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wolf-and-bard · 3 years

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Drown With Me If You Can

Prompt: White Frost/Apocalypse

Relationships: Arnaghad/Erland of Larvik (from one of the witcher-centric cards)

Rating: M

Content Warnings: swear words, grief, themes of giving up on life and hopelessness at the beginning

Summary: After the fall of Kaer Seren, all that is left for Erland to do in his gloomy cave is write his journal and let the cold take him. He doesn’t expect to be saved, especially not by his former-lover-turned-nemesis Arnaghad. In which: Erland wallows and Arnaghad calls him out on his bullshit. A lot.

Word Count: 5.6k

AO3 link

I close out this account with a warning: the knowledge I hereby hope to preserve is essential for the day the monsters return to our crypts, our battlefields, and our gardens. It is a call to battle and heroism and in that it is treacherous. If you use these pages with the intention to do good in this world, you will soon find yourself to be an outcast among humans. You will save them and they will spit at you. You will beg for fair payment and they will burn you at the stake. Be prepared for that, and take up the sword nonetheless for if you do not, no one will. Peace, brothers and sisters of the future, peace and blessings of the Gods. May you never need this journal.

Erland signs the bottom of the last page with fingers gnarled by the cold, trembling from how his muscles have hardened as a result of his lethargy. When it is done, he grips the quill hard, clings to it. It is a childish instinct that makes him do this, but this feather has been his lifeline for the past… past. A lifeline to the past. Time flakes away from Erland the same way the tattered pieces of the quill do once it breaks under his tightening fingers. The last few pages of his journal are barely legible and he can’t tell whether that is because his vision is fails him, like a pane of glass slowly devoured by a sheen of ice, or because his script has fallen prey to his tremor. As Erland waits for the ink to dry, he uses his weak hand to arrange his good one into the proper gesture for an Igni and casts it down the dark tunnel of his home.

A perfect cone of lightly crackling flames shoots outward, illuminating the glazed rock all around. The sign holds for several breaths, steady and sturdy and its heat singes Erland’s frayed cuffs, has the ceiling drip crystalline melt-off. Erland smiles grimly to himself and shuts the journal. This time can’t take from him and the ice won’t feast on, this his body will always know how to do. A perfect channelling of what Chaos he may access.

Shaking, Erland crawls over to his makeshift bedroll – a dirt-hardened pellet of furs he collected on his way up here, a long hike with Kaer Seren a steady ruin at his back and the names of his brothers and children a steady weight on his shoulders – and collapses on top of it.

It is done. His lips trace the outlines of these words, but his tongue is too heavy to lift. Erland sneezes into his pillow and draws a ratty quilt over himself. It used to be bursting with reds and oranges, a gift from an old woman for saving her granddaughter from an early death by harpy, but now it is faded and as grimy as the rest of him. Erland cannot distinguish the colours of his belongings any longer, not even in the stale light of the last sparks of the Igni that cling to the cave’s walls.

It is done.

His journal is finished, his life chronicled, his school honoured and his knowledge preserved. All that is left to the former griffin master is to wait for the sparks of his life to die out alongside those of his magic. Erland flops onto his belly and uses his weak hand to arrange the fingers of his good one into the shape of Axii. His wrist creaks when he angles the hand at his own face and he casts it with the same impeccable precision. The spell hits instantly and his body goes slack, his mind punctured through by holes. Erland sleeps and hopes a harsh wind will blow through his abode tonight.

II.

There is a long interval of darkness that is marked by bursts of hot and cold shivers that wreck his body, but Erland doesn’t truly wake and by the time he does, he isn’t sure that they were real at all. He goes through a stage of sleep paralysis in which all he can do is to stare at the coarse ceiling of the cave. It has frozen back over and if there were any light, Erland would see his own face reflected in it. Sunken cheeks, eyes reddened from burst capillaries, undercut grown out into shaggy strings of hair. The griffin tattooed on the side of his skull drowns in them, just like the griffin witchers drowned in dust and snow the day their school was buried in an avalanche.

Erland sighs. He cannot move a muscle for half an eternity. His nose itches and another sneeze finally frees him, releases him into an unsettled slumber that pushes him along the maze of corridors that is his own memory. He retraces every step he took along the Path, faces all the monsters he slaughtered and all the humans he failed to convince that he shouldn’t be slaughtered alongside them.

There is no lesson to be learned from these dreams. Only patience. Erland has long lived with his regrets, knows them as intimately as the beasts whose traits he noted down in his journal. Only patience, yes. In all his striving to be more than a mere mercenary or rat-catcher perhaps his most undervalued and least practiced virtue.

Erland can be patient.

He vaguely remembers one who never was, an old friend, a former lover who faced the world with steel first and foremost, steel accompanied by a detached pragmatism that was so at war with everything Erland believed in. That friend – now less than an enemy – would not have lain here so wallowing in the drawn-out pain of his end days. He would not have waited for his death, he would have summoned it by drawing his slowly rusting blades and cutting himself open, would have watched his hot blood hiss against the ice at the heart of this mountain and would have born a proud curl of his lip until the moment the fire in his own heart extinguished.

Erland smiles and his jaw creaks.

He takes the high-road.

He…

He sleeps.

He thrashes.

He recites every lesson the knight Gryphon ever taught him. They are the foundation of his life’s work, they are all he has left.

He is patient.

III.

Erland is caught in a sleep paralysis once more when it enters the mountains. The monsters usually haunt him when he’s somewhere in the realm of insanity, but now he is wide awake, body one rigid line under the quilt that has long since lost its ability to keep out the winter, which means the thing could be very real and out for his blood. Its steps boom and quake through the rock for hours before the giant passes into the dead end that is Erland’s makeshift dwelling. Even with no light to illuminate it, Erland can see it glittering, can see its giant head swing left and right, can hear the scrape of its fragile marble skin against the walls.

An ice elemental.

If Erland is extra lucky, this used to be its lair and he accidentally usurped it. There is no moving away, no putting up a fight and he resigns himself to a quick and violent death after all. How graceful of Destiny to show her face now, after everything else has passed her by.

But then the ice elemental shakes off the snow, hundreds of flakes that rain down to cover the floor, and Erland blinks. The outline of the monster softens from harsh crystals to wet strands of fur that hug broad shoulders. A werewolf? Erland can’t draw breath, doesn’t trust his ears when the thing opens its mouth and speaks, a deep baritone. Not nearly raspy enough to be of anything other than human origin.

"Alzur’s rotten balls, Erland is that you?"

Erland wants to laugh. Of all the demons the depths of his consciousness could have summoned to this cursed place, it had to be Arnaghad. Arnaghad with his hulking form and his smooth voice, his tattered bearskin overcoat and his terrible timing. Always terrible. He can’t laugh, of course, can’t do more than wheeze faintly.

A torch flares up, casting eerily long shadows at the feet of the apparition, more real than anything Erland has thought in a long time. At the same time, Erland catches Arnaghad’s eyes – dark ochre with narrow slits, eyes that are set deeply under bushy eyebrows which underline the blocky shape of Arnaghad’s face as though it was whittled from planks of red birch – and Arnaghad starts.

