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dandelionflower · 5 years ago

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She Sits Alone

Based off of the haunted mansion AU by @miraculous-of-salt

——————

Marinette was on the bus to the Culpa Mansion and she was sitting alone.

Normally she would feel hurt, but this was nothing new. She sat alone in class, she sat alone on the plane to the US, she was sitting alone on the bus now. She just felt numb by now. So numb she was barely excited for the mansion.

The Culpa Mansion. Marinette could babble about the history of the Culpa Mansion for hours.

~~~

Once the home of the businessman Garfield Culpa, it was a refuge for injured soldiers. One such person was Abigail Laurens, a nurse who got injured when an explosion hit her base. She critiqued his process and he fell in love.

Years after, their daughter Harriet Culpa met Darrian Poll. They were in third grade. He pulled her hair and she chased him around the playground.

They lost contact after high school and reconnected after college. She was a pro wrestler and he was a librarian. They got married as Harriet and Darrian Culpa. (She insisted on keeping her last name.)

Their son Micheal Culpa married Wenda Delair. They were unable to have children and assumed their bloodline would die with them until they saw a young girl rummaging in their trash can. They instantly adopted Rosemary and began training her in watercolor.

Usually, Marinette would be cut off from talking now and she would recite the rest to herself.

Rosemary never married and opened her home to any starving or homeless artist who couldn’t get on their feet. She passed the Culpa mantle to one of the more present artists, Denise.

Denise never married, though she had plenty lovers. She continued the tradition of housing the starving and homeless but allowed them to be employed in the manor as cooks, maids, gardeners, and security. She eventually gave birth to a son, Felix Culpa.

Felix had nearly every trait of the Culpa family, despite not being blood related to any of them. He was caring and cynical, like Garfield and Abigail. He was physically able and a bookworm like Harriet and Darrian. He was a lover of the arts like Micheal, Wenda, and Rosemary, and he was suspicious of the existence of love like his mother.

He became suspicious no longer when he met Bridgette Chang, the designer child of an author and illustrator pair. She designed all of Denise’s favorite gowns and was commissioned for Felix’s first suit. She struck up a conversation about his favorite novel and they became fast friends.

Soon, they fell in love and they were inseparable until Felix left for college. Even then, they were the only thing on each other’s mind. Felix wrote daily letters to Bridgette and whenever she didn’t read them, she was weeping in the private room Felix gave her.

The minute he returned, he proposed. They were set to be married, if not for one tiny detail.

Delila Ross.

She was a fellow member of Felix’s college and was obsessed with him. She almost got her hooks into him when she used a love spell. Luckily, Felix knew some witchcraft of his own and was able to fight it off. She disappeared soon after.

However, the day of the wedding, she returned to kill Bridgette. Felix warned all of the staff against her and threatened them with extreme punishment. She came in and, assisted by the staff, stabbed Bridgette through the heart with her favorite flower pin.

Theorists say Felix went insane, but Marinette didn’t believe that part. He allegedly killed every member of the staff that allowed Delila to enter the mansion and soon he died himself. Legend has it that he roams the halls of the mansion, now a hotel, in search of the reincarnated soul of his loved one and when he found her, he would have the power to return from the dead and be with her until the end of his days.

~~~

Before she met Adrien, Marinette had fantasied about being the reincarnation of Bridgette, after all, Chang and Cheng were very similar. However, now she had met Adrien and was dating him.

Speaking of, Marinette checked her phone. Sure enough, there was a text from her boyfriend.

Sunshine 😍: Hey sorry bout not sitting w/ u 😰

Sunshine 😍: It would have seemed rude if I turned lila down

Princess 💞: It’s fine! I totally get it.

No, she didn’t get it! She was Adrien’s girlfriend and he still managed to make Lila a priority over her. And not just Lila either, Marinette knew Adrien thought she didn’t notice the stars in his eyes whenever Ladybug was mentioned. How touchy he would get with other models during a shoot.

Marinette growled and pulled out the vest she was embroidering. Half was black with small white snowflakes and the other half was pink with little flowers. It was based off of Felix and Bridgette’s favorite seasons; spring and winter. She had already made a strictly Felix themed outfit for the trip and a Bridgette themed outfit, she wanted to make one based off of the relationship the two had.

After finishing, she took a nap, dreams of swirling snowflakes and a blue eyed cat approaching her filling her mind. She woke up with Adrien sitting next to her, tapping her shoulder.

“Hey, Princess. We’re here.”

She bolted up and pressed her face to the window. “What? I missed it? But I heard such great things about the gardens…”

He laughed and pressed a kiss to her temple. “We’ll find some time to check them out, promise.”

“‘Kay.” She hummed and leaned forward for a proper kiss, before another popped up.

“Hey, Adrien?” Lila. “You mind helping us out back here? We’re stuck on a level of Super Penguino, and I, as an award winning player, need a partner. Would you want to help me out?” She bat her eyes innocently and Marinette felt the all too familiar sense of rage well up inside her.

No, don’t do that again, she reminded herself. You don’t need this, Adrien loves you and he doesn’t want you to get in trouble.

“Sure, Lila! I’m sure Marinette won’t mind.” He pressed another kiss to her temple and went back to Lila’s seat.

Marinette sighed and stared out the window as they finally approached the mansion.

———-

There was a bit of concern over rooming, there was an odd number of students and the teacher surely couldn’t room with anyone. They talked about three in a room, but Lila said she read a study that claimed that three in a room was harmful to sleeping patterns.

“Alya! Want to room with me?”

Alya gave Marinette a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, girl. I told Lila I’d room with her.”

“Oh, alright.” That meant she’d be rooming by herself then. “Have fun.” She sat on the bench again, alone.

She heard a giggle from across the room. “Yeah, I’m definitely the distant relative of Bridgette. Who knows? Maybe I’m his soulmate and Felix will come back from the dead for me.”

“He’s supposed to come back for the reincarnated soul.” Marinette muttered. “Not the relative.”

“You know that?” A red headed boy in a cap approached her. “No one knows that, Grace and I usually have to tell them a million times. Grace!” He shouted over his shoulder. “Grace! Come over here! This chick knows the Culpa story!”

“Wait, really?” A girl with a two long braids walked over from the reception desk. “No one knows the Culpa story.”

“My parents told me some when I was little, I did some research.”

“Well, the fact that you know it makes you a celebrity to us. I’m Grace, this is Finny. What’s your name, celebrity?”

She grinned. “I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I’m with the school trip from Paris.”

Finny gasped. “You mean you’re, the Marinette Dupain-Cheng? The same Marinette Dupain-Cheng who designed Jagged Stone’s favorite sunglasses, and his album cover?!?!”

“Fin’s a bit of a music nerd.” Grace snorted.

Fin, meanwhile, was patting his pockets down for a pen. “I don’t have a pen! Grace! Can you give me a pen?”

“No, ask her for he autograph later, dork. It’s the middle of the night, she probably wants to get back to her room.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” He rubbed the back of his head. “But I am totally asking for one later.”

Marinette winked. “That’s fine with me.”

“Where are you staying, anyway?”

“Umm, I actually don’t know. There was a room problem.”

“I can handle that.” Grace winked and Marinette noticed her eyes were a beautiful silver. “I’ve got some pull.” She sashayed over to the desk and started scribbling on a piece of paper. Apparently satisfied, she picked up a key and tossed it to Marinette. “Here. It’s the key to Bridgette’s room. A huge honor. Not something we take lightly around here.”

“Thank you! It’s not something I take lightly either.” Then, seeing her class was leaving, she lifted her bag and followed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I hope!”

“We hope so too!” Finny yelled after her.

—————

Marinette hummed to herself as she began unpacking, planning her outfits for each day.

Her Felix themed set for museum day.

Her Bridgette themed set for the art museums.

Her Felix and Bridgette themed one for tour day.

And her ghost themed ones for all the other days.

Satisfied, she turned around and admired the room. It was exactly what she would have wanted. Pink everywhere, a beautiful white lace canopy over the bed, flowers all over the balcony and above the bed there was a portrait of Felix and Bridgette mid-proposal, Felix on one knee.

Marinette snapped a picture of it. Perfect for inspiration.

She texted Adrien a quick goodnight and went to sleep, soon to be struck with the same dreams of the blue eyed cat and the swirling snowflakes.

——————

Meanwhile, a sleek black fox and an orange bee held a meeting in the basement.

You think he knows yet? The bee asked.

I don’t know, Fin. He will once he makes his rounds.

She has to be her. Gracie, her life directly parallels with Bridgette’s. All the way down to the company she keeps.

Speaking of, we need to get everyone locked down and in their punishments for the night before Felix starts his rounds.

Before you do, a white and turquoise turtle crawled into view, we need to have a conversation about the other her.

What about her? Grace asked innocently.

What will we do about the ghosts? If they see her...

They’ll go insane.

Maybe they won’t, Finny suggested, they might just ignore her.

Unlikely. They’re more likely to torment her, which will end on the mansion being quarantined.

They won’t do anything without Felix’s permission, Allegra. Grace rolled her eyes. Which he won’t give until he has his bride.

But, it wouldn’t hurt if we let them scare her a little… Finny landed on Grace’s head. Would it?

Allegra and Grace smirked, well, as much as a fox and turtle could smirk.

Probably not… Allegra mused

I’ll spread the word when I lock up my section. See ya, Allegra.

As the bee and the fox climbed out of the basement, unnoticed in the empty halls, thunder cracked and a red headed boy, paired with a raven haired girl strolled the mansion, unaffected by the ghoulish shrieks of horror that followed them.

—

The rest

#felinette #mlb #ml felix #felix culpa #a scribble #marinette dupain cheng #ml marinette #adrinette #adrien agreste #ml adrien #haunted mansion au #ml lila #lila rossi #ml alya #alya cesaire

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blackfreethinkers · 5 years ago

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Harold Newton did something that took guts.

An African American artist from Georgia, Newton in 1955 walked through the front door of a well-known white artist’s home in Fort Pierce, Florida, to ask A. E. Backus for advice.

“Backus had a reputation here in town for being inclusive and open to people no matter their gender, no matter their beliefs, no matter their race,” said J. Marshall Adams, Executive Director of the A.E. Backus Museum and Gallery in Fort Pierce. “Backus was very encouraging of his work, gave him critiques, gave him demonstrations, gave him art supplies to help encourage him.”

Newton soaked up everything Backus taught him.

Selling paintings along the highway

But Newton had one more hurdle to overcome if he wanted to sell his own landscape paintings.

“He couldn’t set up his own gallery, his own space in those segregated times and attract white clientele to a black studio so he had to figure out a way to get his art to his clients, to his customers,” Adams said.

Newton's solution: sell his paintings out of his car along U.S. 1. That method spread and was adopted by more than two dozen artists in the area, leading to more than 200,000 paintings and a vibrant African American art scene up and down the Treasure Coast. The artists were later given the name: Highwaymen.

Historical and museum photos of Florida's Highwaymen Artists

Alfred Hair wasn't the first Highwaymen artist, but he was seen as the African American art movement's charismatic leader whose hustle to sell art out of the trunk of his car led to a successful career before his life was cut short when he was shot and killed at a local hangout in Fort Pierce, Florida.1 of 47 Highwaymen artist Al "Blood" Black with one of his paintings in 2014.

Highwaymen artist Curtis Arnett with Attorney General Pam Bondi, left, and curator Jeanna Brunson at the Museum of Florida History in Tallahassee in 2011.

Fort Pierce Highwaymen Artist James Gibson brings one of his paintings into the Sunrise Theater to be hung in preparation for the 2007 Highwaymen Florida Artist Hall of Fame Artist Award Celebration held in November 2007.

R.L. Lewis standing in front of his Highwaymen art in 2008.

Mary Ann Carroll, the only woman of the 26 Highwaymen artists in the Florida Artists Hall of Fame, poses for a photo in her garage studio at her home on Oct. 7, 2014, in Fort Pierce. Vero Beach painter Ray McLendon shares a laugh with fifth-grade students on March 2, 2017, at Beachland Elementary School as he signs autographs after giving a talk about Florida Highwaymen art. Florida Highwaymen painter, R. L. Lewis puts finishing touches on painting while attending the Tallahassee Museum's (Jr. Museum) annual Market Days fund raiser held at the North Florida Fairgrounds in 2006.

Highwaymen artist James Gibson at the Tallahassee Museum of History and Natural Science's annual Market Days fund raiser at the Leon County Fairgrounds in 2007.

Highwaymen artist R.L. Lewis painting at the Tallahassee Museum of History and Natural Science's annual Market Days fund raiser at the Leon County Fairgrounds in 2007.

