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margridarnauds · 4 years ago

Note

Your "Grace O'Malley" tag is extremely gratifying--it's so nice to see actual scholarship. So with that in mind: Have you read Morgan Llwelyn's novel, and if so, what do you have to say on it?

Hi! Thank you so much! I’m glad you like it; it can feel a little bit like I’m shouting into the wind, given that Gráinne is one of my more niche focuses. I still kind of want to do something that actually looks at the EVIDENCE, but I digress.

Morgan Llewelyn….I have mixed feelings about. I last really looked into this book when I was toying with doing my undergrad Capstone Thesis on Donal O’Flaherty, about….4 years ago, now. Time really does fly. So, I forced myself into a refresher, just to remind myself what I missed.

[warning for references to rape, incest, and some of the most Cursed™ lines I’ve ever been forced to read in my life, and that’s including the zombie blowjob scene.]

Final Verdict: 2.5/5 - DEFINITELY not the worst retelling of Gráinne’s life (I’ve seen....Things), but also not the best, either, and with some very, very glaring flaws that make it impossible for me to really enjoy.

My main take away from it is that…as far as its depiction of Gráinne, it did about as well as its source material. I can tell, looking at it and reading it, that she really looked hard at Anne Chambers’ book. Which is unfortunate because, as I’ve made……………relatively clear over the years, I think that it’s very, deeply flawed. And, unfortunately, Llewlyn stuck rather close to the book, leaving in things like Donal’s “murder" of Walter Fada Burke (if the patronymic don’t fit, you’ve got to acquit), Sexist™ Incompetent™ Donal™, and…..Hugh de Lacy, which, in my personal opinion, owe more to Chambers lack of critical reading of her own sources than they do to the historical record. ESPECIALLY Hugh de Lacy because…the name. Very odd that one of the major Anglo-Norman officials should share a name with Gráinne Ní Mháille’s boytoy. Very odd. Especially given that the pattern of “Love interest of Gráinne’s killed off/Gráinne seeks revenge” is VERY similar to what we hear of the Defense of Hen’s Castle. Almost as if they come from the same story.

This also leads us to the scene where Donal tries to rape Gráinne in her sleep which, honestly, I loathe with every fibre of my being. Nope, nope. Hate it. Hate. It. Oh, God, I forgot about the references to Donal!Incest. Why is this a mini-genre of Gráinne Ní Mháille historical fiction. Why. I can think of at least…..2-3 books that do this. Why God. Why.

Lest anyone think that this is the Donal fangirl in me jumping out, in general, I feel like Llewelyn’s treatment of most of the characters is ultimately paper-thin. Richard Burke is also given this treatment and, while I wouldn’t REALLY expect a sympathetic Richard Bingham (nor would I particularly want one - I’ve spent a lot of quality time reading his complaints and cackling), even HE’S done a disservice.

On a technical level, I don’t REALLY like how she handles the timeline, it jumps around a little too much for my taste. We’re treated to constant flashbacks with little warning, including ones that could have been just as easily folded into the timeline proper. And, while Llewelyn has a rich, descriptive style, she also writes an, honestly, impressive number of lines that will haunt me for all the wrong reasons. I’ve detailed a lot of them under the readmore, but some highlights:

She had gazed in wonder at the child—his perfect ears and fingers, the miniature penis that would eventually become a mighty rod for transmitting further life.” This is, I’m sure, what every mother thinks when she sees her newborn son’s penis for the first time. Why. Why God. Why. Why. Why.

Okay, another candidate for Cursed Lines: "Richard noted the high color in her cheeks, and saw how her nipples stood out strongly under the soft fabric of her gown.” If this were a male author, I would be-Nah, it’s still bad. It’s just bad writing, I’m sorry. In general, I found that she massively sexed up Gráinne’s life, for no real reason that I can tell except for that it felt almost like she felt like it was necessary to prove that Gráinne was a Real Woman™? There’s a very....odd way that her sex life is treated, and it grates on me. We have to deal with Donal, Richard, Huw(uwu), Philip Sydney, and Tigernan, all in the course of one book and, honestly, I don’t really CARE about Gráinne’s sexcapades, and they’re generally written with so little development or feeling, even and especially in the case of her GREAT LOVE HUW, that I found myself actively groaning. My take on Gráinne, at least the Gráinne that I know in the sources, is almost asexual. I don’t deny that she had sex. She obviously did. (FOUR CHILDREN.) And I think that she might very well have enjoyed it. (Not that there’s enough evidence to KNOW.) But I also think that she was a profoundly pragmatic woman who didn’t fixate on it that much. Again, I could be wrong! When we have as little as we have to go on as we do with her, it’s impossible to know! But I just do not see her as jumping into bed with guys that often, especially not in cases where there was no clear benefit. There’s this...trend, where Gráinne HAS to have a love interest, in every major adaptation of her life, because it’s almost like people are afraid to have her without the anchor of sex and romance. (For what it’s worth - I do think, simply because of the amount of time that they spent together + the fact that they did have at least three children with one another, that Donal was probably her favorite of her two spouses. I don’t KNOW this, because I can’t. The evidence isn’t there. I don’t know whether they loved one another, whether it was a great romance, whether the sex was good, or even if it was just a mild affection, but I do lean towards him, even if I can’t say that he was the Great Love of Her Life™. I think they complimented one another’s lifestyles quite nicely, and that’s all that I can really give.)

Llewelyn also has a very, very obvious bias against Catholicism that ultimately makes me wonder whether she ever meant to engage with 16th century Ireland on its own terms. As an atheist in Celtic Studies....look, I can GET having many, many mixed feelings about Catholicism, but it WAS the religion of the land at the time. If you want to have ANY understanding of the people and what was going through their minds, you have to try to engage with them on their own terms. I’m not in any hurry to convert to Catholicism, but I do try to consider life through the eyes of medieval and early modern Catholics when I’m analyzing sources made in that time. And trying to separate it off from the Good Pagan Times, to the point of creating a 16th century druid woman to voice your opinions on free love/organized religion/etc. is just going to get you into disaster. (Though Evleen did give us one female character who is a friend to Gráinne, so...victory?) Bonus, by the way, for the Evil Priest who schemes against Gráinne and is fucking boys on the side. (It seems like they’re of age, at least?) We’re told that he has reasons for what he does, but it comes as a bit of a last minute attempt at creating the illusion of a three dimensional character. I feel like Llewelyn, ultimately, should have stuck to Pre-Patristic times. I shudder at what she would do with, say, the Mythological Cycle, I don’t particularly want her touching my baby (if she touched Bres in particular, I would probably cry) because, at this point, I don’t trust her with ANY medieval materials (mainly because they’ve all been CONTAMINATED by CATHOLIC HANDS, oh NO), but I feel like it’s where her heart truly is.

IF she’d stuck with pre-Patristic sources, we wouldn’t have to deal with 16th century characters thinking things like: " He would go in the style of his warrior ancestors, fearless in the face of death; the ancient, pagan Gaels had known death was only a brief incident in the ongoing flow of life, a transitory happening of little importance.” Admittedly, Llewelyn herself SEEMS to realize this, as she has him cross himself afterwards, but I really, really don’t think it would be the sort of thing to cross a man’s mind in the Early Modern Period. There was very little evidence for reincarnation that was that explicit (One of the papers that I did was on the existence of reincarnation in Pre-Christian Ireland, so I actually CAN speak on this one with some degree of confidence - My ultimate findings were that it probably did exist in some form, but the evidence makes it hard at times to draw definite conclusions), and I’m not sold that they would…understand it as reincarnation, as SUCH. We can look at what, say, Julius Caesar wrote about the druids’ beliefs and apply them to medieval Irish texts, but a man living in 16th century Ireland wouldn’t necessarily have the same luxury, especially since relatively few figures are given reincarnation narratives. It’s like…she’s applying the Mythological Cycle, but she momentarily forgets that these characters wouldn’t have VIEWED the Mythological Cycle like we would have, and it’s rather jarring. No one else might pick up on that, because this is my field. This is the ONE THING I can be pedantic on.

Now! There are some things I actually do like! Outside of Chambers’ questionable grasp of historical interpretation and the resulting taint, I can tell that Llewlyn did have a solid grasp of the FEEL of Early Modern Ireland. As I noted above, she’s a very fine author, the kind I honestly ENVY as a historical fiction writer, the type that is so confident and descriptive that, even when she’s wrong, which is often, I find myself reaching for the sources just to make sure. Her descriptions are vivid and visceral, pulling me immediately into the FEEL of Ireland in the 16th century, a way of life on the verge of collapse.

When she isn’t being descriptive in all the wrong ways as detailed above. I do feel, for whatever it’s worth, that as someone with the background in this material that I have, I was kind of doomed from the get-go. I THINK that for someone who isn’t a Celticist (in training), it would be much, much more enjoyable, BECAUSE she is so confident in her style and her way of evoking the mood that it wouldn’t really stick out. I happen to be both blessed and cursed in that regard.

It’s clear, as well, that she has a grasp on the literature of the time - References to the things like the first Gaels coming from Spain make my heart SING with joy because it’s a very clear allusion to Lebor Gabála Érenn and the Mythological Cycle, which is my specialty, and there are plenty of times that I can tell you EXACTLY what sources she had to hand while she was typing on a section. It’s just a pity to me that she seems to try so hard to toss it all away in order to bifurcate Early Modern Irish society into Pagan VS Catholic, since she fundamentally did betray her own sources there. And, unfortunately, the way she tends to show her research is about as subtle as a blunt nail, in a very “As you know” manner: See: “I have heard the brehons chanting the laws governing fosterage, describing every article of clothing that must be furnished a child and every detail of the training the child is to be given.” Like, yes, the law texts record this, but I can’t really see someone from the 16th century SAYING it that bluntly, you know? Also, I’m not really sold that they would be chanting it out loud as a ritual thing, rather that a lot of the law tracts are in a simple Question/Answer format because it would have, presumably, made it simpler for the Brehons THEMSELVES to remember that way.

I do like that Llewlyn’s Gráinne…she’s attractive, yes, but she’s not conventionally attractive, and she’s explicitly said to be big and tall as a man. I feel like a lot of pop cultural depictions of Gráinne want to make her dainty and beautiful, despite living in an incredibly harsh, stressful environment. I think that her outfit’s a little too much “Modern pirate”-y for my taste, but I’ll allow it because, tbh, it looks really, really badass and, whatever clothing Gráinne would have worn, we probably wouldn’t have really recognized it as “Pirate-like”, since our vision of pirates in the modern day is mainly an early 18th century one. I do appreciate that Gráinne has that hard, pragmatic edge that I respect in the Gráinne that we read about in the State Papers and in Bingham’s recollections - a very matter of fact, no nonsense woman who would do whatever it took to survive. Though I do think that she probably didn’t really spend that much time thinking about Elizabeth. It seems slightly unrealistic to me that, knowing how pragmatic Gráinne was, that she would really, really concern herself that much with Elizabeth, especially when she would have had powerful women like Iníon Dubh closer to home. There are some really nice, poignant moments as well that the hard edge masks, like the moment where she asks after a piece of hair that sent on to her son Owen. When Gráinne is in her natural element, having fun on the open sea, taking vengeance, and getting to be angry and proud and fierce, as well as the moments where she shows a softer side....those are the moments that make it for me. But then we’re back to the sex and romance, to the point where the book is literally divided by which man she’s screwing at the time.

Also, despite wanting to LOATHE Tigernan, as an OC love interest of Gráinne’s, I did find myself warming to him, as he has a nice, laid-back dynamic with Gráinne built on trust and filled with plenty of banter. Next to her, he is probably the single best developed character in the book, though, unfortunately, he does get it through a ton of space devoted to his thoughts, his pining for Gráinne, and his intense jealousy for the many times she chooses someone else over him (mainly because he never tells her he loves her and then he feels like she owes him for what he does for her - yes, there are some Nice Guy tendencies here, but, honestly, after about the second or third time this happened, I was very pro-Tigernan running away and finding a better gig for himself.) No, besides being Catholic and lower class, we don’t really have that MUCH on him outside of being Gráinne’s first mate, but, honestly....that’s still more characterization than the others get, and, at least as of Chapter 24, he hasn’t done anything TOO atrocious.

My PETTIEST of bitching/impromptu liveblog beneath the cut:

A VERY pedantic thing: Llewelyn says, multiple times, that the English would anglicize her name “Grace”. In reality, no one in Early Modern England did that, it came much, much later. In all the Letters of State, she’s referred to as “Grany” or a variation of that name - An English attempt at “Gráinne.” That’s also why you’ll notice that I tend to refer to her as Gráinne here - It was the name she was known by in her own time, it was the name her contemporaries called her, and so it’s the name I call her.

