I am so, so proud of her. The most complex custom I've ever done, and the one where the most things went wrong, too!
I widened the faceplate, which meant I had to change the entire head to accommodate. Part of her head broke and I had to repair it. Then one of her legs became permanently fused to a joint peg. That's no good because the pegs are soft and prone to breaking - they must be replaceable! I had to start the legs over from the beginning. The sealant was perfectly fine with all the paint except once - it made her face paint buckle! I had to sand it smooth, then repaint and keep going...
AND THE PAINT. omg. I went through multiple brands and types of acrylic paint, and all of them were complete failures. In desperation I turned for the first time to lacquer paint. That's WAY more heavy duty stuff than I ever planned to get into! But the results... oh, they speak for themselves. 🥰
FUN PHOTOGRAPHY THING. In the game, in sunlight, Yona is like. Lizard green. Bright, brilliant lime. But in rain or cloudy weather (and when you print her out in CYMK), she's a soft, cool, mint color.
I use a Nikon camera that boosts the eff out of yellow. So much that just about every photo I take, I have to go in and manually decrease the saturation on all yellow. I thought to myself, "If I paint Yona that brilliant shade of green, it's going to be a nightmare to edit. I'll just go with her rainy-weather color instead." But look at that photo! It's perfectly her shade! The camera looked at cool mint and made it anole green! 😁🎉
I feel like I understand the game's lighting system a little bit better now.
...why is her head decoration missing, you ask? (Well pretend you did.) It was too bulky to fit on the part of her head that I squished down to fit Nendoroid proportions. Also it would have been very fragile. And it would have made her taller than Sidon.
And once again addressing the great big obvious: what does this mean for my photography?
I... think I'm correct in guessing my reputation in this fandom is "the sidlink toy photographer", right?
I ship all three as a polycule. But the same way I take photos of Sidon and Link, Zelda and Link, all three together, or singles; there will be photos with Yona in and out of the mix.
Whatever ship you like, interpret it and indulge freely. Zelink, sidlink, sidona, sidlinkona, and any combination I haven't named. Or no ship at all, if you like everyone as friends. Tags, comments, spinoff interpretations - all is okay. Enjoy it to the fullest. Tbh, you can even slide a wish list my way. As long as I have the props and the time, I'm always happy taking photos!
I don't mind what you ship - see what makes you happiest. 😉
Skunk Pelts Got You Down? Hear Me Out: Grapefruit. Juice.
Unfortunately many taxidermists shy away from the idea of mounting skunks (memphitidae); which is really quite a shame considering what incredible creatures they are. The musk of a skunk tends to drive most away from this project despite a fairly easy fix no further than your local grocery store...
But first- what makes a skunk smell? The spray of a skunk is an extremely potent, sulfur-rich thiol. This consists of the chemical compound (E )-2-butene-1-thiol and 3-methyl-1-butanethiol. In other words- they don’t exactly smell too great up close.
Now that that’s further established, we’ll for sure be wanting to rid ourselves of that odor- but why grapefruit?
Grapefruit contains significant amounts of citric acid with their content level being only second to lemons and limes. The citric acid present in high concentrate grapefruit juice, which just happpens to react well with the compounds in skunk oils. The use of this works to cut through the scent as well as mask anything that slips through fairly well.
Instructions For Use:
Cleanly skin specimen. Do your best to avoid over saturation of fats and flesh, as well as cutting scent glands (located on either side of the rectum) by any means necessary. I recommend beginning from the head.
Prepare bath ASAP. The sooner soaked, the less the smell spreads. My personal formula is 1-2 bottles of grapefruit juice as well as dawn dish soap. Optional: add a splash of pine-sol, glycerine, and salt as well as about 1/4 cup of aluminum sulfate (allum), these being the ingredients for a classic allum tan. This will not tan the hide, but it will cut down on bacteria, greatly decreasing chances of slipping.
Submerge pelt and allow to soak for 1-2 hours for the first pass, stirring and making sure it has been thoroughly coated. This WILL NOT stain the fur.
Rinse & repeat, changing the juice each time until smell is gone. Wash thoroughly with soap and water until runoff is clear. Continue on with tanning and other hide prep.
This is a method i learned from my mentor, a professional with 60+ years of experience within the field. Do with this information whatever you’d wish, just know- this shit does a beautiful cleanup job.
Any topics you’d care to have me touch on? Please let me know, i’m sure i can help you guys out one way or another.
Of all of Argit's criminal history, that outfit in Omniverse has got to be the biggest crime he's ever committed
Argit's jumpsuit is bad. Like really fucking bad in my opinion lmao
It's ugly, doesnt fit Argit's character at all, and worst of all there's too much fucking Orange!
(Sorry but Orange is my least favorite color by far. It's so fucking bright and I hate it)
Yes I know Argit wore an Orange jacket in UAF but that was at least counterbalanced by the Black T-shirt and dark Blue Jeans he wore. It felt balanced out instead of one big splotch of Orange.
And considering that Argit literally goes around stealing things, that would require him to be very steathy.
How the fuck can anyone be steathy wearing a jumpsuit that looks as bright as the mother fucking SUN?
Guess Argit's been taking his advice from Naruto it seems lmao .
Omniverse pick up a damn fashion book challenge! 😤
Yeah omniverse really did just increase the saturation, decrease mens’ hips, add random square patches everywhere, eat hot chip, and lie. Garment construction? Never heard of it!
Seriously what’s with the random squares everywhere- especially with argits clothes. He doesn’t have an ounce of square shape language in his blood! He’ll bend over backwards for just pennies a day! So what’s with all the square elements??? Typically little elements in a design are used to bring an intended shape to a character who’s body is not naturally shaped like that shape. For example, a skinny anime girl won’t have many natural circles on her body, so circular patches and jewelry will be used to convey those circle connotations. So why does angular edgy Argit need to wear so many square decals??? When has he ever been sturdy and reliable and strong???
Now I don’t personally mind orange, it reminds me of construction work which I like, but I do despise bright cyan. The only context I would have been okay with the color on Gwen’s stupid omniverse shirt would be if it was paired with a vivid crimson- such as the color of her uaf hair! But they didn’t! They made her hair orange, which is not how aging works btw. Plus cyan and crimson, especially if the cyan was a bit deeper, looks really good together in a grey setting- think of a colonial style house up in cloudy Maine. Red brick, blue shutters and trim, white paneling and grey skies… that could have made her look so nice in friedkin, so she could stand out like a cozy New England house in the fog rather than whatever the fuck was going on in omniverse. (Sorry I keep going back to Gwen, I’ll talk about Argit now)
Something I really like with uaf generally is the use of what I consider analogous saturations and values- rather than hues- and you can really see this in argits jacket and pants color combo, as well as his fur and hair colors. The fur and hair have the analogous/monochrome saturation but different values, and his coat and pants have complementary colors but equal saturation and analogous values. (This is getting admittedly nebulous and theoretical but bear with me lol) I think these muted colors all balance really well with each other and don’t tip the scales any one way- this lets him blend in with the backgrounds like you said anon.
