#l'origine du monde

[cheminer-poesie-cressant]

qui nous a appris à sentir les roses, ce geste hérité à chaque génération nouvelle, ce lien intemporel qui ne se dénoue jamais, simple geste qui semble instinctif au coeur, la tête légèrement courbée, le parfum au centre de l’inoubliable ?

car enfin ce premier geste a bien eu lieu un jour aux confins du monde et du temps

© Pierre Cressant

(mardi 18 août 2009, la vie pariétaire)

[furry-er]

    vewn I love you

[fatooouuuu]

«Sous un ciel éclairé, mes pensées danse la valse tandis que mes oreilles cherchent quelque part un requiem »

Fatou.ba

[cryjesus666]

Fun fact: in 2011 some French dude on Facebook posted a erotic old painting, got banned, they complained because it was against Facebook tos or smth, GOT FRANCE TO SUE FACEBOOK, WON, AND MADE FACEBOOK ALLOW NUDITY ART WORKS then Facebook made a donation to a French art group like a suck up 🤷

I WISH I COULD MAKE THIS UP LMAO

[jiyasblogspot]

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[lemuseum]

[ephemeral-winter]

wait. bataille started out as a medievalist?

[jade-curtiss]

Pourquoi po Aethelthryth ça l'aurait été ben plus performatif. Comme bonne chance groupe.

[manoelt-finisterrae]

© Manoel T, 2024

@lamigliorepartedime: L'origine du monde? Gustave Courbet

[atinylittlepain]

Warm

college!steve harrington x f!oc

series masterlist

Steve gets flustered in an art museum. She kind of likes it.

18+ smut, normal hairy female bodies, steve is kind of a perv in the best way, smut duh, and verrryyyyyy sweet, also robin and eddie being good roommates

note: the painting that Andy and Steve look at is called l'origine du monde by Gustave Corbet and you can check it out here. This fic is for bush (not the president) and bush only, thanks.

.............................................................................

Steve is a good guy, right? Right. Respectful, respectable, two percent in his cheerios in the morning, light wash denim and clean sneakers, and he flosses two times a day, clean bill at every dentist appointment and he shows it, curls half a smile when he holds the door open for girls on campus, all ease, all-American and alright. Studying business, and of course he is, though his parents don’t know about the women’s studies minor he picked up all because of a flushed little crush on a professor that never amounted to anything, coupled with Robin strong-arming him into taking a few more classes with her. But that’s okay, he likes the classes, and he likes the classmates.

“Do you need a partner?” 

“Hmm? Oh, I was just going to work alone actually.” Big scarf tucked up around her neck and a big coat wrapped up around her and she barely even glances at him down the slope of her nose, already refocusing on the painting in front of her. But he’s a good guy, right? Right. A real team player, tilting his head, and letting his hair fall into his face, a little shy, a little smile. She glances at him, unimpressed hook of her brow and her eyelashes lifting up over the rims of her glasses. Her name is Andy, he knows, though they haven’t spoken, at least not directly. She’s been known to correct him in class however, her hand raising after his, quick and cutting. He maybe, kinda, sorta likes that. 

“I think we’re supposed to, you know, discuss what we’re looking at with each other for the VHS thing.”

“VTS.”

“What?”

“It’s called VTS. Visual thinking strategies. Are you sure you want to discuss this painting with me?” 

“I’m game if you are.” She smiles, and he’s already thinking about which of her palms he’d like to write his number on. But when he finally looks at the painting, he finds himself to be a lot less concerned with his phone number. 

“So, Steve, what’s the first thing you notice about this painting?” 

“Um, well, I–” 

“Is it too much for you?” Heat is prickling in a bloom up his neck, her smile sharp as her eyes flit between him and the painting, the painting that he really should have looked at before approaching her.

“No, no, it’s not too much. It’s– appreciation of the female form, right?” He’s not sure where to look any more, a strange kaleidoscope with how quickly his eyes are darting between scraps of the painting and her face. A freckle under her eye, and then swaths of cream and pink brush strokes and then the hitch in her cheek where her smile curves and then, and then. 

“Hair.” His voice pitches and cracks somewhere in the word, turning one syllable into two like a hiccup. She laughs a clipped sound. 

“Hair?” 