"He wore a full and drooping mustache in the old Gaelic style, though otherwise he was cleanshaven.” Again. MINOR nitpicking. The Gauls were the ones who, traditionally, we associate with the droopy mustaches. In the sagas, beards are given a TON of prominence, to the point of being the marker of being a man. So. Odd choice on Tigernan’s part there. I know that Llewelyn didn’t intend to write him as a 16th century Irish coxcomb, but…well.

"He realized he had made a bad mistake in referring to her peculiar relationship with her husband. He had been in the castle at Bunowen himself; he had seen with his own eyes that Grania’s belongings were taken to one bedchamber, and Donal O Flaherty’s were put in another. Many might speculate in private about the arrangement, but only a fool would have mentioned it to her face.” As I’ve mentioned before, I really, really don’t think this relationship was as loveless as it’s generally portrayed as. I don’t know whether they were PASSIONATELY in love (and unlike a certain biographer, I won’t try to fill in what I don’t know with what I WANT her to have had), maybe they simply got on, but they did have three LIVING children. And I underline “living” because there were likely more. “Likely more” means that they probably did regularly share a bed, at least as much so as their respective schedules allowed.

“Aye, and didn’t she put her children out to fostering before they could stand? A woman’s not usually that anxious to get away from her children that she takes to the sea to avoid them.” Given that fosterage could begin VERY early, I really, really don’t think anyone would have questioned this at all. Gaelic Ireland, simply put, often didn’t have our own conception of the nuclear family, and this was generously provided for in the law codes. Fosterage was useful as a way of maintaining ties between both neighboring families and, most especially, between kings and their vassals, with vassals often fostering kings’ sons. (That way, if the king should die with multiple possible heirs, it means that the kids have people backing them for the kingship.)

"I think that husband of hers had been crying poverty so loud and long he made her deaf to everything else” - Not to be #TeamDonal on main, but the facts as they’re recorded tend to have a strong pro-Donal bias. Take the words of his 17th century relative, Ruari O’Flaherty: "Of all the western O'Flaherties, Donel an chogaidh , although not the chieftain, was the most powerful and opulent.” Most. Powerful. And. Opulent. Yeah, Donal wasn’t crying poverty to anyone. Could he have been lying through his teeth? Maybe. Who knows? But this is ONE thing we have on Donal’s personality, recorded not too long after he died, by a historian who would have had close access to O’Flaherty sources. I believe him. And, I’d even be willing to commit the ultimate heresy and say that Donal’s success was not due entirely to his wife.

She does use the proper terms in a few places! Such as “rechtaire” for “steward”. (Io stem, masculine.)

“You are a noble Irishwoman, you go to no man’s bed unless you want to.” COMPLICATED. Arranged marriages were definitely the norm, and, in the legends, we get to see the unfortunate downsides of what happens when a woman is coerced into a marriage she doesn’t want, generally by an older man, while she is generally pining over a younger one. I wouldn’t say it was something that people LIKED, the fact that this entire genre exists is a pretty good example of people being like “DON’T DO THIS SHIT”, but I can’t say it didn’t happen. Examples of this include Fingal Rónáin, Tóraigheacht Dhiarmada agus Ghráinne, Longes mac n-Uislenn, Aided Con Roí, etc. I would not say that it was considered to be an IDEAL, it was something that was definitely warned against, but it could, in theory, happen. It wasn’t necessarily a legal form of marriage, but it was a form of marriage.

"Shorter than Cuchullain or Brian Boru,” PETTIEST of pettiest bitch complaints, but Cú Chulainn is generally described as short. I know, I know, not what she’s going for. But still. Let me be a petty bitch on this one thing.

“Times have changed,” he said impatiently. “Those are archaic luxuries, and luxury has worn thin here. Perhaps in Umhall there is still leisure for sitting around listening to bards, but it takes every resource I can command just to maintain my territory against those who constantly nibble at my borders.” MOST. OPULENT. AND. POWERFUL. Okay, but one thing that she does get right, and is right to emphasize, is the importance of the bard - chieftain relationship. This was really, really one of the key relationships in a chieftain’s life, to the extent where one of the privileges of the chief ollaimh was the right to sleep with the king in his bed. And yes, it was EXACTLY as homoerotic as it sounds. For a chieftain to not keep a bard - It’s actually a really, really stupid move on Donal’s part, not just for the sake of tradition, but because…who’s going to be there to remember him and keep his memory alive? Who’s going to write praise poems for him (and for Gráinne! The chieftain’s wife was often celebrated in verse.)

"Grania had brought a handsome marriage portion with her, her own property under the Brehon law, for a woman of her rank must be able to stand on equal footing with her husband.” Accurate - Gráinne would have, most likely, been a cétmuinter, or chief wife, under the law, and her union to Donal would have been a union of equal contribution. (Donal also might or might not have owed her a “Thank you for your virginity!” Present on their wedding night.)

“The priests are right in giving husbands authority over their wives,” he had shouted at her then, while she pleaded to be allowed to keep her babies with her longer. “The old Gaelic way gave women too much freedom altogether, and you are a fine example of the folly of that custom.” Kill me now, kill me now, kill me now, kill me now. This is just….GAR. GAR. Or, as Llewlyn likes to say every five seconds…*Dar Dia*. Suffice it to say, the question of how much freedom post-Christianity Ireland had for women VS Pre-Christian Ireland is an endlessly long topic that has to begin with how we define “freedom” and, specifically, which women get it. (Sucks to be a slave girl no matter what.) But also, while women definitely DID have power (EVEN POST-CHRISTIANITY, THANK YOU VERY MUCH)…that doesn’t mean that it was that COMMON, or that post-Christianity radically changed how (un)common it was. This is just…too blunt, too much of a caricature, and also happens to be insanely, insanely anachronistic. (Also: What would a 16th century chieftain really KNOW of the Old Gaelic Way? He would know about women like Medb, yeah, and he would probably see her as evil and uppity, depending on which stories he’d read - Though as a Connachtman, he would probably be inclined towards being on her side. But that doesn’t mean he would have really thought “Oh, yeah, pre-Christianity, women had SO MUCH power.” Lawlessness and chaos tend to be features of pre-Christian Ireland in the medieval writings, but I wouldn’t really say that liberated women….were? Especially because in those same writings you have women like Emer who, while distinct in their characterization, are still very much proper and chaste women who keep to the house.)

“I warn you, Grania—you will accede to me in this or I will send you back to Clew bay and denounce you throughout Connaught for a lack of womanly graces. Is that what you want, to be sent home rejected with your shortcomings shouted from the hills?”

“Who would believe such charges?” she had demanded to know, outraged at his unfairness.”

I’m just going to say it now: She could sue him SO MUCH in a proper Brehon court if she could get some witnesses to say that they heard him talking shit without cause. So. So much. So. Much. Donal would be losing a solid chunk of his goods. Though I will point out that, technically, since Gráinne isn’t sleeping with him, she isn’t doing her proper duties as a wife, laid out by the Brehon laws, and so, yeah, he could probably have a case against her. (For what it’s worth: If he was refusing to sleep with her, she could ALSO divorce him, with him explicitly being at fault and having to pay up. It was equal opportunity, in that sense.)

The Brehon law keeps being called “pagan” and…no. No non noon no. It had its origins in pre-Christian Ireland, likely, and that’s why a ton of legal scholars, with a few noted exceptions, tend to be strongly Nativist, but that doesn’t mean that, by Gráinne’s time, it hadn’t been more or less adapted into Christian marriage in Ireland, albeit sometimes semi-awkwardly. (For example: Polygamy was allowed, but the law very much privileged the rights of chief wives, including their right to toss their husbands out on their ear for taking in a woman over their head.) There’s this odd obsession in the book with Brehon Law =/= Christian Law, and that’s definitely not the case. You wouldn’t have had two marriage ceremonies, one under the church and one under the Brehon Law, because the Brehon Law would apply no matter WHAT. It’d be like forcing a couple to undergo a ceremony after their official wedding where a bunch of lawyers read out of a law book to them. It just wouldn’t happen.

“The Augustinian monks of Umhall, who taught me history in my childhood, explained that when the Romans left England and that land sank into barbarism, it was missionaries from Ireland who took God’s words to the British tribes and taught them to read and write.

“Perhaps they hate us, Donal, for being a more ancient and educated race. Perhaps they mean to drag us down by treating us as savages until we do not remember ever having been anything else. And along the way they can take our land from us with a clear conscience because we are only savages and deserve no better.”

On one hand, it DOES capture that note of PRIDE that tends to be there, loud and clear, in the texts, especially, say, Auraicept na n-Éces, which claims that Irish is a perfectly formed language, made from all the best bits of the Tower of Babel’s languages. (And….well….”The land of saints and scholars”. Ireland WAS a hotspot of monastic activity.) And, honestly, I support showing off the literary side of Ireland, since it doesn’t get discussed enough. That being said, no monk in his right mind would have said that it Irish missionaries civilized Britain. Why? Because Patrick came from Britain. Or, rather, Britannia, more accurately. He wasn’t an Englishman, not in the modern sense, he would probably be Welsh today, but he was from a monastic, educated family (despite claiming his Latin was poor in his Confessio, it’s actually quite good - Patrick was a MASTER at using humility as a rhetorical device).

"Grania slept naked. She liked her skin to breathe as she slept, not encumbered with a gown that would twist and bind.” “And then Gráinne froze her ass off because the nights in Ireland, even in the warm heat of summer, are cold and bitter as a Norseman’s frozen tit, if there were, in fact, any Norsemen in Ireland in the 16th century, and frequently require multiple blankets + a solid duvet. Gráinne then died of pneumonia several weeks later, making for a very short book.” Also. Again. If this were a male author. I would have committed a murder at this point.

Reference to saffron dye - NICE. This was really a staple of the clothing, for both men and women, to the extent that it features a LOT in accounts of Ireland at this time.

“By the paps of Danu!” No one. In 16th century Ireland. Would have shouted out “By the paps of Danu!” “By the Washington Monument!” “By the Lincoln Memorial!” “By the stunning cliffs of Oregon!” Sounds rather silly, doesn’t it? (Though if you WANTED to start shouting “BY THE LINCOLN MEMORIAL!” Well. I’m not here to stop you.)

"She was small for a Gaelic woman, and pale, a tiny wraithlike creature who exuded a contradictory air of resilient strength.” I’m not going to say that Chambers is WRONG, because, of course, Irish women come in a variety of shapes and sizes. You know, like people everywhere. But I WILL say that, during my time here, it’s the only time in my life that I’ve felt at home, because, for the first time in my life, I’m not short. Also, I want it on the record that now, whenever I see her, I’m picturing the little old woman who sits in on research seminars and who has the entire department scared shitless. Tiny, but MIGHTY.

"Her only ornament was a triskele of silver in an ancient pattern, suspended upon her flat bosom by a leather thong.” The Triskele is a Neolithic symbol used through the Iron Age, DEFINITELY not in use, in Ireland, by the Early Modern Period.

"“Evleen Ni Brien-“ That would be “Ní Bhriain” in modern Irish. Normally, I wouldn’t be THIS nitpicky, but hey, if you’re patting yourself on the back for the research you did and then can’t be bothered to put in a fada + the proper possessive form of “Brian”. I also don’t THINK that the “Ní” form had been adopted yet, I’m fairly certain that’s modern, so it would, more properly, be Evleen iníon Bhriain. Though, since it emphasizes that she’s from the Dál Cais and the O’Briens are predominately associated with them, I’m going to GUESS the proper form would involve her father’s name. It would be “Evleen iníon *possessive form of father’s first name* Uí Briain”.

"He had only heard whispers of such people, but enough tales still abounded concerning them to make them readily identifiable—even if this one did claim the noble name O Brien.” You know, in Reign, when you have a bunch of druids dancing in the forest and everyone was like “That’s fucking ridiculous!” Yeah. Yeah. That’s exactly how I feel right now. Druids DID last for some time in Ireland after Christianity, but not INTO THE 16TH CENTURY.

"“Of course not. But neither can I forget that it was the strictures of that faith which kept me bound in marriage to a man I learned to despise.” Divorce was still a thing. There was no problem, in theory, with getting married at a fully Catholic altar and then dumping them for getting jiggy with the serving girls a few years down the line. Llewelyn’s misunderstanding of the relationship that the Church and the Brehon laws BOTH played in the lives of people (SHOCKINGLY ENOUGH, the Catholic Church was NOT seen as pure evil by every day people at the time, who had to flee into the arms of the Brehons for comfort from Mother Church. Note that I’m saying this as a confirmed and strong atheist.)

