meia noite sonhador

o menino nunca mais se esqueceu do que aprender; que amar é destruir e ser amado é ser destruído. Remusly

[the-golden-comet]

Lately on my dash, I have been seeing lots of wonderful mutuals get too hard on their beautiful minds.

Lovelies, your stories and art are beautiful because they are from you, and FOR you. Stats do not determine the quality of a product. Again, some of the BEST stories on the archive I have ever read were around 100 hits, and 0-10 kudos. Some of the BEST ART I’ve seen has 0 notes.

You know how I can tell? Because the authors and artists poured their heart and soul into their craft. As long as it can inspire ONE person, you should be proud. You just radically changed the life and perspective of ONE person. That’s amazing.

Sure, you might think your art or story is “cringe” or “bad”…OR, it can be someone’s comfort piece that they go back to after a long day. You may see your stats and think, “man, nobody enjoys this,” not knowing that maybe, juuuust maybe, you have that ONE person who you’ve inspired, who loves your work, and lurks your socials awaiting for your next project. Your art, your music, YOUR story has the potential to do that, but you have to love what YOU do.

And yes, your love WILL show. Maybe not with stats, or kudos, or notes, or comments. But you may be someone’s favorite without even knowing. As long as your art is out there, it WILL reach somebody. I will try to be that somebody for a lot of you, but there is indeed A LOT of you.

In a world where media is being “consumed” for “content,” remember that ART comes from the heART (sorry not sorry for being cheesy). Artists, Writers, Poets, Musicians, Sculptors, HUMANS: Get your hearts out there for the world to see. The world needs more motivated minds. 💫

[arthoeacademia]

my blue and yellow

everything i wanted to be in the cup in my hand, i find it in the cup that sits on the table in front of me. staning the papers that were laid out beneath it. i look hopefully inside the cup in my hand. it is the most favourite utensil of mine. its handle is broken and it has cracks at the edge of its mouth. still i do not seem to care and hold it layering both of my hands clenched to that cup. even though it sometimes leaves stains on the collar of my shirt due to its uneven cracks. it sometimes also burns out my hand due to the hot coffee in it. it doesn’t have a handle, remember? that cup is still so dear to me. it is blue in colour. i look at the cup that sits on the table desperately wishing to be picked by me. it is yellow. i feel bad for that cup for it has all the things that my blue cup lacks. it is new with soft edges and a very fine handle. i eye the insides of my blue cup and it suddenly shatters in my hand leaving me bruised. blood slides down from my fingers and i can taste the feeling of abandonment. again. my blue abandoned me yet again. i cry and fill up yellow with my tears. it stays calm and collects everything without complaints. i don’t pick yellow up. i am scared of abandonments. i ask yellow how long will it stay? how long will it wait? “you know waiting is so beautiful if it ends with you” yellow has this carved besides its handle. and i tear up again. i look forward to the day i can pick up yellow without any hesitation. when i can fill it up with my favourite desserts. i really hope blue is at peace though. i miss blue. it is still my favourite cup.

[hamletthedane]

I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

[arthistory-memes]

Complex feelings on A.I. art

I admit as an analog artist my feelings on AI are mixed. I know AI will not replace fine art. AI could not make the Grapefruit Book, or Abramovic's Rythym 0, or The Fountain. In fact, if you're at all active in the art world, you've probably been seeing work that uses AI for a number of years now. I remember a kid in my graduating class did project using porn screenshots to make AI generated images of genitals and sex. The images were amorphous and fleshy, I found them interesting from gender neutral perspective (though that wasn't the artist's intended angle of exploration.) I had some friends who found them distasteful but it had nothing to do with use of AI. I say this because many arguments against AI art boil down to seeing it as a "perversion" of art, some unnatural advancement that will kill art. This is always bullshit and is the same argument non-artists have been using against modern art for over a century.*

That being said, I see a lot of prominent leftist bloggers on this site celebrating AI art, or at least fighting tooth and nail against any detractors, and they never once engage with the perspective of digital artists. I follow many digital artists across many platforms (and know a number in person) and not one of them is pro-AI that scraps and regurgitates their work for profit. I can't believe this needs to be said but most artists, even fine artists, are not wealthy from their work, regardless of whether they are popular or have "made it." This actually goes doubly for commercial artists, a category many digital artists fall into. Artists having rights to their own work and labor is a political and economic issue. Regardless of where to you fall on the spectrum I think this is worth discussing, and if your discussions don't include digital artists I think they're a bit, ahh, shit.