In animation, I know that there is often a separate person assigned to the color, but the art director, djw, would have okayed the colors they chose, and he could have vetoed the ugly colors they chose!
I’ll be honest I do really love warm colors and hate cool colors, so I always prefer when bright colors are heavily saturated and cool colors are dulled down with grey, so I’ll admit I kind of like a bold slap in the face with orange. It reminds me of a fun weird haute couture runway look, and it reflects really well on dark brown skin- but Argit isn’t a runway model, he’s a sneaky little criminal man and it doesn’t make sense for him to wear bright orange unless he’s secretly trying to get peoples’ attention??
Warnings: language, lots of language, violence, blood, wounds, injuries, plenty of angst
DCEU Canon
A/N: I’ve been meaning to write this one down for a while. It’s based on a dream I had but I just went and added details and a little bit of backstory. Nothing too crazy. This will probably just be a one shot. The top half is heavily edited while the second half I just spat out because I was inspired and I went with it. Hopefully it’s good. This is my first foray into something other than Marvel, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo
Edit: I forgot to thank @babiiface95 @evansweaters and @sherrybaby14 for giving me some feedback on this! It helped tons!! xoxo
It hurts.
Everything hurts.
In this moment, all you can feel is the pain in your side.
You stumble forward, hitting the chestnut wood of your door hard. With nothing to brace yourself on, you slide along the length of it until you’re sitting, shoulder pressed against it.
“Ugh…” You groan, letting your hand trace the smooth grain until it can latch onto the handle. “Fuck this shit. I quit.”
You tell no one.
There hasn’t been anyone for months.
The door gives as you twist the knob sending you falling onto the small foyer of your apartment. You’re on the top floor, beside the penthouse. Your own place is small. Compact. Just three rooms, four if you count your bathroom.
You pull yourself along the dated ceramic tile and watch as you leave a smear of red behind you.
“Honey…” You begin, kicking the door shut while you stay flattered against the floor. “…I’m home.”
No one responds.
You exhale through your nose as annoyance rips through your chest.
“Fucker.” You say at no one, but obviously someone.
It takes every ounce of strength you have left to haul yourself into your bathroom. You peel off your suit, letting it drop to the floor in a whip of heavy fabric, space quality tech that was not fashioned on Earth but created for you.
To protect you.
Because he said he cared.
“Fucking…fucker.” You huff, yanking the first aid kit from the open shelf beneath your sink.
Your sports bra is drenched in sweat and blood, sticky against your skin as you plop yourself at the small kitchen table. You pull open the kit and reach for needle and thread.
It’s a messy stitch, clumsy and crooked from the angle you’re forced to work in. However sloppy, you do seal the wound to your ribs and the bleeding finally stops.
In your blood-soaked underwear, you make yourself a sandwich and stand at your counter, staring at the primary blue coffee cup sitting beside your own in teal.
You chew loudly, smacking your mouth as the bread sticks to the roof of your mouth. Eyes glaring at the cup, you bite down more fiercely. Tearing the food apart angrily.
“You’re a stupid bitch, Y/N. Get over it.” You sigh, then retreat to your bathroom to tidy up.
~~~~~~~~~~
Exhaustion is not your friend. It makes you cranky and irritable and sad because you can’t stand the silence in your home.
You groan, pressing your hand against your side gently, then reach for the remote and turn on the TV to war the silence.
It’s a cacophony of sound and for a moment, it grates your nerves. Some cartoon, loud and full of slapstick.
Next channel has people screaming at each other from opposite sides of a stage. Chairs begin to get thrown. A guy with a mullet takes off his shoe and chucks it at a man with one ear.
Next channel has an old black and white movie. The pretty woman with dark curls and a heart shaped face leans across a table, chin in her hand as she moons over the composed man who is smirking at her casually.
Nope. You think. No romance.
Next channel is the news.
“-sure what to make of what we’re seeing. It’s like nothing we have witnessed before. Veronica, can you tell us what’s happening?” The news anchor presses his hand to his ear, eyes squinted as he stares ahead.
The screen shifts and Veronica—a pretty woman with flowing red hair and deep blue eyes fills your screen.
“Miguel, it looks as if all of the ocean’s water is being pulled away from our coastline and out towards the ocean. Where the water is going, we aren’t sure. There is no way to know what this means or what can be causing it. And although we’ve seen this phenomenon happen in films, doomsday blockbusters where a tidal wave the height of a skyscraper builds up before the subsequent flood, experts are sure this is not at all what’s going on.
There are dozens of meteorologists, marine biologists, oceanographers, and astronomers still searching for the cause. The only thing that they all can agree on for certain is that the oceans are not withdrawing, but rather, they are draining, leaving sea life, coral reefs, and the ocean floor exposed.
“Something is pulling this water away. Whatever is causing this, is not natural.”
Sitting up, you place your elbows on your knees as the video changes to that of a helicopter shot as it circles the ever-decreasing ocean line. A humpback whale and her calf attempt to outswim the retreat, but they fail and as the water falls away, the creatures are beached between two sheer ocean cliffs.
“What the hell…” Reaching up, you cover your mouth, watching as the video moves back to Veronica.
“If we can’t figure out why the ocean is draining, we will have hundreds if not thousands of species left without chance of survival. This is not only a loss of a life for many endangered species, but also leaves us to face the consequences within our fishing industries and the millions of people it not only feeds but employs as well. If we cannot stop-”
Veronica suddenly stops speaking, holding her hand to her ear as she listens for a moment.
“Sorry, Miguel, it looks as if Doctor Rashda has found a source point for the draining. Doctor Rashda can you hear me?” Veronica asks, waiting for a moment before the video splits vertically.
The second frame of video sits empty, a sloping sandbank visible in the distance. It curves around in a semi-circle at the center of which is a growing swirl of dark blue water.
“Doctor Rashda?” Veronica asks again, her eyes frantic as they search a monitor out of view.
“Surrender.” A voice says, high pitched. Female. “Surrender and you will not suffer. Surrender your planet, and I shall make your end quick.”
Veronica is silent as the column of swirling water parts a little, just enough so that a pale face is visible.
“Surrender.” The voice says again, the pale face’s lips moving as it speaks. “And you will die quickly.”
Frowning, you move to the edge of your seat, your anger doubling.
“M-Miguel are you seeing this?” Veronica asks, voice small with fear.
Miguel doesn’t answer.