Can I just say that the scene where Gráinne’s feeling up Hugh (the OC) in his sleep would be MUCH creepier if the genders were reversed?

"But he was not the man he had always been. He was some different person here.” Wow, the sex must be REALLY good!

"set in violet shadows that spoke of wonderfully sleepless nights.” Why is it that when I stay up doing an all-nighter, I end up looking like a raccoon going through its emo phase, but when Gráinne tumbles some random dude for a little while, she gets “violet shadows?” It’s not right, I tell you.

"“Was your marriage so bad, Grania, that you have turned your back on your own womanhood forever?” GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Well. Now I know where The Pirate Queen gets its “Your ultimate worth as a woman and happiness in life is decided by whether or not you have a dick in you” philosophy. I wish I hadn’t known. But now I do.

“That’s the way it is with men,” he said. “They touch us. For the feel of strong arms around her and a solid chest to lean her head upon, a woman will put up with a lot of misery. It’s the curse of our skin to be hungry for the feel of a man’s skin.” GAAAAAAAAH. GAH.

"God the benevolent patriarch promises us rewards in the next world if we’re willing to sacrifice in this one. But maybe I don’t believe in patriarchs anymore.” Totally a thing that the real Gráinne Ní Mháille would have thought. Because women, in general, in the 16th century had the terminology to make these critiques in this exact way.

" If one satisfaction was snatched from her she would find another; if she lost love she would embrace hate, and glory in it.” Oh, god, not THIS motivation for a female character, please. Gráinne Ní Mháille was a hell raiser from birth, there’s no reason to think that, because she lost her boytoy, that really radically altered her life path.

“I wonder if Tigernan thinks you and I are damned,” she asked her husband. “We were wed in no chapel.” Given that there were nine degrees of marriage under the law, of varying types of legality, I doubt it.

Yay, exactly what this book needed: More sex!

I’ll be real: Richard Bingham playing Weddingcrashers at Margaret’s wedding only to nearly get his ass handed to him by two members of Gráinne’s family is truly an #Iconic moment. 10/10, if the rest of the book was like this I could die a happy woman.

"It was not an Irish face, but the eyes were unforgettable.” ….what is an “Irish face?” Especially post-Norman invasion? What does an Irish face look like?

“There are rumors he gained his inheritance by murder, and it is said outright that he and his mother between them drove his first wife into her grave.” Yay, the return of the Oedipus complex! My favorite thing in this book!

"Grania herself slept alone in a tiny walled guest chamber above, but she was aware of Richard sleeping in the same house. A strong man, sleeping naked in a bed … .

How people change, she thought to herself with amusement. This is definitely not the same Grania whom Donal an Chogaidh knew.”

Yay, MORE sex! MY FAVORITE THING. IN THE WORLD. BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT MY FIRST THOUGHT WAS WHEN I READ THE LIFE OF GRÁINNE NÍ MHÁILLE?"**MORE SEX**.”

" If Richard took her at all, he must take her under the old Gaelic concept of “marriage for one year certain” to see if they suited one another.” Ah, yes, the old Gaelic concept of marriage that mysteriously shows up in no legal texts, legends, or genealogical tracts. A very authentic Gaelic tradition, very old, much wow. (For what it’s worth….the Telltown marriages are as close as this comes, but the thing that makes them stand out is that everyone KNEW they were the oddballs.)

"According to pagan custom—which still lived in uneasy truce with Christianity in many parts of Ireland—there were ten degrees of marriage, all the way from a union between propertied partners of equal rank to union by abduction or the mating of the mad. From any of the ten a child could result, and the brehons therefore had allowed for every child’s rights to be recognized by the social order. No human containing an immortal spirit could be illegitimate.” The astonishing thing is that it’s very, very obvious that she read Cáin Lanamna for this…and then proceeded to not apply it to any other time except for when it was necessary.

"How can I be Grania if there is no Tigernan at my shoulder?” Yes, because we all know that the thing that really defined Gráinne Ní Mháille was, in fact, the men in her life.

"Evleen smiled. “At least it isn’t fettered with Christian chains,” she said. “You were wise.”” Oh, God help me. There’s no way to have a marriage in Early Modern Ireland not “fettered with Christian chains” because Christianity IS the religion of the people.

Remember when Gráinne was described as “More than master’s mate” to Richard Burke, implying a union that was mutually respectful? Yeah, me neither. I’m so glad he’s a one dimensional sexist with mommy issues. That’s such a new, innovative take on their relationship. I LOVE to see it. (Note: I’m saying this as someone who HATED Chambers’ blatant shipping in her biography, but hey. I can’t deny what the first hand evidence says. Unlike Chambers.)

" I’ll get the O Lee—he’s our ship’s physician, and at least he can-“ Unless the chieftain of the O’Lee family moonlights as a ship’s doctor, you wouldn’t call him The O’Lee. Just say “I’ll get Aidan O’Lee.” Or, even, “I’ll get the ship’s leech!”

“TAKE THIS FROM UNCONSECRATED HANDS.” I won’t say that all’s forgiven because, I’ll be honest, I really, really hate this novel at this point, but you know what? This forgives at least some of this novel’s sins. One of my favorite tales about her being brought to life on page by a very talented author does make for a high point, between this and Gráinne avenging the boytoy.

Okay, I’ll be real: The O’Donnell and Gráinne boasting about their respective kids is really, really cute, and I accept it because my very first exposure to Early Modern Ireland was “The Fighting Prince of Donegal.”

The O’Donnell talking shit about English poetry is…..very accurate to the time and the mood. My personal favorite genre of Early Modern Irish poetry is probably “The English aren’t shit.”

"Black Hugh nodded. Grania stood up, and Philip Sidney rose with her, as smoothly as if they were joined at the hip. Tigernan uttered a strangled curse. The sasanach was taking hold of Grania’s arm as if she were an old woman and he were a blackthorn stick for her to lean upon! Was that some English custom, insulting the strength of women? Or did he mean to grab her and make off with her?” Honestly, for once, Tigernan is a #Mood.

"But when Philip’s hands moved over her body, Grania discovered that all human landscapes have a certain similarity. She knew his touch as male, and hungry, and when she returned it in kind she felt a familiar rising response that flattered her and made her eager for more. Within the bed they did not seem to be foreigner and Gael. They were just man and woman, enjoying each other.” I ENDURED THE SEX SCENE WITH PHILIP FUCKING SYDNEY. SO THAT NO ONE ELSE HAS TO.

And, just like with Richard, no one can match up to Wonderful Boytoy Huw.

"She prances along the seaways as if she had a man’s balls, John, and by the bright blue eyes of God, it should be my hand that grabs those balls of hers and crushes them.”” Oh, GOD, I THOUGHT THAT THE PIRATE QUEEN’S MOST INFAMOUS LINE WAS JUST BAD LYRIC WRITING. I DIDN’T KNOW THEY TOOK IT *FROM THE NOVEL*. WHY, MORGAN LLEWELYN. WHY.

Look, I’ve made it to Chapter 24. There are 32 in total. I COULD read the rest of the way, since I want to see how poorly the treatment of Elizabeth is going to be (I’d be very shocked if there isn’t some variation of Not Like Other Girls involved), but also: I do not care at this point. I might pick it up again, but also: A bitch is tired. And illiterate. Perhaps, if I’m ever feeling brave, I’ll take on the last eight chapters, but for now: I’m calling it.

#long post #grace o'malley #gráinne ní mháille #chaos-yet-harmony

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murasaki-murasame · 5 years ago

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Thoughts on Sarazanmai Episode 9: “I Want To Connect, But I Can’t Express It”

We’ve officially reached the point where the tonal ratio of the show has shifted to 10% comedy, 90% “try not to cry. lay on the floor. cry a lot :(”

Thoughts under the cut.

Oh boy this episode sure was a lot all at once. Thankfully it managed to successfully juggle all the different character arcs and plot points it was dealing with.

Starting off with Reo and Mabu, it seems like Mabu has gotten good enough at cooking that Reo’s now finally convinced that he’s ‘back to his old self’, and he even sings Sara and Keppi’s little song about being the ‘ultimate couple’ while bringing home wine and pancakes for Mabu, in case anyone needed it spelled out even more explicitly that they’re in a relationship, lmao. But then things take a turn for the worse when Reo finds out that Mabu’s off being maintained, which leads to Maximum Cucking when he walks in on it happening, and the sexual element of the maintenance gets made as clear as ever. And of course Reo misunderstands the whole situation and Mabu’s feelings and motives, and now he’s back to even more aggressively rejecting Mabu as he is now. The visual of him standing in the circle diagram thing that’s usually used to show kappa zombie victims being ejected from the circle of society is very worrying. Let’s just hope he can realize what’s really going on before it’s all too late.

I’m kinda worrying more and more as this goes on that Reo and Mabu’s relationship and it’s nuances might not be getting across properly to anime-only people, since the anime hasn’t really given them a whole lot of screen-time, and like 99% of their backstory and prior relationship is just shown in external media. Maybe I’m just worrying too much, but I’ve definitely been seeing some people be confused about some of what’s going on with them. Though tbh I do also think that the whole maintenance scene in this episode was a little confusing in general. But still.

Over on Kazuki’s side of things, pretty much all of his scenes were about setting up his decision to go after Reo and Mabu to reclaim the stolen dishes of hope so that he can use the wish to save Enta’s life. Thankfully he’s finally starting to truly realize how important his connections with Enta and Toi are. It also looks like he finally remembered his meeting with Toi after Haruka showed him that poster of the soccer player they’ve been mimicking, so hopefully those two get to reunite before this all ends.

I don’t know if Toi is going to want to try and get the plates for himself, but we’re at least definitely looking at a conflict between Reo and Kazuki, who both in this episode have resolved to steal the other person’s plates so they can make a wish to save someone else. In a lot of ways this episode really hammers in the parallel going on between Reo-Mabu and Kazuki-Enta, but I still do think that, out of the two of them, Kazuki probably deserves the wish more, since Enta’s in a genuinely life or death state, whereas Reo just needs to accept that Mabu is still Mabu. The synopsis for ep10 [which was accidentally leaked in place of ep9′s synopsis last week, lol] spells out that Kazuki is going to infiltrate the otter hide-out to retrieve the plates, so we’re barrelling head-on into endgame territory. In a lot of ways I think this show would have benefited from more than 11 episodes, but at the very least I think they could wrap things up pretty nicely with just two more episodes.

And over on the topic of Toi, he and his brother sure ended up being the tragic MVPs of this episode. It wasn’t exactly the most unexpected thing over, but they really drove home the tragedy of Chikai’s inevitable death. He was just too far gone, with too many enemies to ever be able to live a normal life. And the idea of crossing a line you can’t go back from is something that Chikai seems completely aware of, since throughout this episode he seems to be trying to give Toi every chance to change his mind and go back, while reminding him that if goes through with this, it’ll be irreversible. I think that even the whole scene at the end of him putting a gun to Toi’s head was his way of trying to scare him into going back to his old life once and for all.

Chikai’s a really morally grey character, and I think a lot of people are gonna hate him after this episode, but I think he just serves as a tragic example of what Toi’s life could turn out like if he ‘crosses the river’ that he can never return from. I don’t think he exactly enjoys any of the criminal activities he’s been doing, but he just doesn’t have any options left, especially now that the cops are onto him and the other gang people he knows are turning on him. Even when he killed Masa, I think he only did it because he could tell that he might have leaked out the fact that Toi was the one to shoot that gang leader four years ago, which Chikai’s been taking the blame for to protect him.

And on the whole note of moral ambiguity, Toi also literally kills at least one dude in this episode. I’m pretty sure he at least killed one of the gang members in this episode, if I’m remembering right. And we found out that he’s been holding onto the real gun he used to kill the gang leader dude, after having previously thrown out a copy. Though I guess we knew right from the start of the show that he still had the gun on him.

The whole sequence before and after the credits of Chikai dying on the boat and Toi remembering their childhood together and then angrily throwing away all of his cash was absolutely heartbreaking, and so much more emotionally blunt than I expected. I’m very curious to see if he’s going to want to take the plates for himself to revive his brother, or if he’s going to accept his death and move on with his life, for better or worse. He’s at least at the point where he still has a chance to go back to his old life, especially now that everyone who knew about his more criminal acts are dead [except for Kazuki and Enta]. Considering the whole ‘crossing the river’ theme, it’s pretty fitting that Toi’s on top of a boat sailing through the middle of the river when Chikai dies. He’s in this transitory space where he still has one last chance to step back before he fully crosses over.

