#tribal sculpture

[newguineatribalart]

Polynesian Art Marquesan island Canoe Prow sculpture

[abstracteddistractions]

Raul Coronel, "Untitled," c. 1960,

Glazed stoneware,

88¾ h × 25½ w × 8 d in (225 × 65 × 20 cm)

[bibliobibuli25]

MuseumSeries#1

National Museum, Delhi, India.

[zsorosebudphoto]

Máscaras, Museu do Oriente, Lisboa, Portugal, 01-06-23

[fashionbooksmilano]

1000 Vases

by Meet my Project and Pier Paolo Pitacco

Skira, Milano 2021, 928 pagine, 22.3 x 16.5cm, 900 ill.colori, cartonato, italiano/inglese, ISBN 9788857246734

euro 50,00

1000 Vases presenta pezzi unici di più di 400 artisti e designer indipendenti di oltre 35 paesi. L’ambizione di presentare un così grande numero di pezzi che da soli esprimono quanta creatività e diversità possibile realizzare su un singolo tema.

The collection of a large number of vases allows the quantity and diversity of works to speak for themselves, through a simple and harmonious scenography that enhances their originality. Tribal, minimal, pop, sculptural, elementary, complicated, sophisticated, purist, fun, sinuous, geometric and irregular forms coexisting side-by-side, thus highlighting the originality of each and every object, will amaze visitors.

Since 2018, 1000 VASES has held several exhibitions each year in Paris with a scenography signed by Hervé Sauvage, as well as collaborating with French fashion label Jacquemus for its 10-year anniversary event. In 2019, the exhibition traveled to Dubai for Art Week. In 2021, Volume I of the 1000 VASES book, featuring one thousand vases from its family of exhibiting artists, was published by Skira Editore with an Art Direction by Pier Paolo Pitacco.

1000 VASES has held exhibitions in Milan during Salone del Mobile in 2021 and 2022 at Superstudio Più and in 2023 at Fondazione Sozzani, Corso Como 10

08/06/23

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[karinatheduck89]

3ballMty

[sweetgirlwrld]

[mayanaquin]

[strawb3rryqueer]

Hozier's mention of the word "hushpukena" (a Choctaw word) in the song Butchered Tongue was, of course, not a random decision. In a song about the pain of being disconnected from your ancestral language and culture as a result of colonization and oppression from outside forces- which is something that both Irish and Native American people have experienced to varying degrees. Not only do Irish and Indigenous people have this shared history of colonization at the hands of the British, but Irish and Indigenous communities have a long history of support for one another.

The usage of "hushpukena" is even more specific and important because it calls back to the mutually positive relationship between Irish and Choctaw people specifically. During the Great Hunger in Ireland, the Choctaw Nation donated $170, which is more than $5,000 in today’s money, to aid the Irish. Out of all American aid given to Ireland during the famine, the donation from the Choctaw Nation was the largest donation given.

In 1990, leaders from the Choctaw Nation visited County Mayo in Ireland to participate in the first annual Famine Walk. In 1992, Irish people visited the Choctaw Nation and participated in a trek to commemorate the Trail of Tears. Also in 1992, a plaque commemorating the Choctaw's aid was installed in the house of the mayor of Dublin. In 1995, the Irish President Mary Robinson visited the tribal headquarters of the Choctaw Nation to thank the Choctaw people for their aid. In 2017, a sculpture named "Kindred Spirits" was built in Cork, Ireland to commemorate the Choctaw's aid and to continue friendship between the two communities. In 2018, the Taoiseach (prime minister) of Ireland visited Choctaw tribal headquarters and stated,"A few years ago, on a visit to Ireland, a representative of the Choctaw Nation called your support for us ‘a sacred memory’. It is that and more. It is a sacred bond, which has joined our peoples together for all time". In 2020, more than $1.8 million was raised by Irish people as aid for Native American people (specifically the Navajo and Hopi) during the pandemic, to help provide food, clean water, and health supplies.

[newguineatribalart]

Massim Spatula Terminal Papua New Guinea

[1000sunnygo]

Law's artist side isn't talked about enough, so here's a smooth brain ramble.