A. E. "Bean" Backus working on one of his paintings sometime in the 1980s.

Robert Butler, Highwayman Artist, working on a painting at the Old Capitol - Tallahassee, Florida, in 2006.

Each year the A.E. Backus Museum in Fort Pierce holds an exhibit celebrating the works of the Florida Highwaymen artists. Backus is credited for giving lessons to Harold Newton and Alfred Hair, two original Florida Highwaymen artists. The 2020 exhibit looked at the art of the Hair, who was considered the charismatic leader of the African American art movement in the area.

The A.E. Backus Museum in Fort Pierce celebrates the work and life of one of the great early Florida landscape artists. Backus also is credited for giving lessons to Harold Newton and Alfred Hair, two original Florida Highwaymen artists.

Doretha Hair Truesdell, widow of original Florida Highwaymen artist Alfred Hair, with Marshall Adams, the executive director of the A.E. Backus Museum, in Fort Pierce. Alfred Hair was considered the charismatic leader of the African American group of artists from Fort Pierce and the surrounding areas. The Backus museum has a permanent display of Highwaymen art.

The Florida Highwaymen were a group of African American artists, generally from Fort Pierce and the surrounding areas, who drove up and down U.S. 1 selling the landscape art during the 1950s and 60s.

The A.E. Backus Museum in Fort Pierce has a permanent display of Highwaymen art, and each January into February, expands that collection to encompass much of the museum. This is part of the expanded 2020 exhibit called "Driving Force."

The story of Alfred Hair

One of the artists considered to be the scene's leader was Alfred Hair. When Hair was 14 years old, he, like Newton, fell into Backus' orbit.

Hair went to the nearby segregated school in Fort Pierce — Lincoln Park Academy. It was Hair’s teacher who suggested Backus take him under his wing.

Backus taught Hair how to paint landscapes and how to make frames. Hair started to believe he could turn painting into a career, something unheard of for blacks of the time.

"The only jobs you could get was working in the fields, that was your job, in the orange groves," said Hair’s widow, Doretha Hair Truesdell. "Alfred didn’t see himself doing that. He said painting is what I’m going to do. This is my job. This is my employment."

As Hair grew in the industry, he knew he would have to do things differently from his white mentor, who could set up in galleries and share his paintings with mass audiences.

So Hair came up with his own business model.

A new business model

“What he could do is lean into his talents, and one of those talents was painting fast,” Adams said. “If he could learn how to paint faster and paint more volume he would have more to sell — he would sell them for a less expensive price point than an established artist — but at the end of the day make as much money.”

Soon, Hair took a page from Newton’s playbook. He began driving up and down the highway selling his paintings.

It worked. During the early part of the 1960s Hair, and many other artists with a similar painting style, thrived.

“On Oct. 16, 1965, we moved into our house that we had built from those paintings,” said Hair Truesdell. “When we moved into that house that’s when we really exploded. We could produce about 20 paintings a day. We hired salespeople. Some of the people that are Highwaymen now were our salespeople. They sold for us, so we were really making a lot of money for that time.”

Hair and Newton’s practice of selling art out of their cars came to be used by many African American artists along the U.S. 1 corridor on Florida’s Treasure Coast.

Many found success.

More: Harry T. Moore helped thousands of blacks register to vote. It led to his assassination on Christmas night

More: Mary McLeod Bethune was born the daughter of slaves. She died a retired college president

When everything changed

However, in 1970, the African American art scene lost its charismatic leader when Hair was gunned down in a bar. He was only 29.

“Overnight, everything dies," said Hair's widow. "Nothing is left.”

Many of the African American landscape artists continued to paint, but waning interest after Hair's death coupled with new tastes and styles in the 1970s and 1980s saw much of the success fade away.

“We survived it all,” Hair Truesdell said. “We’re still living. Still standing and still we have the memory and we will always have the memory of Alfred, of his vision.”

In the mid-1990s Jim Fitch, a Florida art historian, discussed the African American painting movement of the 1960s in the St. Petersburg Times, using a label to describe their art.

How the 'Highwaymen' came to be

“That term is ‘The Highwaymen,’” Adams said. “The name came from the artery of U.S. 1 being the chief way to go up and down and sell your works of art. So it’s easy for us to, now that we have a term, to describe these artists.”

This created a new interest in their art, which is estimated to include 200,000 paintings.

One of the distinctive things that make the Highwaymen art unique is the frames and vibrant colors of the landscapes.

Especially early on, because they lacked the resources and supplies, Hair and others would paint on upson board. They framed paintings with crown molding and brushed them with gold or silver to give them a rustic look.

“I really think the board that we painted on, I just think it gave it vibrancy that you don’t get from canvas,” Hair Truesdell said. “Also, we shellacked our board, and then we put a sealant on the board, and then the paint just adhered to that sealant and I just think that it gave it life.”

The true number of Highwaymen artists has been debated, with some being considered second or third generation Highwaymen.

However, in 2004, the number of identified Highwaymen was set at 26 when they were inducted into the Florida Artists Hall of Fame.

They include: Curtis Arnett, Hezekiah Baker, Al "Blood" Black, brothers Ellis Buckner and George Buckner, Robert Butler, Mary Ann Carroll, brothers Johnny Daniels and Willie Daniels, Rodney Demps, James Gibson, Alfred Hair, Isaac Knight, Robert Lewis, John Maynor, Roy McLendon, Alfonso "Pancho" Moran, brothers Sam Newton, Lemuel Newton and Harold Newton, Willie Reagan, Livingston "Castro" Roberts, Cornell "Pete" Smith, Charles Walker, Sylvester Wells and Charles "Chico" Wheeler.

“Even though they might be painting similar subjects in a similar manner they each have their own individual viewpoints,” Adams said. “I think it’s important to honor these individual artists as well as the collective group. The collective story is really important, but it shouldn’t obscure the idea that these are individuals who are looking at subjects and painting with their own style. If you look closely you can see a wide range of different perspectives of how they approached a single subject.”

Highwaymen paintings can be seen at the A.E. Backus Gallery & Museum in Fort Pierce, as well as the Museum of Florida History in Tallahassee.

Many can be purchased at various websites in their honor.

There are also some pieces on display at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture.

“It’s wonderful that these artists are being recognized today and they’re continuing to be recognized,” Adams said. “These works have a timeless beauty. They are of a certain time and there were certain social and political and cultural forces that shaped how they were made and how the people made them, were able to make them. They really speak beyond that.”

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tasharii · 6 years ago

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Your Colors: Ch.3.

A/N: This was one giant chapter, I ended up breaking it up into 2. That’s why it took so long to get it done. Sorry for the wait!

Feedback helps me keep going. So please let me know what you think!

Summary: Art was the one good thing between college, work, and the grey minutes in-between. Sometimes, it felt like she wasn’t alive at all. Just drifting. When she joined her new art class, she never expected to start experiencing everything in an entirely new light. All thanks to him. Or: Where Bucky Barnes gets more than he bargained from his new drawing partner.

Pairing: Reader x Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 8.5k

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Language, some angst

Masterlist

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13

****

It was raining outside. A slushy mix of rain and snow. Freezing more as the temperature swiftly dropped. The pattering beat echoed throughout the studio, along with the occasional crash of thunder. Y/N really needed to leave, but he hadn’t said anything yet. Class ended five minutes ago, but he was still silently standing in front of her final. It was displayed on its very own easel at the front of the room. Framed, and exposed for the first time.

Part of her still couldn’t believe that she had managed to finish it. The headache pounding behind her eyes and, obnoxiously, tall thermos of coffee sitting on her desk, reminded her that it wasn’t an easy accomplishment. Three days of straight, grueling work. After her study of Bucky’s arm on Friday, she drew like a whirlwind of crazy. Even dragged her project to the library during work and inked in details between helping customers.

They had agreed to keep their finals a surprise. It was kind of like a competition. Despite having seen every other piece up to this point, it was fun to try and surprise him.

Now she was starting to wonder if she had surprised him a little too much.

When Y/N got up in the front of the class to talk about the project, she was too nervous to look at him. She focused solely on her teacher, and answered everyone’s questions about her motivation, inspiration, and why she did what she did. It happened so fast that she had completely missed his reaction. After she went back to where she had been standing beside him, she kept glancing over to him for any response. She didn’t want to interrupt the next presenter, so she stayed quiet. All he offered her, when he noticed her looking, was a small smile and soft whisper of ‘Good job’ against her ear.

That wasn’t what she had been looking for.

Bucky had gone a few presentations after her, and she still couldn’t get over how damned talented he was.

Bucky didn’t appear the least bit nervous when he got up in front of everyone. He was confident, at ease, and put on his million-watt smile that she could only assume came from working in customer service. It was a pretty stark contrast to his normally quiet, reserved nature when he was in class. She noticed a couple of the other students seemed a bit surprised at the difference.

Carefully, he pulled his framed piece out of its black carrying case and placed it on his easel. For a few minutes he stood beside it quietly. Tall and broad in his long-sleeved plaid shirt, and dark washed jeans. Hair perfectly tussled. Naturally, he was handsome, and sharp even in simple clothes.

Y/N gathered around with the rest of the class in a semi-circle at the front of the room. Mr. Ramsey took critiquing seriously and made sure everyone participated. Her heart stopped as she stared at the beautifully illustrated charcoal piece. It was of a woman. Cropped to focus on her torso, and the little baby she held in her arms. She was smiling sweetly down at her child and didn’t seem to even notice the viewer. The shadows were deep to accent the halo glow coming from the subjects, and it almost looked like a photograph.

Right then, she knew this had to be Bucky’s mother. Y/N didn’t know much about her. He only ever spoke about her once, when she talked about her own. All she knew was that his mother had died when he was twelve. Left his father behind to raise one son and a daughter.

After a couple quiet minutes of everyone taking the picture in, Mr. Ramsey finally spoke up “Obviously this is a beautiful piece. Why don’t you tell us a bit about it? Where you got the idea, why you chose charcoal, and what was the hardest part?”

Bucky shifted his feet, folding his hands in front of him as he peeked over at the drawing thoughtfully “Um… I think the hardest part was choosing to draw her at all. I haven’t seen my mom since I was little. So, it’s hard to remember her. I wanted to do something that made me have to think about her. Made me feel closer to her. And while working on this, I started to remember her a little better.” He smiled sadly, and cleared his throat, studying his peers. Nervousness hidden just below the surface. She didn’t think anyone else even noticed how tense he was.

Y/N met his eyes and gestured encouragingly for him to continue. Bucky gave her a grateful nod in return and spoke back up “This was something I’ve been putting off for a while. I just haven’t had the guts to really work on it. Until lately.” He stared at her pointedly then, and she wondered if this was one of the things he had thanked her for before. She wasn’t sure what she did to give him courage, but, if she did, she was glad.

Of course, when Mr. Ramsey had went around asking for critics, and opinions, she was first in line to give Bucky an earful. Pointedly gave an in-depth critic with things he might have done differently, but mostly with heartfelt compliments. A courtesy he hadn’t given to her.

Slowly, she shouldered her backpack and finally decided to just approach him. He hadn’t moved, but most of the class was gone. Leaving them alone with Ramsey in the back, writing reports for each project. She weaved her way through the series of desks and stepped up to his left. A line of easels stood side by side. Each held a different student’s work. They formed a line in front of the marker board that Mr. Ramsey sometimes used. It took up the entire front wall. There were still instructions left up there for their watercolor homework. They were supposed to practice with backgrounds.

Her easel was closer to the right, near the door. Coming to stand beside him, she surveyed her work for the millionth time. Ink had ended up being the final medium. She knew it would after practicing his arm in it a couple times. The drawing was like the sketch of him in her window. Same facial expression. Same bared arm, but he was wearing a ripped white shirt. His jaw was bruised, and he was lounging on her couch. One leg propped up against the armrest, the other off on the floor, right arm draped against the back of the couch, and metal one casually holding a glass of coke near his mouth. Shirt bloody, pants dirty, and hair absolutely wrecked. His bright eyes were on the viewer. Once again daring them to look.

It was a mixture of different poses she had done of him. When asked why she chose this, she had answered “I wanted to draw something human. Something that people could relate to in a million different ways.” It was more than that, of course. An emotional artist at heart, this piece also helped her vent out everything from that night. All the hurt and fear poured out into every single black line.

“So, something human?” Bucky’s voice jarred her from her stupor. She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat as he continued, “You really think people can relate to a guy with a mechanical limb?” He turned his head, eyes flickering between her face and the drawing.