“Around her– around her–”

“Around her cunt?” Something hot tightens in his chest, maybe shame, though shame doesn’t feel good like this does. He feels foolish, the quick whip of his head around like he’s worried they’re going to get caught, though for what he isn’t sure. Likewise, he has no clue what’s causing this devastating fluster, this feathering of heat. Whatever it is, it’s making it very hard to look at her, though the way his gaze has fixed on the painting doesn’t feel much better either. He’s never heard a woman use that word before. Actually, scratch that, he’s pretty sure he’s never heard anyone use that word before, not in Hawkins, at least, not corn fed and halfway bible bred, at least. It sets something slick shimmering inside of him, something warm that’s making it hard to think.

“Are you blushing?” 

“I’m not, I’m just appreciating the work.”

“L’origine du monde.”

“What was that?”

“That’s the name of the painting. Origin of the world.”

“Well, that, uh, I guess that tracks.” 

“It’s a shame, don’t you think?” When he does finally look at her again, she’s smiling, all ease, all cool, and him anything but, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm into his hip. 

“What’s a shame?” She sighs, a long sound, letting her neck roll to the side so her cheek scrunches into the plush of her scarf, a wistful look.

“The current trends. Looking like prepubescent girls. No hips, bald vaginas, everything so… sterile.” She speaks with a bluntness that winds him, if he’s being honest, her expression schooled, and maybe a little disillusioned, brow pinched and mouth pulling down in a grimace. 

“I guess I hadn’t really thought about it.” 

“Yeah, well, you have a cock. Makes things a little simpler, doesn’t it?” 

“Jesus Christ, do you always talk like this?” He says it just a little too loud, a little too breathless, heads turning in the gallery around them, and he thinks he might regret even trying with this girl. Should’ve stuck with the tried and true, that blonde girl that wears sticky sweet lip gloss and smiles at him from across the room during lectures. But this girl, with her arched brow and her twitching smile and the dark flicker of nail polish when she smooths the throat of her scarf. This girl has his number, and not in the way he’d like her to.

“What do you prefer, Steve? Do you like a girl with a smooth shave?” 

“Well I think that, um, a woman’s body is her own choice.” And it has to be the dumbest string of words he’s ever said, breathed out on two static exhales, a garbled parroting of what he’s learned in these classes, right? Well, sort of. 

“How progressive of you.” 

“But the painting is really, you know, it’s, um, it feels warm?” Not sure where that came from, another fresh flood of heat rising and buoying up into his cheeks. Though her expression seems to soften, her smirk falling into something lighter. Maybe, maybe, he got one right. 

“Yeah, I think I get what you mean. There’s a softness to it that’s beautiful, don’t you think?” 

“Mmhmm.”

“But also a strength, a frankness to it.”

“Yes, yeah.” That sick swirl of shame but not shame is receding, and only leaving a nice sort of haze in its place, his head lolling a little, eyes raking over the painting, the catch of light, the soft rounding of a body at rest, slumped and plush and kind of perfect, he thinks. Although he’s pretty sure Andy would correct him for perfect, perfect not being the point, because perfect is oppressive, right? Right. Fuck perfect, he thinks, this is something better than perfect. And maybe she is too. 

“Steve?” Her hand on his arm, purple nail polish and a close-lipped smile snapping him back into his body, hmm? And her smile spreads, and the warmth does too, and she’s saying something about the prof calling them back together and he’s mmhmm-ing on the heels of her brown leather boots. And she sits next to him when they get back on the bus, Robin giving him a stink eye that breezes right over the top of his head as she passes down the aisle because he’s a little busy trying to take discreet inhales through his nose of whatever perfume Andy wears, spice and strong and warm, that same warm. 

And it isn’t his number that gets jotted onto her palm, but her address that she scrawls onto the soft inside of his wrist, right over the catch and jump of his pulse, because she has invited him over for a drink tonight to continue our conversation from earlier. 

Robin doesn’t even have a chance to snit at him for leaving her stranded to the back of the bus because he’s already shuffling her along by the crooked wing of his elbow, hands tucked down deep in his jacket pockets, snow starting to flit and fall from the gray hang of sky. 

“I need your help.”

“You have a date.”

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s a date. She was like, rubbing your wrist. That’s a date.”

“I need your help.”

“Yeah, you do.” 

Because Andy is not light washed denim and polo shirts and two percent milk. He’s seen her in the campus coffee shop, she takes soy, sometimes almond, for the record. So when they get back to their apartment, the smell of electric heat washing over them and curling in their lungs, they don’t go to Steve’s closet, they go to Robin’s. 