“It is you,” he says and follows that up with a curse Erland can’t discern, courtesy of Arnaghad’s Gemmeran linguistic oddities that persist to this day. With them comes a harsh edge to all his syllables and a tendency to mouth-breathe. Funny how after decades of reciprocal avoidance, Erland still remembers these details. Casting his mind down the drainage canal of history, he also remembers himself: a young fighter, just two decades of age, stuck in a body that was overflowing with emotions of visionary self-determination, of rough-and-fast passion, of compassionate anger. Erland waits for the spark of that anger to rekindle, especially as he watches Arnaghad toss his swords and pack and drop to his knees by Erland’s pellet, the torch held close. It’s heat licks across Erland’s cheeks and cradles his skull.

It remains the only heat.

His anger is but a relic of a more complicated time.

“By all the gods,” Arnaghad breathes, hand passing over Erland’s sweaty forehead. His touch too feels familiar, feels too familiar, but his scent isn’t and neither is the concern that drenches his tone. “You look like a giant lump of bird shit.”

Erland’s nostrils flare. Slowly, ever so slowly, his lips peel back in a snarl. He still can’t move, no matter how much he tries. He wants the ice elemental back, if only for the simplicity of its puny gravel brain. Arnaghad’s may only be a smidge bigger and more substantial, but with that comes so much. Arguments that have been left unburied, thoughts that have been left unspoken, memories that have been left unfinished.

Erland hisses weakly through his teeth and Arnaghad growls in reply. He doesn’t extinguish the torch, he sticks it into the ground somewhere to Erland’s right and sits back on his heels, the growl building and building. Erland drifts off again, waiting for Arnaghad to speak. He hopes that when he wakes, the phantom will be gone.

IV.

If anything, Arnaghad has solidified by the time Erland opens his eyes again. He sits by Erland’s bedside still, even cross-legged tall enough that his head grazes the ceiling of the cave if he straightens. Before him he stokes a small campfire with several crude bursts of Igni.

“That is a waste of precious firewood,” Erland says, voice croaky. He pushes himself up onto his forearms, head sluggish to lift from the scratchy pillows. Arnaghad doesn’t turn around, instead he retrieves an iron pot from his belongings and presses it against the cave’s wall, using his dagger to scrape off the ice there. Practical, first and foremost, that is exactly how Erland remembers his lover of yore. Lover being a euphemism for something Erland still cannot name.

“I’m hungry,” Arnaghad says and fires another sign. Briefly, the cave explodes with heat and Erland just about stifles a vulgar moan. When did he last have the pleasure of warmth this intense and indulgent? The fire slowly seeps into his blankets and furs and nestles against his skin. He sinks back into them and closes his eyes. “Besides,” the bear witcher continues. “You might have died of hypothermia if I hadn’t started it. It’s almost funny, Erland the righteous asshole letting himself freeze to death, where is the glory in that? Alas, I find it hard to believe that you have developed a sense of humour since last we met.”

“Neither have you.”

“Ha,” Arnaghad says and that’s it for a while. Erland listens to the water boil, to Arnaghad hacking at dried vegetables and jerky. It doesn’t even smell bad and despite his self-imposed fast, Erland’s stomach rumbles and the inside of his mouth feels coated in dirt. How long has it been since last he drank? It didn’t matter until Arnaghad stampeded into his life again, shaking him awake.

Erland sneezes.

Maybe not all of him.

“Bless you,” Arnaghad grumbles. “So, how did you end up here, little birdie? Your wings broken?”

“I’m not little and griffins aren’t birds.”

“Smartass.”

Erland snorts. He isn’t about to stoop down to Arnaghad’s level and start bickering and he has no inclination for small-talk. That’s what he tells himself anyway. A part of him is almost… glad for the company. Glad for this company in particular. Fuck that.

“I will allow you to stay the night,” Erland says, and squints to see Arnaghad raise one of his caterpillar eyebrows at him. It isn’t like either of them can tell day from night, and depending on where Arnaghad entered the tunnel system of the Dragon Mountains, the last time he saw sunlight may have been weeks ago. “Fine, I will allow you to have a rest. After, I want you gone.”

“I don’t care what you want. If it hadn’t been for me you would be a corpse right now. Take a peek.”

Erland follows the gesture of Arnaghad’s hand and glances down himself, gingerly lifts the blanket. He is swathed in thick, padded linens, an extra pair of breeches and woollen-knit socks. The bearskin that usually hugs Arnaghad’s shoulders is draped across him and what is more, his lips do not feel chapped any longer. His hair curls around his head in a long, neat braid, like a viper in slumber. Shit, how long was he out for?

“Have you considered that it might have been my explicit wish to die?”

“I have,” Arnaghad says on a low chuckle. “A ridiculous notion. You’re sick, that is all. Sick people lean towards melodrama.”

“I’m not being melodramatic,” Erland replies and, oh, there it is. Frustration breaking through the hard-packed stratum of the years like a flower through the earth in early spring. It’s fast to burst and blossom. He does try and sit up after all, but before the world can start to spin around him, Arnaghad has roughly pushed him back into the sheets.

“You are always melodramatic,” the bear witcher replies and glowers at him, face cast in darkness by his bulky outline. Erland’s eyes narrow.

“One night,” he says. “And then you’re gone.”

“We’ll see about that. The stew is going to have to cook for a bit, and you should go back to sleep. Want me to Axii you?”

“And have you make minced meat out of my brain? No thank you, I can do that myself,” Erland snaps. He’s being petulant, why is he being so petulant? It’s all these rifts tearing open in his chest, all these holes he abandoned when he left the order with his friends to found the griffin school. These holes pull him back to life and reality, pull him back through time and into a persona he thought he buried. Erland is not a child. Erland is the griffin grandmaster, Erland is a knight, Erland is a witcher. It doesn’t matter that these functions are all theory now, they make up his identity. Not Arnaghad and his quarrels. And yet…

Erland turns away, facing the wall. When he makes the gesture for the Axii, he doesn’t even have to use his hand to arrange the fingers. He didn’t want to live. Now he does. And that’s more than he can take after everything he’s lost. More than he deserves, really. Erland puts very little force behind the sign, letting it spill to the tips of his fingers then gently touching them to his own face and thankfully, the world blots out around him.

Arnaghad’s voice pulls him up again, like the detonation of a bomb.

“Wake up, stew’s ready.”

Before Erland is fully awake, a coughing fit grips his body and although it scratches at the back of his throat, it also feels freeing in a way, loosening the plaque on his bones and the dust in his chest.

“So you’re still a victim of your winter sickness,” Arnaghad laughs. “I wondered.”

“What do you know of it?” Erland’s voice is muffled as he wipes his mouth, the words come out spiteful, acidic. This time, he does have the strength to sit up on his bed, but he needs the sturdy stone wall at his back to keep him upright. It’s a cool antithesis to the slight swelter of the cave’s air, a gracious counter-force to the merrily burning fire and the bubbling stew.

“Erland, you have spent twenty odd winters in my embrace, would you not think some of that has stuck with me?”

“In the face of your betrayal, no, I would not,” Erland says, crossing his arms, though admittedly, Arnaghad is right. Erland has always been susceptible to the cold, more so than any of his fellow witchers. Perhaps that is because Skellige, in the shape of his mother, rejected him when he was young, or perhaps it is because of his father whose origin Erland still doesn’t care to investigate. Either way, when the frost’s first tendrils start to wind their way into the atmosphere, he falls ill with sneezes and shakes, fevers too. It must be winter already then.