He prefers abstract arts over realism. Unlike Kid who forms animal or skull figures with metals, Law creates strange 'sculptures' with his victim's bodies/belongings:

And, of course, the tattoos.

I like how all of his tattoos accentuate the shapes of his torso and arms, especially the joints and muscles. Combined they look like a single stylized drawing of human upper torso.

Seen theories that the tribal style could be a lost trend from Flevance (as seen on the arm of a miner in his flashback), but it could just be his personal style. That said, his upper arm's heart tattoos look similar.

(Something that artists probably noticed long ago but I'm only noticing recently: Law's upper arm's tattoos have been simplified over time. There used to be two spiral-like protrusions, but Oda has been omitting them in later arts)

The "DEATH" tattoos have a straightforward message. According to the Law novel, these were his first tattoos.

Speaking of death, ghosts and spirituality have been implicitly a theme for Law, especially during Dressrosa. Doflamingo referred to Law as Cora's 'vengeful ghost'. Law's (cursed) sword Kikoku's name means 'wailings of a restless ghost". Ironically, Law having a hidden name was also a tradition that related to dead people.

The orange jolly roger (red in the sail) could be many things, I think it's a stylized way of drawing the sun.

Sun symbols are everywhere in the One Piece world. Law's lower arm tattoos are different types of 'suns'. Law might've subconsciously carried those symbols from his hometown for their aesthetic appeal.

The tattoos on the back of his hands reminded me of the church lady's cross, which is slightly different from the cross seen at Kuma's church. It's possible that various faiths in One Piece world are interconnected, leading to a prophecy about the sun god and Dawn. Law, at the very least, believes in the will of D and his own fate being tied to a purpose.

The chest tattoo, clearly a tribute to Corazon, could have some elements of catholicism. Kikoku also has crosses all over its sheath. Originally this wasn't my observation, but Law seeing Cora as a sacred being makes a lot of sense.

Carving a heart at the dead center of his chest by creating small wounds - the process itself reminds of Cora doesn't it

The custom-made Dressrosa coat is another tribute to Corazon, but IMHO he designed it specifically for Doflamingo, as a mockery.

A cross and circle like dangling a pistol target for Doflamingo's shooting practice, with a grinning face copied from Doflamingo's own jolly roger, but it's Corazon. Like his brother has returned to face his pistol again. A vengeful ghost indeed

And boy did it work...

Doflamingo shot it until the mark was completely drenched and unrecognizable.

Assuming he draws for all of his clothes himself, here's this masterpiece:

Or maybe it's gifted by his crew mates. Either way, it's adorable.

Since he's a surgeon (and a comic nerd), he should be skilled at drawing human anatomy. How does he draw realistic arts? Does he doodle while taking notes?

We've seen his handwriting in punk hazard arc and it wasn't particularly stylized. Regardless, it'd be nice to take a proper peek at his notebook.

[artifacts-and-arthropods]

Sculpture of a Woman with Four Children, from Mali, c.1100-1450 CE: this sculpture was created in the ancient city of Djenné-Djenno

Created during the 12th-15th centuries CE, this sculpture depicts a woman sitting cross-legged on the ground, with two children on her lap and two more clinging to her back. Scarification patterns are visible on the woman's temples, and there is a thick, undulating line running from her forehead to the nape of her neck, likely representing a serpent.

As this article explains:

Snakes on Inner Niger Delta sculptures are a common element and should be seen as a positive iconographic component. They represent control of a potentially dangerous benevolent power that must be tamed, domesticated, nourished, and satisfied so it will continue to provide protection.

This is one of the many terracotta sculptures that were produced in Djenné-Djenno, located in the Niger River Valley of Mali, in West Africa; Djenné-Djenno sits just to the south of the Medieval city of Djenné, which is still a major center of Islamic scholarship.

The ancient city of Djenné-Djenno dates back to at least 250 BCE, making it one of the oldest cities in West Africa. For centuries, it also served as one of the largest urban centers/trading hubs in the region, with a peak population of about 20,000 people. The city began to decline in the 9th century CE, when residents (and trade) began moving northward to the nearby city of Djenné, which had just recently been founded by Muslim traders. Djenné-Djenno was ultimately abandoned by the end of the 15th century.

