#like minds aesthetic
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laurelwen · 5 months ago
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The Nightingale and the Rose, Simon Costin
While devouring the Sleeping Beauties exhibit at the Met in May, I was stunned by this piece (wish I could have gotten a better photo, but conditions were tricky.) Of course, it make me think of Nigel, so I thought I'd share with all of you. But I imagine most of you have not read the fairy tale by Oscar Wilde that inspired the piece. They had an audio recording of someone reading an excerpt from this story in this room as well, which just added to the heartbreaking vibe of it all. If you read through, I think you'll see why it all made me think of our boys and how deeply poignant and tragic the art is when you know the context of the story. The bolded text was my emphasis - you'll see why.
"The Nightingale and the Rose" by Oscar Wilde
'She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,' cried the young Student; 'but in all my garden there is no red rose.'
     From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
     'No red rose in all my garden!' he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. 'Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.'
     'Here at last is a true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his lace like pale Ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.'
     'The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,' murmured the young Student, 'and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.'
     'Here indeed is the true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'What I sing of he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. it may not be purchased of the merchants, 'or can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.'
     'The musicians will sit in their gallery,' said the young Student, 'and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her;' and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
     'Why is he weeping?' asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
     'Why, indeed?' said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
     'Why, indeed?' whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.
     'He is weeping for a red rose,' said the Nightingale.
     'For a red rose!' they cried; 'how very ridiculous!' and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
     But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.
     Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
     In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
     'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'
     But the Tree shook its head.
     'My roses are white,' it answered; 'as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'
     So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.
     'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'
     But the Tree shook its head.
     'My roses are yellow,' it answered; 'as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'
     So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.
     'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'
     But the Tree shook its head.
     'My roses are red,' it answered, 'as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.'
     'One red rose is all I want,' cried the Nightingale, 'only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?'
     'There is a way,' answered the Tree; 'but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.'
     'Tell it to me,' said the Nightingale, 'I am not afraid.'
     'If you want a red rose,' said the Tree, 'you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.'
     'Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,' cried the Nightingale, 'and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?'
     So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
     The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
     'Be happy,' cried the Nightingale, 'be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.'
     The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
     But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
     'Sing me one last song,' he whispered; 'I shall feel very lonely when you are gone.'
     So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
     When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
     'She has form,' he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - 'that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.' And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
     And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
     She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Yale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.
     But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'
     So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
     And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
     And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'
     So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
     And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
     But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
     Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.
     'Look, look!' cried the Tree, 'the rose is finished now;' but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
     And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.
     'Why, what a wonderful piece of luck! he cried; 'here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;' and he leaned down and plucked it.
     Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.
     The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
     'You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,' cried the Student. Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.'
     But the girl frowned.
     'I am afraid it will not go with my dress,' she answered; 'and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.'
     'Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,' said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
     'Ungrateful!' said the girl. 'I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has;' and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
     'What a silly thing Love is,' said the Student as he walked away. 'It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.'
     So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.
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So perfectly Nigel coded: For he sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
[Like Minds Aesthetic Masterpost]
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touchlikethesun · 1 year ago
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the naming of hunger games characters is absolutely masterful. each one could have a whole page written about it, and tho i can't say anything that hasn't already been pointed out a million times, i do want to highlight one generality. most of the names in the districts are one of two things: common words (altered or not) to become names, often in line with their district's culture (Gloss, Thresh), or phonetic shifts of contemporary common names (peeta being derived from peter). this suggests, without changing how the characters speak, the idea of linguistic evolution, which in turn is representative of change and of local cultural. the districts are a people in dialogue and evolution with one another. and now compare this with the names of those in the capitol. off the top of my head i think of Plutarch, Coriolanus, Flavius, fucking Caesar. these are, one, roman names, which further serves to reinforce the comparison between the capitol and rome and all that entails, but these roman names, names that have been etched in stone and unchanged for millennia, are a stark contrast with the alive and dynamic names of the districts. it's just another (not so) subtle way that collins reminds us of the differences and the values of the capitol versus the districts.
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bixels · 4 months ago
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tarpit site.
