h
d e v o n
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
★
hello vonnie
Sade Olutola
Cosmic Funnies
Love Begins
art blog(derogatory)
sheepfilms
Misplaced Lens Cap
One Nice Bug Per Day
Game of Thrones Daily
AnasAbdin
Monterey Bay Aquarium
izzy's playlists!
titsay
No title available
Jules of Nature
pixel skylines
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Malaysia
seen from Brazil
seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia
seen from Australia
seen from South Africa
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Bangladesh
seen from Bangladesh
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@maligncatharsis
[This blog has been dead for about a year now. I went on an unexpected hiatus when the muse died, and I completely forgot about it. I probably won’t return. If you’re still interested in rolelaying with me, and you’re tight in the Pokémon Fandom, check me out at mxgmatic, my RSE!Maxie. I’ll queue this post a few times to make sure the word’s out. It’s been swell, Ib fandom, but Guertena’s been burned out.]
[This blog has been dead for about a year now. I went on an unexpected hiatus when the muse died, and I completely forgot about it. I probably won't return. If you're still interested in rolelaying with me, and you're tight in the Pokémon Fandom, check me out at mxgmatic, my RSE!Maxie. I'll queue this post a few times to make sure the word's out. It's been swell, Ib fandom, but Guertena's been burned out.]
Eugène Anatole Carrière - Le Contemplateur
"Pietas" (dedicated to the great life of AG) 2014, colored pencils on paper, cm 65x137 (tryptic, 65x45 cm each) "White Days", Gallery B15 / Islands Brygge 15, February 21, Copenhagen
A Study in Greys, 1913, Mary Hiester Reid
♚Tell me a story of a world I have forgotten.♚
Ｌｅｔ Ｍｅ Ｆｏｌｌｏｗ Ｙｏｕ Ｔｈｅｒｅ
F̲̠̟̯͕̹a̷̘̫̣̩b͓̳̖̹̕ṟ̰̞͜i̸̪͕͔̱c͡a̪̻̲͉͎̼ͅt͙̞̟̳̱͘e̻d̗ ͚̻͟G̷à̹͍r̹̬̬̦͚̣r҉y̫̭͚̖̱̣̩
♟; Single ship, currently not interested in shipping ♟; Paragraph to multi-paragraph ♟; EST timezone ♟; One-liner open starters posted often ♟; Multi-verse and AU friendly ♟; Will RP with anyone ♟ ; Mun is very friendly ♟ ; Currently semi-active ♟ ; Will RP with alternatives
Ｇａｌｌｅｒｙ Ｉｎｑｕｉｒｅ Ｈｉｍ
Chant dans la Forêt, 1883, Alphonse Osbert
Kastanienblüten (Horse Chestnut Blossoms), Lovis Corinth
Old Godalming by Moonlight Frederick Smallman-Tew (1881–1966)
Oil on canvas laid on board, 35.2 x 24.5 cm. Godalming Museum.
Edmund Charles Tarbell - Girl with Violin
A River Landscape, 1897, Peder Mørk Mønsted
Lips involuntarily parted when the man’s voice sounded. Interesting it was, the response offered; however, the collection of words weren’t the trigger to the surprise. It’d been the sudden heaviness of earlier’s still air, something so utterly strange that it produced this inexplicable affect of sorts. It’d been difficult to pinpoint what exactly shifted, but change certainly cascaded over the carefree essence that laced into darkness. The gentle curl marring pale lips hadn’t once faltered; yet, this man’s expression seemed to transform without any physical transformation occurring. Hues flickered — making sense seemed to be tossed right out of her ideology.