Unfortunately (and unsurprisingly), most of the artifacts from Djenné-Djenno were looted or destroyed by colonizing forces during the 19th-20th centuries. Some of those artifacts have been repatriated in recent years, and there are ongoing efforts to return more of them.

Why Western museums should return African artifacts.

Sources & More Info:

Yale University Art Gallery: Female Figure with Four Children

World History Encyclopedia: Djenné-Djenno

Tribal Art: Scrofulous Sogolon (PDF)

ArtNews: Museum of Fine Arts Boston to Return Terra-Cotta Figures from Mali in Latest Restitution Efforts

CBS: African Nations Want their Stolen History Back, and Experts Say it's Time to Speed up the Process

Fair Observer: It is Now Time for the West to Return African Art

[bijouxcarys]

𝑻𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑩𝒊𝒏𝒅 (𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝑹𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒔 𝒙 𝑶𝑪) - 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑭𝒊𝒗𝒆

Masterlist

Character Profiles/Face Claims

Playlist

A/N: Hope everyone is well, and I hope you all enjoy this one. My favourite thing in the world is comments/seeing what people think of my work, etc... So please, don't be a stranger. Make your presence known!

Tags: @trippinsorrows @empressdede @thetribalqueen @heauxvibez @bigsimperika

@cyberdejos2 @keyaho @headoftheetable @jstarr86 @southerngirl41

@tshepisho @cry1nwhileimcumm1n @maeb99 @thedesireds @dzdndcnfsd

@expert-texpert @niknakbucks92 @sillyteecup

(let me know if you want to be tagged in future Roman fics)

He stood in his private gym, early morning light filtering through the windows, a golden glow painting his chiselled frame. Rhythmic clinking of weights, hums of machinery, conjured up symphonies of focused strength. Roman’s body was a masterpiece of muscle and sinew, glistening with a sheen of sweat that highlighted every contour.

With each controlled lift, his biceps bulged, veins snaking like rivers beneath his bronzed skin. Legacy-carrying shoulders flexed with power and precision. The bulky tattoo that adorned his arms and chest came alive with each movement, telling stories of battles fought and victories won. His face was a pure sculpture by the gods, hair tied up loosely. Strong jawline, intense focus in his dark eyes.

Workouts were more than just a physical regimen to Roman; they were rituals of mental fortitude.

He closed his eyes, blocking out the world, focusing solely on the burn in his muscles and the steady rhythm of his breath. With each rep, he pushed away doubts and fears that would otherwise cloud his judgement, replacing them with steely resolve.

Dropping the weights, he moved to the heavy bag, each punch a release of pent-up energy. His fists flew in a blur, the sound of impact echoing through the gym like thunder. His abs were hard as granite, contracting with each powerful blow, the relentless discipline and dedication.

As the sweat poured down his face and dripped onto the mat, Roman’s clarity was secured. This was his sanctuary, a place where honing his body prepared him for battles to come. The world outside was chaotic and treacherous, but here, in this sacred space, he was in complete control.

Roman was lost in the rhythm of his workout when the gym door creaked open. Heyman stepped in, his presence almost apologetic amidst the intensity of Roman’s sanctuary. The balding advisor with sharp eyes and a weary demeanour hesitated before speaking, knowing better than to disturb the boss without good reason.

“S-sorry for the interruption, my Tribal Chief,” Heyman started, respectfully and subdued, “But Tamina has arrived.”

Roman nodded, his breath still heavy from the exertion. “Thank you, Wise Man,” he replied, wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel. He took a moment to gather himself, slowing his breathing, and letting his heartbeat return to normal. He tossed the towel aside and gave Paul a nod before heading towards the door.

“She got her stuff with her?” he asked as the pair made their way up to the living room.

“Of course. She’s ready as always.”

Tamina was sat chatting animatedly with the twins and Solo, who sat listening with a rare smile. Despite her visit being due to unfortunate circumstances, the familial connection it injected into the atmosphere couldn’t be ignored. It was almost like the more people inhabiting the house, the warmer it felt—and not just physically.

“Roman!” Tamina greeted, her face breaking into a warm smile. “There you are.” She got up from the couch to embrace him. Her hug was strong and genuine, a reflection of her.