#personal#delete later#for context a tweet i made in the middle of the night blew the fuck up and brought the attention of anime fans who've been#harassing and hassling me about my big factual blunder for an entire day straight#“ok i'll apologize” “bro it's not that serious.”#“you're right it's not that serious“ ”why won't you just admit that you're wrong and apologize!“#i'm not going crazy right. i feel like i'm getting manipulated into thinking i must've been wrong#it's crazy how twitter hate will trick you into believing saying something someone else disagrees with is a moral failing#sorry i haven't seen frieren i guess but what's it to you. i wasn't making a claim or statement#also because nobody has gotten this in the original post i wasn't talking about the quality of animation i'm talking about solid drawing#which is a very specific principle of animation. dandandan has really good solid drawing wherein all the characters are animated#with realistic and proportional 3d depth. newsflash but trigger doesn't prioritize solid drawing in their animation and that's fine#it's an aesthetic choice and has ties to production limits. none of this is a big deal. this is all so stupid lol#i've dealt with worse and more annoying weebs though it's fine i'll put on my clown nose twitter needs their stupid guy for the day#oh btw at the end of the day this doesn't matter. it'll be over by tomorrow. all that's happening is petty angry emotions.#so please don't involve yourself by jumping into the argument and prolonging this shit#i'm about to go on a date with tulli after being apart for a month this is the furtherest thing from my mind rn
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For me it's that weird sickening green like these prepared animals in jars, that water has this color and for me it's also a little bit of red that stinks like blood in different variants of rotting and a little bit of yellowish artificial light. The whole palette of blue-gray shades of night and day; The color of the soil, a color that follows us all the time and gets stuck somewhere in the back of our heads, but not warm, fresh, scented with hope and life but that frozen and covered with dust.
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Here goes a little photo of mine that I wanted to squeeze here :) not really related but you can take a look?
Almost forgot, the color of the monastery walls, cold as the ones of a cave but adapted to living between them.
Okay weird question but what color is like minds to y'all??
Like for me it's black, green, blue, and a bit of yellow
I don't know how to describe it but my brain associates those colors with it so🤷
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vanmarkus · 5 months ago
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9-1-1 • S2E15 || S7E04 ↳ based on this post by @honestlyeddie-im-bi
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txttletale · 4 months ago
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REKOMBINAT: GIVE NO CREDIT TO THE CULTURE OR THE FLAME
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a little while ago, magnesium oxide and i got together to write down some things about the art we want to make. we called these things REKOMBINAT.
☭☭☭☭☭☭
1. WE LOVE ART THEFT 
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if you wanna be heard you gotta be ready to be repeated. exerting control over art makes it sterile and dead. copyright is a mausoleum and tomb-robbers are heroes. 
2. STEAL WITH PERFECT GREED
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if we have to clutch it in our hands. words and lines and thoughts are ours to command if we are quick and fast and brave enough to take them. cope
3. MONEY ALL SMELLS THE SAME
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and spit it out no matter what. high culture? low culture? i see no difference, love is love. find the meal in whalefall and quote that fucking newgrounds comment bouncing around your head all day.
4. WE HOPE SMALL BUSINESS JAKEY DIES TOO
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 life’s too short to care about anyone with employees 
5. TRANNIES AND FAGGOTS 100 YEARS
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we were here first and were going to mulch every picket fence in front of you. art is for weird bugs and sexual perverts and subversive communist foreign agents. 
6. ATHENA WONT COME OUT OF YOUR HEAD BUDDY
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you didnt make that without stealing and grasping and letting the culture sink under your skin. nothing is original so let’s not lie. take and copy and imitate but do it well.
7. NOTHING IS WHOLESOME NOBODY HAS A SOUL
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there is no age of perfect beauty to retvrn to. art happens when your senses meet an object and not in our immortal Calvinist ageless souls. machines can paint and construction sites can sing. 
☭☭☭☭☭☭
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stuckinapril · 4 months ago
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oh your favorite season is summer? you like the “beach vibes” and the “summer nostalgia” ? well let me tell you something . there is nothing you can do in summer that you can’t do in spring. cities are more walkable in spring. you can still go to the beach in the spring. vacations are less expensive in the spring. my brain is melting. i decompose every time i step outside . i hate you
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haebi-nd · 3 months ago
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PRESENTING ─────pro hero
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DYNAMIGHT. 大爆殺神ダイナマイト
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“ FACE ME YOU COWARD.ᐟ ” ────
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爆豪勝己┆Bakugō Katsuki
Katsuki's surname contains the kanji for "bomb" (爆 baku) and "powerful" (豪 gō), and his first name contains "to win" (勝 katsu) and "self" (己 ki).
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professional pretty boy.ᐟ ───and affectionately known as Kacchan
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© haebi-nd, haebi nice day
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musubiki · 8 months ago
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danmarch 🐉💎
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repressedgaymer · 21 days ago
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more modern au but this time it's george <3
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burntpink · 4 months ago
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bodily-harm · 4 months ago
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stares @ u with my big gay eyes
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venuscaotico · 1 year ago
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i ⠀ don't ⠀ like ⠀ my ⠀ mind
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i ⠀ don't ⠀ like ⠀ being ⠀ left ⠀ alone ⠀
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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 6 months ago
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MDZS x ISAT part 2: Grandmaster of Time.
(Part 1)
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haanahaki · 11 months ago
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Rayfrog Cabaret AU
An AU where assassin Bullfrog must go undercover as a dancer in a cabaret business in order to stealthily kill a regular customer. Rayman gets dragged one night by coworkers to see a show, and becomes quite infatuated with the mysterious frog who calls himself “Lotus”.
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