She shuffled the warm thermos in her hands and nodded “Ya, I do. Being human hurts. Everyone loses something while experiencing it. Doesn’t have to be a limb.” She swallowed again, and finally looked at him as she spoke. Her voice was soft but strong, determined to make her point. He was staring at her intently, arms crossed. His bag hung across his chest, resting on his hip. “Different people lose different things. Their confidence, creativity, someone they loved, or even their heart. Doesn’t always equal out to the same hurt. But it’s still painful.”

“No one can completely lose their heart.” Bucky mused, and he was smiling, but it was such a sad smile. It highlighted the tired shadows under his eyes. She could feel a mirroring one on her face “Just takes a while to come back when it’s been hurt.”

Part of her yearned for him to be right. But she had been waiting for her own to come back for a long time. Even if it did, she didn’t know if she would trust to ever let someone have it again. Sometimes, in the quiet moments at night when she couldn’t sleep, it didn’t feel like she even had a heartbeat. Instead, a heavy void pressed down inside her ribcage. All consuming.

Bucky let out a loud raspberry, smacking his lips together. Then waved to the drawing, hand slapping against his leg as he dropped his arm “Well! It’s beautiful.” He laughed loudly, breaking up the tension “Best damn picture I’ve ever seen of myself.”

Y/N smiled wider, the air feeling lighter. It was easier to breathe, “Ya think so? Cause, well, your chin was a bitch.” She grinned as the familiar joke left her, and thumbed open her thermos, taking a drink of the coffee. It was still hot. The heat curled soothingly in her stomach and the smell of coffee comforted her.

Ramsey’s unamused glare burned the back of her neck. Probably wanted them to leave him in peace and quiet. She ignored him. Heat blew down from the vent above them, spurred on by the cold pressing against the brick outside. She fussed with her zipper, closing up her jacket with one hand, balancing her thermos in the other.

Pouting, he rubbed at his chin and then chuckled, wagging a finger at her “Don’t lie. You love it.” His eyes were warm and sweet. Familiar. When had Bucky’s smile start to feel familiar?

Just as she was about to respond, her eyes caught the time above the marker board “Oh shit I’m late.” Y/N was supposed to be at work no later than 4:40. It was ticking towards 4:30, and she had to get back to the school. Which was a 30-minute drive, longer with bad traffic. They were in Brooklyn. Orion was all the way over, across the bridge, in Midtown.

Hail had started pounding down from the clouds when she wasn’t paying attention. Just her luck. White dots started to collect on the roof, visible from the window to her left. It was supposed to snow later that night. Bucky helpfully snickered “I hope you boss is nice or your so screwed.” He followed her as she rushed out of the room and skipped the elevator all together.

The door to the stairway banged open at the force she shoved at it. She took the stairs two at a time with Bucky on her heels, “Katlin is going to kill me. She’s gotta get her daughter from practice.” Y/N groaned and glanced over her shoulder to glare at Bucky “This is all your fault!”

“What’d I do??” He gaped at her, as she turned the corner onto the next flight. Bucky’s footsteps were lighter than hers, but still echoed when he jumped to the landing behind her. Managing to keep up despite her going as fast as she could.

“If you had just told me what you thought! Instead of mysteriously gazing at my damn drawing! Then I wouldn’t have waited around for you to say something!” She huffed, reaching the last landing, and turning to gauge his reaction. She was already late. What did a few more minutes matter? Y/n’s chest heaved in both frustration and from running down so many stairs. Her free hand still held the railing, the other hugging her coffee to her chest.

Bucky stopped two steps from the bottom, and started laughing “Mysteriously? What? You’re the one that didn’t ask! I told you ‘Good Job’!” He waved a hand at her, shaking his head as if this entire thing was ridiculous. It was a little, but she barreled on.

“Oh cause ‘Good Job Pal’ is a worthwhile answer! You didn’t even tell me how you felt about it!” She wasn’t really mad. Not really, really mad, but she was irritated. Over the weather, and work, and maybe a little because he was so damn vague all the time. They could talk about nothing for hours, but if anything weighted came up he changed the subject. It didn’t help that he was laughing at her. Besides, she spent hours trying to make it perfect. Trying to draw him with the care he deserved.

Maybe he didn’t deserve it after all.

Confused, he stuffed one hand in his pocket, and the other on his bulky bag against his hip. He spoke her name sharply in disbelief, it ricocheted in the empty corridor “I thought you knew by now that your art is amazing. That I think it’s amazing. You’re able to make people feel things. Able to see things most don’t see.” His voice softened towards the end in the confession and he took another step down. She took a step back in return, letting go of the rail “Your anatomy was good. The shading was awesome.” He snorted, shaking his head “There’s not much I could critic except maybe the bloody shirt was a bit much. Considerin’ everything else you’ve got going on in there. But that’s just my opinion.”

The silence that followed his words left her heart pounding. Maybe it was alive, but she only ever got proof when Bucky was around. Scarlet crawled across her cheeks and burned her ears from how closely he was studying her. He raised his eyebrows with a clear ‘happy now?’ expression. She smiled nervously “Ya, but I couldn’t get it outta my head after that night, so I had to put it down somewhere.”

He jabbed his finger at her “See? Now I get it.” He took the last stair down to meet her and sighed sharply. As if with a heavy heart, he slung an arm over her shoulder in a half-hug “You shouldn’t need me to tell you how talented you are. You shouldn’t be able to forget it.”

Bucky hadn’t done this to her since that night either. Hadn’t wrapped an arm over her shoulder, playfully or otherwise. It made her feel warm. Like it was spring instead of winter, “It doesn’t hurt to hear.” She muttered, head down as he led them towards the entrance of the museum “I don’t always like what I do. I know I could do better.”

“Everyone can always do better.”

The air outside was damp and cold. Hail littered the walkway, but it was starting to give way to snow. So at least she wouldn’t have to deal with being soaked and battered. Bucky didn’t remove his arm as they hurried towards the main road. Both were scanning for a taxi. Y/N was grateful for the extra warmth and protection from the biting wind. She tugged the sleeves of her jacket down over her fingers and kept her head ducked down. Should have worn something heavier. Instead of dwelling on her horrible self-esteem issues, she tried to change the subject.

“Got any plans tonight?” She asked over the howling of the wind, curling into Bucky’s hold to avoid the small bit of hail coming down with the snow. Her hair whipped around her face, and she tugged a strand out of her mouth. Snow clung to her eyelashes and very little sun got through the dark overhanging clouds. It was almost like nighttime came early.

He raised his hand, distractedly waving over a taxi. They stood at the very edge of the sidewalk, the toes of Bucky’s scuffed boots hanging over the edge, “Ya, I need to get home. A friend of mine’s coming over. Was gonna take her out, but since the weather’s actin’ up, I figure I’ll make her something for dinner. She’d probably like that better anyway.” He grinned when a taxi finally took notice of them and squeezed her shoulder.

Y/N felt her heart drop towards her stomach, suddenly very curious about Bucky’s apparent friend. A girl. Who he was willing to cook dinner for. She pressed her lips together and felt a little colder. Like the snow was soaking through her jacket but maybe she wasn’t imagining that.

As the taxi pulled over he asked, staring down at her “Do you mind sharing? My apartments on the way.” He gave a sheepish smile, the cold making his nose light pink. Bucky looked cute anyway. His hood was up on his jacket under his heavier coat. The hood made his hair press closer to his face and his eyes were a pristine wintery blue, reflecting the snow.

She shook her head and Bucky held the door open for her. Then climbed in behind her. He leaned forward and gave the address of his apartment, and then tacked on her college, the Orion Institute. She had never seen where Bucky lived. Not once in the entire time they spent meeting for their projects. They always met at her place. A part of her was excited to even just see his building.

They didn’t live that far apart. Bucky’s apartment was in Brooklyn Heights, less than 30 minutes from her apartment in Midtown. It only seemed far because of traffic. She lived within walking distance of the Orion Institute and only a mile from Central Park.

The taxi pulled away from the curb, navigating smoothly between a few cars in the road, “You make dinner for her often?” Y/N asked, settling back in her seat and running a hand through her tangled hair. Using the tie on her wrist, she pulled the damp mass back out of her face, watching Bucky plop his bag on the floor between his feet. He dusted snow off his coat and shoved his hoodie down.

“Not really. She’s just in town visiting her folks. Used to make her dinner all the time when we were dating.” He smiled wistfully, remembering something sweet. Then he shrugged, and the smile vanished “But that was a long time ago.” The windshield wipers ticked loudly up front and the soft crooning of the radio on an older jazz station drifted from the speakers. Heat made it back to them from the front and she rubbed her frosty fingers together.

Heart suddenly heavy, Y/N turned in the seat to look at him closer. She tucked her knee up onto the leather and fiddled with the material of her jeans. Carefully, she adjusted her bag, propping it on her thighs “So you’re still close?” Snow melted through the sleeves of her coat and carried the scent of winter with it. It just made her colder, despite the dry heat from the taxi.

Bucky pursed his lips thoughtfully “Kinda? I mean, me and Dot have always been pretty close. We don’t see each other much since she lives in Chicago now, but we hangout when she comes by. It’s always nice to catch up.” He shook some of the melting snow out of his hair, making it spike up. Gesturing with his hands as he spoke. Bucky seemed a little tense, talking about Dot. He made eye contact but was slow as he spoke. Picking his words carefully.

“Do you still like her?” That was probably one of the more personal questions she had outright asked him since knowing him. It made anxiety tighten in her throat. He had never mentioned any relationships to her before. Y/N kind of assumed he was single, based on never talking about a girl or drawing any mystery girls. Maybe she was wrong. She bit her tongue when Bucky scoffed.

“Like, like-like her?” He teased, snorting, and then looking out the window. He propped his elbow up on the door and put his chin on his hand. Water dripped down the glass as he turned his attention to the world outside “It’s more complicated than that.” He finally answered, voice quiet and far off. A car honked as it passed, and the snow was still coming down heavily. It made the scenery fuzzy. Almost ethereal. At least the pattering of hail had subsided. Just snow now.

“How?” She pried, curiosity biting at her. Her stomach pinched unpleasantly. Bucky had an ex-girlfriend who lived several hours away but came to visit him. Visit her family, too, but they were still in contact enough that he cooked dinner for her sometimes. And still considered himself close to her.

Bucky huffed, and pulled out his phone, fidgeting with it. The screen lit up, but he didn’t mess with it long enough to do more than maybe check a text before he locked the screen again. Jerkily, he dropped it into his lap and peered over at her before staring up at the questionably stained ceiling, “Complicated like. Like we were going to get married. But then I went overseas. And she didn’t wait.” He was steadily getting more agitated, and she belatedly realized that she probably stumbled on a button. He glared at the ceiling and then back down at his phone. Anywhere but her.

Part of her screamed to back track and change the subject. The rest of her was echoing with the realization that he was almost married. Y/N swallowed back the nervous lump in her throat and squeezed her fingers into fists. They were still cold, and the driver’s heavy cologne was starting to make her nauseous. She forced herself to watch Bucky’s reactions. So that maybe she could fill in the blanks of what he wasn’t saying.

“So, you still wanna be with her?” She asked gently, hoping to maybe not piss him off beyond all hope. Her hands played with her bag, twisting at one of the front zippers. A pencil dug at her thigh from the bottom of the bag. Managing to sting through the patterned material. She shifted the bottom, making the pencil move.

Bucky froze, frowning down at his phone. He didn’t speak up for a bit, but eventually laughed softly. It wasn’t a warm laugh, “Sometimes, I guess so.” He peeked up, smiling at her. A disheartened smile. His damp bangs fell in his steel-blue eyes, “But even if I wanted to. Even if she wanted to. It probably wouldn’t work anyway.” Bucky tapped at his temple and shrugged, looking like something heavy weighed down on his back “Not with the mess that’s up here now. I’m not really the relationship kinda guy anymore.” He stared deliberately down at his hands again, and she almost missed the last little bit he muttered, more to himself than her “Wouldn’t wanna make any girl deal with my mess.”

A few minutes passed where she tried to collect her thoughts. Tried to filter through all the snippets of things she wanted to say. Finally, she stared resolutely at his profile. Willing him to look back at her. The colorful city lights refracted through the melting snowdrops, casting shifting shadows across his body. His eyebrows were drawn together, deep in thought, as he stared down at his black phone screen, “Bucky.” He tensed at first, but then slowly glanced up at her. Reluctantly, as if afraid of what she was going to say. Obviously, he was uncomfortable, but she couldn’t imagine what was going through his head.