I have a feeling that the big showdown will just be between Reo and Kazuki, but I think Toi’s still going to be important to the last two episodes, and he’s probably going to reunite with the trio again before it ends. So I’m curious to see how that all turns out.

I’ve never really cared too much for shipping any of the main trio, but I could honestly see Kazuki and Toi ending up together at this rate, with how the story as a whole is building up.

Before I forget, there’s also the whole thing with how Keppi was able to apparently turn Enta into a kappa so that he can presumably help Kazuki with getting back the plates, even though he’s on a time limit before he dies once and for all. Which sets up some pretty tangible stakes for these final few episodes. I’m at least glad they got to hug, though. That was really cute, in a sad way. I still hope that Enta’s able to properly let Kazuki know how he feels about him before this all ends.

The next episode synopsis also seems to imply that we’ll get more backstory about Reo and Mabu’s connection to Keppi, so that’ll be exciting. There’s still a lot of aspects to their role in the otter-kappa war that’s still confusing and unclear even to people who’ve been keeping up with all the side material for the series, so it’d be good to get that sorted out. And with how surprisingly blunt a lot of the exposition and backstory has been in this show, I wouldn’t be too surprised if it does all get spelled out in the next episode.

Most of all I’m still hoping that the anime delves into Reo and Mabu’s connection to Sara, since that hasn’t really come up at all, aside from the vague references to Sara knowing them and thinking that they’re good people. I’m pretty sure it’s been said multiple times that the manga [and the twitter] aren’t alternate universe stories, but actually part of the timeline of the series, so it’d be a bit weird if the whole aspect of them having raised her doesn’t come up.

I’m still keeping in mind the possibility that the manga might be some sort of an epilogue where the anime [hypothetically] ends with time being looped back, and Sara choosing to insert herself into Reo and Mabu’s lives. So it could still be ‘canon’ to the anime without being a conventional prequel.

Anyway, we’re firmly in the final arc of the series now, and pretty much all of the previous patterns and recycled sequences have been abandoned in favour of more important plot stuff. I wouldn’t be too surprised if we get one last Sarazanmai no Uta and/or Kawausoiya sequence for good measure before it all ends, though.

#murasaki rambles #sarazanmai #this episode ripped out my heart and threw it into a river :)

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aimtrainer · 3 years ago

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Child Protective Services FAQ

Show worry for your kids

Listen more than you talk

Request accurate data from CPS, they will regularly utilize expressions, for example, "we have concerns" or "it has been affirmed" or "we accept"

Try not to GUESS about your responses to any CPS questions

Try not to GUESS concerning what others knew or didn't have the foggiest idea

Try not to SAY the accompanying, "he could never do something like this" "I don't really accept that that occurred" "my youngster is lying"

Have the option to unmistakably clarify how your house is a protected home for your kids

Have the option to give positive references who have continuous contact with you and your youngsters

Try not to blow your top

Toward the finish of the discussion request that the CPS specialist sum up her conversation with you, her discoveries, any moves she is thinking about making and her purposes behind making those moves.

2. Do I have to have a lawyer with me at whatever point I meet with CPS?

CPS laborers don't care for legal counselors. Shockingly, a legal advisor who is curious about with CPS and adopts some unacceptable strategy in managing CPS might do you more damage than anything else. An accomplished CPS legal advisor can assist with explaining the issues, put forth your perspective in a positive way, and limit the danger of your kids being taken into child care.

3. CPS needs me to carry my kids to their workplaces for a gathering. How would it be advisable for me to respond?

This is an arrangement. Never under any circumstance take your youngsters to CPS workplaces without your attorney directly close to you. This strategy is utilized by CPS to get you to give up the youngsters to them at there workplaces rather than them going to the work of eliminating the kids from your home. To sum up, take your youngsters with you to CPS and odds are good that you'll be returning home alone.

4. CPS needs me to sign a "Security Plan" or they will bring my kids into child care. How would it be a good idea for me to respond?

A Safety Plan discloses to you that you need to observe certain guidelines to keep your kids with you in the home. For example, by and large, the Safety Plan will train you to eliminate a supposed victimizer from your home, or to clean your home, or to take part in guiding. You should find out if you can follow the Safety Plan - on the off chance that you can't, you are in danger of having your kids eliminated. You should ensure that both you and CPS get what precisely the Safety Plan advises you to do or not do. Numerous kids are taken out every year since CPS deciphered the Safety Plan uniquely in contrast to the parent did. Ask CPS when does the Safety Plan lapse. Assuming no termination date is given, you are perpetually in danger of having your kids taken out. As usual, attempt to survey the Safety Plan with a legal advisor before you sign it.

5. CPS needs me to isolate from my significant other or spouse and to get my youngsters far from him/her. How would it be a good idea for me to respond?

Take care of business. CPS consistently accepts that sexual maltreatment has happened, regardless current realities and rationale propose, and that youngsters consistently know what they are discussing. The issue is that in the event that you question any of current realities, your youngster will be out of your home. It is a tough spot, yet you should ALWAYS pick your kid over your life partner.

6. CPS has done an "Crisis Removal" and put my kids into child care. How would it be advisable for me to respond?

Discover however much you can concerning why the youngsters were taken into child care. Pose inquiries, yet volunteer little data now. Be useful. Mention to the CPS laborer what your kid enjoys and doesn't care for, and advise her regarding any meds your kid may be taking or other exceptional necessities the individual in question may have. Request an encounter with your youngster. Regularly, you will get a one hour visit one time seven days. Try not to compromise the CPS specialist and do whatever it takes not to show an excessive amount of outrage. On the off chance that the CPS specialist feels compromised by you or faculties that you are "temperamental" it will just damage your odds of getting your youngster home. Recommend family members who would have transitory ownership of your kid. Attempt to make courses of action to get your youngster a portion of his toys, clothing, and different belongings that will cause him to have a sense of safety while in child care.

7. I got legitimate papers revealing to me I have a court hearing to decide transitory care of my kids. How would it be advisable for me to respond?

Time is basic. You will have a Court hearing inside 14 days of the date your kid was taken out from your ownership. At the meeting, the Court will decide if there is a proceeding with risk to your youngster in your home. CPS will have their specialists, lay observers, specialists and cops prepared to affirm. Who will affirm for your benefit? Who will put forth your perspective to the Court? Do you realize how to interrogate an observer or how to have a problem with inappropriate declaration? You need legitimate portrayal. On the off chance that you need time to enlist a lawyer, ask the Judge for an extra two weeks to recruit one. Your kid should remain in child care, however commonly it is smarter to stand by two extra weeks and be genuinely ready for court as opposed to hurrying in ill-equipped.

A few things can occur at the underlying or "multi day hearing." Your youngster can be gotten back to your consideration (this seldom occurs); CPS can find ways to decide if a relative would have the option to really focus on the kid, or your kid can proceed in child care for a time of somewhere around 60 days. A CPS case can be won or lost now. Without forceful portrayal at the multi day hearing, there is an undeniable possibility that your kid will go through months in child care - conceivably without legitimization.

8. CPS is revealing to me my kids have been physically mishandled. How would it be a good idea for me to respond?

Kindly don't say, "I don't trust it" or "that is false" or "she recounts stories" or anything that gives CPS the prospect that you don't accept sexual maltreatment has happened. Show certified concern. Inquire, "how would i be able to deal with ensure I am giving my youngster a protected home?" Ask the CPS specialist questions. Look for definite replies. Who is the supposed victimizer? When did the maltreatment happen? How frequently has the maltreatment happened? Precisely what did happen? (you need to get over your humiliation and request realistic insights concerning what occurred). You should inquire as to whether you was aware of the sexual maltreatment or had any clue that it was occurring. What has your youngster told CPS? Except if you persuade CPS that you knew nothing about the sexual maltreatment and that you can shield the kid from the victimizer, your youngster will be put outside your home.

9. CPS is revealing to me my youngsters have been dismissed. How would it be a good idea for me to respond?

"Disregard" signifies various things to various individuals. Pose inquiries. Look for explicit replies. Attempt to get CPS to consent to leave the youngsters with you while you take an interest in nurturing classes or different administrations CPS suggests. On the off chance that your home is filthy, clean it. In case it's actually grimy after you clean, move. You might need to consent to do different things like spot the kids in childcare, or change your work hours. Keep in mind, you are doing these things to keep your youngsters with you.

10. CPS is revealing to me my kids have been truly mishandled. How would it be advisable for me to respond?

Actual maltreatment as a rule happens in one of two examples:

1. The instance of the child who is shaken or beaten by a grown-up. Cases including wounds infants and little youngsters are the most troublesome primarily in light of the fact that the casualty can't talk. You need to persuade CPS that you didn't harm your youngster and that your house is protected. This is extremely challenging. CPS needs to realize who harmed the kid and until somebody approaches with a clarification, the kid isn't returning home. Try not to make up stories, for example, "he moved off the bed." Do not conceal on the off chance that you realize who hurt the youngster - except if the individual you are ensuring is more essential to you than your kid. Your lawyer might propose you take an untruth finder test. You should endeavor to acquire legitimate guidance.

2. The instance of ill-advised actual discipline of a kid. On account of inappropriate discipline, you get an opportunity of keeping your kid at home, yet you must take an interest in nurturing classes and directing. Obviously, it will rely too upon the kind of wounds supported by the kid and if there gives off an impression of being a long-standing example of inappropriate actual discipline - for instance the utilization of additional strings to oversee spankings is misuse and may bring about evacuation of the youngster.

11. CPS reveals to me I needn't bother with an attorney at the crisis court hearing. Is this valid?

You need a legal counselor. CPS Test is addressed by the District Attorney. Your kids will have their own lawyer. You won't be fruitful addressing yourself. Additionally, don't succumb to the line, "this is just brief." Many an end case begins with such a portrayal.

12. I'm humiliated to educate my family concerning my CPS case. How would it be a good idea for me to respond?

In the event that your family can help you in any capacity, monetary, enthusiastic, or as a transitory situation for your kids, advise them. A CPS case could be the most genuine legitimate matter in your life. It is no an ideal opportunity to "go it single-handedly." Show CPS that you come from a decent family and that you have their help - it will have an effect.

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pinebypine · 5 years ago

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Canis Minor

Triplet AU fic. After the events of The New Toy with some reference to it.

Ty lead the crowd into the next room, grabbed hold of the silk pull cord and turned to address the gaping yokels behind her. “Ladies and Gentleman, be astounded by the horrible teen wolf-boy!” With a tug, the old velvet curtains parted to reveal a large wood and iron cage, with a sulking figure inside. Dipper Pines had grown since the last time they’d tried this gag and the wolf-boy costume was probably too small now. Ty gave her brother a surreptitious wink and continued with her spiel. “Look at his terrifying visage! All that awkward body hair and gangly limbs!”

The crowd gabbled a little and several camera flashes filled the room with blinding light. In the cage, Dipper winced a little at the flashes. Ty inched closer to the cage and whispered low. “Everything going all right in there, Dip? This is the last batch for today.”

All she got in response was a low growling noise. “So you’ve finally decided to take the role seriously? That’s the spirit; have some fun with it.” She returned her attention to the punters and raised her voice again. “Captured years ago in the New Jersey Pine Barrens the wolf-boy’s only known weaknesses are silver and talking to la…”

She was cut off mid word by a pair of furry hands shooting from between the bars on either side of her. One wrapped around her midsection and the other clamped firmly over her mouth. She was drawn back against the bars of the cage. She felt pressure on her neck and a furry cloth ear was rubbing against her cheek.

Screams erupted from the crowd, who drew back away from the grrapple girl. “It’s gonna eat her!” A woman screamed.

“Ah! Somebody help!”

“Oh this is gonna be good.” A camera flash went off from someone in the front row of people.

Ty froze in shock. Dipper’s teeth were pressed gently against the skin of her neck, near the hairline. The hand over her mouth was firm but not holding her tight enough to hurt. The pinky finger of this other hand had just slipped under the hem of her shirt and she could feel as he started to slide the hand up toward more sensitive spots. Dipper’s breath, hot as a hair dryer, washed over her throat and collarbone.

The head of a broom smacked against the cage bars next to Ty’s head, startling Dipper into releasing his grip. Ty fell away from the cage and managed to keep her balance. Mabel shoved the broom into the cage’s interior and poked at Dipper to herd him back. “Nothing to worry about folks; he does this about once a week.” She glowered at Dipper dramatically. “And he’s lucky it was the broom this time.”

Ty breathed heavily, trying to get her heart-rate back down. She felt her sister’s hand on her shoulder. Mabel caught her eye, an unspoken question, and Ty nodded that she was fine. Then the oldest triplet addressed the stunned crowd of tourists. “Welp. Since it looks like you all are done with the tour, I bet you wanna see our amazing gift shop! We’ve got piles of awesome stuff for you to buy.”