He returned the embrace, feeling a rare moment of comfort. “Good to see you, Tamina,” he said, pulling back slightly. “How you been, girl?”

“Busy, but that’s the norm, right?” she replied with a chuckle, before her eyes softened. “How’s Ava?”

“Uh, she’s doin’ well,” he nodded, shifting his weight. “Keepin’ up with school and all.”

His cousin nodded, understanding the weight of the situation behind his words. “And, uh… Maria?” she ventured, dropping her voice to a more hushed tone.

Roman’s jaw tightened, but he managed a curt nod. “We don’t talk about her much,” he said. “It’s better that way.”

An unspoken agreement passed between them. Roman appreciated Tamina’s concern, even if it touched on sensitive subjects. She had always been more than just family; she was a sturdy pillar of support.

They didn’t see each other often, but when they did, she always came through with her investigations. Tamina had a knack for showing up at exactly the right moment, armed with invaluable intel. Her specialities in surveillance and code-breaking had become critical assets to The Bloodline. She had a gift for deciphering where people were and predicting where they were going to be, a skill that was as much about intuition as it was about experience.

“Alright, let’s talk business,” Roman clapped his hands, moving on.

The group made their way up to Roman’s meeting room. The room itself was a fortress of secrecy, with soundproof walls that he had insisted on installing. It was a necessary precaution to ensure their plans stayed within trusted circles.

Paul closed the door behind them, sealing them off from the rest of the world, before they all settled around the large dark walnut table, the atmosphere shifting from familial warmth to strategic intensity.

“Tamina,” Roman began, leaning back in his chair, “Paul’s filled you in on what we’ve been dealin’ with, right?”

She nodded, her eyes now a sharp depiction of focus. “Yes, he has. I’ve been doin’ some deep diving into the Volkovs’ plans since he called. Dimitri Volkov is a slippery one, but I think I got some good stuff so far.”

Roman’s gaze darkened as he thought about Dimitri. He had faced the man more than anyone else at the table and knew the extent of his ruthlessness. “He’s a different breed,” he grumbled. “Calculating… always ten steps ahead. But he’s got a pattern, even if it’s hard to see.”

Tamina pulled out a stack of documents and spread them across the table. “I tracked their movements over the last few months, and these are some of the key locations they’ve been frequenting,” she glanced up at Roman. “Looks like they’re planning somethin’ real big. They’re using a lot of code.”

She pointed to a map of New York City, with several locations circled in red. “These are some of the hotspots. Dimitri’s been meeting with some high-profile figures, and they’re not just local. We’re talkin’ international contacts, arms dealers, mercenaries.”

Roman leaned in, scrutinising the map. “So, they’re gearin’ up for somethin’ major, huh?”

Tamina nodded. “I’ve got some surveillance footage of Dimitri coming and going, but he’s been cautious. Minus a few slip ups. I’m workin’ on getting more details.”

“What about the shipment?” Jey enquired. “We know they been movin’ a lot of product, but where’s it goin’?”

Sliding another set of papers across the table, Tamina had a look of pride on her face. “I’ve managed to compile a list of properties the Volkovs have stakes in. I will say, a lot of the info pointed to a warehouse in Queens. It’s heavily guarded, which means it’s important. Whatever they’re storing there, it’s worth protecting.”

“We need to get in there,” Jimmy suggested. “Find out what they hidin’.”

Tamina raised an eyebrow. “It won’t be easy, Jimmy, they’ve got state-of-the-art security, and Dimitri’s not one to take any chances.”

Roman’s smile was cold and determined. “Haven’t we dealt with worse?”

“If… If I may, my Tribal Chief,” Paul inserted, raising his hand a little. “We need to approach this carefully. Volkov is a very dangerous human being, and if he suspects anything, he’ll tighten his claws even more.”

Roman stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Poor Paul must have thought he’d stepped over the line by suggesting that his boss was acting too impulsively. He’d already begun planning his escape, and what country to flee to.

“Agreed.”

Heyman sighed heavily. Thank fuck for that.

“If the Volkovs did take the shipment—”

“Which they did,” Roman insisted.

“Right,” Tamina nodded. “If they took it, we have our work cut out for us, I can’t stress that enough. That family has stakes and access to multiple properties and estates around the whole frickin’ world.”

