#prisoners exercising

[mtonino]

Art Influences Film - Side by Side

Prisoners Exercising - Vincent Van Gogh - 1890

Mother (1926) Vsevolod Pudovkin

A Clockwork Orange (1971) Stanley Kubrick

[emthejedichic]

"Silently we went round and round,   And through each hollow mind The memory of dreadful things   Rushed like a dreadful wind, And Horror stalked before each man,   And terror crept behind."

-Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol, 1898

Vincent van Gogh. Prisoners Exercising, 1890.

[cutehomeart]

Prisoners Exercising, or "Prisoners Walking in a Circle," as it is alternatively known, is an oil painting created by Vincent van Gogh in 1890 during his voluntary stay at the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, France. An adaption of an engraving by Gustave Doré, this painting embodies the emotional intensity and empathy that van Gogh was known for.

This painting depicts a group of prisoners, dressed in drab clothing, walking in a circle in a prison courtyard. There is one figure, however, that breaks away from the rest - a prisoner with a striking red beard. This deviation from the pack incites a stirring thought: could this be a self-portrait of van Gogh himself?

[xpuigc-bloc]

Prisoners' Round (after Gustave Doré), also known as The Prisoners' Round, or Prisoners Exercising, or Penitentiary (after Doré),

is an oil painting of February 1890

by Vincent van Gogh.

This late work was painted at Saint-Paul Asylum in Saint-Rémy,

[louis-sj]

Exercise cages at Cresson SCI, Pennsylvania

See: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/State_Correctional_Institution_%E2%80%93_Cresson

Map: https://maps.app.goo.gl/mbSvY2jgkCP8w5vt6 The cages can be seen at the NE side of the J Building.

Note the high ceiling.

The J Cell Block in the background.

[hannie-dul-set]

good morning. i have risen from the grave. the breakup soup is dropping sometime tomorrow (depends on when i get home). i have two new (fucked up) harem wips. a taesan wip. nabi is at 25k. how is everyone doing.

[explosiveunderscore]

i need to fucking look at the area gonna check this out

[sisterdivinium]

More on the "Mary was right, Mother Superion was imprisoned within herself" theme:

Above is a capture from episode three. A self-evident image, from the inside looking out after being harsh with Ava. Of course this is her prison; "that girl" is the halo bearer she herself cannot ever be again.

Here it's episode four and her voice over comes in as this brief transition scene of nuns closing the gates is on...

In episode seven itself, notice her figure literally "jailed" by the iron bars inside the church as all the other nuns are in more open space, unimpeded by prop or architecture in the shot. Secondly, during training, there she is behind the hand-rail, separated from "her girls" by yet more metal as if the distance and verticality were not sufficient to set her apart. Third, left to herself and that familiar window, in closed space, after the "friendly" talk with Beatrice and Vincent. Mother Superion is in a different sort of cloister...

Now, on episode nine, which happens after the confrontation with Mary and the subsequent "locking up" of her cell (as mentioned in the previous post), here comes Mother Superion, iron at her back, going through another member of the Swiss Guard after those two who had pretty much been the ones to shut her in at the end of episode seven. This is movement on her part at last, this is action, and it culminates with:

Walking past iron bars, from the outside. Notice the OCS "rejects" are the ones inside now and Suzanne is out, free from control, from the arbitrary authority of Duretti, of the Church, free or as much as she can be of her self-imposed burden. She gains a new state of being, she gains agency and independent thought by siding with Ava and the others rather than with the decadent structure of institution. When she appears again, triumphant outlaw, it is to protect Ava from a murderous sister Crimson and we all know what happens from then on out... No more prison bars.

[dootznbootz]

opinions on helen of sparta being compared to prey animals? blink blink

*blink blinks back* Then immediately sits like this because of the question.

It's a good question that I'm happy to answer! It just makes me mad.... I sincerely hate the wording of "prey" being used to describe her.

SHE IS A VICTIM! THAT DOES NOT MEAN SHE IS "PREY"!

I can...see how people in ancient times may have used that word and still meant it in how she is a victim... but modern-day English-speaking people calling her that??? (considering how in different languages the word "prey" could have different meanings.) I'll just say that as someone who has been "prey" herself at one point, I REALLY hate that word as a descriptor. Just say victim or survivor. 👍

Honestly to call ANY victim "prey" is so fucked up. "Prey" to me, feels like "it's meant to happen." "Prey" are part of the food chain and so that's what happens. And to compare that to abduction and SA? Almost as if "that's our place"? It also kind of implies something being "eaten" or killed... Helen SURVIVES. She's traumatized and definitely needs healing and support but it's not like she can't find joy or peace ever again. Prey just feels so fucking gross.