The figure in the water holds out its hand and from the swirl comes a smaller sphere. In this sphere something moves. As the camera zooms in, you can make out the distinct shape of a body, thrashing within its bubble.
Veronica screams just as you and everyone else that must be watching realizes that within the bubble is Doctor Rashda, struggling and gasping for breath.
You’re up on your feet, racing to pull your suit back on when a commotion pulls your eyes back to the TV, legs already in but with one shoulder exposed as you freeze mid-dress.
“He’s back!” Veronica is shouting gleefully. Relief and reverence painting her voice. “Superman is back!”
You move two steps closer to the TV, not intending to take the word of a panicked reporter. Until you can lay your own eyes on him then it isn’t real.
A few seconds pass. Then, a blur of blue and red streaks through the center of the bubble and when the water stops rippling, Doctor Rashda isn’t there.
“Motherfucker.”
You pull your suit on roughly, ignoring the way the movement tugs at your side as you zip up and launch out your open window.
You fall fast, plummeting towards the ground in a streak of teal and gray. When you’re only three feet away, you feel a surge of power as your arms, and legs burn with white hot energy.
It pushes you upwards and propels you higher and higher until you’re soaring across the sky at incredible speeds, leaving a silver trail of light behind you.
It only takes you minutes to reach the coast but sometime between you jumping out of your living room window and arriving here by the Golden Gate, the fight has moved cityside.
You hear a deafening crunch as blue and red goes slamming into black, gray, and brown ocean floor, disappearing into the subsequent rubble.
Heart pounding, you propel yourself towards a thin figure, long stringy black hair, sallow skin, arm still stretched out from her hit. She turns to look at you just as you reach her, but you throw your own fist out in a powerful uppercut. It throws the strange woman high into the air.
You follow for a few feet, hovering in there as you watch her skyrocket out of sight into dark clouds overhead.
Behind you the heap of ocean floor rubble begins to shift.
Coming to rest on the cliffside above, six feet below he breaks through the rock and it falls around him, a flurry of fine sediment saturating the air.
Chest heaving, side burning, heart clenched so tight you think it might truly be shredding, you watch as the fucker stands up and does a quick scan of the area looking just as perfect as he did when he left.
His eyes are focused, searching the sky for sight of his attacker but instead he finds you.
His eyes soften and you’re still so angry you glare. You turn on your heel and walk away, staring up at the sky as you wait for the woman to fall.
“Y/N…” You hear him say, but you don’t turn to look at him.
You can feel the swirling of wind as he flies up to you, the soft pats as his feet hit the ground. He circles around your right, leaning forward to get a better look at your face.
In your peripherals you can see the gentle curl of his dark hair, falling along his forehead and a hundred memories of your hand gently sweeping it aside make your body tremble.
The pleasure that the memory brings makes your blood boil and you roll your eyes, ignoring the puppy eyes he gives you.
“Let’s just get this over and done with. I’m tired.” You assert and watch as the strange woman careens towards the two of you, an inhuman screech growing louder as she falls.
Moving forward a few steps you aim yourself, bend your knees and launch yourself up towards her. As you collide, she grabs hold of your shoulders, and the two of you twist and spin in the air, struggling to get the upper hand.
Shifting quickly, you pull her over you, grab hold of her shirt front and with all the force in your body, you spin and chuck her down as Clark flies towards you to finish the job.
~~~~~~~~~~
A tattered white dress is all that remains of the ocean thief.
“Who was she?” Clark wonders, moving to stand beside you as you watch the stain of saltwater grow as her body dissolves to nothing.
“You don’t know?” You ask him, turning to look at him and hating how much it pleases you to finally see him again.
His broad body, thick with muscle and stupidly accentuated by his damn blue skintight suit, feels larger than before he left though you know that’s silly. He’s as God like as ever, though he’s only an alien. To the world, he’s a savior. Invincible.
Superman.
What really hurts to look at are his eyes.
It chokes you, those baby blues, full of unspoken questions and expectation. For you. For the future. For the present. He wants to know you again.
You tear your gaze back down to the woman as Clark shakes his head.
“No. I was flying home when I saw the ocean empty and followed the trail to the spout she was in.” Clark explains.
“Well, it’s too late to find out now.” You point out. “The water will come back soon. You’ll need to make sure people stay away from the coastline.”
Turning towards him, you wait, your rage evened out and layered with betrayal.
That painful gaze of his so piercing it nearly steals your breath away.
“Where were you, Clark?” You ask quietly, your anger outweighing the hurt.
The apologetic look he gives you, the tilt of his head, the step he takes towards you grates your nerves.
“Y/N-”
“It’s been months. Almost a year.” You sigh, unwilling to give in.
He takes your hand and the impulse to pull away nearly overwhelms you.
His hands are rough, only in that masculine way. His skin is unblemished. Perfect.
The strength of his movements are carefully calculated. A natural habit he’s developed after a lifetime of having to be gentle to keep from breaking those he touches. The heat from his hands is familiar and it envelops yours easily.
“I was coming home.” He tells you.
“Home? How do you know that it’s still your home? Maybe someone else has moved in.” You threaten and there’s a visible fall in his eyes.
It nearly breaks your icy exterior. But you have every right to be angry and hurt that he left you. Out of the blue, no word as to where he was going or when he’d come back.
“I have to go.” He’d said, and left you sitting on the couch, wondering when he’d come home.
He looks down at your hand in his, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand.
“You went to see her first, didn’t you?” You accuse and he quickly meets your gaze.
“No.” He assures you passionately, moving a little closer. “No, I was going straight home.”
“She’s been looking for you.” You tell him, tempted to confess how useless you’d been in those first few weeks he was gone. “All of them have been. Where is Superman? Is the million-dollar question. And now here you are.”
He’s back just as randomly as he’d left. Just as sudden. Just as quiet.
“There he is!” A familiar voice shouts. On the bank across the large ravine you both stand in Veronica appears looking dazzled and excited, her camera man hoisting up his camera to begin what will be the first clear footage of Superman finally back. Earth’s hero returned.
Quickly you pull your hand from his and turn to walk away.
“Where are you going?” He asks, following for a few steps.
“Home. I’ve been in Australia for the last month dismantling a new crime syndicate with Bruce. He and I are both very tired. He stayed behind.”
“Oh.” Clark says.
“Superman!” Someone calls. “Superman is back!”
Civilians have begun to gather along the empty waterway, all of them eager for a glance at the Man of Steel.
You know how you made it sound and maybe it’s your annoyance making you push him away now that he’s home, but all you can think about is getting back home and being alone.
“The water will be back, Kal.” You shift to his birthname with so many ears nearby. “Get these people away.”
You leave him standing there, watching you fly away, with those baby blues full of quiet yearning.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment…your home…it’s a void.
