#masklike

[minkstudios1-photoblog]

© minkstudios 2023

[consistantly-changing]

The Carmine ladies (coloured slight redesigns under the cut) inspired by that one scene in Steven Universe Future

[cinemaocd]

Peter, Damian, Kate and T. Brodie-Sangster, behind the scenes of The Mirror and the Light (2024).

[phoenixrisingastro]

You weren’t born—you emerged. Clawed out of shadow, dripping in the silence between lightning and thunder. You didn’t come here to smile politely and blend in. You came to taste every flavor of pain, power, possession, and pleasure. And leave fingerprints on the souls of anyone who dares to love you.

Scorpio Rising is not a placement. It is a pact.

An agreement between your higher self and your shadow. A contract that says: “We will never live lightly. We will never love softly. We will never die quietly.”

And so the world meets you not through your words, but your energy. They feel you before you speak. A presence that pricks the skin. Something ancient. Something wounded and weaponized. You don’t make an entrance. You cause a disturbance. Something in the air changes. Their pupils dilate. Their breath slows. Their trauma rises to the surface. Because your existence isn’t passive—it’s provocative.

You are the child of the underworld. Pluto’s mark is etched across your aura like a warning label: “Do not touch unless you’re ready to unravel”

Most don’t read it.

They touch anyway.

And then they wonder why they can’t forget you.

Because Scorpio Rising doesn’t do relationships. It does rebirths.

You either leave someone the same… or you never really touched them at all.

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙈𝙔𝙏𝙃: 𝘿𝙀𝙎𝘾𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝘿𝙊𝙈𝙄𝙉𝙄𝙊𝙉

Scorpio Rising carries the mythos of every underworld god that ever ruled in silence.

You are Persephone—the maiden stolen, transformed into queen, holding pomegranate seeds between your teeth like secrets never confessed. You are Hades—the shadow king with eyes like oil and fire, who doesn’t seduce, but summons. You are Lilith—the original exile, the primal defiant, the dark feminine who said “no” and was branded dangerous for it.

But you’re also the phoenix—the bird that incinerates itself by choice, just to feel what it’s like to rise again with bloodier wings. You are the embodiment of sacred cycles: decay, death, and rebirth. You are nature’s reminder that nothing stays pure without cost.

You are the serpent and the orgasm. The poison and the cure. The lover and the executioner. And your life? Well, it’s a never-ending ritual of shedding skins no one ever saw you grow in the first place.

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁𝘼𝘾𝙀 𝙊𝙁 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘽𝙀𝘼𝙎𝙏 — 1𝙎𝙏 𝙃𝙊𝙐𝙎𝙀 𝙎𝘾𝙊𝙍𝙋𝙄𝙊

Let’s speak of the body. Your body is not simply flesh. It is memory. It is armor. It is seduction with teeth. People look at you and see something unspeakable—something animal, primal, instinctive. Your features may be sharp, feline, still. Or soft but unreadable—masklike. But the eyes? That’s where the story bleeds through.

Scorpio Rising eyes are gateways. They are dangerous. Because they don’t just look—they strip. They see. They feel someone’s shame before the words reach the throat. You don’t need to ask questions. The answers come to you. You read body language like scripture. You sense fear like heat. And you move with the calculated silence of someone who’s been watched their entire life—and decided to do the same back, better.

You carry trauma like silk—elegantly, invisibly, wrapped around your hips and stitched into your shoulders. People assume you’re fine. They assume wrong. Your pain doesn’t show in breakdowns. It shows in detachment. Withdrawal. Obsession. In the way you crave intensity because peace is unfamiliar. You weren’t built for lukewarm. You were built for extremes.

𝙃𝙊𝙈𝙀 𝙄𝙎 𝙒𝙃𝙀𝙍𝙀 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙑𝙊𝙄𝘿 𝙄𝙎 — 𝘼𝙌𝙐𝘼𝙍𝙄𝙐𝙎 4𝙏𝙃 𝙃𝙊𝙐𝙎𝙀

Home never felt like home. It felt like an experiment. A lab where you were dissected emotionally or spiritually, even if not physically. You weren’t hugged. You were analyzed. Watched. Compared. Isolated. Told to be logical when your heart was screaming for connection. So you froze. You buried the ache in innovation, in rebellion, in cold detachment. You taught yourself that needing love made you weak.

But it didn’t. It made you human.