Robin’s first pull is a turtleneck. He scoffs.

“What? Turtleneck dudes are definitely that chick’s type. Are you kidding me right now?” And when he assures her that he is, in fact, not kidding her right now, Robin starts to rummage again, eventually coming back out with a t-shirt for a band that Steve only knows because he has asked Robin to turn their music down on several occasions. And before he can say anything Robin is please hold-ing him and shouting down the hall for Eddie.

“What?”

“Steve has a date with a cool girl.”

“Cool girl, what cool girl?”

“Soc major, with the boots.”A little flurry of activity, socked feet slipping down the hall and Eddie hanging off the doorframe of his room, Steve not able to get a word in edgewise between their rapid fire volley.

“No, really? Little different for you, man, isn’t it?” 

“I–”

“We need your closet, excuse us.” Robin on the warpath and Eddie grinning big, and Steve somewhere in the middle.

“How’d this happen?”

“She–”

“They were talking about art.” Robin reappearing with a long-sleeved thermal gripped in her other hand, eyebrows waggling. 

“Steven? Our Steven? Talking about art? Well, well, well.”  If he just had time he’d say something back to Eddie about how he got kicked out of the art museum last weekend for making quacking noises every time the security guard took a step, but Robin is already ushering him back down the hall, into his room this time, shoving the bundle of clothes into his chest and slamming the door shut on her way out. 

Eddie is anemic and tends to eat breakfast when the sun is going down, and Robin is Robin, so it’s a tight fit getting the thermal on, followed by the t-shirt. But looking in the mirror, he thinks he likes it, gives an experimental and not at all vain flex of his arms that makes the sleeves of the tshirt roll back up toward the round of his shoulders and yeah, he likes that. And when he steps out of his room, Robin and Eddie already hovering and humming their approval, that warmth starts to build and bloom all over again. 

And the rest is a little hazy from there. Robin offers him two refrigerator-chilled potstickers from last night’s dinner, something about fuel for your evening, Stevening, while Eddie pours himself a bowl of corn pops and prattles about something he learned in his music theory class, dissonance and skipped beats, and Steve can understand the feeling. And then they’re both kicking him out with an all too solemn godspeed, soldier. Eddie even salutes him. 

Andy lives on the opposite side of campus in a cropping of apartments in a building that looks kind of like a castle, old brownstone and wrought iron. She buzzes him up, opens the door in a thin turtleneck and jeans, her head tilting and her lip pouting, just a little.

“Where’d the polo shirt go?” 

“I changed.” Excellent, he thinks, how astute of him. She smiles.

“I can see. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a Bikini Kill fan though.” He’s trying to focus on her as she leads him deeper into her apartment, though his eyes still wander. Old wood flooring that’s barely visible underneath the thick swaths of patterned rugs. A crushed velvet, lime green sofa sitting in front of a fireplace that’s packed full with books. The kitchen is tucked into a corner, a little patch of black and white linoleum, old appliances. She’s pouring wine at the counter with her foot pressed into her other calf in a sort of shortened tree pose, and she’s asking him if he likes red, and he nods, all the while thinking to himself that he hasn’t consumed enough wine that doesn’t come in boxes to really care what color it is. 

They sit down on the lime green sofa, her arm draped over the back of it, fingers tipped toward him. And he’s trying not to be such a dweeb about it, really, he’s not, but it only takes a few bashful glances to know that she very much is not wearing a bra. And he likes that, likes that a lot. Likes the soft curve and fold of her stomach with the way she’s turned toward him, the stretch of her jeans at her hips, her thighs, and his mouth goes dry around a gulp of wine when he starts to think about that painting again, and he starts to think about her, and he starts to think about her and the painting together. He starts to wonder, to wonder, to wonder what similarities he might find between the two. 

There’s conversation, quiet and meandering and murmuring, their mouths staining dark and rosy from the wine, bodies turning warm and pliant and inching closer, closer, closer. And it all starts to melt, empty glasses set aside and her hand slipping into the back of his hair and she’s going to be the one in control, isn’t she? Fine by him, lax and languid in her hands, letting her tilt his face toward her. The first kiss is surprisingly sweet, just a peck to the corner of his mouth that makes him breathe hard through his nose in a petty huff of anticipation. She grins, lets the next one take its time, a little deeper, a little more heat, open mouth against open mouth, and he groans when her tongue slips behind his teeth. 