You sit on the arm of your sofa still in full uniform, hand gently resting on your thigh—palm up. You’re a mess again. Dirty with blood and dirt and sweat.
Needing a shower doesn’t do much to deter your silly brooding. Silly because you did this to yourself. You made it seem like you had someone new waiting for you here when really the bleak emptiness is in need of a six-foot, three-inch tall Kryptonian.
His presence is here. Loud and white hot. His coffee cup burns you from across the kitchen—asking where its owner is. His drawer still full of clothes. Comfy sweatshirts and crisp white t-shirts. Blues and grays and reds too.
There’s one you’d set aside. The last he’d worn. Only once. It had sat on the end of your bed night after night until you’d caved and pulled it on. Now it probably smells more like you than him.
The place is silent. Only the drip, drip, drip of the bathroom sink breaks the quiet.
Your gaze wanders to his shoes by the door, shoelaces left undone, a small speck of mud on the side of the left heel.
Shutting them, your eyes water.
No. You shake your head. I won’t cry.
You take a shaky breath and release it slowly, sighing as your body slumps forward.
The movement reminds you of your earlier wound and you gasp in pain as you sit up straight again, leaning to the side to look at the spot growing increasingly wet on your side.
“Shit.” Stitches are probably torn open. “Fuck.”
Maybe it’s your frustration with this whole situation or maybe your wound really just hurts a lot, but as you reach over to feel the bloody spot, your voice finally breaks. Though there are no tears, they really want to fall.
“Fucking, stupid, fucking…” You sigh again, this time faster, angry.
“That’s a lot of French.” Clark says, his voice smooth and even and excruciatingly beautiful to your ears.
You stand up, startled, and spin to watch him pull his left leg in through your open window, following his torso.
He’s still in his suit, cape and all. Once again, the sight of him reminds you of his Godlike status. His perfection unreachable and yet, here he is. In your home. Where he’d given himself to you openly and without reservation.
He stands there, his hands clenched into nervous fists. Skin just as dirty as yours but not sweaty. Not bloody. His hair is a little disheveled. The tresses normally so carefully tempered are free to curl and wave.
“What are you doing here?” You ask, voice still weak from your raw emotional outburst.
“I went to see Bruce.” He explains, and you might just kick yourself for implying Bruce would be waiting for you. “Why-?”
“Because I wanted to hurt you.” You admit, cutting him off before he can word the question. “Because I wanted you to regret leaving me the way you did.”
“I do regret it.” He sighs. “I-I only left because I thought I heard…”
He hesitates and you’re tempted to kick him out. You turn away from him and move into the kitchen, trying to ignore the wound that needs tending.
With your own coffee cup in hand, you pop a k-cup in your Keurig and punch the power button, waiting for it to power on before you select the largest cup option and listen to the whirr of the motors instead of Clark’s silence.
“I went to Krypton, or what’s left of it.” Clark finally says, this time from the mouth of your kitchen archway, hands still clamped tight.
You shut your eyes tight, hands clinging to the edge of your counter. Squeezing ever tighter until they begin to ache, and you still only keep squeezing.
“I wish I could be as impressed by that answer as I was the first time you told me that.” You shake your head.
“It was different this time, Y/N.” He shakes his head, then takes a step closer.
The movement draws your eyes and you watch the intense focus on his face, the uncertainty to speak.
“What is it?” You ask, still a little bitter.
Even though he looks as if he means it and this trip to Krypton is more serious, he’s not speaking. He’s keeping this from you. Holding it back.
“Jesus fucking Christ Clark, I guess you don’t trust me.”
“No.” He insists, moving another step closer which still leaves him a ways away from you in the kitchen. “It’s not that. I do trust you. More than anyone. But…”
You want to scream at him. You want to tell him to go to hell and to stay away from you and to shove his excuses up his ass, but your curiosity is growing.
There’s a small panic in his baby blue eyes. A fear.
So, you wait. You hold your tongue. You’re patient for now. You give him a familiar silence that tells him you will wait until he’s ready.
He recognizes it and meets your quizzical gaze as your coffee finishes brewing.
You don’t even realize it’s done as you stare into Clark’s eyes and he stares into yours.
The moment he decides, his shoulders relax. His jaw drops a fraction of an inch as he stops clenching his teeth.
As the weight on his shoulders is visibly lifted, you feel yourself relax too. Nearly a year of being without him and you’re still so attuned to his moods.
“I found someone.” He tells you. “On another planet, in a Kryptonian ship that had been sent only days after my own.”
“Another Kryptonian?” You ask, curious but also fearful.
You remember very clearly the last Kyrptonian that had come to Earth. Zod and his minions had torn Metropolis to shreds. They’d killed so many people and Clark had made the hardest decision in his life.
Not that you’d been there. She’d been there. But Clark had let you in on the weight of that moment. The choice that he hated to make but would gladly do so again.
He must see the fear in your eyes because he shakes his head and takes yet another step towards you.
“No. Don’t be scared. Really. She’s-”
She?!
“-she’s harmless.” You frown at him because that’s the stupidest fucking thing he’s said since getting back. Maybe the stupidest thing ever.
“Okay,” He amends. “Maybe not harmless, exactly. She’s my cousin, Y/N. And she needed help.”
“Your cousin?” You ask, voice low and full of questions.
“From what I can tell, she was sent here after me, but when her ship was knocked off course, she was trapped in form of hypersleep for a long time. She was older than me, but now she’s a lot younger.” Clark continues to explain, speaking with some gusto now that you’ve allowed him to pick up some momentum.
“Where is she?” You wonder.
“I left her with a family that can take care of her. Someone that I trust. Far away from me. She’s still very young and I think it would be best if she remained hidden for a while. Just until she learns how to control her abilities here on Earth and to give the world time to get used to the idea of another Kryptonian.” He takes one more step.
“After Zod, I don’t know that there is any amount of time that would prepare the world for a Supergirl.” You frown.
With your defenses lowered, Clark takes the opportunity to step even closer, finally stopping beside you.
He hesitates again, this time as he reaches to take hold of your elbow. His fingers press against your arm gently like he’s stroking piano keys. Testing to see if you’ll pull away.
You don’t.
He lifts your arm a little and doesn’t break eye contact with you until your arm is lifted enough that he can get a clear look at the red on your side. Head tilted to the right as he assess the injury.
Straightening his head, he slides his hand down to your hand, taking it before gently pulling you away from the kitchen, through your bedroom, and into your bathroom, switching on lights as he goes.
Watching him be like this has always been your favorite. He moves with a purpose, eyes trained on what he’s looking for without a glance spared your way.
You stand beside him as he holds your hand, hunched over to look under the sink for your first aid kit.