Onto the complexity. I find it difficult to throw my weight behind legal action as the proper response. I'm wary of copyright laws, because, like all laws, they will usually be used to screw over the least powerful person in the situation. This person is much more likely to be an independent digital artist that the mogul stealing from them. I'm also extremely averse to censorship and any censorship laws. Censorship is an enemy of art and allowing the government to regulate artistic subject matter is always bad. (I can imagine a situation in which AI companies are regulated, or perhaps their ability to profit from AI is restricted? But idk I'm rather iffy and unconvinced on the usefulness regulation one way or the other.)

*Art has been dead since the Dadaists killed it, and art isn't going anywhere. The panic over AI art replacing "real" art is strikingly similar to the panic in the early 1800's when photography was invented. People thought it was going to replace painting forever, after all, why would anybody make or purchase a painting when photorealism is at your finger tips? Well, turns out painting is fine. The indomitable need to connect with other human's though art isn't going anywhere, even if painting has been tired since the death of marat.

[yuumei-art]

Dream Portals~📚📖📔

[caelestishound-deactivated20240]

My recent designs.

[gt-zel]

“This is might sting a bit, okay?” I looked up at the enormous figure looming above me wielding medical supplies. I was still in shock from the nights chaotic events. I sat atop a cotton ball the size of a large beanbag for me.

Okay, for those of you who may be confused let me explain. So basically, i woke up today in a strangers house with no memories. adding to that, this wasn’t just any house, it was a giants house. Obviously i was freaked out when i woke up underneath a ginormous couch with nothing but my clothing, which looked worse for wear.

I had foolishly assumed that I was alone in the house, and got reckless while trying to wrap my head around the situation. I ended up getting spotted by the giant that resided in the house and they caught me. Fast forward past a bunch of struggling and injuries on my part and here we are. A giant is warming me about the sting of antiseptic as I struggle to keep my breathing sound. His hand, which is about the size of a car, steadily approaching.

He doesn’t wait for me to give consent before dabbing an alcohol covered q-tip on my fresh wound. I let out a yelp and curl in no myself. My breath starts to grow ragged, as the stinging in my leg grows more and more noticeable.

“S-sorry little guy, but we have to make sure it won’t get infected” I feel a warm plush finger start to rub my back, in an attempt to calm my anxiety. Unfortunately for them, I haven’t had the best experience with giant hands since I woke up here this morning. I flinch away and try to curl into myself further.

My body starts to shake as I feel tears prick my eyes. The stinging has subsided minority, but now I’m more focused on the looming giant. I just need space. Why won’t they leave me alone. They keep making things worse. Just go away. Go away. Please please please just go away.

They touch my head again, ruffling my hair roughly. I yelp back and finally snap.

“PLEASE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!” My voice sounds odd to my ears. Not how I had expected it to sound. It’s watery and cracks on certain vowels. I feel the hand flinch back at my comment. The giant hesitates before speaking.

“Y-you can actually…talk..?” He seems unsure of the proper response. I assume he didn’t think I was sentient, or at least that I didn’t speak his language.

I ignore his question, which seemed more like a shocked observation than anything else. I look up at him and for the first time today, I look him in the eyes. I’m shocked with how sorrowful they look, he seems so sad. Why does he look that way?

We hold each other’s gazes for several silent minutes. His eyes are a sparkling shade of silver, which is combined with the soft hue of teal. They’re comforting and calm, while still looking concerned.

“I-I need to clean up your wound, it might get infected if I don’t” he said carefully. He showed me the differing supplies and ointments he had layed out around the surface of tile that surrounded me. “I’ll try to be gentle with you, but I don’t want you getting even more hurt because of struggling”

Against my better judgement I nodded. He carefully lifted my leg up in between his two fingers. Gently he rubbed some healing oil onto the flesh surrounding the wound, along with ointment on the wound itself. O was pleasantly surprised to see how cautious he was while working.

When he had finished, he bandaged up my leg with gauze and set it down.

“Is that better?” He asked, putting a bit more space between us now that it wasn’t necessary.

“Y-yes, I think so…” I figured with my hands and the hem of my well worn shirt. He seemed to brighten when I spoke, smiling a bit in a friendly gesture.