The car was slowing to a stop, breaks squeaking in protest. They were in front of an older apartment building now. A few people milled around outside in the snow. It was covered in brick and wilted ivy. The windows were small, other buildings hugging it on either side, but it was pretty, covered in snow and ice. He needed to leave, “You deserve to be happy.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, stubbornly silent. His blank expression gave nothing away. She pursed her lips, forcing her tangled web of anxiety down, “And you shouldn’t stop yourself from being happy cause you’re afraid of being a problem for someone else. You’re not a problem.” None of her words were coming out right. They all sounded better in her head. She was so afraid of showing too much of her hand. Letting him see the feelings that were just starting to become a delicate, flower bud inside of her. Something small and new that she just didn’t want anyone to see yet.

“This is sweet and all, but the meter is still runnin. I’m not gonna stop it ‘cause you two lovebirds need relationship therapy. Are you getting out or not?” The cab driver called from the front, voice harsh and loud in the tense quiet that fell after she stopped talking. She glanced up at him, taking in his black beanie and the white snippets of hair that stuck haphazardly out from under it. Her heart pounded, and her body flushed in embarrassment.

It was easy to forget that someone else could be listening.

Bucky jerked, caught off guard and scowled for a minute. He pointedly looked at her and rolled his eyes. Then turned and met the driver’s glare through the rearview mirror. The smile he offered was charming as usual, and he sheepishly apologized, “Sorry just give us a minute alright?” He leaned forward and dug a few 20s out of his wallet, handing them to the guy. That covered far more than just his ride. She knew better than to argue with him on it, though.

Then he faced her again, and Y/N could barely keep her breathing even. She wanted to know what he was about to say but she was scared. Scared that he would argue with her, or that he would see past everything. See the emerging feelings that she kept pushing down. She didn’t want him to know. Barely wanted to admit to anything herself. The budding rose in her heart felt like it was tightening its thorny vines around her lungs.

Before he could speak, there was a knock on the window behind him. Y/N jumped, startled. Bucky let out the breath he just took in to speak. Then tilted his head over his shoulder, annoyed, only for his face to brighten into a warm smile. A young woman was standing there. She had a brown fuzzy hood up to protect her from the snow, but Y/N could see firy red hair underneath it. Bucky chuckled affectionately “Goddamn impatient woman.” He picked up his bag and climbed out. Completely forgetting about whatever he was going to say.

Completely forgetting about her too, it seemed.

Bucky gave the woman a tight hug and talked quickly to her. Voice carried off by the wind. His door hung open, letting in the icy air. She couldn’t hear what they were saying. All she could think about was how pretty Dot was.

After a couple long minutes, Bucky leaned back in with a bright grin “I’ll see you Thursday ok?” His hand was resting on the top of the open door. Snow clung to his hair and his cheeks were chapped pink from the cold again.

“Ya, have fun.” Y/N replied lamely, forcing the biggest smile she could muster. She hugged her bag as hard as she could. Then hugged it harder when Dot’s hand touched his shoulder, drawing his attention back. So hard that the supplies inside hurt her chest. The pencil dug into her stomach this time. She didn’t care.

Bucky nodded distractedly, and let go of the door, stepping back. He wasn’t even looking at her anymore, “Ya sure. Have fun with all your books!” He called as he shut the door. It echoed loudly in the quiet. The car pulled away immediately. She stared at the space he used to be, ears ringing.

Annoyed, the driver turned up the heater and grumbled about Bucky letting all the heat out of the car. The heater sputtered nosily. Then he spitefully turned up the radio. Shifting, she placed both feet back on the floor, and shoved her backpack over where Bucky had been sitting. Numbly, she picked her thermos off the ground. The coffee was lukewarm, but she sipped at it anyway.

She ignored the driver, only muttering out an apology that she doubt he heard over all the noise. Sinking low into her seat, she watched the world pass outside, and tugged out her phone. She messaged Katlin an apology for being late. Let her know when she would be arriving.

As the taxi passed under a stoplight, heading towards the Brooklyn Bridge, the glowing green light reflected over her hands. The color reminded her of spring leaves. Distantly, she wondered what Bucky had been about to say. If only he hadn’t been pulled away.

Inside of her chest, Y/N imagined the rosebud sinking back into the soil. Where it would remain dormant and alone.

*****

The tip of her brush dipped into the water, and she let the bristles stroke across the top of her drawing. Pale blue pigment for the river bled down and pooled along the line of dry paper she created. It became a gradient, light at the top and dark at the bottom where most of the shadows in the creek were. She lifted the drawing board that her paper was taped to, keeping it from buckling. Carefully, she tipped the board so that the water flowed where she wanted to. Distributing the paint and giving the surface of the stream a textured look to it.

After a minute, Y/N sat the board down and glanced at the copy of the painting they were recreating. The landscape was created by David Taylor and called ‘Catching the Morning Light’. It was a simple creek surrounded by grass and trees with a faded background. Impressionistic in style and rich in contrast. All they had to do for class was recreate the painting to the best of their ability.

She sat the board back down and stretched her back. It cracked over her chair and she sighed in relief. Shifting a little, she tried to find a comfortable position for her numb butt on the hard chair. Then, she clicked through her phone, checking her messages and debating taking a break to get a snack from a vending machine downstairs.

Beside her, Y/N heard a frustrated sigh, followed by the clinking of a brush against glass. Aggressively, Bucky rinsed out his brush, nearly splashing out the water. She watched him from her peripheral as he held his brush over his pallet of paint, glaring at the colors. As if they personally offended him. Bucky scoffed, roughly dropping the brush back down on his desk.

They hadn’t talked much since Monday. Today was, finally, Thursday. She wanted to text him but didn’t want to bug him. Wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say. It felt like she might have done something wrong when he replied to the few texts she did send with short responses. But she couldn’t think of anything she did to piss him off. Normally, Bucky would be straight forward with her if he was mad about something. Especially, if it was something she did.

So, she just stopped texting him. And he didn’t text her either. Now she couldn’t decide if she was annoyed or concerned.

Bucky put his head in his hands and pulled his phone out. He clicked through it for a couple of seconds. Y/N watched as his shoulders bunched up and his jaw clenched. Since he sat down beside her that afternoon, he hadn’t spoken to her beyond a greeting. Then a couple snarky remarks about their project.

He wasn’t much of a watercolor kind of guy. She could tell. He understood the techniques. Understood, for the most part, how to apply them, but he had no love for the medium. No passion for it. Unlike her.

Y/N loved watercolor. It was easy because there wasn’t much need for precise control. It’s meant to be messy, for the most part. Didn’t have to be completely realistic and perfect. The colors would blend together beautifully and created amazing textures just about on their own.

The screeching of a chair against tile made her jump. Her brush nearly smudged the bundle of trees in the background all wrong. Bucky brusquely stood from his seat and stalked out of the room. Despite the door shutting quietly behind him, it felt like a slam. All the soft murmuring of conversation died instantly. The older woman, Hannah, sitting next to her stared at her questioningly. Y/N shrugged and shook her head.

She wanted to go after him but resisted the urge.

For 10 minutes.

It took all her self-control to focus back on her work. She got in a couple strokes for the silhouettes of the far-off trees but every few minutes she peeked at the door. Rhythmically, she tapped the edge of her brush against her scuffed desk. Her eyes drifted to Bucky’s painting. They had been working for about an hour now, but he barely even had a wet wash of color down. Only an outline of the creek, and a few splotches of color that she didn’t quite understand the purpose of.

Definitely not his best work.

Giving up, Y/N stood quietly from her desk. She placed her brush down carefully in its holder and tucked her phone in her back pocket. Some of the students stared at her, but she ignored them as she made her way to the teacher’s desk. Quietly, she told Ramsey she was going to the bathroom. From his look of exasperation, she got the feeling that he didn’t believe her. Which was fair. Still, he waved her towards the door before going back to his iPad.

Outside of the studio, the hallway was empty. To her left were the elevators and emergency exit to the stairwell. If she went right, there were a few doors leading to a couple more studios and meeting rooms. Beyond that, she would enter the museum area. With the Visible Storage, William Richards, American Art, and a few other displays.

She took a couple steps towards the displays and then did a small circle, trying to decide where Bucky might have gone. Her boots clicked against the tile floor. A soft buzz came from the golden lights on the ceiling. Y/N had a feeling he would have wanted to be somewhere quiet and alone. Walking slowly through the hall, she checked all the other rooms. Only one was active with some sort of lecture taking place. The other 5 were unoccupied and dark. She didn’t believe that Bucky would purposefully go sit in the dark. So, she turned around and continued to the stairwell.

Opening the door, Y/N stepped out and quietly shut it behind her. The click of the door sealing still echoed through the silent concrete flight of stairs. Faintly, she could smell ashy smoke. She walked down the first flight and turned the corner of the landing. There was a draft and she wished she had thought to grab her sweater. Glancing down, she saw Bucky shuffling over to sit as far against the wall as he could. Probably attempting to get out of the way of whoever was coming down. He huddled up in his hoodie, knees drawn close, feet on the step just below the flat landing. She now understood where the smell of smoke was coming from. Determined, she took the last step to even ground and strolled slowly over to him.

As she sat down beside him, she noticed a thin trail of smoke coming from a cigarette he was subtly hiding between his knees. Y/N didn’t smoke. Tried it once and nearly coughed up a lung, but she understood why people did. Everyone had their own reasons. She only ever requested that no one smoked in her apartment. Still, she was surprised. She never smelt cigarettes on him and he never once asked if he could smoke at her place. Or excused himself to smoke outside.

Bucky side glanced over to her before letting out a breath and bringing the cigarette to his mouth. He took a long drag and blew out a massive plum of smoke, then immediately waved it away, making it disperse quicker and looking a bit apologetic, “I swear I quit.” He explained, trying to smile but not quite managing “I’ve carried this pack with me for a year now. Just to prove I could have them on me but not light ‘em.” He rolled the cigarette in his fingers and stared at the burning end “Guess I have to start over now.”

Y/N settled in beside him, crossing her arms over her knees and curling forward. “That’s ok.” She gave a half shrug, studying his downcast expression as he flicked ash between his feet. It sprinkled on a second cigarette butt, “If you want to quit you will.” She laid her head down on her arms, using them and her knees as a pillow. Despite being extremely worried, she didn’t want to press. If he didn’t want to talk, she wouldn’t make him. It meant a lot to her that he hadn’t told her to go away. Softly, she wondered “Watercolor so bad that you needed a smoke break?”

Reluctantly, Bucky chuckled, and the sound made her stomach warm “Something like that.” He murmured, taking a last drag from the cigarette before rubbing it out on the stair between his feet. Smoke rushed out of his nose as he breathed out. The smell made her lungs burn but it didn’t bother her too much. It reminded her of the way her grandfather used to smell. There was something somewhat comforting there, even if her body rejected the tainted air.

Bucky stared dejectedly down at his feet, eyebrows pinched and almost angry. His right hand rubbed at the fingers of his left. Like he was trying to massage out an ache.

Y/N didn’t comment on it, instead she stared up at him and stated “I’m pretty sure they have a no smoking policy inside the building. If we get caught, I’m throwing you under the bus.” She kept her voice very dry and knew he caught the humor when one side of his mouth turned up, like he wanted to smile. He finally looked at her then.

The rings under his eyes were darker than normal and his skin was pale. His hair was a mess, like he ran a hand through it one too many times. Something made his back hunch forward. Almost like Bucky was trying to curl in on himself. Like he wanted to disappear.

“I’ll take full responsibility. Don’t worry. I’ll just pull my veteran status and say that the cold makes my arm hurt so I couldn’t stand outside.” Bucky flexed the fingers of his left hand again and grimaced, “They’ll let me off with a warning, tops.”

“How manipulative of you.” Y/N replied, pretending to be disapproving. When Bucky covered another wince with a thin laugh at her words, her frown deepened with concern, “Your arm hurting?”

Bucky flinched from her question, as if alarmed that she noticed. Then he studied her face, eyes a little suspicious, before slowly relaxing. She was watching him calmly, with a little bit of concern, but not really pity. He slowly nodded “Ya, well, really it’s my hand. It’s phantom pains. Happens sometimes when I’m stressed. It’s like my fingers are over an open flame. They’re throbbing.” His shoulders tensed up near his ears and he tried to smile, as if it wasn’t a big deal, but obviously it was.

Just his description made Y/N flinch in sympathy. He turned his attention back to his hand, rubbing at his gloved fingers. She rocked her feet against the concrete, rising up on her toes and then rolling back on her heels, restless “Does that help?” She asked, waving towards his hands with her own closest to him.

