Feb 6, 2019
SNared. Wood, polyester resin, sand, concrete, thermoplastic, steel, retort clamp, borax crystals, pva, hessian, plaster, epoxy resin, jesmonite, polyurethane tubing, threaded rod, silicone, spray paint. 182 x 85 x 42 cms. 2019.
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Singapore
seen from Japan
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Japan
seen from China
seen from Japan
seen from China
seen from South Korea
seen from United States
seen from Japan
seen from Türkiye
seen from Japan
seen from China
seen from United States
SNared. Wood, polyester resin, sand, concrete, thermoplastic, steel, retort clamp, borax crystals, pva, hessian, plaster, epoxy resin, jesmonite, polyurethane tubing, threaded rod, silicone, spray paint. 182 x 85 x 42 cms. 2019.
concept moodboards: clouds + rain
Okay so this is loosely based off No longer Human. AU where they have no powers. Dazai is a spoiled, suicidal rich brat just recovering from a failed attempt. Chuuya is an ex mafia hitman, now reformed poet with a roaring alcoholism problems. They meet in a bar and hate each other immediately. :D sorry if this is very specific lol. Feel free to interpret it any way. Hope you feel better soon! :)
<333 OH MYG OD I LOVE THIS LMAO OKAY OKAY Warning: suicide mention
Dazai tensed as someone slid onto the stool next to his and nearly fell over. He felt like an open wound, stinging and raw when exposed to oxygen. He didn’t want to be around other people, but he did want alcohol, so a compromise had to be made. His entire life seemed full of compromises.
(He didn’t want to be alive, but a well-meaning friend cut him down from the ceiling. Another compromise he had to make.)
He stared hard into his whiskey when the man next to him spoke. “You look like someone with money.”
Dazai glanced up at the stranger, which was a mistake.
The man’s piercing blue eyes bit into him. He had a loud appearance to match his abrasive voice: bright red hair, a hat perched atop his head, an oversized coat resting on his shoulders, and, of all things, a leather choker circling his neck.
His voice already slurred, which was an accomplishment considering he’d just entered the bar. He’d probably drunk somewhere else beforehand.
“Maybe I am,” Dazai muttered.
“Fucker,” the man hissed. The bartender shoved a glass of wine into his hands, of all things. Red wine. Dazai grimaced.
“Who are you, again?”
“Nakahara Chuuya.” Nakahara Chuuya sipped his wine, eyes narrowing at Dazai’s disgusted expression. “You?”
“Dazai,” was all Dazai had to offer.
Chuuya scoffed. “Dazai,” he repeated. “What’re you doing at a bar if you don’t want to talk to people?”
“I want to talk to people,” Dazai lied. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Hah?!” Chuuya slammed his free hand down on the bar. “Got a problem with me?”
“Everything about you is overbearing,” Dazai said, his voice still quiet. “It makes me want to try dying all over again.”
“Of course someone like you tried to die,” Chuuya said. “All of those rich boys do. They’re so sad that they have money.”
“You don’t look so badly off,” Dazai pointed out.
“I don’t have money,” Chuuya said. “I’m a poet.”
“A poet?” Dazai raised an eyebrow. “You? Are your poems just the incoherent ramblings of a drunken man?”
“No,” Chuuya said, quietly. He looked at his wine glass for a moment. “I used to be a hit man, you know.”
Dazai rolled his eyes. It was just his luck that he’d have to sit next to the most talkative, annoying person in the bar when he really couldn’t be bothered. “You’re so short I’m surprised you could hit anything.”
Chuuya’s head shot up, as did his fist. Dazai caught him by the wrist and pulled it down, leaning forward and grinning. “No fighting in the bar. Let’s settle things like grown men.”
Chuuya yanked his hand out of Dazai’s grip and drained his wine. “I’m leaving. I hope I never have to lay eyes on you again, emo bastard.”
“I’ll be here tomorrow, hat rack,” Dazai chirped with a false smile. Chuuya stalked off, his steps unsteady.
Dazai turned his attention back to his drink, barely touched. He wondered why he’d promised to be here tomorrow. Maybe Chuuya would avoid the place and he could actually drink in peace. He definitely didn’t want to see someone so abrasive. His skin crawled at the thought of Chuuya’s voice, his hat, his hair, his eyes.
Startlingly blue eyes full of so much emotion, something Dazai found fascinating because he’d felt so little so often.
How did Chuuya work? How did someone exist that way?
He paid his tab, leaving behind the unfinished drink.
He would be back tomorrow.
Humanise : Building Interior Places/Gatherings On Care.
Affective Poetics: Exploring Ceramic PracticesThis title emphasizes the emotional and artistic aspects of ceramics, appealing to an audience interested in creative expression and poetics. Crafting Care: Ceramics and Built EnvironmentsHighlighting the connection between ceramics and care practices can attract readers focused on sustainability and community engagement in art. Speculative…
PART III: Still a question mark, though, was whether caterpillars chitchat
y: In the square in front of Galerija Nova’s project space is a concrete flower bed. Except for
the big chestnut tree, it is the only designated place for very curated nature to establish itself.
Recently a particular situation - the invasion of box tree moths, disrupted the order of that
small ecosystem and due to the parasites, everything grown had to be uprooted. The event
opened up a space for fiction, creating a site of guessing and new possibilities.
x: Through fiction new myths, new dream worlds, and perhaps even possible (new) futures
can invent themselves and at the same time fiction allows us to reflect on the structures and
agendas of our everyday lives. Scheibe gives us a provisional definition of fiction as “a lie
revealing itself as a lie”, but told in a particular context it can have ˝dazzling, confusing, and
deeply seductive˝ effects. Engaging in a fictional narrative, the exhibited project marks a
territory of occurred and establishes hearsay about the life and death of a caterpillar colony
in the real space and time, inserting the ambiguous event in the history of a planter.
I’m treadmill walking and Karma-Kat stole my #fictioning chair! Will have to evict him, making progress on Hit And Run #thriller #karmakat #amwriting https://www.instagram.com/p/B8eMQOdHhYk/?igshid=kx6mwbs28pdu