“My betrayal, yes,” Arnaghad mutters and retrieves a wooden bowl from his pack into which he shovels some of the stew. It smells prickly and hot, thick with Ofieri spices and has Erland’s mouth water. Now that he is fully himself again, his senses have returned, an assault on his mind. As with any battle he ever fought, Erland decides to be methodical about it. First the food, then the fight. He reaches out for the bowl, but Arnaghad scoffs at his trembling hands. “Don’t think I’ll let your atrophied muscles spill any of this. It’s too damn good, here.” Arnaghad settles into a cross-legged seat before Erland and the fire paints a halo around him. He’s so big that it cowers at his back, which suits Erland fine. This way it is easier to ignore the concentrated, caring expression on the bear witcher’s face as he submerges a wooden spoon, scoops up a chunk of whatever dried meat he put into the stew and gently blows on it before holding it out.

“Why do you care?” Erland asks weakly, lips parting around the spoon. As soon as it hits his tongue – the perfect degree of scolding hot and spicy – he can’t help a small groan. Blunt though Arnaghad may be, his cooking has always been phenomenal. Erland’s stomach mewls for more.

“I always cared.”

“Funny way of showing that.” Erland gives him a pointed look and Arnaghad’s eyes dart along the scar that neatly sections Erland’s face. He has yet to receive even an attempt at apology for it. “Back then you didn’t seem too caring with me. In fact, I acutely remember your sword flaying me.”

“If I’d wanted to kill you, you would have died. But I didn’t want that then and I don’t want it now. I hold to my promises, Erland.”

Accusation is slabbed thickly onto those words and Arnaghad holds out another spoonful of stew which Erland dutifully swallows. It’s not the first time the sickness held him down so hard he had to be fed, but it feels strangely agitating for Arnaghad to be the one to do it. After he left and founded his own school, the only snippets Erland ever heard about the bear witcher were rumours of his death, especially with the vipers splitting off the bear school. Perhaps, Erland liked to believe that Arnaghad was dead because that took away the possibility of whatever was happening now. Perhaps, Erland left the one promise he spent all his life circumventing at Morgraig Castle the day he set out for Kaer Seren. Perhaps, Arnaghad didn’t change at all and neither did Erland.

“Do you even remember?” Arnaghad asks quietly, then allows himself a few gulps of soup before refilling the bowl. He doesn’t meet Erland’s eyes, but Erland can see the faint glow of anguish speckling his cheekbones. Oh, but this is bad. If Arnaghad goes berserk in here, they’ll both be buried in rock and ice and Erland is too awake and vivacious now to want that.

“Remember what?” Erland asks, feigning ignorance as long as that leaves him the proverbial high ground, the only place from which he can match Arnaghad’s sheer height. He accepts another two spoons, then shakes his head. His stomach feels brilliantly full, close to bursting, and he rubs it weakly. Arnaghad puts the bowl to his lips and drinks the rest of the stew. They’ll both want more later, especially with the firewood dwindling, but for now the next field is to be played. It all gets muddled anyway, who is he kidding. Erland sighs and that lets Arnaghad’s gaze snap upwards, latching onto Erland’s. They silently glower at each other for a handful of breaths.

“Of course, you do,” Arnaghad says eventually. “Knowing you, you remember your exact words.”

“I do,” Erland says and the ghost of his own voice flashes through his mind.

My heart lies at the end of a dream, Arnaghad. And as long as that dream remains unfulfilled, I cannot give it to you.

“You lied.”

“I didn’t lie, I never lied,” Erland protests, but Arnaghad shakes his head.

“I don’t understand. You obviously felt something for me, feel something still. Oh, don’t give me that look, I told you I care. I always paid attention to you, you know that.”

Erland does. It pains him to admit it, but he does.

“I didn’t lie,” he repeats, hands balling into fists.

“You threw me scraps of affection when it would have cost you nothing to invite me to your table,” Arnaghad says.

“Do we really have to do this now? I told you I want you gone.”

“I saved your life.”

“UNBIDDEN,” Erland screams and his arm shoots out in an arc. It is only by Arnaghad’s quick reflexes that the Aard doesn’t have him fly into the back wall. Erland heaves, watching Arnaghad’s thick Quen dissolve with a buzzing static, and he doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. After everything, he doesn’t want to hurt Arnaghad, of course he doesn’t.

“Why couldn’t you love me?” Arnaghad says, so fucking stubborn in his resolve to have this conversation. What a stupidly vulnerable question.

Back then, Erland bought in to the delusions he liked to paint for himself in blood and gore. He was destined for more, he was a noble knight, he was to rid the world of evil forevermore. Arnaghad didn’t fit in with that dream. He would try and keep Erland from it because he didn’t understand, had no ambitions for himself. And while that was, and likely still is true, it was never the reason Erland didn’t allow anything more than physical between them. But it was the reason he clung to and dangled before Arnaghad’s eyes over and over. After the night of the sundering… it didn’t matter so much anymore and Erland locked the true reason away in a dark corner of his heart, huddled together with the feelings he held hostage in the hopes they would fade to nothing.

Erland listens to his own heartbeat thump at his temples in a nagging ache and he forfeits his answer. Arnaghad doesn’t deserve forgiveness for what he did to Rhys and Erland and whomever else his sword cleaved, but he deserves the truth.

“You really want to know why?” he asks weakly, cringing inwardly at Arnaghad’s curt nod. Erland continues on a sigh, feeling fragile now that his anger evaporated with the sign he just cast. “I was afraid. I ruined my mother’s life by existing and I couldn’t spare Jagoda the experiments Alzur put us through and I never managed to make the humans see us as anything other than aberrations. I can slay monsters and teach others to do the same, but I can’t save the people I love.”

“That is horseshit, just complete and utter horseshit. Your mother was a right old cunt and nothing could have saved Jagoda. All the girls died, remember? Do you blame yourself for their deaths too?”

“My school,” Erland whispers, blinking rapidly to do away with those questions. “I loved them too and now they all lay buried under rubble. My brothers, my sons, my whole life. I loved them and I couldn’t save them. I’m a curse.”

“…why did you never say anything?” Arnaghad reaches out and his thick fingers brush Erland’s scraggly face. Erland stifles a dry sob. Some truths are better left unspoken and this was definitely one of them. He never dared to utter it to himself, in the quiet safety of his own mind, and now Arnaghad knows it. Arnaghad his ex-lover, used-to-be friend, nemesis for some years, phantom of his past for more, saviour of his life. Arnaghad who does, when it comes down to it, have a claim to his heart.

“Because you would have ridiculed me, as you itch to do now.”

“It is true that I was never good at understanding how other people feel,” Arnaghad says and his thumbs come to rests against Erland’s temples, smoothing out the ache there. He shuffles closer and their knees bump together which sends a jolt through Erland’s weakened frame. “But if you would have told me this, I would have found it impossible to demean you. I care, Erland, why won’t you believe that?”

Because you don’t care about anything other than your own survival.