Twisting his face in thought, Roman gestured for her to continue.

“Four floors of a high-rise office building in Midtown Manhattan, a private club in SoHo, a villa in Florida. Their reach extends to facilities in Vegas, Texas, the West Coast, even the UK, Paris, Italy, Berlin, Dubai, Qatar, Hong Kong, Bali, Brazil, Argentina… Some secure lodgings in the Bahamas and the Swiss Alps…” Tamina breathed out, slightly worn from the extensive list.

Jey whistled low, shaking his head. “That’s a lotta ground to cover…”

“The only one that stands out is the penthouse apartment in Tribeca.”

“Why’s that stand out?” Roman asked.

“It’s not in Dimitri’s name, or any of the aliases he uses,” Tamina chewed her lip as she turned to her compact laptop, squinting her eyes as she concentrated on gathering the correct details for the correct property. “It’s in his daughter’s name.”

“Yo, he got daughters?” Jey asked.

“Chill the fuck out, man,” Solo smoothly suggested.

“Two daughters, by the looks of it. Natalka and Katerina.”

“Some Russian-ass names…” Jey muttered.

“You saw the oldest the other night,” Roman neutrally informed his cousin, tapping his fingers on the table. “She was at that function with her soon-to-be husband.”

“Damn, she engaged…”

“I’m not entirely sure why you’re takin’ this as some kinda joke, Jey,” Roman’s eyes met Jey’s, eyebrows narrowing. “This ain’t no joke, this ain’t no party—this is our livelihood, this is our legacy, this is war…” He leaned forward with a perpetual grimace on his face. “Straighten the fuck up, or I will happily do it for you.”

The Uso thickly swallowed, refusing to maintain eye contact. So instead, he looked down at the table, managing a small nod.

“What was that?” Roman pushed for a response.

“I nodded, Uce, I nodded.”

Roman didn’t care much for the attitude, and if it were any other time, he would have been chastised for it. But right now, getting their shipment back where it belonged was the number one priority. Fuck Jey and his wandering mind. The Tribal Chief shot one last dagger through his eyes, and then softened his resolve when facing Tamina.

“I apologise.”

“We good,” Tamina knew to stay out of it. They were like this as kids, ever since the twins caught Roman in their toy box. The situation, of course, put a little more on the line, but they were practically brothers. It wasn’t her business to manage their dynamics.

“So, yeah, the penthouse is under Natalka Volkov. 27-years-old and still Daddy’s little girl,” Tamina clicked her tongue with a small shake of her head. “He’s been sendin’ her out to appear at functions, charity galas, things like that for about 2 years now. It’s obvious he’s primin’ her for somethin’.”

“You see her the other night, Chief?” Jimmy asked.

“Hmm,” Roman half-confirmed, half-thought. He was sure that it was her; he’d never met the woman, nor did he know too much about her. Guess that would have to change if Daddy is fixing to put her in charge. “Think I saw her talkin’ to TJD… Damn, probably makin’ sure it was still goin’ ahead, so they could hit us.” Shaking his head, Roman leaned back in his chair again.

The room fell into an uneasy silence. Thick with pure tension as everyone attempted to piece together this ridiculous puzzle. Roman’s eyes were transfixed on the map spread out before them. A shipment like that was way too valuable, too dangerous to be floating around unchecked.

Solo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and a deep brown etched on his face.

“Yo, how many of those spots are like… secure secure facilities?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Tamina, her eyes glued to her laptop, clicked through several files. “The most secluded areas are the hardest to track,” she said, her fingers flying over the keys. “The Bahamas and the Alps are basically fortresses. If Dimitri’s hiding something there, it’s gonna be nearly impossible to get in.”

Roman exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “This ain’t helping,” he muttered. “We can’t just globe-trot and hope we bump into some Russian asshole with four crates of illegal weapons. We need a damn plan. We need them bastards’ heads on fuckin’ spikes in our front yard!”

Again, the silence took over, leaving Roman’s small outburst to hang in the air between them. Paul, usually the one with the answers, seemed unusually quiet, his forehead creased with concern. Tamina, however, looked like she was on the brink of a breakthrough, her eyes narrowing as she considered their options.