This would be enough, he thinks. This time, at least. Her settling into his lap, little pants of breath between the wet snap of lips and spit and tongues. His hands squeeze at her thighs, coaxing a skittering sound from her throat when he reaches back and cups her ass, fingers splayed and pressing petulant. He’s going to feel her fingers in his scalp for a few days, the little hurts, little pulls. The next time she pulls away she presses her hand into his chest to keep him at bay, even as he tilts his chin up, feeling young in his eagerness as she smiles wide-eyed at him.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Both of them whispering, and when they both realize they don’t know why they’re whispering, both of them giggling, getting away with something when she pulls him up off the couch and into her bedroom. 

“Why is this shirt so tight?” She huffs it out with the tshirt halfway rucked up his torso, his hair falling in his face as he curls over trying to help her get it off, both of them breathing out a laugh when the fabric finally is up and over and off of him.

“Oh baby, your hair.” He likes baby, baby feels good, feels like another warm bloom in his chest, his smile turning sheepish when she reaches both hands into his hair, shaking it out at the roots before smoothing it back for him. He chases after her hand, manages to press a kiss to her palm before she’s reaching for the hem of his, Eddie’s, thermal. It comes off easier, quieter, her eyes softening as she takes in his bare chest, catching him off guard when she ducks her head down to press a kiss to the dip that connects the lines of his collar bone, there and gone, little sweetness, little warmth as she steps back and grins. 

“Do you wanna lay down for me?” Not even a thought, just ligament and muscle moving, some sort of game dancing between their eyes as he settles back on his elbows against the dark fabric of her duvet. He watches the fine flicker of her fingers make deft work of the buttons of her jeans. An absent-minded thing, the heel of his palm pressed to the ache, to the heat. He’s already hard, already smearing warm against the front of his boxers watching her step out of her jeans.

“Oh fuck, honey.” A little pained, the sweet prickle of agony, of being right. A vision somewhere between obscenity and divinity, he thinks, though that would be playing into the madonna-whore complex their professor was lecturing about last week. He doesn’t care, doesn’t care about much of anything except continuing to look at Andy, the soft divot at her waist where her white cotton thong settles against the soft curve of skin, and the dark bloom of curls along the sides of the material where her thighs touch. He was right, and now he’s doomed. 

She smiles, finger hooking in the hem of her shirt and pulling it up just a little, exposing the sweet dip and swell of her stomach, and suddenly he’s not so interested in just laying back any more. Greedy, he feels the slick, desperate curl of it in his gut. Greedy when he shuffles up onto his knees and crawls to the end of the bed. Greedy when his hands curl at the fat of her hips and he pulls her in closer so he can press the open heat of his mouth just above her navel, soft and warm and he wants more of it, of her. She sighs, a long, languid sound that he wants to hear more of, dipping his head down to mouth at the jut of her hip, dampening the fabric slung taut there. 

Limbs tangled with limbs, some of it graceless, awkward, some of it perfect motion. She lays out like a painting, like the painting, for him, her turtleneck curled up around her sternum so he can palm a handful of her breast, settling down between her thighs and wasting no time in dragging his tongue through her cunt. 

She wasn’t wrong about the trends. Hairless bodies, smooth bodies, flinchingly pristine bodies. And that’s fine, he thinks, been with plenty of bodies like that, made his body like that for a while too. But he likes this, likes her, the sense and sate of it, the scent of it, even if it makes him a pervert, lapping at her while he curls two fingers inside her. And somewhere in the simpering sear of it, his hips have started to jerk and stutter into the mattress beneath him, picking up a stilted speed when she starts to moan, clipped sounds and his name and he wants it and he wants it and he wants it so bad. She comes with a long sigh that cracks high into a whine, her thighs tensing and slackening around his face. And he feels a warmth of his own, relief of his own, though the reality of what he did turns him sheepish, pressing a bashful smile into the swell of her inner thigh. 

“Did you?” Her words crackle breathless with her grin, peering down at him from behind her forearm and he can barely look at her, turning his face back into her skin, letting his teeth graze there a little mean.

“Maybe, shut up.” Her laugh bursts and bubbles up, her head tossed back, eyes crinkled shut as he crawls up and up and up, not evening minding the uncomfortable cooling in his jeans when he presses a sloppy kiss to her mouth, turning her laugh into a satisfied hum. 