Also, if someone calls victims "prey", I hope they know that Moose, Elk, Boars, Bovine, ZEBRAS, etc. are technically "prey". And these are VERY aggressive animals while still being "prey" for some other animals. And also that doesn't mean that "Oh, they're powerful! Clearly they should've been able to stop it." That's victim blaming :P

She is a clever, determined, caring woman who was ripped from her home for YEARS because Paris was a dipshit who decided he needed the prettiest woman in the world despite already having a wife. He didn't care about the fact that Helen didn't want to be there and was already married. He is so selfish that he will not let her go back even when THOUSANDS have died in the war! EVEN HIS BROTHER HECTOR AND PRIAM DO NOT BLAME HER! Granted, we do not know if Aphrodite would have let him undo their deal of "I want the prettiest woman" if he DID end up feeling bad for Helen and he wished to let her go home (I doubt it based on his personality though).

"Oh, if she is so independent/strong, then why didn't she just kill Paris and leave?"

AGAIN! Victim blaming!!! First thing, people who ask that have media literacy that is piss on the poor. You also have no idea about the political implications that would have happened if she DID kill Paris. She literally cries about staying there and argues with Aphrodite about seeing Paris, only to get strongarmed by Aphrodite as, guess what? A GODDESS WILL ALWAYS OVERPOWER A DEMIGOD. (This isn't Percy Jackson where he "killed" Ares as a 12 year old (Percy, you were my childhood, but that's bullshit.))

Even confined in Troy, she ARGUED with APHRODITE about going to see Paris! She is not some meek woman who just does as she's told with no pushback! She argued with a GODDESSS! Very few survive doing that!!!

She's not "Prey to fate", she's a "VICTIM of Fate".

[aaaarsonist]

Trying to catch my bus while running across the city with Prison blasting my ears was an experience

[coffeeworldsasaki]

I was worried about the existence of an episode of the maintenance phase about pilates because I like pilates and everything in this podcast is just cursed and awful stuff made by awful people and I don't want to do something made by a Nazi or whatever but now I'm just sad

[howloopyisthat]

The Second Hundred Years (1927)

From a gifset on makeitquietly

[radioconstructed]

⌖ Ah, I'm being #CANCELTHERADIODEMON'ed for gentrifying cannibalism AGAIN! How many times will I be cancelled for the SAME THING!?

⌖ If any dedicated members of the Alluminati want to use CIA revolution-busting tactics to SHUT THIS DOWN, go ahead! Get everyone BOGGED DOWN in DISCOURSE! The more GRASSLESS your reply is, the better!

[dsgustng]

It sucks so bad wanting to just run around through a field on all fours but damn human body isn't made 4 that

[mental-space-x]

Overtraining

I think I’m there, I think I’ve reached the stage that I’m doing so much working out that it’s now having a negative impact on my mood. Certainly, I don’t enjoy my cycling workouts anymore but it’ll be significantly reduced by this time next week. Physically my body seems to be coping well with the workouts, far better than I ever give it credit for. My hope for this week was to be able to run 3…

[too-many-blorbos]

Who wants to read an angsty fantasy story featuring a strangely well-spoken edgelord with too much trauma?

The beginning of the end was on a summer night. It wasn't raining. It should have been; that tragedy should have made the heavens wail and weep like a young widow. It was unfair that the sky remained stoic as my life fell apart. 

Instead, the night was muggy and stale enough to suffocate. The sort of weather that made tempers run hot. That's why the bar fight started, probably– a man trying to burn off the heat, picking the stupidest way possible. It should have ended with my father's first punch. He'd dealt with plenty of drunkards that way; one good hit was often enough to sober them into sensibility. If that failed, flashing his blade sent them scurrying. Which is exactly what happened on that night– a solid punch and the shine of steel made the brawler retreat from the tavern. At the time, it seemed no different than the hundred other times this had happened.

I don't know exactly what the brawler did. Perhaps he ran from house to house, shouting for reinforcements against his attacker. Perhaps someone else witnessed the struggle and feared that my father, the foreign freak, had finally turned violent.  Or perhaps the mob was already waiting. Perhaps that man was bait all along, sent to give them a reason to turn on us. Their attack was as sudden as a tidal wave. I remember few details–in my mind, the scene is a tangle of noise and shoving bodies and my own growing terror. My father's sword flashed over and over, spraying scarlet across the floor as he cleared a path for us. Torches followed us down the street to the stables. We couldn't even go back for our belongings. 

Gerrain saddled the horses while my father stood guard. We heard the mob approaching. We saw the torches growing close, too close. 

"Ride," my father hissed. "Ride and don't look back."

The order made no sense until he knelt to hug me. His arms were like a vice for a brief moment, so tight that I thought he might never let go. I felt a patch of sticky wetness when I hugged him back. Later, in the sunlight, I would see the red stain it left on my sleeve. 

"What are you thinking–?" Gerrain demanded, still fussing with the saddles.

"I have to slow them down." My father pulled away and looked into my eyes. When I dream of that night, that stare is what haunts me most– the dove-gray eyes of the best man I knew, gone dull with despair. "I'll catch up. Don't wait for me. Just ride– and remember that I love you." 

With that, he tossed me onto his horse. A smack on the mare's flank sent her galloping before I could protest. When I looked back, Gerrain was close behind me on his own steed. And my father was running toward the torches, blade flashing in the firelight. 

That was the end of my father. That is how my end began.