After he retrieves it, he pulls you back out into the kitchen. There’s more room there for both your bodies, especially with his taking up so much space.
He places the kit on the floor before he pulls you in front of him. Both of his hands find your waist and he lifts you up onto the edge of the counter to sit.
Slightly surprised, you gasp and place your hands on his shoulders, tracing the muscle while you can do so discreetly until you must remove them and place them at your sides.
Clark steps towards you, his hard abdomen pressed up against your legs as he wraps both arms around you, hands searching for the zipper on your back. Leaning over your shoulder to get a look at it, he’s almost hugging you.
And you can’t stand the tease of it.
The movement is quick, and he leans back again once he’s got the suit undone.
“What happened?” He asks as he hooks his thumbs into the top of your suit and pulls it down over your shoulders, your biceps—then holds the arms still as he waits for you to pull them out—then bunches it down along your waist to expose your injured side. “Lift your arm.”
You do as he ass, wincing as it tugs on the reopened cut.
“This is deep.” He disapproves.
“Bruce and I really were in Australia. One of the guys caught me with a knife just as we were getting them rounded up.” You explain.
“This is gonna hurt.” He tells you as he pulls the kit onto the counter beside you and pulls out a pair of small scissors and tweezers.
It takes him almost no time at all to snip away the broken threads and clean the wound again.
He waits, thinking for a moment, then meeting your gaze.
“Do you want something for the pain?” He checks, eyebrows raised in worry.
“Just do it, Clark.” You sigh, frustrated because this is all too familiar. This proximity, the smells, the heat, the way his hands poke and prod at the edges of your cut.
His eyebrows gather together as his jaw flexes with a frown, staring at the cut as he threads the needle quickly.
A proper needle this time, sanitized and threaded properly.
Taking your lifted arm, he pulls it over his head onto the opposite shoulder and places your hand there where his cape meets his suit.
“It’s gonna hurt.” He says again, and you realize he’s giving you something to squeeze.
And he’s right. Without the adrenaline from before, you feel every stitch and you’d thin you would get used to this sensation. But it hurts like fuck all and you squeeze his cape tight until you can’t help but give a small yell in annoyance.
“Why is it always the little wounds that hurt the most?” You sigh as he sips the thread and moves to clean his work area.
“You should go shower.” Clark says as he sanitizes the counter. “Be careful with your stitches.”
You don’t fight him on this because you desperately need another shower. Maybe if you’d been fine, you would have argued, but you’re dirty and aching.
When you emerge from the bathroom, you find that the sky outside has darkened. You dress quickly, just a pair of black old cutoff sweats and one of Clark’s gray hoodies.
You’re absolutely swimming in it, but it’s so soft and comfortable. Loose so that it doesn’t add any pressure to your stitches.
The apartment is so quiet you stand there, pulling the sweatshirt down as you listen intently for any kind of movement.
“Clark?” You call, just a little insecure after months of his absence.
You move out into the living room. The floorboards creak and moan as they settle beneath your feet. The large carpet in your living room silences your steps but you also stop walking, staring at the empty kitchen, then the empty living room.
Had you dreamt him?
Maybe he really isn’t back?
What if you’ve finally gone crazy?
What if he’s never coming back and you’d passed out after you got back from Australia and everything with the ocean had been a dream?
Are you really going nuts?
There’s a soft thud from your bedroom and with eager footsteps you rush back in.
Sitting on his side of the bed with his bare feet planted on the ground, Clark is hunched over. Elbows on his knees. Hands resting relaxed at the wrist while he stares at the floorboard underneath your bedroom window.
“Clark…” You sigh, not realizing how relieved you sound.
He’s changed, wearing a pair of gray sweats and a plain white t-shirt.
He looks good. Showered. His curls just barely damp.
“Am I welcome here?” He asks, staring ahead.
You move to the bed and climb on, walking on your knees towards him until you stop just a foot away and sit back on your legs.
It’s a good question. One you think on for a moment.
“You didn’t come back for ten months, Clark.” You sigh, hating that fact. “I didn’t know if something had happened to you or maybe you’d decided to leave me and Earth behind altogether? Mostly I just thought you were dead. I spent most of my time convincing myself that you’re so close to invincible that killing you might be impossible but-”
“I’ve died before.” Clark says, hating the idea that people think him a God. He turns towards you and frowns.
His words, however true they may be, send painful clenches into your chest.
Your face does something that makes his demeanor shift. Suddenly he’s sitting beside you, arm wrapped around your waist as he reaches up to push your hair back and away from your face.
His fingers graze the skin of your neck and he hooks it there, squeezing gently.
“I’m not dead.” He says, maybe guessing your thoughts of madness? “I’m right here.”
“But you weren’t.” You shake your head. “And I was so angry at you. I hated you. I cursed your name. Fuck that guy. Stupid fucker. I hate him.”
Clark simply watches you, his eyes moving side to side as he looks at your face and every expression that crosses your features.
The one thing that you’ve always loved about Clark, is the way that you can tell he’s really listening. Not once have you felt as if you weren’t being heard. Even if he doesn’t agree with whatever you’re saying, he listens so intently, trying to understand your point of view before he poses his own.
And you love him for it.
Shit. You still love him. Of course, you do. Of course, he’s always been yours.
Even in his absence, you were his and he was yours.
“I said that almost every night, hoping that you would hear me and come back. But you didn’t.”
“But I did.” Clark says. “I’m here. And I’m sorry I left without explanation. I’m sorry that I put you through that. And I know that you can’t forgive me for it. That I’ll be trying to earn your trust again every day that we’re together. But, please can I stay?”
He rubs your lower back, his large hand sending heat into every inch of your heart. Restarting it after he killed it ten months ago.
“Please?” He begs. “All I’ve thought about is getting back here. To you. To our home and our life together.”
You shut your eyes, relishing in the way his arms feel around you, his hands large and hot. His breath is sweet and warm. His scent is clean and so him that it makes your stomach flutter.
You won’t need that shirt of his anymore. Now you have him back, here with you. Where you can touch and feel and love and laugh and just be with him.
“Or should I leave?” He asks.
Your eyes pop open, red fury raging through them. “You do and I’ll hunt you down, Kent.”
He smiles, softly at first. But when your hand begins to trace the taut sinew of his muscly forearm, his smile grows wider. It grows and grows until it’s blinding and beautiful.
You trace the curve of his shoulder, tickle his neck before reaching up to smooth the curls that fall against his forehead gently.
He shuts his eyes, enjoying the affection before you push yourself forward between his legs and settle on your side.
You cuddle into the center of his chest, tucking yourself between his arms, head on his chest, under his chin, arms grabbing tight to the soft cotton of his shirt.
“I missed you.” He whispers against your hair.
