Francis Picabia
INO, ca. 1929
Pencil and watercolor on paper in wood and tinted frame by Rose Adler
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Picabia’s friend Rose Adler designed this frame and owned this work by April 1930. Adler was close to a number of artists, writers and designers active during this period, and her innovative and avant-garde frames graced the works of many of her contemporaries, including Pablo Picasso, Georges Braque, Marie Laurencin and Man Ray.
'To me, my frame is like a toy with which the painting is playing, a hat that makes it want to be seen.' - Rose Adler
blurb: Nat is, however, ridiculously positive in her affections and unwavering in her feelings and intentions to act on them. It makes Rose's head spin. It doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel like it should. But this is something different. This is an undressing.
ao3
Rose Adler has an obsession with washing her hands.
One finger at a time, in every dip and crevice, with special attention laid to the scar on her thumb. Staring solemnly in the mirror. Dull eyes scrutinizing every feature. Every mistake.
A ritual cleanse.
When she was young her mother took her to the doctor to ask about obsessive compulsion. To ask why Rose's fingers were always bleeding, why she couldn't go to sleep until she counted every variation of the repeated pattern on her ceiling.
Rose never admitted that it was herself that peeled back the skin of her cuticles when anxious or stressed. It got worse with age. Rebecca still doesn't know. "I've always loved you," Rose repeats in her head.
Now, she cleans her fingers. Staring into the mirror, eyes a stormy seasick blue. She rubs every knuckle, digs into every fingernail. Sighs as the water scalds her skin. She's not scared. And no, this thought is not coming out of nowhere. She's not afraid. Never has been. Her shaky breath and weak knees aren't fear. She's tired. That's what it is. Exhaustion. She cleans her fingers. She cleans them deeply. Once, twice, three times.
She turns the water off while the fan in the bathroom hums with excess. She leans over the sink, hands splayed on the counter, elbows over-extended and she closes her eyes. She thinks about the gun in her hands. The weight of rubble. The sores on her fist from punching Sin...the bathroom mirror at the station...the wall of her flooded bedroom. She's always been a fighter. She's better. She's getting better. It's okay that she's hurt. Wounded. It's okay that she's angry. It's okay to express emotion. She dumped her therapist after one session. Her words still ring in her head.
You are in control.
Her eyes burn. She forgets to blink.
Then, there's a knock at the door.
Rose nearly jumps.
"Are you okay? The door was open. I wanted to come check on you." Her voice is like a discordant note. An interruption. A sour melody.
Rose's face comes into view in the mirror. Her mascara is running - when did her mascara start running? She wipes the wet from her cheeks with haste. Her ribs hurt as she breathes in deeply. To will herself to throw back on the mask she wears with ease. Rose Adler is never not fine. Not to anyone but the mirror, and the mirror is never true.
Swiftly, she turns around to open the door, hand hesitating on the handle, but she opens it anyway.
Nat stands a few steps away from the door frame, hands in her pockets and leaning on her heels. She always gives the appearance of ease, but the tightness of her shoulders and the pinch in her forehead almost always tells another story. The things we do to hide ourselves. Nat Sewell is never not content.
Rose does not dare breach the other side. She plants her bare feet on the cold tile of the bathroom. "I'm fine. Needed to clean up is all."
"I'm truly sorry, if only you knew..." She pauses, weight shifting as she extricates the words carefully from her tongue, "...just how scared I was." In music there are dissonant intervals, unpleasant melodies that may seem like they are written wrong. Mistakes to the ear. But, in their own right, even they are beautiful too.
A dissonant melody, not sour. Not wrong. Not an interruption. A deference.
Nat removes her hands from her pockets, almost aching to reach out. But one look at Rose and she doesn't.
You are in control.
"I don't need you to be scared for me." This is not a story about needs. This is a story about wants. It's almost religious how she denies herself.
I take care of myself.
"You wouldn't be able to stop me." She takes a step closer and to her surprise Rose does not move back. Nat takes care not to scare Rose away, but it doesn't feel like predator and prey. Rose is not prey. Rose is predator. Bite and bark and all things bloody. And then, well, perhaps so is Nat.
So, Nat takes another step. And another until she can feel the radiating heat from Rose's body. Rose freezes, but Nat moves past her and into the bathroom. Rose turns around again, watching as Nat moves about her space. Her space. A violation of sorts. Rose does not stop her. She's not scared. She's exhausted. In her head, like a mantra.