Because it took five years for you to ever look at me twice and double the time for you to answer my frequent knocks on your door.

Because you attacked our brother and cut me and your eyes were filled with pure hatred.

Because you spent decades on your mountain, pretending like that was the only life you ever knew.

Because…

Erland grasps for more reasons, grasps for the steely indifference he felt for Arnaghad ever since the day he left Morgraig for Haern Caduch. He stops. No forgiveness, not yet. But perhaps, in the face of his grief and all that he lost, it would do well to cast his gaze into the future. Erland releases his tense muscles and lets go of something. After, his breath comes easier.

“You would have me believe that your care is rooted in love? Even after all this time?” he asks.

“Yes,” Arnaghad replies. So simple, huh?

“So maybe you love me. That doesn’t change the fact that I would have let you down.” Or Arnaghad him. Or maybe they were fated to let each other down.

“Look, birdie. I don’t know what it means to dream big, but I know this, and I know it for certain: you did what you could and because you’re a persistent shit, you did it exceptionally well. There are forces at work in this world one man alone cannot overcome. You did what you could.”

Erland doesn’t know what to say to that. Because that isn’t simple, that is insightful and attentive and not at all Arnaghad’s usual refrain. Maybe he did change and Erland is the only one who stagnated. He feels stupid, all of a sudden. Stupid for holding himself up to such high standards, stupid for being afraid in the face of his own bravery, stupid for ever calling himself honourable.

What man gives up on love because he assumes himself to be cursed? No knight. A coward.

“Could I have stopped you?” Erland asks. “If I had loved you, could I have stopped you from attacking Rhys and from waging your war on the rest of us witchers? Could I have changed the course of history?”

“You’re doing it again,” Arnaghad replies with a sly smile. He shakes his head and leans over his own legs to press a dry and warm kiss to Erland’s lips. In a way, it’s a homecoming. In a different one, it’s completely novel. Erland tilts his head for a second kiss that has his body thrum with wanting more, and Arnaghad allows it, for a bit. It’s another kind of warmth, that of their bodies re-learning one another and before long, Erland finds himself on Arnaghad’s lap, held close in a way he thought he’d never be held again. It isn’t forgiveness. It’s far from forgiveness. But it’s a start.

VI.

“Erland, there is something I have to tell you,” Arnaghad says long after they have spent the pent-up emotions of the last centuries in drawn-out kisses and frantic clashes of their body. They’re both tucked under the quilt and the bearskin, Erland’s beaten body sheltered in Arnaghad’s mountainous embrace. Erland gives a sated mumble, basking in the magic of the moment for just a heartbeat longer. Of course it couldn’t last, contentedness with Arnaghad is always the eye of the storm. “Listen to me,” Arnaghad continues and a sense of urgency replaces whatever fluttery feelings Erland just had. “I didn’t come to the Dragon Mountains to find you nor had I head of Kaer Seren’s fall. I came here for a reprieve from the storm. Have you seen it before you entered?”

“It will pass,” Erland says, unwilling to match Arnaghad’s frantic cadence. His chest is a warm rumble behind Erland, an upset sky. Damn Arnaghad and his terrible timing. “Winter is always brutal in these parts and the storms bite, but they pass.”

“It’s not winter, we are coming up on Belleteyn.”

Belleteyn… that means it’s almost May. Erland blinks stupidly before the implications sink in. Snow storms in May simply don’t happen.

“By the gods,” he breathes, and grips Arnaghad’s hand which is splayed over his own chest. His body tenses up and the cave feels stuffy now. “How long has the storm been going on for?”

“October,” Arnaghad says warily and that is so much worse than Erland expected. A harbinger of conflict Erland can deal with, an old love he can squabble over, but he is not at all equipped to handle an apocalypse. It has to be the end of the world because October is only a month after Erland entered the mountains and straight-out winter for close to eight months can only mean one thing:

“The White Frost.”

Arnaghad nods, cheek rubbing against Erland’s head. A branch in the fire bursts with a mighty crack right then, as though it is afraid too. The prophesised end of the world. Erland always assumed it was a tale to scare children and he doesn’t believe in foresight. There is no other explanation. Arnaghad’s other hand draws Erland closer and his steady mass of muscles help anchor Erland as the emotional storm resumes alongside the one that rages outside.

“I know this is a lot, but we don’t have much time. Is there anywhere we can go? You are weak still and these peaks will not protect us for long.”

“I… yes. There is a gulf that runs deeply under Kaer Seren, it carries heat out of the earth’s core and disperses some leagues out into the ocean. We have dug our cellars deep enough to tap it for the winter months… we might have food stores left too, but… I don’t know that there is a way in any longer and with a snow storm we might die trying.”

“Better to die trying than to die giving up,” Arnaghad says.

“If this truly is the White Frost, is there any chance of survival?” Erland asks closing his eyes. This is not how he wants to go out, not when he still has so much grieving and loving to do. Not when he just discovered that he can.

“I’ve never been through an apocalypse before, I couldn’t tell you. We got this far, though, so we might as well try.”

“Might as well,” Erland sighs, pulling on Arnghad’s fingers to bite the tip of one of them. The other witcher grunts indignantly. “But I’m not spending the rest of eternity stuck in a damp basement with you if you are going to keep wearing that bearskin. My nose may be clogged up with snot, but I can still smell it and it reeks. Did you piss on it?”

“I didn’t, but you might have with all the feverish thrashing and moaning you did.”

“Fuck off,” Erland snaps and they both laugh. It’s a glimpse of a relationship they barely scratched the surface of back then. If they survive now, they could learn its ins and outs yet.

And if Erland is anything, if he’s ever been anything, it is determined. He is determined to give his long life one last purpose. It’s a selfish purpose, lacking chivalry and heroism, but Arnaghad was right. He did what he could and now he can allow himself this, a shot at love in the middle of the apocalypse. Erland’s had more idealistic and futile dreams.

“What a horrible retirement Destiny has chosen for us,” he says.

“This isn’t worse than being dragged away by an ugly mage and suffering his experiments for years and years.”

“Speak for yourself, big bear, speak for yourself.”

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@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo , @littoraly-art

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swisscgny · 4 years

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MEET NEIL ENGGIST

We recently interviewed Swiss-American painter Neil Enggist to talk about his life, work and how he is coping with self-isolation. Neil’s exhibition The Practice of the Wild was supposed to open at the Consulate General of Switzerland in New York last month as the 8th edition of Art@The Consulate but was postponed due to COVID-19.

Hi Neil, thank you for taking the time to talk to us. Where are you right now? It is my pleasure. I’m in New Jersey. I have a backyard studio near Princeton, in the old house where I grew up. I’m staying put as much as I can.

Tell us about yourself, where did you grow up? My mother is from Taiwan and my father was born and raised in Luzern, both coming for graduate studies in 1969 to Buffalo. I was born and raised in Princeton Junction in an old stone house near a small forest and the train station. My father was teaching in the Bronx and Connecticut, then trying his hand at importing Swiss Chocolate, but at some point in the 1970s, he turned to stained glass. I remember him cutting, wrapping, and soldering in the backyard. My mother worked for the state of NJ, and drew from the model in her spare time. I drew dinosaurs like a maniac, not very well I may add, but at some point around age 7, my father asked me to draw a dinosaur that he made into a stained glass panel. As a family we traveled to Luzern about every 2 years, and I still remember the smell of Birenwecken and lightning over the Vierwaldstättersee. I drew all the time but wasn’t precocious, as a youth, I was shy, quiet, hot tempered, diligent with school, perfectionist, and mostly played soccer and saxophone and you know, did my math homework.