She herded the people away, leaving the younger two alone. Ty walked up to the cage and flipped the latch to open it. “What earth did you think you were doing, Dipper?” She raised a hand to her cheek where she could feel the heat of a blush in full swell.

Dipper hung his head and stared at his hands. “I’m sorry, Ty. I don’t know what came over me. You were just so close and you-” he inhaled deeply through his nose”-you smell so good. I was just… Sorry.” He gave her a sheepish look and rubbed his bare shoulder with a furry hand. “I almost blew our cover there, huh?”

Ty sighed. “I think they bought it as an ‘attack’ but that was the penultimate entry on your ‘stupidest moves of all time’ list. Are you feeling okay? I remember you sneezing some this morning.”

He shook his head as if trying to clear it. “I’m just feeling a little cloudy; like its hard to focus.” He shivered a little in the cage. “Is it cold in here?”

The temperature outside was only two degrees off for a record high and the shack didn’t have air conditioning; Ty was in a tank top and shorts and was still perspiring. Even though Dipper’s costume was shirtless, she was having a hard time imagining him being actually cold in here. She reached up and pushed away his shaggy hair to lay her palm over his forehead.

“That’s a fever, Dip; you should probably go to bed.” Ty wrinkled her nose and pulled back. “And probably take a shower first. You reek.”

Dipper rolled his eyes and made a face. “It’s not me. I just stepped in a pile of some sort of ‘droppings’ in the woods this morning when I was looking around.”

“Well, a shower wouldn’t kill you anyway. Just go and have one and then lay down. Mabel or I will bring you something to eat later.”

He conceded and headed upstairs. Ty had to take a few minutes to calm down before getting back to work.

We have got to come up with someplace around to get some real privacy, Ty thought, or else I’m going to explode.

“Dipper, how my favorite brother?” Mabel burst through the door andstarted to launch herself onto the comforter lump that was her brother when a pair of arms caught her about the waist and pulled her back.

“Shh! He’s probably still sleeping.” Ty whispered, trying to restrain her sister.

“Poot,” Mabel pouted, “he’s been asleep since dinner. Was he really that sick?”

“He seemed out of it and was sporting a fever.” Ty released her and went over to cautiously check on her brother. “Must have been feeling really bad, he didn’t even take off the wolf costume.” She reached down and touched a furry pointed ear.

“He didn’t?” Mabel picked up a wadded pile of cloth from the floor, a headband with cloth ears set on top. “Then what’s this?”

Ty froze.

She gingerly pinched the furry thing between her fingers. It had the consistency of fur, skin, and cartilage. “Um, Mabel darling. Could you be a dear and come over here for second?” She released whatever it was she was holding and stepped back from the bed.

Mabel sauntered over and peered into the bed linen. Her eyes went wide. “Puppy?” In one smooth motion, she whipped the blanket back from the pointy ears. Surprised by the sudden temperature change, Dipper yelled himself awake and shot upright in bed.

“Ahh! What the heck are you doing?”

Ty’s hand went to her mouth in surprise and she took a step back. Mabel stood stock still for a moment, staring at her brother’s face. After a moment, he noticed the looks on their faces. “What did I drool on all over myself or something?” He started furiously wiping at his chin and cheeks with one hand.

Mabel seemed transfixed. “So scruffy.” She reached out slowly with both hands and touched the triangular ears sprouting from Dippers head They were very soft; instinct took over and she gently rubbed them.

Dipper’s eyelids fluttered closed and he leaned in toward her. “Oh damn that feels good.”

Ty darted to the pile of books at Dipper’s bedside and she started to rummage through them rapidly.

As Dipper’s face came closer to Mabel’s body, he inhaled sharply. In a flash, his arms wrapped around Mabel’s waist and he pulled her down onto the bed. His lips pressed against her’s and she felt him grind his body into her. From somewhere deep inside Dipper, a hungry sort of sound began to thrum.

Ty found the book she was looking for, a heavy leather tome with a six fingered hand embossed on the cover. She began flipping through the pages as Mabel started to rake her nails down her brother’s back.

Dipper broke the kiss and began to nibble down Mabel’s neck, making her whimper softly.

Without taking her eyes off the pages she was reading, Ty rose, book in hand, and deftly grabbed a furry ear between thumb and forefinger. She pinched hard and began to drag Dipper off the bed.

“Ow ow ow ow ow ow. What -ow- are you -ow- doing?”

Mabel groaned frustratedly. “Geez sis, why you got to Dipper-block me like that?”

In response, Ty began reading aloud. “Those suffering from the condition known as Gerulphus Transcursorius develop many symptoms such as, but not limited to, sensory hypersensitivity, impulse control impairment, and most notably, extensive canid physiological transformation.”

Dipper’s stopped struggling as she spoke. “Gerulphus Transwhaticus?” He reached up with a hand and touched the ear that Ty still held painfully. “What they heck is that!?” He was nearly screaming.

Ty released him and resumed reading as Dipper scrambled to his feet and over to the mirror mounted on the wall of the bedroom. “Also known as Transitory Lycanthropy or the wereflu, Gerulphus Transcursorius is a paranormal viral affliction that can inflect humans who come in close contact with a true lycanthrope, lycanthrope excreta, or other carriers of the disease. It causes behavioral changes and a physical transformation very much like that of a true lycanthrope.”

Dipper had reached the mirror and at this point yelped in horror and surprise at seeing his appearance. Along with the ears, he was also quite a bit more hirsute than normal. Shaggy brown hair reached down his cheeks and neck, far longer and fuller than he was ever able to grow on his own. “I’m turning into a werewolf?”

Mabel hopped up from the bed and hugged him from behind. “Yeah but so far a totes adorable one. You’re like a big fluffy puppy!”

His sister’s scent filled Dipper’s nose and he nearly staggered as it seemed to occupy his whole brain. Mabel’s fingers wriggled into the thick hair that was growing on his torso, sending shivers of electricity up and down his body. He banged a hand on the table in an effort to keep a hold on himself. “What does the journal say about a cure?”

Ty raised an eyebrow at him. “Would you like the good news or the bad news first?”

“Ugh, good news, I guess.”

“The good news is that it’s not permanent. The wereflu runs its course over three to four days and then everything goes back to normal.”

Dipper let out a sigh of relief. “And the bad news?”

“You’re in the beginning stages right now, so there’s lots more to come.”

Mabel started to giggle behind her brother’s back. She reached an inquisitive hand up and felt Dipper’s bottom. “Is that a tail in your PJs or are you just happy to see me?”

Dipper struggled out her arms and pulled down the back of his pajama pants. Sure enough, a short little tail was sprouting from his backside. He tried to peer closer at it and ended up walking in a couple of circles before Mabel grabbed him by the shoulders and pointed his butt at the mirror.

“Oh jeeze. How am I going to keep everybody from noticing this?”

“Least of your problems, Dipbutt.” Ty flipped the journal around to show them the relevant pages. There was a series of transitional drawings, showing a human figure morphing into a form indistinguishable from a wolf.

Mabel proffered an idea. “We put a collar on him and pretend we found this dog in the woods.”

“How does that explain where I’ve gone in the meantime?”

“Ok. Fair point.” Ty shrugged. “If you just stay in here for a couple days, and stay ‘sick,’ nobody would have to see you.”

“If one of us stayed locked up here for four days, even Grunkle Stan would get worried and come to check.” Dipper put a finger to his chin and thought for a second. “Do you think he and Soos could manage without us for a few days?”

“Probably, we’re really only here for the busy part of the season next month. Other than that I think it’s mostly so Stan doesn’t have actually pay anybody to work here.”

Dipper looked from one sister to the other. “How would you two feel about a little triplet camping trip?”

*****

“Man, so you think that was werewolf poo?” Mabel adjusted her pack as they walked.

Her brother was pretty much his normal shape still, a few paces ahead and sometimes teetering under the weight of his own pack. “It’s the only explanation I can come up with. And where else you expect a wolf man to go? That can’t just walk into a gas station and ask for the bathroom key.”

“I suppose,” Ty said from the rear of their little group, “that means we’ll need to be on the look out for one while we’re out here.”

“That’s why we headed out from the shack in the exact opposite direction from where I went yesterday.”

They spotted a promising looking level spot on the mountainside for their campsite, protected on the side toward the peak by an outcropping of rock and a stream not far away. After they’d reach it, they deposited their packs on the ground and started to extract their equipment from them.

“Hey Ty,” Mabel’s voice rose to her usual, telling-a-joke sing-song, “wanna know the easiest way to pitch a tent?”

Ty dutifully obliged. “Of course, I would.”

Mabel sidled up to her brother, tapped him on the shoulder, and when he turned toward her, threw her arms around him. She leaned heavily against his chest, and buried her face into the fur of his shoulder and neck. After lingering moment of time, she separated from him and gestured at his pelvis with one hand. “Ta-da!” She cried triumphantly.

Dipper spun away from them and frantically tried to rectify the situation in his pants. Mabel threw her head back laughter and Ty giggled a little.

“I don’t know why you’re so embarrassed, Dip.” Ty tried to sound comforting. “We’ve both seen you excited before. A lot actually. There’s nothing to hide.”

“I just feel kind of exposed out here.”

“Well that’s dumb.” Mabel made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “There isn’t anybody out here for miles!” As if to reinforce her assertion, the last word echoed off into the distance for a long time. “Heck if it’s as hot tomorrow as it was today, than we’re going skinny dipping in that stream over there.”

By the time the sun was setting and they were preparing an evening meal of hotdogs and s’mores. Dipper was shifting nervously whenever he sat in one place or pacing around the camp. The girls huddled together against the growing chill and watch him for a while before finally Mabel broke down and had to speak.

“Are you gonna do that all night or do you want to come over here and cuddle with two hot little pieces of booty?”

Ty bumped her sister’s shoulder with her own. “Speak for yourself, I’m a refined lady that just happens to have a hot little booty.”

Dipper scratched at the collar of his shirt with one hand and tried to adjust his pants to a more comfortable position with the other. The bulge of his tail was visible down one pant leg, straining against the fabric. “Sorry, I’m just a bit uncomfortable. Getting kind of itchy and hot.”

Mabel cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled. “Take it off!”

Dipper laughed nervously but actually tugged down on the hem of his t-shirt as if to make sure it was more on than ever. “Look, stuff is probably already pretty weird under here and I don’t think it’s gonna get less weird any time soon. I don’t think you guys really want to see me.”

“Are you kidding?” Mabel jumped to her feet. “I’ve never been more curious about anything in my life!”

Ty rose as well, took her sister’s hand and went over to take Dipper’s as well. “The three of us have a very skewed scale for weird, bro. You really don’t have anything to be scared of.”

Dipper breathed in a deep lungful of air and then took a sharp step away. “Ok, ok but keep back, will ya? When you two get close its really overpowering.” The girls shared a look at that comment. Dipper pulled off his t-shirt and kicked his tennis shoes off his feet. Finally he dropped trou and stretched naked in the fire light. Then as if it were the easiest thing in the world, he gave his entire body a huge shake, like a dog that’s just come out of a lake.

“Wow,” Mabel side. “That’s bizarro.”

Dipper’s ears went back and he looked away at her comment.

“Oh I mean good bizarro.” She back pedalled furiously. “Really cool looking and not like ‘yuck’ or anything.”

Ty was taking a careful visual survey of her brother. “You look a bit like a wookie at this stage, cept for the ears and tail, of course. It’s really cool that your fur’s the same color as your hair is.” She almost took a step toward him and then stopped herself, remembering his request.

Dipper smiled wanly and then actually chuckled. Then he stuck his fists in the air and imitated Chewbacca’s roaring growl noise. All three of them laughed heartily; the tension starting to ease out of the air a little. The girls went to sit back by the fire. Dipper paused for a moment, then crouched, almost sitting on his haunches.

They sat for a while, not saying much. The fire crackled and collapsed slightly. Ty leant over and placed a kiss on her sister’s temple, who in kind turned back toward her so they were face to face. They kissed deeply. When Ty came back up for air she glanced over as if just now remembering that Dipper was there too. Her eyes when a little wide.

“Ok, that’s new. Well, not new but you know-” she was very obviously trying not to stare at what was now sticking up between Dipper’s legs, “-not what I’m used to.”

Dipper looked down and then jumped in surprise.

Mabel turned to see and laughed. “Achievement unlocked: Red Rocket!”

Their brother started grasping around for something to put over his lap and found his discarded t-shirt. “Sorry about that.”