Not looking up, he nodded “Sometimes. Tony made my arm so that I can feel pressure and temperature. It’s still experimental. Not perfectly accurate. But, if I send pressure signals to my nerves long enough, the pains go away. Usually.” He huffed, frowning and biting his lip “Today’s just a really, really bad day.” That felt like a loaded comment. His voice cracked, dropping to almost a whisper near the end.

There was a long stretch of silence after that. Not an uncomfortable silence. Just quiet and full of thoughts. Y/N broke it with an offer, hoping to make him smile again “If watercolor’s stressing you that bad, I’ll do the painting for you. Ramsey doesn’t have to know.”

Bucky snorted and tilted his head to study her, smiling a little more when he saw the cheeky grin she gave him “I might take you up on that.” Then he turned back to his hand, slowly plucking off the glove he always wore. He stuffed it into his hoodie pocket and cleared his throat “But I don’t think it would help.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Y/N flicked her hair out of her eyes, tugging the long white sleeves of her shirt over her palms. The draft through the stairwell, along with the cold rock underneath her, had the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She hugged her legs a little tighter. Being curled up helped her conserve some of her warmth.

The plates of his fingers hummed as he arched them, stretching them as far as he could. She didn’t think he was going to respond for a minute. He wouldn’t look at her. But then his words hesitantly broke the quiet. Almost shy, “It’s um… remember Dot?” He asked slowly, still not looking at her. His hair fell forward over his forehead in a soft wave. Nervously, he shuffled his feet, and smeared some of the ash across the stair.

She nodded, and he must have seen her from his peripheral because he continued “She stayed the night Monday.” Bucky’s nose wrinkled, and his lips were pressed into a fine line. Irritated, “I didn’t plan on anything happening but then a lot happened.” He let out a long breath “A lot. She didn’t leave until Wednesday.” He pushed at his metal ring finger, stretching it back, then forward towards his palm.

Y/N instantly buried the pain and disappointment that surged through her. It burned in her chest and twisted her stomach tight with thorns. But she pushed it down and locked it away. This wasn’t the time for her petty issues. Bucky was hurting over something. Something so bad that he was having phantom pains and relapsed into smoking, “Did it not go well?” She asked, keeping her voice quiet and as soothing as she could manage. Afraid of making him clam back up. Afraid he would throw his walls back in her face.

A spiteful, bitter laugh left him, and he regarded her, eyebrows furrowed “It was great. Really great. We laughed and talked.” He sat up, restless with too much nervous energy, tone spiteful “The sex was fantastic.” His voice rose towards the end, pent up frustration escaping in bursts, and he gestured with his arms. Only to wince with a loud curse and curl back in on himself when the pain in his arm spiked.

Y/N was sitting at his left and straightened up when he cried out. She brought her hand up, touching his arm, worried, “Careful!” He looked at her, surprised and covered her hand with his right one. His touch was gentle and warm. She frowned at him, the hand on his upper arm squeezed reassuringly “You ok?” The metal was hard under his plush sleeve.

Bucky exhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut and nodded “I’m alright. Just irritated it.” She dropped her hand. Subdued, Bucky rubbed at his fingers again “Anyway, then she got ready to go Wednesday. She was just about to walk out the door, but she stopped to tell me it was all a mistake.” He grimaced, teeth clenching in a mocking smile, voice fluctuating with flippant sarcasm “That she finally realized I’m not the man she fell in love with. That she’s not the girl I think I love.” His head dropped down, hanging low, and she could tell he wanted to cry. He swiped roughly at his eyes.

Not knowing what else to do, she reached over and tentatively laid her hand on his inner wrist. With just enough weight that he could feel her there. When he didn’t shove her off, her palm slipped against his and she laced their fingers together. His hand was cold against her skin, and she squeezed. For a minute, Bucky was silent, but then he squeezed carefully back.

“Why do girls think they have to make decisions for everyone else?” He asked, not looking at their hands. Hard metal against the soft skin. Instead, he stared down the staircase, somewhere off in the distance. Not really seeing anything, “I respect her realizing that I’m not…” He cleared his throat as his voice got thick and rough “I’m not the person I was before the army. I’m not. But she shouldn’t decide how I feel about her.”

“No, she shouldn’t.” Y/N spoke up and he tilted his head to peek up at her. Still slouched forward like he was trying to disappear. His eyes were shining grey in the dim light of the stairwell. Tears held back just by a thread. Full lips raw from biting them too hard, “It’s your choice whether you love her or not. She should have let you have that. Even if it was her choice to not love you back.” She licked her lips and swallowed the lump in her throat “But she shouldn’t have spent the night with you if she wasn’t sure.” She scooted closer and placed her other hand on top of his left one, encasing his hand in her both of hers and held tightly. It warmed the longer she held it. Her thumb brushed over the plates, feeling the texture. And Bucky let her.

He was quiet for a while. Just watching her hold his hand. Staring intently, as if thinking, but not pulling away, “She didn’t let me figure it out on my own. I thought maybe we could work it out.”

Y/N could feel his body heat down her entire side where they were pressed together. The solid weight of their hands made her feel connected to him. She wasn’t as cold anymore “She should have talked to you about everything before letting you feel that way.”

Bucky nodded, biting his bottom lip. Again, “I wish she had. It felt like losing her all over again.” He blinked past the mist in his eyes and shrugged, trying to brush off the weight in the air, “But I don’t think this’ll ever happen again.”

“Why not?” The hurt radiating from him made her chest ache. She kept gently rubbing his hand with her fingers. Down his wrist, over his thumb, across his own fingertips. Y/N hoped he could feel the comfort she was trying to translate through her touch.

“As mad as I am that she assumed she knew how I felt. She isn’t wrong. I don’t love her anymore.” Bucky scratched at the back of his neck with his free hand, cracking it, and then rubbed at his damp eyes “I think I just love the idea of loving her. Ya know?” He sniffed and laughed wetly, “At least, that’s what Steve keeps telling me.”

“Steve seems like a smart guy.” Y/N stated. She laid her head against his shoulder and continued, “I do understand that, though. It’s almost impossible to let go of someone you cared about for so long. They’re comforting. You know what to expect. It’s hard to get over that kind of heartbreak.”

“I guess you would know?” Bucky asked, raising his eyebrows. She tilted her head up to look at him. Their faces were stooped close together. The moment felt very private and intimate.

Y/N had the sudden urge to draw it. Draw them like this. From behind. Capturing their backs and tilted faces. The look of tired curiosity on Bucky’s face. Two people bonding over something universally sad and too common. A moment of intimate human connection.

Slowly, she looked down at her hand over his. The rings she was wearing glinted in the harsh light. This was easier than staring into his eyes. Her heart jumped as she admitted, “Ya, it took me over a year to even think about dating again.”

Bucky glanced up at the high ceiling and huffed, blowing out a breath. The sound reverberated through the stairwell “I don’t know if I’ll ever wanna date again.” He muttered “I’m too fucked up. No one should have to deal with my issues.”

Y/N instantly remembered the conversation from a few days ago. In the back of the cab. Right before Dot showed up and tugged him away. It felt different now. Bucky still had the same issues, but she understood just a bit better. After today. She leaned forward to make him look at her and shook his arm to get his attention when he wouldn’t “What did we just talk about?”

When he stared at her blankly, she groaned in frustration.

“It’s your choice to not want to date. That’s up to you but don’t go making decisions for someone else. If someone thinks they can deal with your issues, then let them try. Let them have that choice.” She finished, feeling like she hadn’t explained herself well enough. Yet again. Her heart was beating too fast. Too hard. He had to be able to hear it.

“Don’t shut people out.” Y/N finished when he remained quiet. She was holding his hand tightly now. Her foot bounced anxiously. Frustrated at herself and at this situation. Angry at a woman she didn’t know for making Bucky feel like this. Making him feel like he didn’t deserve anyone.

Bucky was still staring at her, minutes later, mouth in a hard line. She thought maybe she made him mad. But then he chuckled and started to laugh earnestly. Shaking his head, Bucky stood, and she let go of his hand. He let out a shaky breath and scooped up his cigarette pack, tucking the finished butts into it, “Gotta give you that one. You’re right. I’m a hypocrite.”

“That’s not what I was getting at.” She protested, pouting, eyes narrowed up at him. The light from the ceiling haloed around his head.

“I know, but it’s true.” He turned, peering up the stairs that lead back to their class, “I’ll try not to go around making decisions for other people.” Bucky promised and then looked down at her. He offered her his hand, and she took it. He easily hauled her up.

Y/N couldn’t help but wonder if there was more he wasn’t saying. More that she should say. But then Bucky was changing the subject and she didn’t get the chance.

“Have you ever actually looked through the Brooklyn Museum? We come here every week and I can honestly say I’ve never seen any of it.” Bucky mused, dusting off his pants “Wanna check it out?”

She smoothed down her white blouse, dusting the grim off her jeans. Their voices carried through the stairwell, seeming louder than they were. From down below, she heard one of the doors open. Voices carried up all the flights of stairs as people started coming up their way.

They should get back to class. She had to go to another class back at Orion in less than an hour. All their stuff was waiting in the classroom. She had a dirty paintbrush. The bristles were probably ruined by now from the paint drying. Ramsey was probably wondering where they were.

“Definitely.” Y/N replied, suddenly excited. His eyes were warm when he nodded. Finally, alive again. Not fully. There was still some sadness tinged at the edges. But it was an improvement.

Bucky playfully smirked and started down the stairs backwards. Showing off. The other people were getting closer. Then he turned and waved for her to follow him. Jogging down gracefully. But she hesitated on the landing for a second. He had just reached the bend when she took a small step towards him and called, “Buck?” He paused and looked back up at her curiously, hands in his pockets “Is your hand ok?”

He brought it out and squinted down at his left hand, opening and closing his fist a couple times. The silver glinted in the florescent light, peeking out from under his hoodie sleeve. He shrugged “Ya, it doesn’t hurt anymore.” Bucky raised his eyebrows, watching her “Comin?”

Y/N nodded “Right behind you.” Then she started down the stairs after him.

Next Chapter

Tags: @boy-leave

#james bucky barnes #Bucky Barnes #bucky x reader #romance #fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #alternate universe #fluff #angst #bucky barnes fanfiction #tashariiwriting

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mrsrcbinscn · 5 years ago

Text

BDRPWriMo Task #16: TV Soundtrack

Task: Jukebox Musical/TV or Movie Soundtrack - come up with a playlist of at least 10 songs, write a scene summary to go with each one.

AU: The Robinsons is a hit multigenerational Netflix show featuring an ensemble cast, chronicling the lives of main couple Franny and Cornelius Robinson from childhood all the way through their marriage, and the lives of their families. Rated TV-14 some episodes, but some have mature content rated MA.

These aren’t in chronological order, I was too lazy to fix everything because the ideas came to me out of order.

tw: violence, marijuana use, underage drinking (in the US anyway), abuse of prescription medication (ADHD meds), mentions of abortion (a side character), sexual themes, car accident

tagging my husband because lots of these involve him @nottomsellecksorry

[ooc: these events all happened, just obv not with cool background music]

Episode Title: Song

1. The Mugshot: Oh, Pretty Woman by Roy Orbison

(Inspired by the use of Istanbul in the diner fight scene in The Umbrella Academy)

Background: Since the beginning of the series, Franny Robinson has had a framed mugshot of herself throwing up the rock n’ roll hand gesture with a cut on her face on the wall of the Robinson home. This episode is where the mugshot’s origin is revealed.

Franny and Cornelius had only been married for a little over a year when they visited Franny’s parents in Georgia for her mother’s birthday. One night during their stay, they went out drinking in the city (Atlanta) with Franny’s youngest older brother (Art) and a bunch of Franny’s hometown friends. A man at one of the bars, one with a gorgeous outdoor bar, where the scene takes place, wouldn’t leave Franny alone even after she flashed her wedding ring. The situation quickly got heated and before Franny’s brother or friends could step in between them, the man shoved Franny back into a table.

[background noise is edited out in post-production, there is no sound but the sound of glasses falling and shattering on the bar’s patio as Franny looks down at her sandaled feet, now bleeding from glass cutting them a little.]

And then;

[the first notes of Oh, Pretty Woman]

“He put his hands on me first. He shoved me first, you all saw that, right?” Franny said, holding out and index finger and pointing it at her husband, at her friends, at Art, and at strangers who had long since begun to spectate.

“He touched me first. So this is self defense.” She said, pulling her hair back into a ponytail before launching herself at him. All five feet five inches of her came at him like a missile and absolutely knocked the crap out of this guy. Her big brother didn’t even need to throw a punch, she had this all on her own.

[Mercy!!] As Franny slams the man’s face onto a table.