When did you know you wanted to become an artist? I went to art school at Washington University in 2000, but it wasn’t until studying abroad in Florence in 02 that I had the feel of becoming an artist. There is a laminated portrait from first grade, age 6, where I put into writing that I wanted to be an ‘Artist.’ But in Florence my life felt like it shifted from art student to artist, 3 dear friends and I shared an apartment on Piazza Independenza, learning photography, printmaking, illustration, bookmaking, Italian and art history at a tiny art school called Santa Reparata. My future Love lived up the street and sometimes the cheap red wine would flow. Behind every door were Renaissance frescos, leaping off the walls were Donatellos, and it was the beginning of my explorations as a painter. I would paint plein-air small landscapes and cityscapes with oils, but by the end my ambition grew into a very large Kandinskyesque abstract rendition of Michelangelo’s Final Judgment fresco from the Sistine wall. A year later, back in St. Louis I declared painting as my major, and in the words of Joe Campbell, began ‘following my bliss.’

Neil Enggist, Sea on Earth, acrylic and stain on wood, 2011

How would you describe your style? Has it changed over the years? I would say it’s an Organic Abstract Expressionism, or Nature Action Painting. Over nearly 20 years, YES it has changed! Like a photon going from point A, painting the Ponte Vecchio, to B, dancing on a piece of steel with turmeric and ocean water, taking every single possible path! To say it’s moved linearly would be wrong, but there is a sequence of transformations or leaps, in the Ozarks, Mysticism, Heartbreak, Dylan, New Mexico, Traveling Europe, The Mir, snow painting, India, Brooklyn, Voice and Veil, Gardening, going cross county, yoga, India again, the dance, steel, the tides, The Tao and the Yellow Mountains, devotion. I’m very interested how Dylan’s work has transformed and shifted, beyond expectation, without calculation, yet somehow almost always in line with his poetic essence. My paintings have changed like dinosaurs and birds, from a common source, many branches, some seemingly from different worlds, some becoming bones and fossils, some soaring through the sky.

Tell us about your artistic practice, where do you paint, what inspires you? Well we can start with Highway 61.. music of the American vernacular, jazz, blues, country, rock, folk, hip hop.. from Louis Armstrong, Strange Fruit, Charlie Parker, to the early Bluesmen of the Mississippi Delta, Robert Johnson, folksingers like Woody Guthrie, onwards and outwards to Wutang and Nas. Basquiat inspires me. Ana Medieta, DeKooning, Paul Klee, David Hammons, Polke, Mel Chin, James Turrell, Richard Long, Kerry James, Doig, Ofili, Wangechi Mutu, John Akomfrah, Bonnard, Matisse, Puryear too. Gary Snyder's brilliant collection of essays 'The Practice of the Wild,' from where the title of the exhibition comes, has helped me attune to the wild systems at play in nature and within, and continues to evolve my way of thinking, seeing, and creative being. Taking a journey into nature, not just a dip into nature, but really feeling the connections, the web that runs through the forest and is woven into your own nature. The Redwoods, the Swiss Alps, the Coast of California.. I lose and become myself here. In my practice, nature is welcomed into the process of artistic creation. The imagined line between artistic intention and the creative functioning of wilderness is blurred, or more accurately, these spheres merge into a unified moment. It’s a spiritual practice, a kind of Taoist exercise, merging with the changes of the natural world, not holding, not fixing, listening to what the painting wants to become, and finding the color to enable the beholding. I paint outside and on the road, sometimes inside.. anywhere..

Neil Enggist, Odyssey III, acrylic, dye and turmeric on canvas, 2020

What role does Switzerland play in your life/art? My family has a house in Luzern, with a balcony opening to a view of Mount Pilatus that I would call perfect.. at least on the days where it’s not obscured by Nebel! Since 2012, I’ve been spending many springs / summers living there, in the bohemian remodeling of our chalet attic called the Macolette. I have painted and drawn our view of Pilatus so many times, it is ingrained in my mind’s eye. I’ve explored and hiked the mountains surrounding the Vierwaldstättersee, Grindelwald, Engadin, and Zermatt, finding places on and off the path to paint. When I am in the mountains, alone with my pack, in the quietude and breathtaking beauty, I feel something akin to being home, being one with myself, being on my true path. This feeling is fleeting and eternal. Also, during many of the summers, I have worked with my great friend and mentor, garden designer, Andre Ammann, constructing and maintaining gardens around Luzern. Working with him has taught me in so many ways, to notice the minute changes of spring, to work with contrasts of nature and culture, to understand placement of boulders and trees, how to create a riverscape, to dissolve into the consciousness of the river. When we are done with the work, all cleaned, raked, and hosed down, Andre and I look at our work, and he’ll say, ‘Now, the garden starts, try to see how this will look in 10 years, in 50 years..’ This has been a major influence in my own ‘Practice of the Wild’ and painting. It has also taught me how to shovel!

You have traveled all over the world, how has the nomad life shaped your art? As a traveler, painting becomes the act of experiencing and processing place; the painting becomes an archive of experience. Traveling serves to connect the painter with the uncomfortable and uncalculated, which forces a spontaneity and body-memory response. I aim to paint as one would do battle and dance and play jazz at once. In traveling, the painter becomes the abstraction, inhabiting transient and visionary territory. Materials from places of special significance, white gypsum sand from New Mexico, pigment from the Holi festival of India, black sand from Kanyakumari, gravel from Highway 61, layer into the topography, giving the painting a personal geographic context, while opening formal and textural possibilities. On the road, I explore the spiritual territory of color, and natural occurrences of unearthly blues.

With the COVID-19 pandemic, travel is no longer possible, in what ways has the pandemic shaped your practice / life? I just drove from California to NY in 5 days to install the Consulate show, just before the Covid situation hit the fan. I am supposed to be in India right now, doing a residency in the Himalayas! I’ve had a number of shows postponed and it just really doesn’t seem like people are buying many paintings right now.. But, really compared to people who are sick, caring for loved ones, and risking their lives to care for others, my sacrifices are minuscule. And I can most surely still paint! But I’m trying to use this time to do things I would have done in ‘normal’ times, but there are no normal times anymore. I’ve been making sculptures out of half rotten wood using an ax and a handsaw. I’ve been learning some Tai Chi from my Ma. I’ve started reading the Mahabharata. I’ve been texting whole a lot of hearts to California and writing love songs, and staying out of the bar..

Neil Enggist, That Great Mysterious Storm, acrylic, ink, oil and sand on canvas, 2010

What important lessons do you think we can learn from the impact of the pandemic? Well, first and foremost gratitude for life, health, and for the things that we used to take for granted. To be grateful for the people who are dear to us. This may sound cliché, but the pandemic has shown us how connected we are, for better and for worse. We are interdependent, and what affects one region affects the global community. I hope that people can stop and reassess their personal and collective relationship with the planet. In a profound and dire way, humans and our socio-economic systems have entered an unbalanced, virus-like relationship with this Earth. Humans seem to need wake up calls to affect changes, I hope this pandemic serves as a paradigm shift for enough of us. We are in this together. Yes when this is over, it will be great to go to a yoga class, an Indian restaurant, and to toast with friends, but we each need to use this time to reaffirm our commitments to each other and to all beings of this planet, and not go back to business as usual.