You smile, shutting your eyes as you let yourself finally be at ease. Clark is home.
if you've already seen my previous post on the coraline/pink palace shifting method, then you'll know what this is about [if you haven't seen it yet, i suggest you do :)) ]
there are 2 factors i always consider whenever i visualise something for my DR, namely purpose and design; additionally, i also ask myself questions regarding those two
for example, say that i was going to shift to the world of A Song of Ice and Fire (the book, not the show), as a member of House Arryn; obviously, I'd want to visualise things that would relate to the said family and remind me of things from the eyrie
i would include: mountains, valleys, mist, falcons and moons (for obvious reasons), the colour blue, breezy mornings, nippy air that pierces your lungs, echoey spaces, mountain goats, a godswood, city ports, a bustling town, a dim stone castle, a damp-but-cold sort of atmosphere to the entire thing, blue filters
given those things, I’ll ask myself:
PURPOSE
Why am I visualising this?
Is it necessary? Is this object a focal point in my DR?
How significant is this object that I need to visualise it?
What does this object mean to me? To the reality I desire?
What does it mean to the people in my DR?
BUILD/DESIGN
concept
What is it? What’s it made out of?
What does it do? [add the functions of the object, not its overall purpose; example - a bathtub (don’t say it’s for baths, say it can contain water, that it has a faucet, a bidet, bottle holders, a tray, or whatever else)]
house arryn is based in the vale (valley), their ancestral seat is the eyrie (which, by literal definition, is ‘a large nest of a bird of prey, especially an eagle, typically built high in a tree or on a cliff’), and their house sigil is a falcon
the eyrie in ASOIAF is described to be situated on a mountain peak, thousands of feet above the valley
places in high altitudes are always cold, due to the decrease in air pressure; and going by that simple logic, well—it’ll be fucking cold in the eyrie
air itself is associated with life, freedom, intellect, and aves; and in this case, it’s a falcon
concept + senses
air is made up of many gases (water, oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide, etc.); and it’s necessary for breathing
since this is the vale, the mountain air is fresh; it usually has no appearance (it’s actually invisible), but I’d like to think exceptions can be made for mist or poisoned gases; air can also have a taste (crisp, burning)
and there you have it! that’s how i always reflect whenever i try to visualise the things in my DR. i can’t focus for visualising even if my life depended on it, so i always ask myself these questions. it’s even easier to imagine them if the things in your DR are things that you’ve encountered things in your life (ex., wilting flowers on an altar, or the feel of a porcelain sink). to add fun, i try to balance the science and the poetry. and that’s it! happy visualising :))
Something was irrevocably different with Remington; Emerson picked it off right away. On an early Tuesday afternoon, with the air thick and humid and the sun beating down like a plague (no pun intended), Remington was fussing over himself more than usual. He had changed out of four or five different outfits, playing with his hair, and was it appropriate for him to wear makeup? Eva hadn't seen him with it on, yet. No, it was probably best to keep it casual for now. Then again, he had a fantastic highlight that worked absolute magic under the sun...
It was around eleven thirty when Remington finally came down, dressed down but still presentable in a simple pair of ripped skinny jeans and a t-shirt. Emerson and Shy were sat on the couch as they watched Netflix, Pepper situated between them. Remington stopped short when he saw the pair cuddled up on the couch, he smiled deviously.
"Eugh! You guys are so flippin' cute it's gross!" he gushed, putting on his diva voice.
Shy chuckled softly, "Hi Rem,"
Emerson's attention diverted to his older brother, intrigued to see him all ready to go out somewhere.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Coffee with Eva," Remington replied simply.
"The neighbour with the cat?" Shy said.
"Yeah," Remington nodded, "Emerson tell you she gave us a loaf of bread last week?"
"He did," she smiled, "Poor thing, I felt for her. She looked so flustered at the pool,"
"Well, moving is a bitch already. Throw in Covid 19 and you got a real thorn in the ass," Emerson said, then turning back to his brother, "You gonna' be social distancing?"
"We're going to drink our coffee and walk around in the park," Remington replied, "She works from home anyway,"
"So, who asked who for the coffee?" Emerson asked.
Remington shrugged, stopping at the hallway mirror to fix his hair again, "She brought up how she hasn't had a chance to get around the neighbourhood, so I offered, she accepted. She has our vinyl too,"
"Which one?" Emerson asked.
"Boom Boom Room,"
"Side A or B?"
"A,"
"I'd approve either way,"
Shy couldn't help but subconsciouly squeeze Emerson's arm, a glimmer of excitement bursting behind her eyes, "So, she's a fan, too?"
"Took her a minute to figure it out. Didn't even bring up Em or Seb, so clearly she pays more attention to me," the blonde smirked.
Emerson glowered at his brother, "Yeah, yeah, go for your cup of fuck-off-ee," he grumbled.
Across the street, with her room strewn in discarded clothes that just didn't make the cut, Eva finally felt confident standing in her denim skirt and black tee. On any other day she'd have paired the ensemble with her pleather jacket, but it was too damn hot out. Even with the window letting in a cool breeze, the air was uncomfortably humid. What did she expect when moving from the Emerald City to Los Angeles?
Eva made sure to close and latch the window shut before she left, not eager for Pluto to go off on another reign of terror. Stopping to grab a fresh face mask, her phone suddenly began to vibrate in her purse. She figured it might have been Remington sending her a text, but the screen flashed to the Blocked Caller ID. Eva rolled her eyes and denied the call.
Stepping out into the humidity, Eva waved her hand over her face as she stepped out of the complex courtyard, just at the same time Remington was locking the door to his house. As soon as she caught his eye, he was all smiles.
She was glad to see him; a little relieved, even. He looked cool, cool enough to appear on some grungy magazine cover. All he needed to complete the look was a cigarette and maybe a skateboard, too. The messy blonde hair, the glimmer in his eyes brought back the warmth she associated with his presence and as she came to meet him at his car, his spicy cologne danced up her nose and imprinted itself in her olfactory memory.
Remington had never been more wary of how his hands shook, his left hand he stuffed into his jean pocket and the right he gripped his car keys with a vice-esque grip. He found himself mesmerized briefly by the fit of her skirt, her black t-shirt tucked in smoothly but not too tight to over expose her figure, but just enough to give Remington an idea. Her short brown hair fell delicately over her face, one side pushed back behind her ears and exposing her stormy blue eyes to the sunshine. She was the embodiment of innocence and grunge wrapped into a perfect five-foot-six package.
"Glad you didn't stand me up," he grinned.
"Well, I kind of happen to live right over there," she drawled, pointing to her balcony, "It'd be kind of awkward and hard to hide if I tried,"
"You look really nice," he nodded after a brief moment.
"So do you," she agreed with confidence, "Where we off to?"