The silence was broken by Jimmy, who tapped his fingers rhythmically on the table, trying to think of another approach. “What about tracking his movements? He can’t move those crates without leaving some kinda trail, right?”

Tamina sighed, shaking her head. “He’s too smart for that. Any obvious trail will be a decoy, which’ll lead us in the wrong direction. We need to outthink him, find the unexpected angle.”

“What if we just focus on the States first?” contemplated Solo, “He knows we’ll be lookin’. He might keep it closer to home for now.”

“Makes sense,” Jey agreed. “Start with places we know they got ties to. The office building, that club in SoHo. We scope ‘em out, see if there’s any unusual activity.”

Roman nodded slowly, considering it for a moment. “Eyeballs will never be enough. It’s good, don’t get me wrong, man, it’s just…” he huffed, “It ain’t as concrete as ears. We can’t find our shit on assumptions…”

Tamina cleared her throat, catching Roman’s attention, before leaning in slightly, dropping her voice tentatively.

“Well, there is one thing you could try…”

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

“Keep your grip tight, but not too tight,” Nate’s voice was calmly authoritative. “You need control, but also flexibility. Now, aim down the sights. Take a deep breath. And… fire.”

Katya squeezed the trigger, and the shot rang out, echoing in the enclosed space. The bullet hit the target, a little off from the centre. Nate nodded approvingly. “Good. You’re getting better. Remember, it’s all about practice and keeping yourself calm.”

Lowering the gun, Katya looked over at Nate with a small etching of concern. “Do you really think I need to know all this, Nate? I mean, I’m not… you.”

The older Volkov sighed, reaching out and adjusting Katya’s grip on the gun. “I know you’re not me, Kat, but it’s important you know how to protect yourself. It’s not recreational, it’s a necessity for us.”

“Did Dad teach you how to shoot guns?”

Nate chewed her lip, squinting at the target, feigning a distraction from the question.

“Nate.”

“What?”

“Did Dad–”

“Yes, he did.”

“And how old were you?”

With a sigh, Nate looked at her sister, softening her gaze. “I wasn’t 20, I’ll tell you that much,” she said with a dismissive chuckle. “Again,” she instructed, stepping back to give Katya space. “And this time, focus on your breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Let it calm you.”

Katya nodded, raising the gun once more. Nate watched intently, every movement scrutinised, every potential mistake noted. It was clear Nate knew exactly what she was doing. Her movements were precise, her advice clear and effective. She was a professional in every sense, a mentor who demanded excellence without forgetting that her student wasn’t an expert.

But as she watched her baby sister handle the 686, that fear that lingered at the back of her mind non-stop continued to gnaw away at her heart. She couldn’t allow history to repeat itself. Not now, not ever. It was a reluctant truth that Nate took years to come to terms with, but with the shipment theft, and Dimitri really ramping up the demands… one couldn’t be too careful when it came to ensuring the protection of those they love.

If Nate could make it so Katya never had to touch a gun, she would. But that wasn’t their reality.

As Katya fired another round, hitting closer to the centre of the target, Nate allowed herself a small smile. “Better. You’re getting there.”

The blonde looked at her, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Thanks, Nate. For everything.”

Softening her eyes, Nate placed an arm around Katya, tugging her closer and giving her a gentle squeeze. “You’re my sister. I’ll always look out for you. Now, let’s take a break. I want to go over some self-defence moves with you. Can’t be having some wanker thinking they can put their hands on you without a kick in the bollocks.”

They walked towards the bench at the back of the range, the tension of the shooting session slowly dissipating. Nate handed Katya her water bottle, and they sat down, the hum of the ventilation system filling the silence.

“You really have to cut down on the English vernacular.”

“Look who swallowed a bloody dictionary,” Nate mused with a smirk, taking a sip of water herself. “Why should I? We’re British, remember?”

“No, we’re Russian,” Katya rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, you sound so Russian right now, Kat.”

“Da poshyol te,” Katya stuck her middle finger up at her big sister with a sarcastic smile.

“Aw…” Nate pouted, nudging her side. “Ya tozhe tebya lublu, suka.”

“Seriously, though… Dad doesn’t like it.”

Nate scrunched her eyebrows up, glancing at the floor. “Dad doesn’t like me speaking like… me?”

