used for the front cover of the Heart-Shaped Box single release.

6. J-card of an early demo tape Kurt sent out to get Nirvana signed. The songs he sent are: "Floyd the Barber", "Spank Thru", "Hairspray Queen", "Mexican Seafood", "Beeswax", "Beans", "Paper Cuts", "Big Cheese", "Love Buzz", "Aero Zeppelin", "Pen Cap Chew", and "Montage of Heck"

7. Madonna statue fragments with three birth announcement dolls, arranged in a suitcase.

SCULPTURES

1. Clay marionette doll, xeroxed by Kevin Kerslake for the front cover of Sonic Youth's Whores Moaning EP release.

2. Clay dolls, shown in Nick Broomfield's Kurt & Courtney documentary.

MUSIC

The songs that appear in this video by order are:

• I Hate Myself and Want to Die - Nirvana

• Moist Vagina (MV) - Nirvana

[pochawon]

AMISS THE CHAOS (M.M, 2024)

This is a collage artwork I made during an art therapy open studio session. Using magazine cutouts, abstract artwork made by me and printed tissue paper, torn and put together with glue and layered on top with acrylic paint.

The facial figure (Unwritten #9. Vernon Ah Kee, 2008.) in the middle represents the subject, an indistinguishable monochromatic face, void of emotion.

The surrounding colourful collage mimics the vibrancy of life, which at times can feel suffocating.

The intended contrast of these two elements juxtapose our inner and outer environments.

The top most layers of acrylic draws the two elements together into one. As though the world influences us, we in turn influence the world.