As they were both clearly fighting, both Franny and the man were arrested and taken to the police station, and while they took her mughot, Franny threw up the rock n’ roll gesture with a bored expression.

2. Payne Lake, Georgia: Blue by LeAnn Rimes

Background: Cornelius’s first EVER visit to Franny’s hometown of Payne Lake, Georgia. The first time she introduced him to her family.

Neil and Franny join some of Franny’s friends at the little town’s bar on karaoke night, they’re hangin’ out, munching on the bar’s specialty - Irish Nachos; waffle fries with melted queso, scallions, ground beef, salsa, and black beans - with her regular hometown crew. But then her high school voice teacher (who is a bartender too because ‘Murica) is like “Franny Framagucci, it is KARAOKE night!!! Sing!!!!”

And Franny’s all like “Noooooo” because Neil’s only heard her sing in musical productions through NYU, or at showcases for jazz studies. So meticulously practiced and critiqued performances. She’d yet to invite him to any open mics she was going to or anything like that. This man thought she was perfect!! ! ! She needed to make sure he kept that myth as truth.

So Franny was all “no, I simply CAN’T” but then her teacher started chanting ‘sing, sing, sing’ and her friends joined in, and then people around them recognized Franny - small towns, gotta love ‘em - and someone shouted out “Do Blue, Franny!”

“Haha, no way”

“Come ooooon”

“Well, if you inSIST”

When Franny was in high school, she’d learned to yodel to she could knock Blue out of the park to show up some bitch she hated at the county fair. Very South, Much Georgia, wow. So naturally, she stood on stage and rocked Blue in all her Georgia glory in front of her very Yankee boyfriend, exposing her very uncool country bumpkin side to him for the first time.

Except, it only made him think she was even MORE wonderful, he just got even bigger heart eyes than usual.

3. Am I A Crazy Bitch?: Science vs Romance by Rilo Kiley

Background: Earlier in the episode, Franny had gone off on Cornelius because she was insulted he’d offered to pay for part of her tuition for the upcoming semester so she wouldn’t have to work as much. Because the last episode, he found out she’d been abusing Adderall on a semi-regular basis to be able to stay awake long enough to juggle school, work, a social life, and seeing him. And confronted her about it. So this episode, he was like “let me make it easier for you.” And Franny went off on him because she was A. insulted, and B. so mad at herself, because his response to his girlfriend abusing Adderall shouldn’t be ‘give her money for college.’ He should be!! Disappointed in her!! He should!! Hate her! And she felt disgusted with herself that he didn’t.

SO.

The song plays while it flips between scenes of

A. college-aged Franny sitting on the bathroom floor of her apartment smoking weed #hating herself after she went off on Neil before he left for a business trip to Europe. She can be heard muttered “stupid bitch, he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you” as she moves to straight up laying down on the bathroom tile.

B. scenes of Neil in Berlin; in the back of a car halfheartedly listening to his assistant reading off the agenda for the day, pretending to listen to what his German nerd counterparts are saying as he’s just spaced out and sad, only picking at his food across the table from his assistant

C. Art (Franny’s youngest older brother) typing an e-mail to his parents because he’s too afraid to tell them in person he’s dropping out of university for the second time

D. Sophie (Franny’s mother) sitting alone in the kitchen of the Framagucci home after having woken up from a nightmare about her life under the Khmer Rouge, drinking hot tea

E. Delia Weiss, one of Franny’s closest college friends and eventually lifelong friend, smoking a cigarette and standing outside of an abortion clinic that opens the next morning, after having found out earlier in the episode she was pregnant with her shitty ex’s baby, hinting to the audience she planned to come back tomorrow to terminate

4. Cambodian Independence Day: I’m A Cuckoo by Belle & Sebastian

Background: Franny, who had up until this point in her life, never cut her hair more than a few inches, was told she would need to bob her hair to star as Millie in NYU’s production of Thoroughly Modern Millie. Long hair is a cultural thing for many Cambodian women and while it didn’t carry too much significance to Franny personally, it very much mattered to her mother, Sophea (”Sophie”). The episode happens to be set on November 9th, which is the day Cambodia became independent from France.

I’m A Cuckoo plays as Franny’s standing in the kitchen of Cornelius’s NYC apartment, scissors in hand, just chopping off her hair that went down to just a couple inches above her tailbone. She keeps repeating, “I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m so dead.” Then says “Mak’s gonna skin my hide alive then use it as a lampshade, Ed Gein style.”

When Cornelius laughs at her joke she whines, “It’s not funny, I’m serious! When my mother kills me say somethin’ nice about me at the funeral.”

Scene skips ahead to Franny examining her hair in Neil’s bathroom mirror, biting down on her lip and whimpering. He slips his arms around her waist and kisses her cheek, “I think it looks nice.”

“I’m going to be buried. Alive, most likely.”

“Shh.”

“Mak’s going to kill me, revive me, then kill me again.” *whines* “I look like a Boy Scout.”

*Neil turns her away from the mirror to face him. “You look beautiful.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true.”

Aaaaaand some more kissing later, they’re having Hot Sex against the bathroom counter. They’re horny 20-somethings, what can ya do ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

5 & 6. Am I A Manic Pixie Dream Girl?: I Held Her In My Arms by Violent Femmes // Prove My Love by Violent Femmes

Background: Franny decided to give Cornelius a glimpse into what poor people do for fun. When she couldn’t afford concert tickets, she and her friends both back home and in NYC would go to parking decks overlooking amphitheater venues to see concerts. So she took Neil to a parking deck to watch a Violent Femmes concert - and planned to, for the first time ever, open up about some parts of her life.

I Held Her In My Arms plays and Franny’s dancing, having a great time, and tbh this is sUCH a manic pixie dream girl moment, I’m ashamed. She’s ashamed. God is ashamed.

Fast forward, and she’s back to sitting down, her legs fit under the barrier between the parking deck and the drop to the concrete below, so her feet are comfortably dangling in the air as she-- know what, lemme just copy-paste a selection from our Discord DMs

mckala 10/26/2019 Oh wow wanna know the first time Franny was Purposely vulnerable in front of him vs. he-caught-her-at-her-worst-moments

mary 10/26/2019 uuhh yes pls, i say knowing i will regret

mckala 10/26/2019 OH the good news is, it's not SUPER sad, but it's #revealing SO

She opens up about how poor her family is, and how much she'd been bullied for being Asian, biracial, having an immigrant mother and Swiss immigrant stepdad and their funny accents, and how she puts all this pressure on herself to succeed since she couldn't be smart in the "right" way (STEM), so she HAS to do well in the arts against all odds to make her parents proud, and to make enough money so that her mom and dad don't have to work past retirement age. "So my mom can enjoy her life after what she went through in Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge."

But she does it...lowkey romantically, like

Franny takes Cornelius to the parking deck overlooking a lil amphitheater concert venue to watch a Violent Femmes concert, and now Franny has like a part-time job while in school so she CAN afford tickets -- and she has a rich boyfriend -- but she purposely took him to the parking deck to listen to the music and at one point she turned to him and said "When I was in middle and high school in Atlanta, we'd do this a lot. It was the only way we could afford to go see live shows."

And then she's like "We were - /are/ poor. Really poor. Not like you." Bc she assumes he was always decently well-off once he was adopted since his mother probably made at least six figures by her estimate.

And she's monologuing pretty much until her eyes water without her really REALIZING. Just monologues about how much pressure she puts on herself to BE perfect, to BE the best, to not make mistakes because she already made the big mistake of not "Being smart enough to be a doctor, or an engineer, or a lawyer, or half as smart as you."

mary 10/26/2019 oW, my hEART meanwhile neil is just like, "there is no right way to be smart. and you're smarter than me in a million different ways, so we're going to put an end to that line of thinking right here and now." because he didnt look at music as anything other than white noise until she came into his life

mckala 10/26/2019 OHHH MYYYY GOD

SO. They’re all snuggling and kissing for a bit, then at one point Franny’s like “We need to go to the car right now so we can ;)” and he’s not picking up what she’s putting down because he is far less sexperienced than her lmao, so he’s like “...what? Wait, but - oh. OH.”

And Prove My Love plays as Franny gets nerdy, newly sexually active Neil to have sex with her in a his car in a public parking deck, SMH. At [special favors come in thirty-one flavors] the camera pans to Franny’s face as she’s receiving oral ASDFGHJKL; and at [third verse, same as the first] the episode goes to end credits.

7. I’m Twenty-Two Years Old: I’m Sixteen Years Old by Ros Sereysothea

****TW: CAR ACCIDENT*****

I’m Sixteen is a running musical theme throughout the episode

Background: The previous episode, Franny and the rest of the cast that were NYU students have graduated from NYU. Last episode ended with Franny and Cornelius celebrating her graduation with both of their families, and plenty of nudges from both sets of parents ‘sooo, can we expect a summer wedding, orrrrrr does Franny want to take the summer to think about masters’ programs?’ A lot of Franny and Neil hissing at their mothers ‘Mak/Mom, stoooop’ but earlier that episode Franny and Neil actually talked about getting married next spring, once they figured out whether or not they were staying in New York now that Franny was done with NYU.

The episode I’m Twenty-Two Years Old begins with Franny driving at a comfortable five over the speed limit on the interstate at night. A cassette tape of Cambodian 60′s and 70′s psychedelic rock is playing in Franny’s car as she’s finishing up a phone call on her good ol’ Nokia 5190. (Remember, this was 2002.)

[I’m Sixteen begins to play in the background during the phone call when it was on Franny’s end]

“Yes ma’am, I should be at the house in about an hour.”

[camera shows Lucille Robinson in her neighborhood finishing up a night jog]

“Franny Framagucci, you know I told you to call me Lucille. You and your manners.”

“I can’t help it, my mama would kill me if she knew I let Lucille slip sometimes.”

“If you marry my son you can just call me mom.”

“What d’you mean if? It’s when. It’s for sure when, we just- we want to sort a couple things out post-NYU first.”

“So you’ve talked about it?”

“Mmhm. I’m going to talk to him about it again when he’s back from Beijing. I’ll tell you everything when I get to the house. Thanks again for lettin’ me crash a couple days. I dunno, I just feel kinda melancholy about graduatin’. Didn’t wanna be at the apartment all alone for a whole week.”

“You’re family, you’re welcome anytime.”

“I know. Love yoooou, see you soon!”

She tossed her phone onto the passenger seat and turned the music up. [I’m Sixteen is now playing loudly.] Soon, a car going the wrong way comes speeding at Franny and Franny screams shrilly above the music as she’s aware there’s no avoiding impact. The scene fades to black and a countdown clock appears on screen.

9:00:00. Nine hours, zero minutes, zero seconds before the accident.

Franny’s dancing around their apartment in one of Neil’s shirts and her underwear listening to that same cassette of Khmer 60s and 70s music. [I’m Sixteen is playing.] She’s singing along and when Cornelius steps out of the bedroom wheeling his suitcase behind him, Franny briefly interrupts her dancing to wave at him before she grabs a handful of Swedish Fish gummies (her favorite American candy) from an open bag on the countertop and pops one into her mouth while dancing.

She dances her way over to Neil and shoves a Swedish Fish in his mouth and asks him. “Got your deodorant?” He hums an affirmative. “Backup underwear and pants in case you spill stuff on your lap thrice in one day again?”

“Must you have so little-” he’s given pause when she shoves another fish in his mouth. “-faith in me?”

Franny grins. “My love, I have all the faith in the world...in your clumsiness.” Commence some cute kissing before Franny’s like “hey, heeeey, no getting handsy. Because then I’m going to take your clothes off and you’re going to miss your flight, and Tanya [Neil’s assistant at the time] is going to kill me.”

Scenes between several of the cast of characters happen, yadda yadda.

Eventually when the clock strikes 00:00:00, Neil’s plane from his first layover at Dallas-Fort Worth touches down at LAX at the same time of Franny’s car accident.

The scene cuts to the wreckage of the two cars, it is out of focus and shaky with occasional flashes of clarity to show important actions. Franny’s car falling into place upside down, Franny’s neck not supporting her head anymore because she’s unconscious and her head the rolling to one side, other drivers leaping out of their cars and running to the wreck.

Cut to what can be assumed to be a couple hours later, at LAX. Neil’s still waiting on his flight to China and just chilling, humming the tune of I’m Sixteen because it was in his head from this morning. He begins to mumble an approximation of the lyrics, but he’s immediately disgusted with his lack of ability to speak Khmer. He turns to Tanya.

“Do you think I should learn Khmer?”

“Huh?”

“Khmer. I should learn it.”