“He just thinks that Russian sounds better.”

“Mum never spoke Russian at home,” Nate mumbled, almost defensively. The mention of Irina soured the atmosphere somewhat, and the sisters were left in silence for a moment. This was why nobody ever spoke about her; the situation was so tragic, nobody ever knew what to say.

“Nate,” Katya began, hesitating slightly. “Do you ever… Do you ever get scared?”

Pausing, Nate considered the question. She really did. Even if it didn’t translate through her nonchalant sip of water and her distant stare. Sure, Nate was strong. Impenetrable. But even she, like every other motherfucker on planet Earth, had her vulnerabilities.

The difference was that she learned to wield them like weapons.

“Yeah, Kat, I do,” she honestly answered. “But it’s a tool.” She looked over at Katya. “Without fear, we don’t question what we see in front of us. And without the will to question, we navigate like robots. Carbon copies of one another…” Before she could go off on a tangent, she shook her head and stood up, stretching out her arms. “The trick is not letting it control you.”

Katya knew Nate never liked to talk about the intricacies of how the family business impacted her. But she wasn’t entirely stupid. She may not have known everything that went on right under her nose, but she saw the effect it had on her sister. 

“Alright,” Nate offered her hand to Katya. “Let’s get to it. The more you know, the safer you’ll b–”

“Natalka!”

Nate and Katya whipped their heads round to the doorway of the shooting range, seeing their uncle Ivan standing there with a hand in his pocket. Nate’s jaw clenched, her eyes narrowing in irritation. She despised interruptions, especially when it came from Ivan. Unlike Dimitri and Sergei, Ivan didn’t command the same level of respect or fear, which made Nate feel more at ease being openly… well, openly being a cunt to him.

“Dimitri wants to see you. He’s on the pitch.”

Nate shot him a withering look. “You couldn’t wait ‘til we were done?”

Ivan shrugged, unphased. “He said now.”

With a huff, she turned to Katya, patting her on the shoulder. “We’ll pick this up later. Just… practise your aim for now, ‘kay?”

“Mhm,” Katya nodded, moving out of Nate’s way so she could leave. 

Offering a small, tight-lipped smile to Katya, Nate turned on her heel and strode out of the range, leaving Ivan trailing behind her.

“This better be about The Bloodline.”

“Mitya didn’t say what it was about–”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

As she made her way through the estate, she really did hope to Mother Nature that this was about their next steps regarding The Bloodline, and that it wasn’t another lecture on Boris fucking Sokolov. The mere thought of discussing anything about that vile man right now made her stomach churn.

She’d much rather talk strategy, plot how to bring Roman Reigns and his family to their knees.

She envisioned Roman’s downfall. Imagined the fear and desperation that would cloud his eyes as his world crumbled. The satisfaction she would derive from witnessing that would be… unparalleled.

Reaching the edge of the estate, Nate’s eyes fell upon her father. He stood on the meticulously maintained golf pitch, practising his putting with an air of leisurely dominance. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever demand or scheme he had in mind.

Nate stood silently, her arms crossed, watching as he putt another ball into the hole with a calm precision that made her want to jump out of her own skin. He was a man who thrived on control, and this right here was a stark reminder of the power he had over her.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he looked up, the casual smile on his face belying the intensity of his gaze.

“Nate,” he greeted.

“Dad,” she echoed. “Ivan said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes, I, uh… need you to do something for me.”

She suppressed a sigh. “Of course you do. What is it?”

Dimitri gestured to the golf course, a rare moment of playfulness in his eyes. “There’s an auction in Grand Central on Saturday. Underground, of course. I need you and Boris to attend and secure a batch of knives.”

“Knives?” she raised her eyebrow. “We have a kitchen.”

“Little Natalka, always so funny funny…” he chuckled, but it was drained of any emotion. “They’re belt-buckle and sword cane knives. Cannot get such things at… Walmart.”

“Another errand on your behalf. How delightful, father.”

His eyes narrowed, and the playful glint vanished. “Watch your tone, Natalka. This isn’t a request. It’s an order. Budte uvazhitelny.”

She wanted to argue, to push back against his demands, but she knew better. Instead, she let out a controlled breath and nodded. “Fine.”