Ty sighed. “We’re not trying to embarrass you, Dippin-sauce. I’m sorry I even mentioned it; it was very-” she paused to think of the right word, “-high contrast.”

“It looked like a tube of lipstick.” Mabel tried to stifle her giggle.

“Not helping.” Ty said through clenched teeth.

“Can we just change the subject off my weird looking junk for now?” Dipper sat crosslegged by the fire, adjusting the t-shirt to minimize the visual effect his excitement.

“Well,” Ty asked, “then will you tell us what it is with you and smell since all this started.”

“Oh that.” Dipper scratched behind one ear with the fingers of his hand. “It’s like my nose is on overdrive right now. I mean, I normally really like the way you two smell, but since yesterday it’s really overpowering.”

“But it’s only when we’re close?” Mabel leaned forward and dropped another log on their fire.

“I can smell you even over here, with the smoke and fire between us. I can tell you both used the same bug spray but different sunscreen. Mabel, you still smell of that cherry lime lip gloss even though you haven’t put any on since we left the shack this morning. Ty, you’ve still got some gum in your shorts pocket. We’re actually burning two different kinds of wood in this fire and I can even still smell the juice that dripped onto the logs when we were cooking dinner. But if one of you gets close enough, god damn, it’s like my whole brain gets taken over by it and some part of me wakes up and it wants nothing more than to just be close to that wonderful smell.”

“Do we smell different?” Ty asked.

“Oh yea,” Dipper nodded, “that’s not new. Mabel is a little fruitier, more sweet, and it’s not your bath products cause you’re kind of more sugary when you’re just a little sweaty. Ty, you’re more herbal or rich; like a really well made leather purse filled with fresh cut flowers.”

Mabel looked like she considered this for a moment, then leaned over and sniffed the side of Ty’s face. “Yea ok. I could get behind a flowery purse.”

Ty gave Dipper a look tinged with longing. “Bro, would it be ok if I got close for a minute? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable but…”

“No it’s ok; thanks for the warning.”

The middle triplet rose and strode over to where he sat, then bent down over him. Dipper’s muscles tensed as her long hair started to brush against his shoulders. He felt her hand rest on the back of his head and her face come very close to his scalp. She inhaled deeply. Her voice was warm when she spoke. “Yep, still Dipper. Kinda musky and dark.”

Mabel’s face rose in excitement. “Oh! Are you talking when he’s in that sweat zone between hasn’t showered recently but isn’t full of boy stink yet?” Ty nodded to her. “That is the best.” She caught Dipper’s eyes. “Can I? Please.” He nodded and she sprinted over to him. She looked for a moment like she was going to tackle him but stopped short. Instead,s he knelt by him and brought her face near to his fur.

Dipper’s heart was pounding in his chest; his head was swimming. He hadn’t felt like this since before last Thanksgiving, before he’d known how open to his advances his sisters would be. He was terrified again, because he wanted so badly to touch them, be with them in all ways, but right now it seemed like the worst possible thing.

A slender hand slid along his cheek; another scratched under the fur on the back of his neck. He thought he ought to rise, to remove himself from a situation he thought was getting out of hand before he lost control and did something that might upset them.

“It’s late.” A voice said near by him and it was one of the few times in his life when he’d been unable to identify which sister was speaking. “I think it’s time we all got in that tent.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t.” He managed to stammer; his brain was so full of their smells, swirling together and driving him crazy.

A finger tapped forcefully against the side of Dipper’s head. He started to focus again a little and was able to make out his sister’s faces only a few inches from his. “Look, dweeb.” Mabel’s voice was full of affection. “We know what we’re asking.” She waggled her eyebrows at him. “Lets let the animal out a little.”

*****

Dipper was awake long before sunrise, but he lay amid the tangle of bodies and limbs for a very long time, just soaking in the pleasure. Camping was something they were going to need to add to their regular list of activities. It was probably one of the few ways in the world that three people their age could be really alone without having to worry too much. They might need to start bringing a couple of tents, though, just to keep up appearances.

Eventually the call of nature started to tug at Dipper and despite wanting very much to continue his tradition of being a late riser, he gave up and left the tent. He was in the open of the campsite before he realized that he was on all fours and that it felt more natural than walking on two normally did.

Well, he thought, this was to be expected. Just a couple of days and I can go back to being me.

He paused on the way to the stream near their camp to hike a leg against a tree, laughing internally at himself as he did so. Then he continued down to the water and looked himself over in the makeshift mirror of the surface. If he hadn’t known any better, Dipper would never have guessed he wasn’t looking at a real wolf, or at least a big wolf-like dog. He tamped down the worry inside himself and tried his hardest to enjoy it. He’d had such a good night that he had to let some of that spill over into today.

He raised his head and sniffed the air; it was so amazing what this new nose could do. He could count the species of trees and could catch hints of rabbits and other small creatures up wind of him. There was something else, too, a smell he wasn’t sure about. It was meaty and harsh, like a two day old steak that had been rubbed with a bar of tallow soap. It was almost familiar

Dipper’s ears twitched as he heard a sound. Some dark instinct inside him said that that was a large paw being placed very carefully among the underbrush. A low growl escaped Dipper’s throat before he even realized he was doing it. The long fur on his neck and shoulders was rising on its own and a loud, wordless voice was screaming in Dipper’s brain.

Protect. Protect. Protect.

This was his territory. His family was here. His mates were here. He’d peed on it. It was his. He spotted the source of the smell and sound a dozen yards or so away on the opposite banks of the stream. A tawny wolf that looked to be the size of a horse was carefully pacing through the trees, keeping one of its yellow eyes on Dipper at all times. Dipper finally put two and two together and he recognized the smell. Yesterday, when he’d been swearing and cleaning his shoe, this smell had been underneath all the stink, the lowest undercurrent of a river. This was the werewolf.

Wolfs don’t have a spoken language of any kind. Even howling is more about location than meaning. But two wolves face to face can make their intentions known to one another. Dipper and the werewolf stared each other in the eye for a long time, and the bigger one’s intentions were not subtle.

You have something I want, pup. I am just deciding the easiest way to take it.

Dipper was obviously new to all of this, but he was pretty sure he was making himself clear as well.

If you take so much as one step closer, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.

The bigger wolf’s posture changed very subtly. He ceased its pacing and sat on his haunches. He didn’t growl or posture and he could not have been more easy to understand.

You can try all you want but I’ll be standing over your corpse in about thirty seconds no matter what you do, little boy.

Dipper’s brain worked furiously. He’d never been in a dogfight before. The way his body was moving so naturally told him that at least some instinctual part of him had pulled out this body’s manual and could be relied on. Still, the other wolf was twice his size and had certainly been at this longer than he. He needed an advantage, something that would level the playing field.

Dipper threw his head back and howled.

The tawny wolf actually looked surprised at this and his stunned expression lasted the full length of Dipper’s howl. The moment the descending note from Dipper ended, though, he sprang into action. The sudden movement triggered reflexes on both sides and in an instant two furry bodies hurtled through the space between them and collided in a crash.

They were a ball of flashing teeth and fur. Dipper was relying on his instincts but he wasn’t letting them rule him. He didn’t go for the throat; he didn’t take openings on his opponent’s vulnerables. Dipper dodged absolutely everything he could and what few bites he attempted were to harry and slow the bigger animal. To that effect, he did manage some success; he scored a hit on the rear leg just above the ankle that immediately began to flow with blood.

But his luck couldn’t hold out forever and in their maneuvering, they had neared the water’s edge. One of Dipper’s paws tried to take hold on a slick wet rock and flew up from under his weight. The dark little wolf took a sprawling tumble into the stream and his head bounced off tree root, stunning him. Dipper felt teeth at the back of his neck.

He thought dryly, this is going to be hard death to explain if anyone askes.

A sound like an overfilled car tire being stabbed rang through the forest, followed briefly by a whistling noise and unwinding cable. Then the pressure on Dipper’s neck released and he heard the werewolf cry out in pain. He managed to raise his head above the water and saw his sisters at the top of the stream bank, naked, sleep ruffled, and looking like valkyries.

Mabel was braced against a tree, straining to hold the force being put on her grappling hook as it hauled the werewolf toward them. As it neared, Ty stepped forward to meet it and held a bright orange pistol at arm’s length. She put the flare gun against the creature’s cheek and pulled the trigger.

Dipper hauled himself to his paws and trudged over to the limp form of the werewolf. It wasn’t dead, but the side of its head looked like a war zone. He stood over the bigger creature, growled low, and knew he was understood.

I told you, dumbass. Now crawl away and never come back.

*****

A few hours later Dipper lay with his head on Ty’s lap while she read by the midmorning sun. They’d managed to clean themselves up and, although Dipper had a lump growing on the side of his head, they’d reasoned that they’d come out of this about as well as could be expected.

The sun felt good and Dipper was seriously considering a doggy nap when he heard Mabel’s footsteps as she returned from a little exploration. “Man, is it colder today than it was yesterday?” She asked as she rummaged in her pack for a long sleeved shirt.

Dipper’s ears perked. They’d checked the weather forecast before leaving the shack and it was supposed to be even hotter today. Then Ty sneezed and Dipper wanted to smack his own forehead; which was currently more trouble than it was worth.

Other carriers of the disease, of course, Dipper thought. At least we told Grunkle Stan we’d be gone a week. That should be enough time for everything to be back to normal.

#pinecest #pinebypine #gftripletau

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tackyink · 7 years ago

Text

A continuation of yesterday’s story… Which I should probably have waited to edit on a PC instead of a phone and avoid inevitable silly mistakes, but oh well.

Forces go to work while we are sleeping If I could attack with a more sensible approach Obviously thats what I’d be doing

Dissociative fugue.

That was the verdict of the doctors after days of extensive testing. Physically speaking, I had a concussion, a first degree sprain in my right wrist, and a few bruises. And somehow, I’d been clinically dead for a minute, but I had come back from the other side when nobody expected me to pull through without any signs of brain or cardiopulmonary damage.

Except, of course, my memory. And that could loosely be attributed to the concussion or the shock of a near-death experience, so the doctors observed me with a lot of curiosity, but not much worry.

They reassured these people – my parents, I still couldn’t wrap my mind around that – that fugue states were transitory, and that it was a matter of time that I’d recover my memories.

I couldn’t do anything but sit there and listen to their theories. Even if I tried to explain what had happened, nobody would believe it. I could hardly believe it myself. And I could not explain myself, because I didn’t have the vocabulary to do so, and with my brother absent I had nobody to translate.

His name was Yu, and after I woke up I didn’t see him again at the hospital, so I communicated with the personnel with a mix of my own mangled Japanese and their sloppy English.

I couldn’t do much those first few days. My dominant hand was immobilized with a plaster splint as soon as I complained that it hurt, and there was always someone in my room keeping an eye on me. My mother, despite how hard she had taken it when I woke up (and really, how else could a mother take her daughter forgetting about her?), had decided that she was going to remind me of everything I had forgotten, even if that meant recounting to me Satori’s life from the moment she was born.

Her determination was contagious.

Once it was evident that normal communication was impossible, she left the room to make a call, came back, and when my father came hours later to the hospital, he was carrying a Japanese-English dictionary that was heavy as a brick. I had to place it on the bed to use it, because I couldn’t hold it in my hands. But once we had that my mom pushed ahead with her plan, and every time I had trouble understanding something she said, or I needed a word I did not know, we had the dictionary to help.

To this moment I don’t know how we didn’t wear out the spine, because we used it constantly.

Those days had two effects on me, though neither were the one my mother had intended.

One, I got the harshest crash course in Japanese ever, and my vocabulary expanded considerably. I still spoke worse than a preschooler, but I knew more difficult words than one. Go ahead and explain to a four year old what a dissociative amnesia is, I dare you.

Two, I learned a lot about Satori and her family life. None of the things my mother told me could jog memories I did not have to start with, but I filed away as much information as my concussed brain allowed me.

Satori was thirteen, in her second year of middle school, and played tennis in a club. Her grades were okay, though they had been better years ago, and she took piano and English lessons after school. My mother was very surprised at how well I managed myself in English, because Satori’s English grades during the last year had been atrocious.

I laughed it off and said that that was odd.

There was more. My mother had been a secretary before becoming a stay at home mom, and my dad was a prosecutor. Her name was Yuko, his was Akio, and judging by the kanji of our names, our whole family was one big wordplay. My mother shared the first character of her name with my brother Yu, as I did with my father.

I stared at the kanji she wrote on a piece of paper. Yu’s name sounded masculine by itself, but used its meaning was ‘kindness’. He had a girl’s name.

I had no clue what Satori’s meant at first glance, but I’d soon learn that it had an obnoxious amount of pronunciations, and most of them were male names.