Mantra, mantra, mantra.
Nat is always like this. Willing to pass the sacred line. Rose would say she doesn't like it. But Rose does not stop her. Not the lingering touches, not the worry in Nat's eyes. It's almost suffocating. And--she's still angry, but it's an anger like a fire that is almost ashes, the coals are still hot to the touch. Nat looks around the bathroom, eyes tracing over the bits and pieces of Rose. Her clothes scattered on the bathroom floor, the dirty makeup littering the sink counter, the almost full trashcan in the corner. Nat has been in here before, but not like this, not while it has been Rose's. She likes it better this way.
Passing by the sink and the toilet, Nat plugs the bathtub with a stopper and turns on the water. "Let me help you clean up."
Rose stops listening after let me help you. She nods.
Nat tsks after searching through Rose's cabinets, unable to find any bath milks or salts. She almost leaves to retrieve her own, but she's sure that if she leaves, the door will be closed and locked and she will have lost her chance. So, this will have to do.
When she's finished moving about the space, she faces Rose, eyes scanning every feature, looking for a hint, a clue.
Rose stares back at her, almost with guilt. She didn't ask for this. With her back against the wall. She didn't ask for this. She feels--
"I'll leave you some privacy."
"No!" Rose grabs Nat's arm as she passes. "I mean, no."
Nat's forehead crease, like it does. Like it always does. Rose's grip lessens, and Nat wonders if she's having a change of heart.
Rose spins around so that her back is facing Nat. She doesn't say anything. Her mouth goes dry when she even thinks of having to admit that she needs help with something. No, wants help with something. Nat feels her heart weigh heavy in her chest.
Rose Adler is never this expressive of her desires. Never so open in her affections.
Nat is, however, ridiculously positive in her affections and unwavering in her feelings and intentions to act on them. It makes Rose's head spin. It doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel like it should.
But this is something different. This is an undressing.
A reciprocation. A seer, and the seen.
"Are you sure?" Nat asks, because it feels so uncharacteristic of Rose - she wants to feel joy, to feel so boundlessly incandescent, yet this feels darker, piercing.
Rose does not respond. She bites the inside of her cheek and faces Nat. Her mind tells her to stop, that this isn't allowed, that this isn't how it is supposed to be. Rose finds it hard not to listen, but she does anyway. She reaches out for Nat's hand, and when she touches her, she stops breathing. She doesn't feel a pulse. Is that intended to scare her? She isn't scared. She is exhausted. Rose guides Nat's hand to the bottom hem of her shirt. Her eyes reach Nat's own, pleading.
“Up," Nat says as she pulls the shirt over Rose's head. Rose lifts her arms, doing as Nat says.
Nat resists the temptation to look down, instead keeping her eyes locked on Rose's face, still scanning, still tracing, still committing to memory every change.
Next, she leans down, eyes lifted, chin nearly resting on Rose's stomach. She pulls down Rose's trousers, still looking for consent for every motion. Rose never changes her mind. With every touch she basks in the feeling, all reluctance dissipating. No longer skittish. No longer a wounded animal ready to flee.
Nat helps her step out of her underwear, Rose's hands rest on Nat's long arms. Nat stands at her full height.
"You can look," Rose whispers.
She does.
“Thank you," Nat responds. "For trusting me."
For once, Rose can't quip back. So she stands there, arms uncrossed. Vulnerable. And she feels it.
Nat falls in beside her, and places her hand on the small of Rose's back, leading her to the ornate tub. She lifts Rose into her arms, and gingerly places her into the warm water. As she lets go, she runs a finger through Rose's tangled blonde hair, tucking it behind her ear.
And as Rose watches Nat leave, she mourns her touch.
this is my self insert oc for the project Firville Coven by @loonylein
Rose Adler
Age: 12th grade (17-18)
Magic: lightning. She can create lightnings and transporting energy through her. Charge phones n stuff. as the ultimate spell is teleporting through the lightning she invented (so she doesnt have to wait for a lightning) that she can send herself in the shape of a lightning in to any cloud and the teleport
Pet: a magpie. she always brings her brilliant stuff she has stole on the day
Rose Adler was a teenager in the first world war, sneaking away from home to help the allied nurses on the front. As a German she was shunned until they realised that her skill surpassed theirs.