“Hmm, kinda feminist of you coming in your jeans just from eating me out.” Speechless, and he kind of likes it, huffing out a breathless laugh as he watches the cartoonish jump of her eyebrows. He presses a kiss between them, sweet and simple, warm all over when he pulls back to find her smiling at him.

“I like you, a lot.” That whispering thing again, a little shy, a little young, and a little uncertain. But there’s no need for it, not when she tilts her chin up and presses a kiss to his cheek, the round of it, the warmth of it.

“I like you too, Steve.”

[unefemmemapparut]

Self Portrait as L'Origine du Monde by Jana Brike, 2016 "Selfie" exhibition, Stephanie Chefas gallery, Portland, USA @ source

[crown-of-serpents]

Scary Discord : utiliser Discord pour son forum RPG

Discord, c'est un peu le débat du siècle dans la sphère rpgique. Il remplace le très vieux débat "Chatbox ou pas Chatbox ?" d'il y a 15 ans (la vache, ça nous rajeunit pas !). Sur COS, la question ne s'est même pas posée pour être honnête : nous sommes toustes adeptes du Discord et il ne nous est même pas venu à l'idée de nous en passer.

Pourquoi Discord c'est cool ?

Que ce soit en tant qu'admin ou que rpgiste, Discord a des avantages non négligeables :

Il permet à un.e nouveau.elle joueur.se de tester l'ambiance de la communauté avant de s'y installer

Il permet une gestion plus efficace de la communauté dans sa globalité (gestion des dramas dès leur émergence, réponses aux questions plus immédiates, prise de température sur les différentes animations, relai des sondages...)

Il aide à conserver sa communauté plus soudée en conservant une bonne ambiance générale et limite le "turn-over"

Il aide aux liens entre personnages de façon beaucoup plus efficace qu'une fiche de liens

Il permet un meilleur suivi des rps en cours, donc limite les risques de rps "oubliés"

Il pousse aux multicomptes avec plus d'efficacité

Pourquoi Discord effraye tant les rpgistes ?

Etant du côté pro-discord, j'ai longtemps eu du mal à comprendre celleux qui le craignaient. Mais après moultes discussions, j'ai pu rassembler des explications & des expériences différentes :

La peur de devoir être disponible tout le temps, à toute heure, même quand on a pas la tête au rp

La timidité et l'impression de passer à côté de quelque chose si on est pas actif.ve sur le flood

La création de "clans" et l'impression d'être laissé pour compte

Les private jokes en public

La peur des dramas et du harcèlement

De mauvaises expériences passées sur des serveurs Discord de RPG

La crainte d'un "forum déserté" ou de louper des infos relayées uniquement sur Discord

En somme, exactement les mêmes craintes et arguments que nous avions des années auparavant avec le débat "CB/not CB". Mais en plusieurs années, on pourrait croire que les différents admins de forums ont trouvé des solutions à ce problème.

Une vigilance constante du staff : comment palier aux craintes des rpgistes ?

Discord est un véritable outil pour son forum, en particulier lorsqu'il s'agit de le lancer. Mais c'est aussi un véritable travail pour le staff de le gérer : un Discord non modéré est la porte ouverte aux abus, et pourra même être à l'origine de l'explosion de son forum. Il faut donc être clair.es dès le départ, et imposer quelques règles qu'il faudra renforcer en cas de besoin.

Etablissez un règlement dès l'ouverture de votre Discord et FAITES-LE APPLIQUER. Ecrire un règlement mais laisser couler à chaque fois ne sert à rien !

Utilisez des rôles pour les demandes de mps, et forcer sa communauté à s'y conforter. Tout le monde ne désire pas voir poper 394840 messages insistants, certain.es refusent carrément de parler en mp. Il faut respecter cela.

Impliquez les joueur.ses dans le flood dès leur arrivée, même si cela signifie "casser" une discussion privée d'un groupe de rpgistes. Pour le coup, c'est un équilibre à trouver qui peut être un peu tricky.

Limitez vous-même l'utilisation de "private jokes" sur le chan général, sans les interdire pour vos joueur.ses, ou expliquez-les à celleux qui ne sont pas dedans.