Some parents just have to make it difficult for their kids.

Our surname was Kaito, written with the characters of ‘sea’ and ‘wisteria’. It made me happy that I was able to read them without help.

Back to my new family, my mother told me that Yu was a very smart kid, which was a delicate way of saying that I had a genius brother, and that he was only ten but could speak English fluently, as well as read Chinese and classical Japanese. He spent a lot of time reading and writing, and didn’t have many friends, which was also another way of saying that he didn’t have any.

I noticed how she skirted around the subject when I asked how we got along.

I thought it was a funny coincidence that his name was Yu Kaito. A coincidence that started to make me uncomfortable as the days passed and I had time to sweat the small details. There was a CRT TV in my room. Nobody used mobile phones. There was a cassette player at the nurse station, and their phone was boxy and looked downright ancient. I had used one of those as a toy when I was little.

On the third day, I asked my mother for a calendar, and she gave me the calendar card with the image of two kittens she was carrying inside her purse.

1984. It was 1984.

I asked my mother – I was little by little getting used to think about her on those terms, if only to avoid any suspicious goof-ups on my part – if the calendar was right. She looked at me a little concerned, said it was, and asked me if I knew which year it was. I told her I did, I just but I had forgotten the date. She pointed to the 21st of September and suggested that I crossed a day off the calendar every day until I got readjusted.

It was one of those times that I didn’t know how I managed to keep my composure. It tried to smile at her, though I’m sure it came out more like a grimace, and she hugged me in a way that reminded me of my own mother. Before I realized, I was sobbing on her shoulder, and she was trying to console me with words I didn’t quite understand. She held me until I stopped crying, and she left me alone for a while with the calendar and my thoughts.

1984.

It was so Orwellian that I would have laughed if not for what it meant.

I was born in 1989. There was no body for me to return to. Wherever I had been transported to, I did not exist in this reality.

Did this mean that, when my time to be born came, another one would take my place? That I wasn’t supposed to be born in this timeline? Maybe the original Satori would switch places with me? But who was to say that my parents existed in this world at all?

I spent the afternoon thinking about possibilities, of people I missed, of getting used to a new family and country and culture all of a sudden, all while slowly crossing out numbers on the calendar. I saw my parents’ birthdays, my friends’, mine. I circled them to not forget, because even if my idea was to find a way back, I couldn’t bring myself to be optimistic about my chances. I didn’t know where to begin.

I’d been called a pessimist for many long years, especially when I was a child and unbridled optimism was what had been expected of me. But I had never been able to let go of my worries like that. Always overthinking, always theorizing what could go wrong and how to fix it before it happened. And it worked in my favor, most of the time. Even when fixing it wasn’t in my hands, I could take consolation in knowing how things worked, that if circumstances were a little different there would be a way, that if I pushed onwards, a possibility could eventually arise.

This time, though, I was utterly lost. Not enough information, no containment plans, no foundation upon which to build any.

The only thing to do was wait. I had to observe, learn, live. An opportunity to understand would surely come up, and when it did, I would be able to build upon that.

And so I crossed day after day with black ink, until I reached September 16th. The day of my accident.

I circled it in red, though I knew I wouldn’t be able to forget.

When I was released that weekend, my routine didn’t change much at first. I couldn’t be sent to school because I was still in recovery, supposedly, so for the first few days I stayed home alone with my mother while my parents scrambled to find a tutor who could come home and help me.

The Kaito family lived in a mansion, that is, something akin to a luxury apartment. It’s bigger, with more solid construction than a regular one; city housing meant for upper-middle class families. I spent the first few days with my mother, though as I got settled in, I decided that if I was stuck in this situation, I was going to adapt to it as fast as possible. I began reading everything that fell into my hands, and that was how I stumbled into the final clue that I needed to realize what was going on.

One afternoon, I was attempting to read one of my hospital forms with the help of a kanji dictionary, and the help of a regular dictionary to understand what the kanji said. Yu’s knack for all things wordy meant that we were excellently stocked on reference books, and I was going to take advantage of them to the fullest of my ability.

I spent a while deciphering the description of my condition, and when I got tired of figuring out technical terms I moved onto the basic part of the form: name, social security name, city of residence…

And that was where I came to a halt. I was able to read the first half of the name of the city.

My hands stilled over the pages of the dictionary.

1984.

Yu Kaito.

And a city whose name began by ‘mushi.’

Hesitantly, I began to pass the pages in search of the second character, giving the form nervous glances, not sure if fearing that I was right about my suspicion or worried that I had read it wrong and I was losing that one hint.

And right I was, I realized, when the dictionary gave the reading of the second character as ‘yori.’

If this was a coincidence, it wasn’t funny.

It wasn’t funny because it gave me context, a way to find people who could help me explain what had happened, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it for years. I could only hold on to hope until then, and if my supposition ended up being a mistake… could I take that?

It had to be a coincidence. Yu Yu Hakusho was not real. Real people didn’t get transported into their favorite anime series like a bad fic trope.

So, until I had hard evidence that my theory was right, I refused to entertain it. I convinced myself that I was looking for whatever trace of familiarity I could hold onto, and I needed to keep paying attention and gather clues that didn’t point to complete baloney.

But while the doubt stayed with me for some days, evidence piled up so high that I was forced to admit my situation was exactly what it looked like.

It became undeniable during one of my many follow-up visits at the hospital.

Doctor Kobayashi, the same that had been in my room when I first woke up, was telling my mother that my motor skills were fine, my brain activity was normal and that the fact that I was steadily regaining my linguistic ability was proof that my recovery was going well. That they would keep an eye on me for some time, but she didn’t need to worry. I was fine, save for the fugue state that didn’t seem to go away, but since I was behaving, they were positive that I’d regain my memory after the shock wore off. A resident sat next to the doctor, listening attentively to the conversation.

While they talked and I tried to figure what was going on, I saw a woman enter the doctor’s office. All would have been well if she hadn’t gone through a closed door. She seemed distraught, wandering without an objective, until she noticed that she was being stared at.

I was frozen on my chair, staring at her, wondering if this was it and I’d gone crazy at last. She seemed to be in her thirties, clad in a formal navy blue dress and a black jacket. Her eyes were sunken, and when they met my own, I felt a shiver go down my spine. It wasn’t because of her face alone. She radiated a chilling cold that seemed to skip clothes, skin and muscle to go straight to the marrow of my bones.

The doctor’s voice brought me back to earth, but I had caught the woman’s attention by then, and something told me that that wasn’t good.

“Satori, are you okay?”

“Yes,” I said, trying not to look scared. “Sorry.”

The doctor smiled kindly. “If you feel anything odd you should tell your parents, all right?”

“Yes,” I repeated, nodding emphatically, and I tried to ignore the ice cold feeling that ran over me when a translucent hand attempted to touch my shoulder and instead sank in it.

“Where’s my body?” Said a voice in my head only I could only hear. “Why does no one else see me?”

The ghostly hand was protruding from the middle of my torso, and I hoped that the others weren’t paying attention to me, because I felt the blood drain from my face as I stared at it. But my lack of reaction made the spirit nervous, and she started to shriek as she tried to touch me to no avail, hands going through my physical body, each touch feeling like ice cubes were being shoved into my organs.

“Where’s my body? Where?! Tell me! I know you can see me, TELL ME!!”

When I thought I wouldn’t be able to bear it anymore, my mother thanked doctors Kobayashi and Kamiya and took my hand.

I looked at the resident as soon as I heard the name. Young, in his early to mid-twenties, with brown hair and glasses and a sharp stare.

He smiled at me. I squeezed my mom’s hand. The ghost shrieking behind me, the potential serial killer sitting there and the inability to do anything about either of them, another confirmation that I had ended up in a fictional world, everything felt too much to bear.

“Let’s go home,” said my mother.

I jumped from my chair quickly and followed along, forcing myself to keep my eyes down until we left the building. Don’t look at the dead, don’t look at the living, just focus on getting out until you are out and safe.

The hallways of the hospital felt eerie and ominous now that I knew what would happen there in a few years. How many of the people I was crossing paths with would die at the hands of the Doctor?

I kept running into Minoru Kamiya almost every time I visited my doctor. He was always there, with a pleasant smile that I was never able to return. Taking notes diligently, sometimes asking questions. His behavior was nothing but professional, and it was perhaps this facade of normalcy what made him scarier. After a few months, doctor Kobayashi asked my parents for permission to write a paper on my case. I was afraid that my secret would be found out upon closer inspection, but it was a baseless fear. Nobody in their right mind could guess that I was occupying a body that wasn’t mine.

The one I didn’t see again, thankfully, was the ghost of the lady, but on subsequent visits, I noticed more odd people near the ER and in the hallways. I made a point not to look at them directly, but they were there, always one or another, easily distinguishable from the living because the light seemed to go through them and cast a slight sheen over them. Some looked brighter. Some looked like shadows, the human behind the darkness barely distinguishable.

I never saw them twice. I supposed they had passed on in between my visits to wherever they had to go.

But once I noticed that one, they became a constant in my life. At parks. In back alleys. At the corner shop. Once, even, sitting on an oar with a woman in a kimono, riding it towards the clouds.

I was incredulous, but not stupid. The time for denial was over. And, conveniently, I seemed to have awakened my spirit awareness. Did that mean I had died in the accident? As I recalled, that was how Yusuke’s power had done the same. Then again, Satori may have been able to do this before I took over her body. I had no way to know.

But now that I knew where I was, hard to believe as it was, I had gained a perspective that let me be more at ease with my situation. At that time, I decided that I’d wait patiently until my brother crossed paths with Yusuke and the others, and I’d tell someone from the Spirit World about my problem. With luck, they’d have a way for me to go back. And in the worst case… well, I supposed that I was already dead. After all, I had no body of my own to go back to.

#yyh crappy indulgent si

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nofomoartworld · 7 years ago

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Hyperallergic: Beer with a Painter: Suzanne Joelson and Gary Stephan

Suzanne Joelson “Crackrakecrate” (2016) paint, vinyl graphics on wood panel, 50 x50 inches (all images courtesy the artists)

Gary Stephan and Suzanne Joelson live and work together in a building in TriBeCa. Within the building they each maintain individual floors, so my suggestion of a “couple” interview was a bit of a radical experiment. We had to decide how and where to stage our visit. Luckily they were game, ready with Captain’s Daughter IPA, and an array of cheese and snacks.

Their zones are distinct: Stephan doesn’t keep anything extra around — leaving only some minimal, modernist furniture, a vintage rowing machine for exercise, and a fantastic rotating easel. Joelson’s area is full of color, with layered collections of fabrics, textiles, and clippings in full use. Stephan says he’s lucky that he can borrow supplies from Joelson when he needs them; he refuses to buy anything in advance. They use examples from domestic life to illustrate their aesthetics: Joelson apparently doesn’t like closing closet doors — it denotes a system of closed deductions. More than anything, I’m struck by their open, inquisitive nature with each other.

This rigorous but open questioning permeates both of their practices. Joelson asks what happens when two unexpected elements or techniques bump up against one another: collaged, industrial fabrics and the painterly, handmade gesture. Stephan refers to a formalist vocabulary, but turns any lingering obsession with the “framing edge” upside-down. There’s a curiosity in their work about different permutations of “meeting in the middle,” which is, in fact, echoed by the terms of our three-person conversation.

Stephan was born in Brooklyn in 1942, studied at Pratt Institute, and received his MFA from the San Francisco Art Institute in 1967. He has had solo shows in New York at Susan Inglett Gallery, Bykert Gallery, Mary Boone Gallery, Hirschl and Adler, and Marlborough Gallery; in Los Angeles at Margo Leavin Gallery and Daniel Weinberg Gallery. He is currently represented by Kienzle Art Foundation in Berlin, where he will be the subject of a solo exhibition in the fall.

Joelson was born in 1952 in Paterson, New Jersey. She received her BA from Bennington College in 1973. She has exhibited at galleries including Nature Morte in New Delhi, Fernando Alcolea in Barcelona, and White Columns in New York. She was the subject of a solo exhibition, Slipping Systems, in the fall of 2016 at Studio 10, Brooklyn, New York.

* * *

Jennifer Samet: Suzanne, can you tell me about any childhood memories you have of making art?

Suzanne Joelson: My mother was a painter. When I was twelve I helped her paint scenery for a local theater group and got to keep the paint. When friends came over we painted the walls of my bedroom with stripes and dots in clashing colors right over the patterned wallpaper. My parents were fine with this and I continued to alter the room until I left for college. All these years later I am back to combining paint and print.