And now, as an adult, every relationship is a battle between the part of you that craves closeness and the part that would rather die than be dependent. You push away the very things you desire. You test people before you trust them. And if they fail (which most do), you vanish. Not out of cruelty. But because every disappointment reopens the wound you swore you’d buried a lifetime ago.

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀𝙍��𝙎 𝙏𝙍𝘼𝙋 — 𝙏𝘼𝙐𝙍𝙐𝙎 7𝙏𝙃 𝙃𝙊𝙐𝙎𝙀

But gods always have consorts. And a Scorpio Rising is no exception.

You attract the stable. The sensual. The patient. Those with warm hands and calm voices who look like safety—but who often turn into mirrors. Because your lovers may come gently, but they leave marked. You burn through their illusions. You expose their needs. You awaken their fears. And somewhere in the middle, they forget who they were before you.

But you? You remember. You always remember. Because every connection becomes a tattoo on your psyche. You don’t fall in love—you merge. You don’t date—you possess. You don’t want sex—you want access to the soul.

And when it ends (and it always ends) you grieve like a widow. Even if they’re still breathing. Because every love for you is a small death. And you are always both killer and mourner.

𝘾𝙍𝙊𝙒𝙉𝙀𝘿 𝙄𝙉 𝙁𝙇𝘼𝙈𝙀 — 𝙇𝙀𝙊 10𝙏𝙃 𝙃𝙊𝙐𝙎𝙀

But even gods rise from the pit. You weren’t meant to stay buried.

Your 10th house is Leo—the sign of kings, performers, royalty, legacy. You were born to rise into the light despite the darkness. Not to forget your pain—but to wear it like armor. Your past was your test. But your future? That’s your kingdom. And it’s built on the bones of every person who underestimated you.

You will be known. You must be known. Not for being soft or palatable—but for being unforgettable. Your career path isn’t about labor. It’s about impact. You’re here to provoke. To transform. To become the icon people whisper about but never fully understand. You’re the story that can’t be copied. The archetype that redefines what power looks like.

Scorpio Rising doesn't climb ladders. It burns them and builds a throne from the ashes.

𝙄𝙉 𝘾𝙇𝙊𝙎𝙄𝙉𝙂—𝘽𝙐𝙏 𝙏𝙃𝙄𝙎 𝙉𝙀𝙑𝙀𝙍 𝘾𝙇𝙊𝙎𝙀𝙎

If you have this rising sign, then know this:

You are the doorway and the destroyer. The siren and the storm.

You will always be too much for most. That is the point.

You came here to live at the edge. To taste every venom and still smile. To be the wound and the healer.

To be feared, yes. But more importantly—to be respected.

To be remembered.

You are not here for comfort. You are here for evolution.

And if they cannot handle your depth?

Let them drown in the shallows...

© PhoenixRisingAstro, 2025. All rights reserved

[artifacts-archive]

Tripod Incense Burner (Censer) with Peony-Leaf Scrolls, Netlike Petals, and Masklike Legs

China, Northern Song (960–1127) or Jin dynasty (1115–1234), c. 12th century

[spookygibberish]

I am trying to think of what characteristics are important in designs for my stuff, what works and doesn't work, and it's very hard lmao.

For dagnyd designs I only really have a good sense of Jacanti's design language, but it walks a tightrope between decorative and functional. All dagnyds follow principles of other biological entities, and when they're ornate, they're ornate in a way that animals are. Especially fancy ones have lots of sculptural elements but what is Correct and what Isn't is so based on my own whims it's almost impossible to articulate.

Any dagnyd needs to be able to exist even if it's existence isn't comfortable. Something that actively looks like it's rotting doesn't work, but something that's experiencing the everyday torment of being born a pug is perfect.

Lots of "horror" designs don't actually work bc they don't look functional as creatures. No dagnyds should be especially recognizable as any particular animal, or just an animal with other animal bits stapled on. A lipless ghoul beast and a dog with wings both don't work equally. If something has exposed teeth they will need to be tusks that are designed for that. A dog with wings isn't transformed enough, it needs a humanlike face or hands or something too, or scales or a monkey tail or a vase for a head. The only dagnyds that are humanoid are almost entirely indistinguishable from humans (other than a mark on their back thats baisically a fancy keloid), none of them are JUST people shaped with extra stuff glued on. Lots of dagnyds also end up with masklike or "ceramic" faces. Even when this is the case they still need to be able to eat and shit and shit like that, all dagnyds have the standard suite of biological needs.