What advice do you have for people stuck at home? Can you recommend something to read, listen or watch? Well I’m a Liverpool fan, and we were just about to WIN the premier league, so I’ve had to go back and watch Liverpool highlights to cope. There’s a lovely interview with the legendary skipper Steven Gerrard in conversation with Gary Neville on youtube. I’m a very lazy television watcher, meaning I don’t really watch new things, so it’s The Sopranos, and very little else. Peaky Blinders is good, violent, but solid. Kurosawa’s ‘Dreams’ is a ravishing movie. I just saw ‘Purple Rain’ again, EPIC. When I drove across country I listened to Toni Morrison’s own reading of her novel ‘A Mercy,’ and it took my breath away, literally every sentence .. I don’t know how I even made it! She’s a true master in telling a harrowing story in pure poetry. Also reading ‘An Indigenous People’s History of the United States’ and Leonard Peltier’s ‘Prison Writings.’ Musically I needed a lil rock, so I went back to the Black Keys ‘Brothers’, Brittany Howard’s solo ‘Jaime’ is good, JS Ondara, Black Pumas, Valerie June’s ‘Love Told a Lie,’ AM!R’s ‘Parachute, ‘ and the syrupy ‘Cigarettes after Sex.’ I’ve been listening as well to Gann Brewer’s most recent ‘Absolution.’ I made the video for his ‘River Song.’ Tracy Chapman’s first album is incredible. Springsteen’s ‘The River’ is like his White Album and sometimes I need to hear the Boss sing ‘Heart and Soul’ over and over.. and hear that ‘Drive All Night’ sax solo by the late great Clarence Clemons. I am from Jersey, don’t forget. Listening to a lot of John Prine too, and with his recent passing, his music shines like a diamond ring. ‘Christmas in Prison’ is one of my favorites of many. Oh and Bob Dylan just released a 17 minute song about the assassination of JFK, and it’s .. indescribable.

Thank you Neil!

To find out more about Neil Enggist go to www.neilenggist.com, contact Neil at [email protected] and follow him @neilenggist

Scroll down for more information about the exhibition The Practice of the Wild which will open to the public as soon as it is safe to do so. Please note that all paintings depicted in this article are featured in the exhibition.

NEIL ENGGIST

THE PRACTICE OF THE WILD

8TH EDITION OF ART@THE CONSULATE

THE PRACTICE OF THE WILD by Swiss-American painter Neil Enggist is comprised of a series of abstract mixed media Nature Action Paintings, a method by which nature performs an integral part in the artistic process.

Neil Enggist, The Storm Ends, acrylic, ink, dye and sand on canvas, 2019

“My work seeks to embody the random precision through which life and spirit intersect. Within a liminal environment, I present set of conditions where the form can be born through an unfolding of natural currents. The nature of water, marks of evaporation, melting, freezing, burning, gravity, animal tracks, traces of dance, time, storms, tides and all manner of seasonal and emotional weather coincide to transform the canvas into a terrain in flux. Whether I am dripping ink into a melting tuft of snow, pouring the ocean on burning ink, or slashing the surface with a fallen pine branch, each action is composed within a system of nature. The result is a site of becoming where oceanic, emotive, and mystical stories interplay”

Raised in Princeton, New Jersey, Neil Enggist studied fine arts at Washington University in St. Louis and Santa Reparata in Florence. He earned his MFA at San Francisco Art Institute in 2016 where he made paintings on steel in the tidal zones of the Bay Area, searching for a language between art and nature, incorporating ideas of performance and sculpture imbedded in the earth art movement. Enggist has participated in a number of art residencies including the Lucid Art Foundation in Point Reyes, CA, and most recently journeyed to the land of his grandmother to paint the City of Shanghai and the Yellow Mountains of China. Through his extensive travels in Europe, the Americas, and Asia he developed a body of painting and poetry shown in New York, Milan, Mumbai, Luzern, and Paris. Enggist lives and works between New York and Luzern, Switzerland.

Neil Enggist, The Schreckhorn, acrylic, ink, pigment and oil on canvas, 2007

THE PRACTICE OF THE WILD is the eighth edition of Art @ The Consulate, a curatorial initiative by the Consulate General of Switzerland in New York to showcase the work of Swiss artists living in the United States. Follow Art @ The Consulate on Social media #SwissArtNYC

Neil Enggist, A Candle Burns at Night, Acrylic and ink on canvas, 2008

#SwissArtNYC

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italianartsociety · 5 years

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By: Amy Fredrickson

On May 18, 1610, the prolific artist, engraver, and draftsman Stefano della Bella (1610-1664) was born in Florence. Before his death in his birth city in 1664, he led an eventful life of travel and adventure. Stefano produced a copious amount of etchings, drawings, and prints; and, rather than working from the confines of a studio, the young artist worked en plein air. The outdoors provided him with the ability to observe everyday life to realistically reflect the people as well as the natural topography of the cities of Florence, Rome, and Paris. As he traveled, Stefano carried his sketchbook and etching needle in hand. His etchings portrayed people from all walks of life, from his observations of the working class and impoverished peasants to a glimpse of the opulent Florentine court. During his years in Paris, he saw the city rise as an artistic capital, and he would also bear witness to the economic and political hardships of the time. He even drew etchings from the front lines of the Thirty Years’ War.

To begin, Stefano was born to an artistic family, as his father, Francesco della Bella, was a sculptor in Giambologna’s studio. Sadly, the patriarch died while the artist was a young child. Stefano and his brothers apprenticed in various specialties. One brother became a goldsmith, another a metalsmith, a third a sculptor, and the fourth trained as a painter. Stefano, on the other hand, began training as a goldsmith, and then he began studying painting with the Florentine painter Cesare Dandini. After painting, Stefano began studying with the etcher Remigio Cantagallina, who previously trained the French-born Medici Court artist Jacques Callot. Ultimately, Callot’s work inspired Stefano; however, he set himself apart in his capacity to step away from Callot’s mannerist tendencies and developed his own personal touch through lyrical and graceful etchings.

Unlike Callot, Stefano rarely worked indoors, preferring the city of Florence as his studio. He documented theatrical events, hunting parties, and tournaments, which provide a glimpse in to the lavish life of the late Medici Court. In 1627, at the age of seventeen, Stefano published his first work entitled The Banquet of the Piacevoli. The work details the festive Medici event, and the impressive detail of the etching led to further commissions and Medici patronage. Stefano was listed on Don Lorenzo de’ Medici’s payroll, and he used the stipend to travel to Rome for further his training. He resided in Rome from 1633 to 1639, although he returned to Florence occasionally for events like Ferdinand II’s funeral, as documented through an etching. His walks along the Roman campagna rendered topographic material, and his style became more natural as he studied the Roman countryside and Roman works from the Classical and Renaissance past.