Suzanne Joelson “First Back” (2012) interior of wood panel/hollow core door, 40 x 30 inches

I did not have many toys but I remember breaking, cutting, and reassembling the ones I had. Doll houses got major overhauls. At some point my mother hid the nicer dolls either to protect them or avoid cramping my style.

In high school I had a geometry teacher who did not like me. But I was oddly good at geometry. I just got it and did not need the class so she let me spend the time in the art room.

I went to the Noguchi Museum recently and thought that it was a bit like the art that I grew up seeing. It is beautiful and essentialist, and yet it’s not enough. There’s always a sense of Noguchi being a little too good.

JS: Gary, where did you grow up? Were you into drawing as a kid?

GS: When I was a kid living in Levittown, on Long Island, like a lot of guys, I loved drawing planes and cars. I remember that in the fifth grade, I was very enamored of this other kid’s drawings. His planes looked so much better than mine, but I couldn’t figure out why. I befriended him and finally said, “Bill, let’s be candid, your planes are much better than mine. Why?” He said, “Rivets. I draw all the rivets.” I realized that was it. He had all these little dots, so it felt like it had been built like a real plane.

We would go to Mass in Levittown Hall, where local artists put their work up on the walls. The work was full of the tropes of late 1940s art: caulk balls dipped in white paint, held together with sticks, on a ground of sandpaper. It was slightly Miró-ish, or like Picabia drawings — quasi-mechanical things. I did not understand what they were but I was attracted to the physicality of them, and the curious form-making. So the plane drawings and my interest in that work run along next to each other.

Gary Stephan “Untitled” (2008) acrylic on canvas, 32 x 32 inches

I had flunked 7th, 8th, and 9th grade. Eventually I got an art teacher who saw me drawing cars all the time and said, “You know, there’s a name for that. It’s called industrial design.” I decided that was it, and that I would go to Pratt for it. But then I fell in with the painters and, before graduating, I went out to the West Coast. I went to the San Francisco Art Institute for my Masters. Eventually, the two forces came together. A lot of my approach to painting is still with that clear, coherent, “What’s the project?” mindset of a designer.

JS: Gary, I wanted to ask you about your Catholic background, because you have said Catholic imagery, like the cruciform shape, has infiltrated your painting.

Gary Stephan: Although I’m now an atheist, I still have some of the Catholic furniture. Every once in awhile, its forms appear, or ideas about above and below: the spiritual plane and the bodily plane. I don’t resist it, but I don’t embrace it. I just let it roll into the mix and then it rolls out again.

When I was in first grade at Catholic school, I read a story called “The Prince’s Dessert,” which was the beginning of my fascination with paradox. The prince asks for a dessert that’s hot and cold at the same time. The punch line was that it was a hot fudge sundae.

I was disappointed with the outcome of the story — because a sundae is alternately hot and cold. It isn’t simultaneously hot and cold. As a boy I felt tricked by the answer. Anyway, these kinds of polarities have interested me since childhood.

As a Catholic, I never thought of the concept of shades of gray in ethical, moral, or emotional questions. That idea did not occur to me until I was well into my second year of college. It was uncomfortable for me, because it didn’t come to me naturally. I was constructed by my parents and by my church to be fundamentally binary. I know the world is not like that. It is fascinating how disappointing that is.

JS: Did the two of you meet originally through art? Suzanne, you were working for Robert Rauschenberg, right?

SJ: I worked for Merce Cunningham as the liaison between Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns, and Merce. I was hanging out in that period with Ross Bleckner, Julian Schnabel, and David Salle. Gary had an opening at Mary Boone, and I went to the opening with Julian. Gary and I talked for about an hour. I was completely smitten and thought I’d made a big impression. But I wasn’t even invited to the after party.

Then, two weeks later, Gary came to a Cunningham event at the Joyce Theater. I was with Ross, and after we took him to Studio 54, I took Gary home. He didn’t even remember me.

GS: It took a while for it to click, but once it clicked it was crazy great. We’ve been together for an amazing amount of time — 38 years. I’m incredibly lucky.

JS: Suzanne, do you think your use of recycled fabrics and materials from the street is related to the experience of doing costume and set design?

Suzanne Joelson “Broken Cocoa” (2016) paint,vinyl graphics on wood panel, 24 x 54 inches

SJ: I hadn’t thought about it but one of my favorite tasks working for Cunningham was recreating Rauschenberg’s set for “Winterbranch” (1964). At some point in the nocturnal piece Rauschenberg would drag what we called “the monster” across stage. It was usually a rolling ladder with an array of battery-operated lights and things he would find on the street. I loved doing it, even though I wasn’t as good at it as Rauschenberg was. He always had a more unlikely thought.

There is something about working with preexisting materials, adapting things outside one’s control. After Hurricane Sandy, I carried my wet paintings up six flights of stairs in the dark, with two assistants. The paintings were on hollow-core doors and water was sloshing around in them. When I ripped off the backs, a roughly applied cardboard substructure was revealed. Its diamond pattern was almost like African Kuba cloth but by different means. We arranged the paintings around the loft to dry with all the backs ripped off, and took photographs of the arrangements.

The effect of that experience was an idea of being very transitory about the work: being less caught up in the craft of it, less concerned about permanence. For a long time, I was a “pure” painter. At some point I started bringing the world back into the paintings. I don’t believe in zero-degree formalism.

JS: I am curious what you think about this, Gary: the idea of pure painting and formalism.

Gary Stephan “The Future Of Reading 5” (2016) acrylic on canvas, 20 x 20 inches

GS: My elevator pitch for my work is that I am using the tools of formalism to build the house of surrealism. I see formalism as a set of appearances designed to create something that’s visually dependable. The contribution of Surrealism is that it problematizes the reading of the world. If you take the appearance of formalism, but bang the cues into each other in such a way that the picture space wobbles or flickers, or doesn’t work properly — you are making a surreal proposition about formalism.

When I came to New York, the big division was between the sharp guys who made serious, formal objects, and the crazy aunt in the attic — of surrealism. Richard Serra would say, “The problem with Donald Judd’s work is that it is surreal.” He was referring to the concealed surfaces – things you can never know. Anytime you conceal, you’re essentially making a surreal object. That’s why Serra’s sculptures are solid steel. Anything that existed outside our vision would become secretive, mysterious, and romantic. The work has to be in plain sight and experiential.

But I could not just blow off de Chirico and Magritte. The contribution of de Chirico is that, for almost the first time in history, aside from Caspar David Friedrich, concealment is content. It is subject matter.

In my work, I try to have enough dependable information that there is a way to compare it to the missing part. The purpose is to re-engage viewers so that instead of them passively taking in the work at the level of style, you offer them the opportunity to engage the problematics of the picture space. In engaging them, they become co-constructors.

SJ: There’s also a lesson in that: that nothing is reliable. Your paintings seem like an inoculation for our collective anxiety about the contradictions of the world. You practice not being able to depend on a predictable space.

GS: Absolutely. It gets to the Russian idea of defamiliarization and the Brechtian idea of alienation. What they want to do is get the viewer into the pain of responsibility in a difficult world at the level of play. You are making art, so it should be fun, but it is also dealing with essentially difficult questions.

It has to do with the citizen’s relationship to the world. For example, I think one of the reasons Trump is appealing to people is that he is saying, “Only I can solve this problem.” It is essentially a paternalistic model. The academic model of painting was essentially paternalistic. It says, “We’ve got all the cards; we know what art looks like; we’re in charge; you’re in good hands.” It’s very Trumpian. What happens with the Impressionists is they say, “Who knows how this works? Get involved, maybe you don’t like it, maybe you don’t trust it. You can co-construct this if you’re so inclined.”

JS: Suzanne, can you tell me about how you deconstruct order and sequences? I know you utilize the Fibonacci cycle in constructing your paintings and multi-panel pieces.

SJ: I tend to start with an order, which I resist. But sometimes it is the other way around and I tug the visual cacophony toward a system. I utilize the Fibonacci cycle, but contaminate it with a degree of lived life.

Suzanne Joelson “Massaging Kale” (2016) paint, vinyl graphics on wood panel, 48 x 84 inches

My cousin who lives in Paris visited recently and we had a sort of French night out in Soho. On our way from Lucky Strike to dessert at Balthazar, we passed the biggest mass of rats I have ever seen in New York. On a shop-filled block we crossed the street to get out of their way. In the context of that evening it was the most exciting part.

GS: Wow. There’s a unique take — “Dessert was great, but the rats were even better.”

SJ: I’ve had lots of great desserts but how often have I seen that many persistent rats? They were undeterred by gentrification. I think about the fact that now, psychologically, so much is colored by what is happening with the Trump presidency. I constantly contend with the question of how much news and information I can digest.

GS: I’ve thought for a long time that if I paid really close attention to politics and then didn’t say to myself, “How can I consciously translate this into a work of art,” but let it leach into the groundwater of my brain, it would show up on some level. I think it does. The conversation I’ve been having with friends is basically, “What can be the relationship of abstraction to politics?”

Gary Stephan “Untitled” (2009) acrylic on muslin, 60 x 42 inches

JS: So this has to do with an idea about incorporating experience and contaminating “pure painting” with daily experience?

SJ: The interest in the Fibonacci sequence and spiraling goes back to the way I have thought about experience, which is as a coil. You go on a route and arrive at a shard of light, and recognize where you are. Then you keep going, and get back to that part again. But you are not going in circles, you are constantly staging a step up…or down.

In Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past, the narrator describes traveling from Balbec in a stagecoach. The coach is going up the hill and away. As it turns along the switchback, he can see back toward the town he has just left. He keeps looking back toward it, but from a little farther, as he is heading toward the future. Then, on the switchback, yet again, he looks back on where he just was, but now he is turned even more. That becomes a metaphor for how memory works.

Thomas Nozkowski came to my studio once when I was working on something that was overly coordinated and he said, “Jump cut.” That was all he needed to say. Now it is my mantra.

GS: It is related to the mosque you loved so much in Turkey, I’ve also always thought that a lot of Suzanne’s work had to do with translation.

SJ: Yes, the interior of the Rüstem Pasha Mosque in Istanbul is beautiful and perfect. There are four doors outside, and the door farthest from the entrance is completely broken up. The original tiles were found and put back on, but not in the original order. I love that kind of patching. It is similar to the Winchester Cathedral in England, where one rose window on the north transom was broken into smithereens and reassembled out of broken bits.

I consider different materials and methods of application in terms of translation. The model is conversation. For example, this format of today’s conversation is unusual for all of us. We can’t anticipate each other’s questions or responses, or the gap between what is said and what is felt or experienced, and how it will read on the page or screen. These change in the context of the situation. I am interested in how the familiar becomes strange, and the structure becomes fallible. A new thought emerges or an old thought can be re-imagined.

JS: Gary, you have described having “two masters”: the object and the painting. Can you explain what that means?

GS: That phrase, “serving two masters,” came from a chapter heading in an old fundamentalist Christian primer that I found. In terms of painting, at one end of the spectrum, you have the master of the concrete object — someone like Robert Ryman. At the other end of the spectrum, you have somebody like Frederick Church — the illusion of a space that can be entered. With Church, you want to experience Niagara Falls uncontaminated by the resistance of the object. With Ryman, you want the clarity of the object without any of the froufrou of the picture space.

Everybody conducts his or her practice along that continuum. That is what is meant by the serving two masters. Anytime you show fealty to one, you’ve weakened your fealty to the other. I was once given a hard time in print for “being compromised”: for the work vacillating between its allegiance to objects, and its allegiance to picture space. That vacillation was seen as a failure of nerve. I think times have changed enough that now it is considered a good way to look at things.

JS: You work on paintings from all directions and sides, and use a rotating easel to turn them around. Is that related to these ideas of concealment and moving between the object and the image?

Gary Stephan “Untitled” (2017), acrylic on Canvas, 30 x 30 inches

GS: The circular easel allows me to mess with expectations about gravity and the punch line. Sometimes I give way to the more obvious expectation, because I don’t see any reason to be obscure. Sometimes, it is too easy, so I turn them backwards, so to speak. Then they are slower. When you finally get to the punch line, it is more of a surprise.

JS: You think of the paintings as having punch lines? What does that mean?

GS: I definitely do. It is a term I got from Tom Nozkowski years ago. He would say, “Well, the gag of this painting is…” Some people see them right away, and some people never see them. I’ve had any number of people think they’re simply delightful, flat designs, and I think, “Okay.” I’ve gotten over the artist as educator part of my life.

SJ: Whereas Rothko hoped that people would fall to their knees and start to cry in front of his paintings, you want to hear people chuckling.

GS: Yes. I want them mildly chortling under their breath.

The post Beer with a Painter: Suzanne Joelson and Gary Stephan appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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