Séparez les chans de discussion. Créer SPECIALEMENT un chan pour parler des sujets plus lourds/émotionnellement drainant permet d'alléger le flood et de limiter les dramas. En contrepartie, vous pouvez créer un chan spécial "bonnes nouvelles" ou "good vibes".

Si vous voyez une discussion s'envenimer sur le flood, INTERVENEZ IMMEDIATEMENT. Contactez si besoin les personnes concernées individuellement. Changez ensuite de sujet pour relancer les conversations et ne pas s'arrêter sur de mauvais messages.

Si une conversation peut être triggering (par exemple : vous venez de ban un.e utilisateur.ice très problématique après des propos violents en public), supprimez la conversation MAIS précisez dans un message public que vous l'avez fait et pourquoi. Ne faites pas les choses en secret, vos membres ont le droit de savoir.

Utilisez les tickets. Cette fonctionnalité permet à n'importe quel.le rpgiste de contacter le staff en cas de souci avec un.e autre rpgiste, et au staff de contacter un.e rpgiste également (cf : 2 points au-dessus en cas de beef en public). L'excellent Draftbot (bot francophone gratuit) a cette fonctionnalité ainsi que plein d'autres, et est très facile d'utilisation.

Tout ce qui est sur Discord et qui concerne le forum DOIT se trouver sur le forum. Ne donnez pas d'infos à vos utilisateur.ices Discord que vos membres non présent.es ne puissent voir !

Dans la même vibe, n'obligez personne à rejoindre votre Discord. Vous pouvez le proposer bien sûr, mais vous aurez toujours quelques personnes totalement réfractaires à cette idée. NE FORCEZ PAS. Faites également attention à ces personnes en particulier (ainsi qu'à celles peu actives sur Discord) pour ne surtout pas les laisser de côté.

Prêt.e à lancer un Discord pour votre forum ? Attention au burn-out !

Comme précisé juste avant, il y a beaucoup à faire en tant que staff pour que le Discord soit un endroit convivial et un sérieux atout pour votre forum. Ce qui signifie qu'en plus du taf d'admin sur le forum, il y a un taf de modération qui peut en effrayer plus d'un. C'est pourquoi je conseillerais de se lancer uniquement si vous êtes minimum 2 dans le staff, que vous connaissez un minimum l'outil, et que vous avez accepté le travail que cela demande. Si votre communauté grossit et que votre Discord est trop actif pour que vous puissiez vraiment le modérer, vous pouvez tout aussi bien déléguer cette modération à un.e membre sans forcément l'intégrer au staff du forum.

Nous avons la chance dans notre communauté d'avoir des gens respectueux qui nous aident avec cette modération en cas de nécessité, et ce sera peut-être votre cas ! Alors ne prenez pas peur, et lancez-vous ♥

[sappho-favourite-pupil]

your pinned got hidden :(

My friend Courbet would be so damn happy to know his paintings are still scandalizing people in 2024, more than 150 years after his own death.

As an artist myself i think this must be the final aim of your art, or why are you even making art?

This is the painting that got my pinned post hidden, by the way.

"L'origine du monde" by Gustave Courbet, 1866, oil on canva.

[welcometololaland]

*knock knock* ✊🏼 at the doors of your askbox.. could you be so kind as to share a funny moment from eurotrip 👀 i swear i think about this wip like once a week at least 🤗 tyvm xx

here you go! something i wrote ages ago when i was in a spiral about impressionism and henry and alex in paris 💜 (i haven't posted a snippet in ages so please consider this my wip wednesday/seven sentence sunday for time and all eternity...until i finish stats):

It’s late-morning by the time they reach the banks of the Seine, and Henry has to admit that he’s surprised when Alex shoves another pastry into his hand, tells him to eat up and then hauls him towards the Musée D’Orsay. It’s not that he doubts Alex’s ability to appreciate impressionism, it’s more that Alex’s general zest for life and relatively short attention span don’t seem well matched with over three thousand things to look at. Henry would know. Last time they went to a museum, Alex threw up in a gutter before making disparaging comments about Botteccelli’s seminal work. 

“Okay, so, I’ll be honest,” Alex says, as soon as they make it past the admissions stand. “I know Van Gogh is cool and all, but I really wanted to see a museum in a train station.”