In 1639, Stefano traveled to Paris, where he joined Baron Alessandro del Nero's entourage. At this time, print culture was flourishing in Paris, and he etched plates for François Langlois (then called Ciartres, 1589-1647), Israël Henriet (1590-1661), and Pierre I Mariette (1603-57). In Paris, one of his famous commissions included four sets of instructive cards to teach the young Louis XIV about history, geography, and mythology.

While in France, Stefano also worked for the Cardinals Armand de Richelieu and Jules Mazarin. Richelieu sent Stefano to the battle lines to depict the devastation of the Thirty Years’ War. The city of Paris was also experiencing financial and political turmoil, which created tension and hostility. The Italian born Cardinal Mazarin lost popularity, and hostility was ultimately extended towards all Italians living in Paris.

As a result, Stefano returned to Florence in 1650. From Florence, he continued to send plates and prints to Parisian publishers, and he also remained on the Medici payroll through Prince Mattias de Medici. He undertook the role of teacher and provided drawing lessons to Matthias's nephew Cosimo III, who was Grand Duke Ferdinand II’s son. He would make a final trip to Rome, but he remained a Florentine resident until his death in 1664. Stefano’s etchings are a chronicle of life as seen through the eyes of a seventeenth-century traveling artist, and through his etchings, he shares his observations of the varied and inequitable world.

References:

Massar, Phyllis Dearborn. "A Paris Sketchbook by Stefano Della Bella," Master Drawings 18, no. 3, 1980, pp. 227-294.

Massar, Phyllis D., "Presenting Stefano Della Bella." The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 27, no. 3, 1968, pp. 159-176.

Viatte, Françoise, “Allegorical and Burlesque Subjects by Stefano della Bella,” Master Drawings, Vol. 15, No. 4 (Winter, 1977), pp. 347-365.

Further Reading:

de Vesme, Alexandre and Phyllis D. Massar Stefano della Bella, Catalogue Raisonné, (New York, 1971).

Talbierska, Jolanta, Stefano della Bella: Etchings from the Collection of the Print Room of the Warsaw University Library, (Warsaw, 2001).

Images:

Carlo Dolci, Portrait of Stefano della Bella, 1631, Oil on Panel, 59 x 48 cm, Galleria Palatina - Palazzo Pitti.

Stefano della Bella, Banquet of the Piacevoli,1627, Etching, 25.5 × 38.5 cm, he Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Stefano della Bella, Five grotesque heads, from “Friezes, foliage, and grotesques,” 1642-1643, Etching, 5.5 × 10.4 cm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Stefano della Bella, The Medici Vase and Sitter Cosimo III de' Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany, 1656, Etching, (28.6 × 27 cm) The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Stefano della Bella, Marriage of Cosimo III and Margherita Luisa d'Orléans, 1661, Etching, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence.

Stefano della Bella, Design for an Ewer, c. 1629, Pen and ink and blue wash, 35.9 × 25.7 cm, The J Paul Getty Museum.

Stefano della Bella, “Combattimento e balletto a cavallo,” c. 1624, Etching, 20 x 28.3 cm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Stefano della Bella, Landscape with Two Peasants, One Riding a Horse, from 'Landscapes and seaports,' 1656, Etching; second state of two, 13.1 × 13.1 cm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

#Baroque Art #Rome #Florence #Paris #thirty years war #prints #print culture #Medici #stefano della bella #Carlo Dolci #Louis XIV #traveling artists

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gardeniaresilia-archive · 5 years

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Thanks for the reply! I’m planning on studying art in college so I’ve been asking people about their experiences. Have you done many traditional art/graphic design classes yet? What kind of classes have you taken? Do you enjoy the way art classes are in college? Sorry if I’m bugging you or asking too many questions

No, no! You’re fine! I’m gonna put this under a read-more because this is super lengthy (don’t worry I put a TLDR at the end to spare you). And...my university is not an “Art School”, it’s a US State-Ordained-University with Liberal Education and all that shiny extra stuff that just happens to have a Bachelor-in-Fine-Arts program.

***I should start this by putting a disclaimer that these are just experiences I’ve had that are exclusive to me and my time at my specific school, and that this (hopefully) isn’t the experience around the globe.***

At my school, the Art program is super underfunded. In the entirety of the Bachelor of Fine-Arts (to be referred to as BFA) before being divided down into the emphasis studies, there’s 120 of us, and half of those students are pursuing Graphic Design, including myself. A measly 10 students of that 120 are pursuing Art Education.

To get in to the program at my uni, you need to finish some prerequisite courses then do the “Post-Foundation Portfolio Review”, where you submit twelve works, six of which were from these courses and six more that you’ve done during your time at college (high school work is not allowed), as well as a sketch book. You hang up the works on a wall, and you have a talk with two professors in the program about your work, what you wanna do with your time in the program you choose, your interests in the field, etc. Make sure to study some terms and be able to answer questions using art terms (you’re allowed cheat-sheet notecards and they have a pamphlet available beforehand so you’re prepared). I’ll leave this at this for now, but if you have deeper detail questions about my specific experience doing this feel free to ask!

To put it into perspective, we had two Graphic Design professors for 60 students, but one just took an Administrative position as of this past spring and can only do one class/semester starting this fall. However, between the two, a lot of people disliked him so it’s not a huge loss to the students in terms of personality. He was a stickler and it was his way or the highway in terms of grades so...nyeh. It’s just unfortunate because the other Professor is a kind soul who doesn’t deserve potentially putting on the full classloads every semester, and I don’t know if we’re getting another professor.

Anyway, my school has the following emphases/focuses under the BFA: Art Education, 2D Studio, 3D Studio, Graphic Design, and it used to have Interdisciplinary Arts (AKA “other”), but that didn’t have enough interest so that went away, but they still offer the oddball classes like Animation (which I’m taking this fall!!) and 3D-Printing.

To sum each Emphasis:

Art Ed is exactly how it sounds. Learn to be an Art Teacher, learn crafts to do with kids, learn how to make lesson plans.

2D Studio is your traditional media that includes Drawing (which charcoal... personally bleugh), Painting, Printmaking, Figure Drawing, etc.

3D Studio is the Pottery and...whatever else those funky 3D Studio people do. They’re all cool people though.

Graphic Design, my area of study, is things like Typography, Package Design, Logo Design, Photography, etc. That’s almost entirely on a computer and making a printed finished product.

As a BFA at my uni, you’re required to take some history classes, and if you’re not an Art History Major/Minor (which doesn’t fall under the BFA I think) you’d have to take classes from the other focuses to make you, and I quote “a more well-rounded student”. Which, for me I don’t mind. I like drawing, and I can get headaches from working on my devices all day. Therefor, staring at paper absentmindedly laying down hues and shades can be really cathartic and good rest from those harmful blue lights and whatever. I’m also not required to take a language because the BFA credit load is massive compared to a lot of the other non-fine-art or art-related Majors.

To get down into my studies even farther, we’re required to take classes around Typography and doing letterwork type things, as well as classes just titled “Graphic Design I/II/III” which is just doing random graphic projects. Some of these have included making paper booklets, posters, decorative-yet-working UPC/barcodes, etc., and I’m moving into the higher levels, which means I can kinda take what I want. In it’s higher levels, my university offers Package Design, Company Identity/Branding (IE creating your own brand 101), and a few other ones.

