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⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ζ⠀⠀⩍.⠀⠀ ⠀ why⠀ ⠀ can't⠀ ⠀ 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒⠀ ⠀ go⠀ ⠀ away ⠀⠀⠀(.͟.͟.͟)⠀ ⠀ except⠀ ⠀ ʸᵒᵘ⠀ ⠀ /⠀ ⠀ you⠀ ⠀ can⠀ ⠀ stay.⠀⠀⠀⠀
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NAME: alistair isidro adlawan-loewel. ALIAS: ali or izzy. AGE: twentty-four, 18 june. GENDER & PRONOUS: bigender, he/they. SEXUAL ORIENTATION: bisexual, almost. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: probably aromantic. ETHNIC: filipino-white. MAJORING: postgraduate fine arts. JOB: sculptor, activist, skakeboarder. HOMETOWN: upper east side, manhattan. PERSONALITY: deeply charismatic, quietly rebellious, unapologetically intense, haunted by the weight of inherited privilege and his unrelenting ambition.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ.✶៸ HEADCANONS.
born into wealth and influence, he walks a tightrope between expectation and defiance. his family name opens doors he’d prefer to pry open himself, and his sculptures—dark, twisted, unapologetically raw—stand as quiet protests against everything his heritage represents.
the process of creation for alistair is one of purging, of digging deep into reservoirs of feeling he can scarcely name. each piece he finishes is a love letter, a confession, and a rebellion all at once, often made in a flurry of restless nights, fuelled by strong coffee and self-imposed solitude.
strays—animals, objects, even people—find their way into his life with surprising ease. alistair surrounds himself with the overlooked and the forgotten, drawn to the beauty in imperfections, as if he alone understands their hidden potential.
alistair keeps late hours, working or wandering through the city until dawn, driven by his restlessness and insatiable curiosity. his most honest thoughts are reserved for these hours, spoken only to himself and to the silent city streets.
alistair’s world is built upon carving out his place in spaces he feels were never truly his. while his family’s legacy drips with the burden of history, his life is shaped by an almost visceral need to leave his own mark, however small or unconventional.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ.✶៸ AESTHETICS.
new york streets under the cover of darkness, the hum of distant traffic, the occasional murmur of jazz seeping from an old bar, the flicker of neon signs casting surreal hues onto pavement. shadows and streetlights carve their own forms around alistair as he navigates the city, the ever-watchful observer searching for meaning in the fleeting moments of solitude.
a Brooklyn loft turned studio, walls lined with half-finished sculptures that hold traces of his past work. paint-streaked floors, stone dust lingering in the air, chisels left askew across a marble slab. In the quiet hours, his space transforms, hosting silent reflections and passionate outbursts of creativity. art here is raw, deeply personal, rejecting conventional beauty in favour of capturing the essence of his subjects, no matter how unsettling.
nights spent skating aimlessly through alleyways, leaning into turns that carve the cityscape into his personal gallery. the worn wheels against concrete and the rhythm of gliding motion are as familiar as his own pulse. when the night grows still, he finds solace in a smoke under streetlights, enveloped in moments where silence is louder than words.
a manhattan brownstone he seldom visits, its opulent furnishings and antique décor a reminder of what he left behind. framed portraits, heavy velvet drapes, glass chandeliers, each room arranged to perfection and frozen in time. he steps through it as one would a museum—observing, not belonging, aware that its extravagance serves as nothing more than a gilded cage he once escaped.
a leather-bound notebook filled with sketches, cryptic notes, and fragments of ideas, its pages littered with glimpses into his inner life. within these pages are not only ideas for future sculptures but fleeting reflections, half-formed philosophies, and a record of the moments that strike him with an undeniable urgency.
sunsets on rooftops overlooking the city, as he sits quietly, absorbing the fading light that turns skyscrapers into silhouettes against a darkening sky. in these moments, he is neither the sculptor nor the heir but simply a witness to the beauty of passing time.
vintage leather jackets and worn-in boots, a nod to his rejection of wealth’s polished image.
silent city parks at dawn, a faint fog veiling the benches and trees, as he finds quiet in the unclaimed hours between night and day.
the smell of stone dust and oil paint mingling in the air, a constant reminder of his devotion to creation.
old vinyl records playing in the background, their soft crackle underscoring the stillness of his studio late at night.