There was a forested park not far from where they lived. Despite the pandemic, the fields were filled with older kids playing games of soccer and basketball, there were vendors out trying to sell their ice cream, a couple girls were scattered across the grass and sunbathing. It almost all seemed so normal, if not for the fact that the kid's jungle gym had been fenced off so no child could climb upon it.
The pair walked side-by-side, him with his iced black coffee and her with a green tea frapp -- no whipping cream. The gravel path they walked was shaded by a canopy of lush green trees, providing some relief from the hammering heat. Remington kept his gaze locked on her, worried to miss a moment where she'd crack a smile or briefly run her tongue over her lips. Her fingers appeared so dainty yet he could spot the small calluses at the middle joint of her thumb, and some paper cuts on her middle and index fingers.
"So, how does a ghostwriter get hired?" Remington asked, "Do you just openly advertise 'hey! If you're a lazy author, come hire me'?"
"No," Eva shook her head with a giggle, "I used to write articles for the newsletter at my college, and then a friend of mine forwarded me an email about a client who was looking for a ghostwriter. I didn't know much about it but the money was pretty good. It was a grant application for requesting financial aid for survivors of residential schools,"
"Sounds depressing," Remington said.
"It was pretty heavy shit," Eva admitted, "But, I did get fifteen-hundred for a six page application. Well worth it, I'd say,"
Remington blew an impressed whistle, "So you make pretty good money off of this?"
"Let's just say my student debt has decreased significantly since I took up the profession," and she took a brief sip of her drink.
"You ever publish anything under your own name?" he asked, "Eva Kuznetsov is a cute pen name. Evelina sounds more mature, though..."
Eva shrugged, "I think about it sometimes... but it's just easier to write under someone else's name and let them have all the glory. Say, if they happen to do something stupid to forever tarnish their career, that won't come back to bite me in the ass,"
Remington smirked, "Like a particular fantasy author who's made some pretty heavy comments concerning the trans community?"
"Let's not even talk about that, my heart still breaks when I think about it," Eva sighed, "To answer your question, however, if I got confident enough I may try to publish something in the future,"
"What else do you like to write?"
Eva opened her mouth but closed it quickly, pressing together her petunia pink lips as she visibly swallowed whatever words were about to pass through them. When she looked up at Remington again, his brown eyes dark like soaked coffee grinds that sent her into a caffeinated headrush. What would he think if she actually told him...
"I write poems, some short stories," she somewhat lied.
Remington's smile grew wider, mischief glimmering over his face like light beams reflecting over windchimes in a saturated dusk, "You hesitated just now," he spoke curiously, "What else do you write?"
Eva glanced down at the ground, a nervous giggle bubbling out and knocking the air out of her lungs, "Okay listen, don't judge me, it's just a hobby of mine,"
"Oh God!" Remington gasped, "Do you write porn?"
Eva laughed again, her pale cheeks flushing in red, "Well... I do happen write some naughty shit... in my fanfictions,"
Remington stopped dead in his tracks, taken aback by her answer. He totally thought she would say something along the lines of erotic fiction on a platform like Literotica. For understandable reasons, he had some mixed emotions about fanfictions.
"What kind of fanfiction?" he asked, somewhat bordering on the third degree.
"... Um..." she glanced at him again, the smirk on his lips compelling more giggles to burst from hers. She pressed her hands together over her nose and mouth, and Remington laughed as well.
"Okay listen, I promise," he put his right hand over his chest, "I promise I will not judge you for whatever smut you write for whoever," he assured her.
"It's not... yeah, I guess it kind of is," Eva chuckled nervously, "I usually write for stuff like Criminal Minds, but more lately I've gotten into writing for Euphoria..." she trailed off, timid as she waited for his response.
"Alright, that's actually not bad," he nodded, "I'll be honest, you didn't strike me as somebody who write fanfics,"
Eva glanced timidly at her scuffed sneakers, kicking up pebbles and dust, "Are fanfic writers supposed to look a certain way?"
"I don't know, actually," he simpered.
"I don't tell a lot of people that I do it, mainly because their first impression is either 'what the fuck' or 'OMG we should collaborate' and I'm just like," she hung her head back, "Nooo!"
"You're more of a soloist then a team player, then?" he teased.
"Let's just say I tend to work better alone," she replied, shrugging her shoulders as though the comment should mean nothing. But Remington found it odd that Eva was out here all on her own, never brought up her friends or family. He didn't see many personal effects in her apartment, neither.
"Is that why you're out here by yourself?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" she replied.
"Well... don't take this the wrong way, but I haven't really seen you with anybody. You don't talk about your friends or your family,"
Eva shrugged again, "They're all back in Seattle. Besides, opportunity was drying up over there and I just wanted a fresh start," she said, "Besides, Pluto's my friend,"
"Well, that's a given," he replied, "Are your parents up in Seattle?"
"My dad is," she nodded, "I don't know what my mom's doing," Remington's silent was her cue to go on, "I um... we haven't really spoken, her and I,"
"You have a falling out?" he asked suddenly.
Eva glared down at the gravel again, "You can call it that. She's a pilot and she's always flying, and so you know, I never really got to see much of her growing up. And then, she suddenly shows up for my college graduation and expects us to be one big happy family, like she has it in her head that she can make up for all the birthdays and shit she's missed. And I just didn't know what to say to her. I don't know who she is, but she's my mom," she glanced up at Remington again, "And I don't know why I'm telling you all of this,"
Remington wasn't bothered by her unloading, it seemed as though Eva needed to get things off her chest more than she realized. Her smile was sardonic and her voice petty like a comedian on stage, putting on the brave 'I don't give a fuck anymore' face.
"I find sometimes it's easier to unload to new people then it is to your friends," he said, "What does your dad do?"
"Chem professor. Which is ironic because I seriously sucked at chemistry," she replied.
"Show me a kid who didn't struggle in chem, honestly," he said, "But do you get along with your dad?"
"For the most part," she chuckled, "He's still confused as to why I choose to write anonymously, but that's his problem. What do your parents do?"
Remington chewed on the inside of his cheek, "My mom's kind of like our manager. Does a lot of production and behind the scenes stuff. And I haven't seen my dad for nearly twenty years,"
Eva was silent for a moment, studying him. He spoke with a firm grin, yet still trying to shadow that flicker of sadness within his face.
"So we both have parental issues... that's nice to know," she put on a teasing grin, "Maybe that's why we make such good friends?"
Remington swallowed thickly, "So, you are indeed confirming we are friends?"
"I am," she smiled, "It'd be nice to have whatever few I can scrape up,"
"That fact that you also live across the street means that you're now stuck with me," Remington grinned with pride.