“So, what’s your name?”

[spicymochi]

little gentlemen

[makrustic]

Moments in time, preserved through sentiments Twitter | Ko-Fi | Patreon

[mental-poems]

Sob o manto da escuridão

Em um mundo dividido por séculos de uma antiga rivalidade entre os Portadores de Luz e os Portadores da Escuridão, a paz é uma mera ilusão. Nessa eterna batalha, onde a coexistência é proibida, a trama se desenrola quando, após incontáveis reencarnações, a Portadora da Dualidade emerge novamente.

Scarlett, destinada a carregar tanto a luz quanto a escuridão em seu ser, surge como a chave para um possível equilíbrio. Sua existência é envolta em mistérios, e os Portadores de Luz, liderados por seus guardiões implacáveis, caçam incansavelmente os Portadores das Trevas, determinados a impedir que a dualidade ressurja e ameace seu domínio.

No entanto, durante sua jornada, Scarlett se vê envolvida em um intricado emaranhado de segredos sobre sua própria vida passada e a verdadeira natureza da rivalidade ancestral. Enquanto luta para sobreviver às investidas de ambos os lados, ela descobre um romance proibido com um Portador das Trevas, lançando dúvidas sobre as fronteiras entre o bem e o mal.

A trama se desenrola em um cenário épico, explorando temas de redenção, amor proibido e a busca pela verdade. À medida que a protagonista se debate entre sua herança dual e as expectativas dos dois lados, ela se torna a peça central em uma trama que pode finalmente quebrar o ciclo interminável de conflito ou levá-los a um ponto sem retorno. O mistério de sua própria existência se entrelaça com o destino do mundo, desafiando as noções de luz e escuridão e questionando se a verdadeira paz pode ser alcançada quando aceitamos a dualidade que reside em todos nós. LINK HISTÓRIA: https://www.wattpad.com/story/356474194-sob-o-manto-da-escuridão

[mental-poems]

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[mental-poems]

36 prestações de saudade

Dizem que tudo na vida tem dois lados. Um bom e outro ruim. Depende nos olhos de quem está a pimenta. Mas se tem algo realmente ambíguo para uma única alma é um troço chamado saudade. Com ou sem pimenta nos olhos. O dito popular é quem melhor traduz a dualidade de uma saudade quando diz que esta é a maior prova de que o amor valeu a pena. Então sentir a falta é bom. E ruim. Em todos os pontos de vista. Vai entender.

Saudade é amar um passado que nos machuca no presente. É uma felicidade retardada. É deitar na rede e ficar lembrando das ardentes reconciliações depois de brigas homéricas por motivos desimportantes. Sente-se falta de detalhes, como uma toalha no chão, dias chuvosos, da cor dos olhos. A saudade só não mata porque tem o prazer da tortura.

Saudade é o amor que não foi embora ainda, embora o amado já o tenha feito. Ter saudade é imaginar onde deve estar agora, se ainda gosta de vinho bordeaux, se chorou com a derrota do Grêmio no campeonato nacional, se tem tratado aquela amiga da elite. E quando a saudade não cabe mais no peito, se materializa e transborda pelos olhos.

Sentir saudade é ter a ausência sempre do seu lado. É mudar radicalmente a rotina, comer mais salada e menos sorvete, frequentar lugares esquisitos, ter dias mais compridos, ter tempo para os amigos, para o vizinho e para a iguana do vizinho. A saudade é a inconfortável expectativa de um reencontro.

Às vezes a saudade é tão grande que nem é mais um sentimento. A gente é saudade. É viver para encontrar o olhar da pessoa em cada improvável esquina, confundir cabelos, bocas e perfumes, sorrir com os lábios tendo o coração sufocado. Porque mesmo a saudade sendo feita para doer, às vezes percebemos que ela é o meio mais eficaz de enxergar o quanto amamos alguém, no passado ou no presente.

Por que a saudade é o muro de Berlim desmoronado no chão, capaz de agregar opostos, como a tristeza e a felicidade em uma coisa híbrida. Se você tem saudade é sinal que teve na vida momentos de alegria com ela ou ele! No fim das contas, a saudade que agora lhe maltrata nada mais é que uma dívida sendo paga em longas 36 prestações pelo amor usufruído. Agora aguenta.

- Gabinto Nunes