Dagnyds are also not really spec bio creatures. They should have thought out biology but they explicitly did not evolve and are created by people. Think of them more as preindustrial meat robots or fancy homunculi. They are tools created by people while also themselves being people.

Anyways have a Waterbearer as an example design

[fallenangels1987]

i keep trying to find good excerpts from this article to make a comic about but all of it fits so so so so well so i implore you to just read the whole thing and play in this mind palace with me

imagine being the protagonist of a greek tragedy and the chorus nigh-unanimously votes for your death. thats basically what happened to jason todd

[smallestchurch]

A mask hides a face, evidently—but it is not a disguise. After all, a disguise can’t appear as a disguise; it has to look like the real thing. But a mask announces itself quite clearly, rigid, closed, nothing like a face. A face can reveal (even betray) the mind “behind” it because faces are mutable, responsive: a face can blush or grow pale, its gaze can falter, its jaw can set. The face is legible in terms of what it discloses or fails to, what it never fully gives but constantly suggests. A mask is immutable, staring, implacable; there is “nothing” behind it to read. Hence the masklike quality of a skull. Masks are inscrutable in their very obviousness. The eyes are the window of the soul; a mask has no eyes, and so (oddly enough) one cannot avoid its gaze. The face’s capacity to change registers an absence: it never gives itself completely, not quite. The mask, in contrast, is entirely present: depthless, illegible, it leaves nothing whatever concealed.

Michael Kinnucan, The Gods Show Up

[fashionsfromhistory]

Visor in the form of a Human Face

c.1515

Attr. Kolman Helmschmid

Helmets fitted with masklike visors were a popular German and Austrian fashion about 1510 to 1540. With their visors forged and embossed as humorous or grotesque human masks, such helmets were often worn in tournaments held during the exuberant pre-Lenten (Shrovetide) festivals, celebrations somewhat akin to the modern Mardi Gras. Substitute visors of more conventional type were often provided for everyday use.

The MET (Accession Number: 04.3.286a)

[alenablack]

His features were not those Harry had seen emerge from the great stone cauldron almost two years before; they were not as snakelike, the eyes were not yet scarlet, the face not yet masklike, and yet he was no longer handsome Tom Riddle. It was as though his features had been burned and blurred; they were waxy and oddly distorted, and the whites of the eyes now had a permanently bloody look, though the pupils were not yet the slits that Harry knew they would become. He was wearing a long black cloak and his face was as pale as the snow glistening on his shoulders. - Half-blood Prince

[inchidentally]

this is absolutely apropos only of having read sanctus by debrief and feeling my two brain cells possibly so excited that they made a few more bc it is classical literature as landoscar fic !!?? and I was like hmmm what's that famous Medici painting bc the domscar submission from @justatiredhuman sure seems to fit that really well in my head - not fully accurate since Oscar was very much in the opposite social position but still

and sorry but I made this

bUTTTT also

the Met page where I got the image from had this little blurb and okay so this part is absolutely Oscar

"In this supremely elegant portrait, the aloof sitter presents a masklike face of calm composure"

and now maybe I'm too A Stupid and this is a really common reference but the fact that they theorize the book is Petrarch poetry ?? which is a key device in the fic ??

"The literary interests of the sitter are indicated by the small book (of Petrarch’s poetry?) he marks with his finger."

like I'm sorry this was all way too much but I love how fic actually makes me feel smarter <3<3

[arthistoryanimalia]

It's #WorldGorillaDay! 🦍

Houston Chandler (American, 1914–2015) Gorilla, c.1946 Wood, 8 5/8 x 7 3/4 x 5 1/8 in. (21.9 x 19.7 x 13 cm) Saint Louis Art Museum 1124:2010

"'Gorilla' features smooth surfaces, abstracted forms, and a masklike face. These elements are evidence of Houston Chandler’s search for 'the simplicity that brings out the greatest line of expression.' Though the gorilla rests in a hunched pose, its muscular limbs, arranged in diagonals across its body, allude to its physical power."

[wizaardvarksworkshop]

The Skullmonger is the first in a series of related, unique abberations for D&D 5e that I am crafting and homebrewing stats for. This one is can be used as a spooky source of lost knowledge for a party in dire need and with the questionable morals to disturb the dead.