Henry smiles to himself, shoving his wallet back into his pocket after a particularly heated argument about who would buy tickets. The cashier looked suitably confused, and Henry – beaten down by his desperate desire not to make a scene – had relinquished financial control. It’s not escaped his attention that Alex seems to be making a point of paying for everything today, and Henry is already planning on how to get him back. Then again, he can’t escape the feeling that a lot of the pointless arguing would simply go away if he paid for a little less, and Alex stopped worrying so much about balancing the scales. 

“It doesn’t disappoint,” Henry points out, looking up to appreciate the domed ceiling, bright light filtering through the glass panels. The space is so pleasantly lit, it almost feels as if they are outside in the warm, summer breeze. “While we’re here, should we give the impressionists our time?”

Alex snaps a couple of pictures then gestures for Henry to lead the way, trailing after him with childlike wonderment as he keeps taking in his surroundings, almost tripping on one of the stairs.

Because it’s Alex, everything has to be a competition, and it’s not long until they’re bickering over which art is the most interesting. Henry is quite frankly offended that the beautiful midnight colour and brushstrokes of Van Gogh’s Starry Night Over the Rhône go unappreciated in favour of Renoir’s Bal du moulin de la Galette, because it ‘has more people in it’. Similarly, Cézanne’s The Card Players and Apples and Oranges get passed over in favour of Manet’s The Luncheon on the Grass and Courbet’s The Artist’s Studio.

“You know,” Henry mutters, bumping Alex’s shoulder as they turn to another Courbet, this one the controversial L'Origine du monde, a close up of a woman’s vulva, her legs spread. “You can’t just like all the ones with naked women in them.”

Alex snorts. “Henry, just because you can’t appreciate the female form—”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Well, you did once tell me you were gay.”

“And you promptly vomited in a gutter.”

Alex pokes his foot with one of his crutches. It seems that he’s learned that they can be used as a weapon.

“It doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate art,” Henry continues in a slightly argumentative tone he knows Alex will thrive on. “Renoir’s Girls at the Piano is one of my favourites and there are no men in it.” 

“There are no men in a bowl of apples and oranges either,” Alex says drily, “and you thought that one was good.”

“It is good,” Henry insists. “The point is not the subject, it is the colour and composition.”

“Then why didn’t Cézanne pick a more interesting subject?” Alex bites back. “I’m just saying, it was a boring choice. Oh look, another Birth of Venus…”

Thankfully, Alex doesn’t have further commentary on the voluptuous form of the goddess, but he does seem enthralled that both Bouguereau and Cabanel wanted to paint the scene, Venus rising out of the water, surrounded by sea nymphs. He claims to like the Bouguereau one more, purely because no baby comes out of the womb standing, which Henry now understands is not Alex completely missing the point but simply trying to get a rise out of him.

Unfortunately, it always seems to work. Henry wonders whether he needs to do some self reflection.

[ernestinee]

C'est quand même assez rare que je me sente si vide. L'impression, comme je disais dans un billet précédent, que c'est parce que tout va bien, que les choses sont en ordre. Et l'impression inverse aussi. Que c'est tellement le foutoir que je me suis mise en sécurité, en "ne pas déranger sous peine de débordement".

Et c'est cette hypothèse qui finit par me convaincre parce qu'il faut dire ce qui est, si j'ai les larmes qui montent en constatant qu'une petite souris est considérée comme nuisible et fait l'objet de plus d'informations pour s'en débarrasser que pour la connaître (cf le billet d'hier), c'est probablement parce que je ne suis pas loin du débordement malgré ma sensation que "tout va bien".

Mes pistes de réflexion sur l'origine de cet état :

- Le boulot est plutôt chill au niveau de la charge de travail à abattre mais reste aussi intense au niveau de la responsabilité que j'ai vis-à-vis des patients. Bon je suis habituée à cette pression mais c'est peut-être une goutte en trop.

- Le monde va très mal, j'ai déjà eu des angoisses pour moins que ça.

- Je reste fâchée sur cet homme qui était précieux depuis plus de 20 ans et avec qui j'ai coupé les ponts. Je suis fâchée et je me sens libérée d'un poids et donc son absence n'est pas du tout un problème mais la symbolique derrière cette rupture est pesante.

- J'ai passé trop de temps sans aller marcher, et les quelques dernières occasions n'étaient pas vraiment ressourçantes, j'ai l'impression de ne plus ressentir de connexion avec la nature. Il faut que je prenne un temps pour marcher ce jeudi.