“Oh, that language your girlfriend speaks? Good luck. It sounds rough. Every time she’s on the phone with her mother I think they’re fighting.”

Cornelius shook his head. “I think it’s beautiful.”

“You’d think it was beautiful if it was just high-pitched screeching because it’s to do with her.” Tanya poked affectionately.

Neil’s phone rings. Caller ID says Art, Franny’s middle brother.

[I’m Sixteen plays over the background noises of the following scenes spliced together]

Cornelius shooting out of his seat and listening with wide eyes before running to the nearest counter to find the first flight back to New York, Franny in surgery, Bud and Lucille (who were the first people Franny’s family in Georgia called to ask them to go to the hospital since they’re in New York, they’re in Georgia) scurrying out of the house, and poor Tanya looking frustrated as fuck as she realizes Cornelius is about to just throw away important investment opportunities to fly back to New York for a situation he has literally no control over.

8. Brothers and Sisters: She’s Actin’Single (I’m Drinkin’ Doubles) by Gary Stewart

Two years before Franny even met Cornelius, she was an eighteen year old high school senior and her oldest brother was Going Through Some Shit. Specifically, a breakup.

He was laying on his bedroom floor listenin’ to sad cowboy music and she was like “fuuuuuck no” so her 5′5 ass grabbed her over six foot tall big brother up off the floor and hissed “We’re going to Uncle Lemmy’s garage right the fuck now!”

In one hand was the cassette Gaston was listening to, tucked under her armpit was a bottle of Maker’s Mark she swiped from their vati’s (father’s) collection on the way out, and she had an iron grip on Gaston’s hand with her other hand.

Unlce Lemmy was a Vietnamese man actually called Tất Văn Hữu Liêm in proper Vietnamese naming custom, but to the neighborhood kids he was Uncle Lemmy.

“Bác Lemmy!” Franny called out in Vietnamese as she let herself in after knocking. “We need to use the garage. Gaston’s girlfriend just broke up with him.”

“Oh, dear. Do you kids need anything?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any goi cuon laying around would you?”

“I can roll some!”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Bac Lemmy.”

“Nonsense. Gaston is in crisis!”

In Uncle Lemmy’s garage was a karaoke machine. Franny popped in the cassette of sad cowboy music and shoved the mic into Gaston’s hand. “Sing it out, you sad bastard.”

She opened the bottle of Maker’s Mark and took a swig, handing the whiskey out to Gaston, too. The songs you listen to in your sad cowboy hours? They covered them all. All My Ex’s Live In Texas. Neon Moon. Long Gone Lonesome Blues. (”Whooo, fuck that bitch!” shouted Franny at some point during Hank Williams.) Misery Loves Company. I Told You So.

The highlight of Framagucci siblings drunk karaoke at 2:30 in the afternoon? She’s Actin’ Single.

[I've seen men look at her before And they think, I don't see] “God,” Franny slurred, very, very drunk. “How fucked is that? Fuck off, partner, that ain’t your woman.”

[I know she'll be lookin' back The minute I'm not there While she pours herself on some stranger I pour myself a drink somewhere] “Daaaaaaamn, bitch.”

By the chorus, Franny and Gaston were just wasted scream-singing the lyrics at each other.

9. Go Ahead: Go Ahead by Rilo Kiley

Basically, the song the soundtrack team put over the scene where Franny took Neil’s virginity lmao. You can tell I stayed up til 6:30 am yesterday working on this task, and now it is almost 4 AM the next day and I’m still trying to finish, so I’m very much trying to stop being Extra now.

It was v soft and giggly and the most wholesome sex scene in cinema mmkay

10. That Damned Penguin Song: Papa Pingouin by Sophie & Magaly

One week when Wilbur was very small, Cornelius and Franny made the mistake of letting Franny’s Swiss Italian-French-German speaking father be the main one to watch Wilbur for a four-day period when both Franny and Neil were insanely busy. Adrien was a godsend, really. Whenever Wilbur was being fussy he would sing and dance to the 1980 absolute BOP that is Papa Pingouin.

But when Adrien Framagucci left Swynlake after his visit?

“Muuuuummy, Daaaaaaaddy. Penguin! Sing penguin!”

Except, neither of them knew what the actual fuck Wilbur was talking about, until Franny suddenly remembered from her childhood. When Adrien, who wasn’t her biological father, was trying to convince Franny to like him so she’d let him marry her mother, she vaguely recalled a French song relating to a penguin.

In her memory, six year old Franny had demanded Adrien do something stupid in public and he obliged by singing a French song and acting like a penguin.

Slowly, tentatively, Franny sang the first few bars

Le papa pingouin, le papa pingouin Le papa, le papa, le papa pingouin Le papa pingouin s'ennuie sur la banquise...?

“Muuuuuummy noooo, you gotta do dance! Pépère does the dance.”

Franny inhaled sharply and turned to Cornelius. “How much do you love me, dear?”

“Huh?”

“You married me. It’s not like a Wal-mart where you can just return me if you bring the receipt, yes?” “Uh...”

“I’ll explain after the little guy is satisfied.” With that she turned to Wilbur, sighed, and did Papa Pingouin with full enthusiasm. If French wasn’t Cornelius’s best second language, it was by the time Wilbur outgrew Papa Pingouin.

The penguin song was Wilbur’s favorite until he outgrew it. For years. Years. Y E A R S, Neil and Franny were in a loop of Papa Pingouin. Cornelius is now 45 and Franny is about to be 40. Papa Pingouin still haunts their dreams.

IT IS 5 AM ON DAY 2 OF WORKING ON THIS LMAO FINALLY DONE

#&&...hc #bdrpwrimomckala

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fandomite · 6 years ago

Text

Writing my final essay for my Women and Gender Studies class, and it just reminded me of something I’ve been sitting on for awhile, but have never voiced out loud because I can’t make my words work out loud as good as I can have them written.

The one lesson my mother has continuously taught me without fail is to “be flattered by the attention men give you”, however this lesson has only been told to me every time I come to her and tell her how terrible a guy has acted towards me or how uncomfortable a man has made me feel.

“He’s just trying to get the attention of the pretty girl sitting next to him” my mother says about the boy I had to sit next to one semester. No, he’s constantly rude, he constantly puts down and belittles my being an art major in contrast to his “superior” English major (and yet he has to legitimately ask me if Disney and Disneyland are linked). He makes horribly rude comments about our lovely (female) teacher constantly, causing me to want to deck him right there in class. He makes snide comments towards me whenever the teacher tells us we have to do something art related. He makes me do all the work if we’re paired off, because “he doesn’t feel like doing it”. He thinks himself a comedian for all his rudeness and expects me to laugh along. He asked if I had any last words to exchange on our final day in class. I told him to wait till class was over. He was stunned when I dragged him through the dirt on our last day and made it crystal clear my low opinion of him.

“He just wanting to get your attention, you’re the pretty girl in class”, my mother says about the boy I complained about in my art class. No, he was constantly showing off by explaining art terms to me, even after I made it clear I had been doing art and had been in classes since a young age, I already knew what a stretched canvas was thank you, that wasn’t even the question I asked you. He would walk around during painting sessions to take a break and walk over to mine, watch from over my shoulder and offer unprompted critiques, very rarely were there genuine harmless compliments. On the last day, we had to hang up all our pieces on the wall, hammer in the nails ourselves. My half of the class finished and we had to take our pieces down so the next half could go. I apparently wasn’t moving fast enough for him (despite me moving a the exact same pace as my classmates), he wanted my section of wall, so without asking he started hurriedly taking my artwork off the wall. I told him it was unnecessary and unwanted, he shrugged it off with a smile and kept going, and almost ruined two of my pieces. He was confused when I finally snapped at him for it.

“He’s just trying to flirt with you, he’s just bad at it”, says my mother and her friend about the creepy man at ren Faire. No, he held onto my belt when we were moving through a crowd of people, and held on the entire time. I couldn’t tell because of how many people there were, but once exiting the crowd, I realized he had in fact been holding on the entire duration. The man was physically bigger than me, considerably older too, he could have been my father. I stopped walking immediately upon realizing, and glared at him. He just silently stared back, his hand still holding my belt. I noticed a beer in his other hand. I finally loudly, and harshly, snapped at him “can I help you” to which he held on for one more moment, then slowly released my belt, and drawled out the word “nice”. I caught back up to my mother, retelling what happened and how shaken I felt, and both her and her friend laughed it off and said “it happens, at least he didn’t hurt you.”

“At least he didn’t hurt you”, my mother says about the older man who followed close behind me at a swap meet for a long distance before I met up with her again.

“You’re a pretty girl, he just wants your attention”, my mother and grandmother say about the boy at an event I can’t even remember anymore, who made snide comments about others to me, made increasingly creepy pickup lines, and tried to insist I join his group for dinner later.

“He’s just trying to flirt with you”, my mother would say about the man who had the balls to tell me I look like his future ex wife.

This is not flirting or flattery. It’s harassment. If it makes me uncomfortable or feel unsafe, it’s not flattery and it’s not “good” attention. It’s harassment. Stop teaching girls this is good attention. Stop teaching girls that they should laugh it off because “at least he didn’t hurt you”. I never felt flattered by any of this, and I can assure you I never will about similar encounters in the future. I felt uncomfortable in the least, and threatened at the most. Saying it’s because I’m considered a “pretty girl” it’s a shit-poor excuse for these actions. My pretty face is not a coupon card for you to act this way. My pretty face is not an excuse for the shitty behavior of others. I’m not a random object on a shelf in a Target to be used and ogled at. And as my parent, especially my parent of the same gender, you should have defended me.

#harassment #street harassment #online harassment #protect girls #any attention is not good attention #gaslighting #stop gaslighting #harassment is not flirtation

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caveartfair · 6 years ago

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The Inspiring Sculptor Who Made a Lasting Impact on Cherokee Art

Visitors to the Craftsmen's Fair at the Cherokee Indian Reservation, Cherokee North Carolina, watch Amanda Crowe, well-known Cherokee wood sculptor and her students demonstrate their art. Courtesy of the National Archives and Records Administration, via Wikimedia.

Black bear sightings aren’t rare in North Carolina’s sweeping Great Smoky Mountains. Coated thick with spruce trees and the “smoky” morning fog that gave the range its name, these lands house the densest population of the burly, ebony-coated animals.

Perhaps that’s why Cherokee artist Amanda Crowe preferred carving bears over any other form. She’d been surrounded by them—and the lore of her Cherokee ancestors—since she was young. In Cherokee mythology, bears are revered as both the “captain of the animals” and a hard-won, abundant source of sustenance. For Crowe, they were also prudent, mischievous, and playful—qualities that could easily describe the artist herself. “They’re almost human,” she told Janice Gaston of her animal muses, in a 1988 interview for the Winston-Salem Journal. “They’ve got more sense than a lot of people.”

Crowe’s most recognizable sculptures, which she made between the 1950s and her death in 2004, reflect her affinity for fauna. For over 50 years, she whittled and smoothed blocks of wood into squirrels, quails, bulls, and acrobatic bears, imbuing them all with personality. But as much as she loved animals, Crowe also made art as a means to connect with people—and preserve her Cherokee community’s carving traditions in the process.

Crowe’s connection with her native lands and its inhabitants ran deep. She was born in 1928 in the town of Cherokee, North Carolina, located at the heart of the Qualla Boundary Land Trust, a roughly 56,000-acre plot abutting the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The trust is home to the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians, a tribe descended from a group of some 800 Cherokees who uniquely remained in their ancestral homeland, even when the American government forced most Cherokee people to relocate West, via the Trail of Tears, in the 1830s and ’40s.

Amanda Crowe carving. Image courtesy of Qualla Arts and Crafts Mutual, Inc.

Amanda Crowe, preliminary drawings for bear sculptures, Hunter Library Digital Collections, Western Carolina University. Image courtesy of Qualla Arts and Crafts Mutual, Inc.

Crowe’s father, who was Cherokee, and mother, who was Anglo, raised their daughter in the Qualla Boundary; she attended the Cherokee Indian School for five years, beginning around age six. But even before she began her formal education, she picked up carving at the tender age of four, and realized it was her calling. “I was barely big enough to handle a knife,” she later recalled, “but I knew what I wanted to do—I guess it was part of my heritage.”

The Cherokee people of what is now North Carolina had carved for thousands of years before Crowe came along, turning local woods like mahogany and wild cherry into utilitarian objects ranging from bowls, spoons, and pipes to canoes and sticks for stickball (the Cherokee sport that inspired lacrosse). Crowe grew up surrounded by these objects and even some of their makers, like her uncle, famed carver Goingback Chiltoskey.