This was scratchbuilt from a number of odds and ends, including a toy stingray (sans tail), some ancient and terrible air dry clay for the sluggy body, hot glue for the goopy arm, perished rubber bands for the Bloodborne-inspired shaggy, matted coat, and a wooden pellet for a goofy-looking skull. I wanted to go for a mix of spooky and whimsical - a being mixed up out of many textures, substances and shapes, with an unusual masklike face that's hard to quite process at first glance.

Soon enough, there will be miniatures and stats for the Skullmonger's Fragments, as well as Fragments summoned by other strange beings from the place between planes. These will all come with stats and lore for a homebrewed setting, but with enough left vague that you can put them into any setting of your choice!

[portrait-paintings]

Madame Cezanne in a Yellow Chair

Artist: Paul Cezanne (French, 1839–1906)

Date: 1893

Medium: OIl on Canvas

Collection: Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago, IL, United States

Description

This portrait is one in a series of four Paul Cezanne made of his wife, Emélie-Hortense Fiquet, whom he met when she worked as an artist’s model. They had a son together in 1872 and married in 1886. Technical examination suggests that Cezanne traced this image, the second in the series, from the first portrait, which he made from life. In contrast to her masklike expression, Hortense’s hands are agitated, contorted by crisscrossing brushstrokes and the dark-blue outlines Cezanne used to sketch out the forms, which remain visible in the final work.

[violettesiren]

This is a simple poem. for the mothers sisters daughters girls I have never been for the women who clean the Staten Island Ferry for the sleek witches who burn me at midnight in effigy because I eat at their tables and sleep with their ghosts.

These stones in my heart are you of my own flesh whittling me with your sharp false eyes searching for prisms falling out of your head laughing me out of your skin because you do not value your own self nor me.

This is a simple poem I will have no mother no sister no daughter when I am through and only the bones are left see how the bones are showing the shape of us at war clawing our own flesh out to feed the backside of our masklike faces that we have given the names of men.

Donald DeFreeze I never knew you so well as in the eyes of my own mirror did you hope for blessing or pardon lying in bed after bed or was your eye sharp and merciless enough to endure beyond the deaths of wanting?

With your voice in my ears with my voice in your ears try to deny me I will hunt you down through the night veins of my own addiction through all my unsatisfied childhoods as this poem unfolds like the leaves of a poppy I have no sister no mother no children left only a tideless ocean of moonlit women in all shades of loving learning a dance of open and closing learning a dance of electrical tenderness no father no mother would teach them.

Come Sambo dance with me pay the piper dangling dancing his knee high darling over your wanting under your bloody white faces come Bimbo come Ding Dong watch the city falling down down down lie down bitch slow down nigger so you want a cozy womb to hide you to pucker up and suck you back safely well I tell you what I’m gonna do next time you head for the hatchet really need some nook to hole up in look me up I’m the ticket taker on a queen of rollercoasters I can get you off cheap.

This is a simple poem sharing my head with dreams of a big black woman with jewels in her eyes she dances her head in a golden helmet arrogant plumed her name is Colossa her thighs are like stanchions or flayed hickory trees embraced in armour she dances in slow earth shaking motions that suddenly alter and lighten as she whirls laughing the tooled metal over her hips comes to an end and at the shiny edge an astonishment of soft black curly hair.

Scar by Audre Lorde

[eucanthos]

François Clouet   (FR, 1510 - 1572)

Dame au bain (A Lady in Her Bath), ca. 1571 [detail]. Oil on oak wood 92.3 × 81.2 cm (36.3 × 31.9 in) Collection National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.

The allegorical analysis of many details (ironic presence of the unicorn; bowl of fruit, symbol of sensual gluttony with the bunch of grapes, red carnation symbol of her multiple engagements) suggests that the bare-breasted woman is Mary Stuart whose sentimental deviations were the laughingstock of all Europe.)

The painting could also be an allegory of the three theological virtues: the child would be hope, the nurse would be nourishing faith and the naked woman would be charity.

The National Gallery writes:

The masklike symmetry of the bather's face makes exact identification difficult; scholars have suggested that her aristocratic features indicate that she is one of several royal mistresses of Henry II, most notable among them Diane de Poitiers. It is possible that the nude, a Venus type, represents ideal beauty rather than a specific individual. The contrast of the smoothly rendered nude figure to the intricate surface details of the fruit, draperies, and jewelry, presents a union of Flemish and Italian motifs that characterized French courtly art of the sixteenth century.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Lady_in_Her_Bath