- L'hiver m'emmerde. Je n'y vois rien de positif. Le feu de bois me casse les couilles parce que ce n'est pas le petit feu sympa de fin de soirée, qui crépite et qui met l'ambiance, c'est un feu fonctionnel, rapide et vif, pour chauffer les pierres réfractaires de l'immense-poêle-malgré-tout-trop-petit pour la maison parce que quand il y a 21° dans le salon, il y a 18 dans la cuisine. Je bois du thé bien chaud quand je veux, je mange des crêpes ou de la raclette quand je veux, qu'on ne vienne pas m'avancer ces arguments calqués pour vanter le plaisir de l'hiver.

- J'ai l'impression d'être un bon petit soldat en ce moment et je déteste ça mais ça se fait tout seul. Je cuisine des trucs équilibrés, je pense à prendre mon sac réutilisable quand je vais faire les courses, je le remets dans le coffre quand les courses sont rangées, je suis en ordre dans le linge, la vaisselle, l'ordre, ma paperasse, je dors un peu plus tôt (sauf aujourd'hui parce que je suis tracassée avec l'ado), je respecte les engagements que j'ai pris vis-à-vis de moi comme la régularité dans la lecture et dans les cours de japonais. J'ai même programmé un ordre permanent pour payer le loyer du bureau. Je déteste cette sensation d'être adulte. Et en plus ça ne me demande pas vraiment d'effort. J'ai envie d'avoir la flemme, de faire uniquement des trucs chouettes, d'être mue par le plaisir des petites choses ni nécessaires ni fonctionnelles.

Oh je crois que c'est ça ! Je suis vide de l'enfant intérieur qui est censé orienter ma vie et m'apporter de la gaité dans des petits trucs inutiles (et donc nécessaires pour ne pas déborder). Je dois voir comment remédier à ça.

Je déborde d'être adulte et quand je relis le début de ce billet, les pistes de réflexion et les questionnements que j'avais, ça fait totalement sens. L'impression que tout est en ordre, et en même temps l'impression de déborder.

[bourbon-ontherocks]

En ces temps troublés, je me suis amusée à imaginer pour quels partis voteraient les personnages de l'Art du Crime, et je me fais rire toute seule donc voilà, have fun with me.

Florence. Ses parents ont voté Mitterrand en 1981 et c'est une tradition familiale qu'elle perpétue sans exception. Rare électrice du PS encore sur le pont après 2017, elle aime les fleurs et surtout les roses.

Pierre. Comme sa fille, fidèle du Parti Socialiste et réfractaire à l'idée de changement même si idéologiquement il est de droite maintenant. Le saviez-vous ? La famille Chassagne est à l'origine de 30% du score d'Anne Hidalgo en 2022.

Antoine. Pas de parti attitré, Antoine il vote utile, c'est sa vocation. Il fait barrage où on lui dit, la dernière fois qu'il a voté pour un parti auquel il s'identifiait vraiment, c'était en 2002 (il avait voté Besancenot au nom de l'Internationale de la babyface).

Alex. Très envie de lui faire voter Renaissance parce que "en même temps" et "quoi qu'il en coûte" sont un peu ses deuxième et troisième prénoms, et en plus il a déjà sorti le 49.3, mais en vrai, Alex, il vote plutôt écolo. Il sait ce que c'est de voir arriver les catastrophes avant tout le monde et d'être la voix de la raison que personne n'écoute. Et puis toutes ces capsules de café au bureau, là, niveau développement durable c'est pas top.

Adèle. Parti Communiste Français. Elle distribue de la merch à l'effigie de Fabien Roussel en festivals. D'autres questions ?

Hugo. Le parti d'Edouard Philippe que personne connaît, là, Horizon, parce que c'est un peu les hipsters de la macronie.

Juliette en saison 4. MoDem, parce qu'elle a une tête à avoir un oncle qui connaît personnellement François Bayrou.

Juliette en saison 7. Parti animaliste.

La psy de Florence. A émigré et s'abstient (de tout signe de vie) depuis la circonscription des Français de l'étranger.

Le psy de Florence. Agent du chaos qui ne peut que voter LFI.

Nathalie. Probablement RN pour pouvoir retourner à Moscou, mais personne n'a jamais osé lui poser la question.

Varane. Reconquête parce que je l'aime pas 🤣

Nathalie Vallon. Est décédée. Est donc tout à fait qualifiée pour voter LR.