Even though she agreed, Dimitri could sense her resignation like a dog sniffing out an eight ball. He took a step closer, softening his voice into a whisper. “I know things haven’t been easy for you lately, Natalka. But I want you to know that I am so proud of you, and I am proud that I have a daughter like you. And I know… your mother would say the same.” 

Nate perked up. He was actually acknowledging her mother. That she once existed. She felt the corners of her mouth tug upwards.

“Everything you do is for this family. To keep us all safe… You want Katerina to be safe, don’t you, dorogoy?”

“Yes, of course I do,” she answered immediately with an earnest nod.

Dimitri returned a more genuine smile. “Good. Then you understand why this is important for us.”

Swallowing hard, she conceded. “Yes… I do understand, Papa. I’ll… go to the auction with Boris.”

“Excellent,” Dimitri praised, turning back to his putting. “And while you’re there, keep an ear out for any useful information. The auction scene can be… quite the goldmine for intel.”

[arthistoryanimalia]

#Woodensday:

Frog Bowl, c.1860

Tlingit culture, Pacific NW Coast

Wood, Paint & Abalone Shell, 7½ Length

The Steven Michaan Collection of North American Tribal Art

“Frogs were principal characters in many traditional stories that were (and still are) part of the oral history of Tlingit culture.

Like the character of the prince in shining armor in Western literature and children's stories, the frog was the character who rescued maidens from ordinary lives and magically transported them to another existence, in this case a watery underworld paradise where they were celebrated as princesses and queens.

To the shaman, the frog was equally important as both an illustrative example and a "yei", a spiritual helper. Like the shaman who existed in the physical world and made frequent passages to the spirit world, the amphibian frog comfortably existed in both the terrestial and aquatic worlds with equal mastery, with each environment providing the from with different skills : ie., hopping on land, and swimming under water. This parallel made for easily understood "medical" explanations of shamanic healing practices of earthly illness, which were thought to be remediable only in the spirit world.

While the exact purpose of this bowl or container is not known, it could easily be a shaman's carrying case for small objects or could possibly be a dowry box to be given to a maiden on the occasion of her wedding.

Technically, the piece is delicately carved and broadly detailed so as to represent all frogs and pay honor to them. The piece is unusual in that it represents a single creature without any of the combinations and metamorphisms that unite multiple spirits, characters and creatures in single sculptures.

Extravagantly set with abalone and masterfully carved, the object was either from a family of great wealth and cultural status or a shaman with sufficient resources to commission such a carving or produce it himself.”

[tsukigamiteiru]

circuit breaker [9 ch. doom 2 mod installation, Xbox 360 controller, Win 7 PC, fridge, 3D print with recycled PETG bottles containing a USB stick with a MacOS rootkit, laser cut tribal lithography and a short story, 2 backsides of monitors, mdf laser cut, acrylic laser cut containing an article from The Intercept about the FBI ISIS grooming scandal of Mateo Ventura, self made nails, 3 computer fans with stickers, laser cut vcr rack, monitor arm with a 3d fan animation, 3d print with silver silk PLA, 3D printed frames with green translucent PLA, alu-dibond prints on speaker stands] As much as we are connected through the wire, digital tremors beyond the deceleration of digital literacy are operating on a daily basis to eliminate the possibility of an utopian future. So far, the social media canon is embellished in its own need for disinformation, as the user turns from being a victim to a target. The circuit breaker serves as neologism of a rough awakening, of an absent, impotent reflection of a mirage we call cultural consensus and the loss of visions for an alternative future. Beyond dark forests and hidden swamps lie metaphysical caskets for our souls, shapeshifting into forms of server racks, hard drives, deep down adorned with white lights, where the cancellation of a subscription or the mere lack of back up destroys over decade old, cultivated mycelium-like dependent relationships between admin, mod and user. No amount of spiritual, paganistic and religious fanaticism survives as soon as you meet eye to eye with this on petroleum operating soul reaver. The works exhibited in „circuit breaker“ are exploring the relationships between materials and tools that turn the immaterial into analogue sculptures, text into thoughts and fears, the involuntary participation in a post-truth world that turns us into targets for all kinds of fun psychological operations.