"True," Eva hummed appreciatively, taking another sip of her drink, "Somehow, I don't think I'll mind, though,"
When Remington drove her home she gave him a sweet and polite goodbye, a hug which made his confident exterior falter for a second long enough for her to witness it through the flush in his cheeks and his lack of response. His words tripped over the length of his tongue when he tried to flush out a proper goodbye and he felt his hands began to quiver again.
And when he went to open his door, he took one last glance. The small brunette turned at the same time and met his gaze, but he was too far away to hear her sharp inhale. And when he finally went inside he fall back against the door, staring into space with the biggest grin he'd had on since... well, he couldn't remember when he last felt so excited.
For whatever reason, we are still, and absolutely, unequipped to discuss timbre. Our homogenized Western European-based vocabulary seems relatively complete where all the rest of what we sloppily label “the musical elements” are concerned, so why the non-attention to what really differentiates one sound from another? In the most fruitful and inclusive senses, the trio IST is both precedent to and consequent of this lapse and the worlds it refuses to acknowledge. The group dances along the trajectories of timbre with the fluency of those still suffering tone tyranny, held prisoner by the note as accepted convention. From the first performances in 1996 to their last two decades later, it would be more than over general, but with a toe in truth and accuracy, to speak of distillation and concentration amidst an increase of space. These Protean characteristics are true but not the totality of what this five-disc set adds to the collaborative discography of the late bassist Simon H. Fell, cellist Mark Wastel and harpist Rhodhri Davies.
For an overview of IST’s history and importance to the overlapping scenes the trio represents, there is Michael Rosenstein’s superb article on Confront’s site:
Rosenstein’s expert ability to encapsulate historical and musical developments is as comprehensive as his descriptions are rich. Given such context, it seems prudent only to examine moments in time, and through them to come to terms with the varying approaches, densities and totalities achieved by this unique string trio that embodied “chamber music” in its most inclusive guise. It is true, as Rosenstein observes, that the pivotal first performance involved much of the back and forth associated with what might be called Euro-Free improvisation of the atomistic variety. Just as important, however, are the sonic highways and byways, the trails blazed and pastoral paths trod by these intrepid explorers. One of the most fascinating and exciting elements is the way timbre impacts the rest of what we stodgily call musical parameters. In the first of the two miniatures from that formative 1996 concert, rhythm, timbre and pitch transcend their respective narrative boundaries. Like the characters in Joyce’s Nighttown episode from Ulysses, there is a blending of structure, form and purpose that enters the realms of magic, even of phantasmagoria. Melody is inextricably linked with the rhythmic sounds of the three string instruments, but, as with the Diamond Sutra, even to speak of melody, harmony and rhythm is both true and false, tearing away at the illusions on which those binaries are constructed. Be all that as it may, nearly two and a half minutes into the same piece, there is a lengthening of sounds, a decrease in density and an increase in relative space. There’s even some exquisite executed vibrato from Wastell, a harkening back to traditions this trio usually discards. As Wastell and Fell doff their hats toward the vocabulary of the “jazz” solo, Davies joins in, bending piquant pitches in the upper register as what I have no recourse but to call the tempo picks up again. In this way, in the space of a few brief minutes, the group presents its own history in astonishing distillation, dissolving boundaries in favor of new ones soon to be subjected to a similar fate.
At another extreme resides an extension of those flowing seed-moments of near-stasis in the trio’s powerful 1998 rendering of Intensitat, one of Stockhausen’s late 1960s text pieces. Obviously, via the rigors of recording, rehearsal and performance over the intervening two years, interaction is at an even higher level. It can happen in a moment, that communication that fosters elevation, and it’s palpable, as it is in this concert of compositions. Listen at 1:23 of the Stockhausen as Wastell microtonally alters his pitch, a shade separating tyranny from freedom. Similarly, at 2:46, Davies simply cuts off the ratcheting rhythms that had been bolstering the interaction, leaving a glorious bed of sustain and overtone in shifting dynamic planes. Here again and at other strategic points, vibrato is used but to an entirely different end. Is the trio employing it as a rhythmic device? Is Fell responsible for the emergent microtones at 2:22, whose gradual tempo increase eventually births the layering mini-cascades of vibrations in fluctuation we myopically call vibrato? The gorgeous miniature is rife with internal rhythms, imbuing the entire frequency spectrum with warmth, luminosity and, above all, a raw power, a vision of arising and somehow fastidious unity very rare in any chamber music. It is one of the most extraordinary occurrences in a set full of them, showing a group in the flux of development portended by that first concert and realized over the succeeding years. Yet, nothing anticipates, or can follow, the vast architectural drones, the huge swells as primal as ocean waves and as crystalline as spring water. The group’s atoms are elongated, saturated with the energy and life-blood only a shared performance experience affords. Again, pitch is only a consequence stemming from the timbres in vibration and mutation filling and elasticizing each moment. The applause is well deserved.
Rereading the above affirms that it cannot constitute anything close to a comprehensive review. For one thing, so many of this compendium’s wonderful performances are simply neglected. There is the occasion, the only one, of Simon Fell and violinist Phil Durrant performing together in a small group, caught in the Red Rose in February 1998. That beloved venue had a wonderful acoustic, especially evident on the two IST pieces opening the fourth disc. The initially sparse concluding track offers a precis of just how well the improvisers’ aesthetics meshed, matched only by John Butcher’s contributions to another Red Rose performance several months earlier. How one trills multiphonics in microtone I’ll never know, yet another nod to timbral intrigue, but you can hear Butcher doing just that as the combined portion of the concert begins, the trio supporting and leading in turn.
Ultimately, when confronting music plumbing such sonic depths, nothing can replace first-hand observation. How, after all, does one review the musical equivalent of a thunderstorm, a birth, something as nebulous and inconclusive as a conclusion, especially when the language to discuss it has yet to be invented? It is the substance of those unfolding events as much as their attendant statistics that generate the power and lead toward reflection, and this box rewards that sort of listening. More than that, it pays tribute to a time of exploration, of interactive moments caught in the simple but precious and fleeting acts of presaging others, however distant, and to the environments bearing witness as sound travels between mind, heart and body. Beyond even these relationships, the set honors Fell. Only weeks before his death, a 25th anniversary IST concert was being planned. The box is dedicated to Fell, and his mentorship helped Wastell and Davies to enter the musical scene the trio would go a long way toward defining. The music here somewhat mitigates the harsh reality that they will not perform again, as do the accompanying booklet’s reminiscences, from those involved in the music and from those observing. Insightful, touching and sometimes humorous, they mirror the music’s multifaceted approach in a way many such endeavors fail to do. With mixed emotions channeled through a quiet but definite comprehension of the extraordinary nature of what transpired and is documented, the various accounts celebrate the music and the musicians responsible for it. No more can be asked than that we do the same.