Even when she started grade school, Crowe wouldn’t part with her carving tools—a fact well-remembered by at least one of her peers. “She carried a knife to school, and I was so scared of her,” remembered Betty Dupree, one of Crowe’s classmates, and later the general manager of Qualla Arts and Crafts Mutual. “Later on, I figured out she was carving even then.”

Crowe faced plenty of obstacles as a very-young aspiring woodcarver—not least of which was her gender. “When I first started carving, only men carved,” she told the Asheville Citizen-Times for a 1988 article (lovingly headlined “Wood Carver’s Many Talents Something to Crowe About”).

Anna Fariello, a curator who has devoted much of her career to documenting the work and legacy of Cherokee artists, noted that Cherokee arts have traditionally been divided down gender lines. “As far as basketry and pottery, it’s almost 100 percent something that women do, both traditionally and in the contemporary world,” Fariello explained, from her home in North Carolina. “On the flipside, carving was in the male sphere—except for Amanda Crowe, so she stands out for that reason.”

Amanda Crowe woodcarving of a bear, Hunter Library Digital Collections, Western Carolina University. Image courtesy of Qualla Arts and Crafts Mutual, Inc.

Amanda Crowe woodcarving of a bear. Hunter Library Digital Collections, Western Carolina University. Image courtesy of Qualla Arts and Crafts Mutual, Inc.

Crowe’s path was unique in other ways, too. After being orphaned in grade school, she left the Qualla Boundary for Chicago. According to Crowe’s dear friend Lane Coulter—who is also the nephew of Crowe’s longtime partner, Doris Coulter—a Chicago family with a summer home in North Carolina recognized Crowe’s talents, and supported her life and schooling in the Midwestern metropolis. During high school, Crowe took Saturday classes at the famed School of the Art Institute of Chicago, where she went on to receive her bachelor’s and master’s degrees. There, she experimented with all manner of sculptural mediums: “I worked in clay, built up figures in plaster, cut a few pieces in stone, wrought metal sculpture, and carved wood,” Crowe later recalled.

Coulter also remembered Crowe regaling him with tales about the time she worked in butter. One year during World War II, she’d been selected to forge the renowned “butter cow” for the Illinois State Fair. Butter was hard to come by during the war, but Crowe “got to keep the scrapings,” Coulter recalled, chuckling at her renowned resourcefulness. “She scraped away everything that didn’t look like a cow—and she had a lot of friends who enjoyed those butter scrapings for a long time.”

Crowe’s creative skills—and carving tools—also proved useful in even more unexpected ways. Once, when a burglar attempted to enter her Chicago apartment, Crowe “had her axe, which she used to whack his hands with the flat side,” Coulter laughed, recalling the story. “He was an unhappy thief.”

In 1952, Crowe left Chicago for Mexico. She’d received a John Quincy Adams Fellowship for Foreign Study, and spent 10 months at the Instituto Allende in San Miguel, learning from Spanish sculptor José Mariano de Creeft (later renowned for his 1959 bronze sculpture Alice in Wonderland, located in New York’s Central Park). According to Coulter, Crowe also routinely received critiques from Diego Rivera, who taught at the school during her fellowship.

By the end of her stay in Mexico, then in her mid-twenties, North Carolina called Crowe back. A post as the wood carving and sculpture teacher at Cherokee High School (which her uncle had also held) opened up, and Crowe snagged it. “She had plenty of options,” Coulter recalled, “but as a native woman, she really wanted to give back to the Eastern Cherokee people in Carolina.”

Amanda Crowe, woodcarving of two bulls, Hunter Library Digital Collections, Western Carolina University. Image courtesy of Qualla Arts and Crafts Mutual, Inc.

Amanda Crowe woodcarving of two loons, Hunter Library Digital Collections, Western Carolina University. Image courtesy of Qualla Arts and Crafts Mutual, Inc.

Amanda Crowe, woodcarving of a dog, Hunter Library Digital Collections, Western Carolina University. Image courtesy of Qualla Arts and Crafts Mutual, Inc.

Amanda Crowe, woodcarving of a bird, Hunter Library Digital Collections, Western Carolina University. Image courtesy of Qualla Arts and Crafts Mutual, Inc.

She set up a home and studio in Painttown, a community not far from where she was born. There, back in Cherokee ancestral lands, Crowe lived out her adult life and cemented her legacy. She taught thousands of students the art of Cherokee wood carving, and encouraged them to give the tradition their own spin—like she had.

Crowe’s teachings were based on her own practice, in which she used the traditional tools and techniques of Cherokee carving—but rather than create utilitarian objects, as was tradition, she depicted figures. Though she often depicted the animals that surrounded her in North Carolina, at times, she created abstractions and human forms.

She worshipped the variegated nature of wood, and how its idiosyncrasies and undulating grains could enhance a sculpture’s final form. “The movement of the grains—they almost seem alive under your hands—and the beautiful tones and textures all add life to the figures you whittle,” she once said.

As Fariello pointed out, Crowe was drawing from her fine art schooling, but also responding to her new life in the Qualla Boundary. She wanted to create a curriculum that students enjoyed, as well as objects that could be sold to the ever-growing number of tourists visiting the area. Whittling small animals was conducive to both goals. (After World War II, tourism expanded exponentially in the U.S., seeing more visitors to the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. Crowe and other Cherokee artists saw an economic opportunity for their people in the uptick.)

Crowe conceived a teaching plan for carving based on the creation of animals like cats, mice, geese, owls, and bears from small blocks of wood. Together with Doris Coulter, who taught weaving at the Cherokee High School, she even began to sell mail-order carving kits. In a 1966 article in the Girl Scout magazine American Girl, Crowe wrote a step-by-step guide to carving—simultaneously promoting Cherokee arts and the kits. “With little more than a pocket knife, a block of wood, and a few basic instructions,” she wrote, “you can be on your way.” (Notably, her audience here consisted of girls; perhaps another goal of the piece was to spread her craft to more women.)

As Coulter remembers, Crowe’s passion for carving and its many facets came through in her lessons. She was a playful yet strict teacher, who “kept her humor but took no prisoners,” he quipped. She used a red wax pencil to ruthlessly mark mistakes on his whittling blocks, he recalled, but always doled out encouraging words, too: “Keep goin,’ just keep goin.’” She described this double-edged approach to teaching in the same 1988 interview in the Winston-Salem Journal: “Be good to them. Give them confidence,” but also “give ‘em a rough time.”

Amanda Crowe's woodcarving kit, Hunter Library Digital Collections, Western Carolina University. Image courtesy of Qualla Arts and Crafts Mutual, Inc.

Crowe taught over 2,000 students during her tenure at the high school. Several, like Virgil Ledford, Butch Goings, and J. Bud Smith, went on to become successful artists who have supported themselves by selling their work. Crowe also left them with the desire to keep the Cherokee carving tradition alive. In a 2012 article by Bonnie J. Krause, Ledford explained that Crowe taught him how to create his “own unique designs while basing them in the culture of his people.” For his part, J. Bud Smith, who took over Crowe’s teaching position when she retired in 2001, explained that his mission was to “to carry on for Amanda Crowe.”

Crowe’s later years were spent teaching and carving in her studio, a log cabin that she hauled in parts from Virginia down to North Carolina, and then reassembled. She restored antique cars, was an avid hunter and fisher, and cared for a rotating cast of pets with Doris Coulter—including, according to Lane, a flying squirrel.

She became a hero in the Qualla Boundary for her long, passionate dedication to teaching the community. In a 1986 self-evaluation of her classes, she described the most satisfying aspects of her job: “teaching students who have potential ability which can be turned into pride and confidence” and helping to preserve Cherokee cultural heritage.”

Crowe summed up her commitment to the Cherokee in the 1988 Citizen-Times profile: “I could go anywhere right now, but this is my place. I love my kids and my home.” In Crowe’s 2004 obituary in the Citizen-Times, Barbara Duncan of the Museum of the Cherokee Indian described her impact: “Whether you look at her art as modern art, Cherokee art, or Appalachian folk art, Amanda Crowe was a tremendous artist. She will have a lasting impact on this community for generations.”

Almost until the end of her life, Crowe continued carving. Her screened-in porch remained filled with blocks of wood, waiting to be whittled, many into bears. Her influence can also be seen in how far her carved bears traveled: The Smithsonian counts several as part of its collection, and in 1973, President Lyndon B. Johnson gave three of Crowe’s bears as gifts to the daughters of King Frederik and Queen Ingrid of Denmark.

With pride and typical altruism, Crowe herself imagined her bears proliferating across the U.S., available to everyone. As she once said of the small—albeit mighty—bears: “Everybody in the country must have one.”

from Artsy News

#Artsy News

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blackfreethinkers · 5 years ago

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Harold Newton did something that took guts.

An African American artist from Georgia, Newton in 1955 walked through the front door of a well-known white artist’s home in Fort Pierce, Florida, to ask A. E. Backus for advice.

Newton soaked up everything Backus taught him.

Selling paintings along the highway

But Newton had one more hurdle to overcome if he wanted to sell his own landscape paintings.

Historical and museum photos of Florida's Highwaymen Artists

R.L. Lewis standing in front of his Highwaymen art in 2008.

Highwaymen artist James Gibson at the Tallahassee Museum of History and Natural Science's annual Market Days fund raiser at the Leon County Fairgrounds in 2007.

Highwaymen artist R.L. Lewis painting at the Tallahassee Museum of History and Natural Science's annual Market Days fund raiser at the Leon County Fairgrounds in 2007.

A. E. "Bean" Backus working on one of his paintings sometime in the 1980s.

Robert Butler, Highwayman Artist, working on a painting at the Old Capitol - Tallahassee, Florida, in 2006. Each year the A.E. Backus Museum in Fort Pierce holds an exhibit celebrating the works of the Florida Highwaymen artists. Backus is credited for giving lessons to Harold Newton and Alfred Hair, two original Florida Highwaymen artists. The 2020 exhibit looked at the art of the Hair, who was considered the charismatic leader of the African American art movement in the area.

The Florida Highwaymen were a group of African American artists, generally from Fort Pierce and the surrounding areas, who drove up and down U.S. 1 selling the landscape art during the 1950s and 60s.

The story of Alfred Hair

One of the artists considered to be the scene's leader was Alfred Hair. When Hair was 14 years old, he, like Newton, fell into Backus' orbit.

Hair went to the nearby segregated school in Fort Pierce — Lincoln Park Academy. It was Hair’s teacher who suggested Backus take him under his wing.

Backus taught Hair how to paint landscapes and how to make frames. Hair started to believe he could turn painting into a career, something unheard of for blacks of the time.

As Hair grew in the industry, he knew he would have to do things differently from his white mentor, who could set up in galleries and share his paintings with mass audiences.

So Hair came up with his own business model.

A new business model

Soon, Hair took a page from Newton’s playbook. He began driving up and down the highway selling his paintings.

It worked. During the early part of the 1960s Hair, and many other artists with a similar painting style, thrived.

Hair and Newton’s practice of selling art out of their cars came to be used by many African American artists along the U.S. 1 corridor on Florida’s Treasure Coast.

Many found success.

More: Harry T. Moore helped thousands of blacks register to vote. It led to his assassination on Christmas night

More: Mary McLeod Bethune was born the daughter of slaves. She died a retired college president

When everything changed

However, in 1970, the African American art scene lost its charismatic leader when Hair was gunned down in a bar. He was only 29.

“Overnight, everything dies," said Hair's widow. "Nothing is left.”

Many of the African American landscape artists continued to paint, but waning interest after Hair's death coupled with new tastes and styles in the 1970s and 1980s saw much of the success fade away.

“We survived it all,” Hair Truesdell said. “We’re still living. Still standing and still we have the memory and we will always have the memory of Alfred, of his vision.”

In the mid-1990s Jim Fitch, a Florida art historian, discussed the African American painting movement of the 1960s in the St. Petersburg Times, using a label to describe their art.

How the 'Highwaymen' came to be

This created a new interest in their art, which is estimated to include 200,000 paintings.

One of the distinctive things that make the Highwaymen art unique is the frames and vibrant colors of the landscapes.

The true number of Highwaymen artists has been debated, with some being considered second or third generation Highwaymen.

However, in 2004, the number of identified Highwaymen was set at 26 when they were inducted into the Florida Artists Hall of Fame.

Highwaymen paintings can be seen at the A.E. Backus Gallery & Museum in Fort Pierce, as well as the Museum of Florida History in Tallahassee.

Many can be purchased at various websites in their honor.

There are also some pieces on display at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture.

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