"…brushstrokes of memories—huh…? Never really thought of it entirely as stories of the artist’s souls, though…” Had he been an artist? Or was he experienced with the field? Inquiries that were pushed to silence when her gaze followed his pace. True, gentleman attitude gave her reason to remain calm, though there’d been a small voice at the back of her mind that warned her of the near future. Perceptive nature wasn’t entirely a pleasant trait — but, regardless, it’d be wise to stick to the gut feeling that churned her core. There’d been minor bitterness to his words upon the explanation of the masterpieces upon the wall; it contrasted how a certain purple-haired artist viewed them as. Crucified and nailed…—where’d that sensation of freedom disappeared to? Garry’d once explained that art was an escape—unleashing the mind’s desires and interests upon the fabric of a canvas. Yet, the image of paintings and other artwork resting at assigned spots…—it seemed almost as if they were caged. Owned. Stuck. “My friend harbors a different vision. It’s evident in the way he works. Smiling so…freely, whole-heartedly…—almost as if he’s adding life to his work. The freedom involved with unleashing our desires through paintings — I suppose that’s what made his work so beautiful. I’m unsure of whether or not his work has been put on display here; however, I don’t think I truly knew what art was until he showed me. How you explained it certainly…certainly is something new to me. Though, I suppose every artist has different visions…” Lids descended as Fey’s mind returned to reality; facial muscles tensed upon the halting of footsteps just shy of her back, disinterested in swerving to meet eyes again. Fingers gradually curled into loose fists.
Earlier’s calamity no longer existed. Especially when — he claimed the impossibility of her departure. Grey optics froze for a brief moment before crimson brows tugged together. One move…one move and the redhead would have to resort to what remained tucked in the front pocket of her bag.
"…I’m assuming you’ve got a knack for humor, sir. Unfortunately — it’s far too late for that. I’d appreciate a little more clarity in terms of what the hell you mean by that.”
There had always been a fascination with how things fell apart. Call it an indulgence of humanity. There is something incomprehensibly beautiful about the moment which one breaks, the precise instant when things crumble. And regarding people, the concept is doubly true- that brokenness shears personality to its bones, that it reveals the soul and opens the heart. Weiss Guertena was a man who knew intimately the pleasure of beautiful, broken things, for he was not so whole himself. For Weiss Guertena could not be called a man, not in the strictest sense. Weiss Guertena was a force, one rivaling that of gravity itself, as if he could loosen the ground and pull into himself, strong as iron, constant as the tide and the shifting sands. With words, he had closed the trap. When she spoke, however, every flag raised, a current of familiarity catching his attention immediately. How dare she spoke of art as if she knew it. “One would assume, with the time, the emotion imbued into each piece, art is far more than paint on canvas. What more could it be, then, than an expression of the very soul?” For that moment, he was still as death, and just as somber. “Your friend is obviously inexperienced,” the artist intoned. At once, his voice is soft as sin, facade peeling slowly away at the mention of this person; a friend who had mentioned the gallery, a friend who undoubtedly knew far more than he should. The artist hovered wraithlike behind the query, presence as dark and nearly so haunting. “If art is freedom, why display it? If art is that life, what right do critics have to scorn it, what right do publics have to view it, and what right does any man have to twist it into the perversion which brought you here today? You who view without thinking, who appreciate only the barest of surfaces, who know nothing of the sacrifice- what do you know of art? A true artist paints with his very life, but what you see as freedom is little more than a beautiful catharsis. There is no subjectivity in this. One cannot create without the pain of feeling, and such emotion is not meant to stay static upon the canvas. Life does not create art. Art creates life.” The Stillness suffocates. The artist breaks it, stepping away from the closeness to leave her to turn and face him, should she please, and to look into the eyes of all that art becomes. An empty husk who felt so intensely, whose passions plastered the walls and breathed around them, that which was once man but had since become. For Weiss Guertena was not a man, he was a soul incarnate, a benevolent creator twisted into monstrosity. Weiss Guertena had drunk deeply from the well of praise, stared too long into the heart of darkness. “You doubt my seriousness.” All darkness returned to him, saturating his voice in tones of the Abyss. “The moment you stepped foot into the Gallery, you became witness to something much greater. Privilege does not come without price, and thus for this is steep indeed. I cannot allow you to leave knowing this.” The smile which ghosted his face was perhaps the most sincere thing about him. “Come down below, and I will show you someplace secret.”
Cherokee Roses on a Shiny Table, 1883-90, Martin Johnson Heade
Frost, Vasily Baksheev
A Wooded River Landscape, 1892, Peder Mørk Mønsted
William Etty Self portrait, 1823