Critiques I’ve had with my Graphic Design classes include putting up proofs on the wall to talk about, then open floor with the rest of the class and Professor to talk about and give advice. Then when the final is due, you generally mount it and submit your process book (a binder that you keep all semester with all your WIPS/proofs and studies and inspirations from all the projects), put it up on the wall again, talk about it sometimes, then turn the mounted project in and move on to the next thing. There isn’t much actual homework other than the projects themselves and the prep assigned with it, but some professors assign extra busywork, some don’t. Critiques aren’t also super formal either.

My traditional art classes range from working with charcoal to working with ink, paint, whatever else. You can either be working on a flat table at times or with an easel, and the projects can be either really specific or really random. I’ve really only taken drawing-oriented classes up until this point, and I have a love-hate relationship with most of my professors. They know what they like and know what they don’t, and they generally dislike the “anime” artstyle. I’ve developed a slightly more cartoony looking style for when I am allowed to not try to do realism. Realism and still-lives are going to be a prevalent thing. Especially in the lower level classes. From what I understand you can get jiggy with it in higher classes kind of, but I don’t know.

Critiques include putting up only the final, talking about the process and using art terms and trying to sound smart, and then open forum discussion about the piece. It’s not suuuper formal, but still.

Last but not least! Make friends! Because friends can help critique your work before formal critiques, help make your processes look good in the “formal” critiques by saying “yeah I watched them do this, it was super cool seeing it go from sketch to this!”, and plus you get into this hilarious relationship of going to art stores together and buying each other cute art supplies and paper for projects and it’s a good time.

TLDR; my school has my program severely underfunded, Professors are all generally also real artists pursuing jobs and freelancing outside of teaching, be ready to bow down to what your Professors want to get a good grade, and generally don’t draw in an anime-style. Also try to get good at faking being able to public speak because trust me, you’ll need it. And make friends, not enemies because these people will be your connections as well as people you’ll see a lot.

Aaaaaaaand yeah! Sorry this is super long! If you have any specific questions about experiences (I’ve had lots of good and bad times in my two years at uni so far) and stuff like that feel free to drop another ask!! I love asks!!!

#gardi asks #long post #art school #anons #asks

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rsfannan · 5 years

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Day Three: Royalty Check

Today was Royalty day. I will not dwell on my feelings about the whole “Royal Thing’ except to say that how it has hung around so long boggles the mind. That said, after our English Breakfast (eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, coffee or tea and baked beans, but no tomato nor mushroom), we headed off for Buckingham Palace.

First stop on this adventure was the Queen’s Gallery, where we were lucky enough to be here to see the exhibition of Leonardo da Vinci’s drawings. It seems that Charles II acquired a single bound volume of 550 of da Vinci’s drawings sometime during the 1600’s. 200 of these were on display. In a word, tremendous. Most were working sketches of just about everything. Preliminary work for The Last Supper and his ill-fated bronze horse project, as well as anatomical studies of humans, dogs, and plants. Details of swirling eddies of water, human embryos in the womb, city maps, hands, horse’s feet, folds of clothing; everything seemed to interest this man. The notion that he could have accomplished these works at all is impressive. That he did it with pen and ink, primitive pencils, or just a crumbling bit of charcoal is nothing short of astounding.

Next stop was The Royal Mews. This is the stables that house the horses and the carriages that carry around the Royal Family and other dignitaries from place to place for ceremonial occasions such as weddings, coronations, funerals, etc. Mews, as the story goes, and who am I to dispute it, comes from the French “muer - to moult” reflecting the original function to confine hawks and other hunting fowl while they moulted. The Mews that we saw date to 1820. These are indeed working stables, as the Royals do love their finery and heritage. As you can see from the photos, they are certainly top of the line carriages.

Last on our list at the palace was Buckingham Palace itself. Palatiale, to say the least. Originally built for the Duke of Buckingham in 1703, King George III acquired it in 1761. Enlarged by architect John Nash, it became the London residence of the British monarch when Victoria ascended the throne in 1837. It has been that way ever since. 775 rooms, 19 state rooms, 52 bedrooms, 188 staff bedrooms, yet “only” 78 bathrooms. Hmmm.... My favorite room was that housing the Royal Collection of Art, the largest private art collection in the world. Of the over 7,000 paintings, several hundred are on display at the palace on a rotating basis. The ones we saw were mainly of the Dutch masters, The Music Lesson by Vermeer being my favorite. (Oddly, this painting was originally thought to be a work of Frans van Mieris for over 100 years because of a misinterpretation of the signature). All and all, a memorable glimpse of what can be done with unlimited funds.

On to what was the best part of the show. Westminster Abbey is nothing short of breathtaking. An Abbey has been on this site since the year 1060, with the construction of the present church starting in 1245. It would be astonishing to build something like this now with modern techniques, much less more than 750 years ago. The stonework, ceilings, stained glass. The dimensions. All unreal. And dead kings, queens, and prime ministers, we got ‘em! It is quite a strange vibe to be walking on the graves of Newton, Darwin, Stephen Hawking, Dickens, Chaucer, Robert Browning, not to mention Sir Lawrence Olivier. The list goes on and on. AND, the audio tour features the voice of Jeremy Irons. Perfect. It is indeed a tourist attraction not to be missed.

What a nice day. And we topped it off with a trip to the theatre to sit in the upper nosebleed section to see the musical, “Waitress.” The audience was full of young women who basically knew the musical by heart. Every single song I had never heard before they knew word for word. A bit of a Rocky Horror Picture Show vibe. Quite delightful.

Another dayfull, to be sure.

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idolizerp · 5 years

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LOADING INFORMATION ON ATLAS’ LEAD VOCAL, LEAD DANCE KWON JINSUNG...

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: Sol CURRENT AGE: 22 DEBUT AGE: 16 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 14 COMPANY: KJH SECONDARY SKILL: Girl group dances

IDOL PROFILE

NICKNAME(S): jin, sunnie INSPIRATION: Jinsung grew up watching idol groups and wanted to sing and dance just like them. SPECIAL TALENTS:

Freestyle dancing

Drawing

Imitations of members/other celebrities

NOTABLE FACTS:

Good at sports, demonstrated at past events

His father is well known for owning high end hotels (a chaebol)

Known for having a sibling in a famous girl group

IDOL GOALS

SHORT-TERM GOALS:

jinsung wants to keep building up his image. As a member of atlas, he wants to continue to be known for delivering good performances and good music to the fans and the world. He wants to be known for his dancing and vocal skills. As an individual, jinsung wants to release a solo track, and to produce his projects like short films and covers.

LONG-TERM GOALS:

Overall, jinsung wants to be the next taeyang. He wants to be known as an idol that spans generations, known for his skills and his voice. He wants to be known for releasing well known and loved music and for delivering solid, well rounded performances.

IDOL IMAGE

growing up, jinsung spent years under his father’s roof learning to play games. it was almost second nature to hide behind a carefully crafted mask of looks and words. it’s almost second nature by now, to slide in to the role of sol so easily. in person, he’s charismatic. he’s known for catering to the fans; for being open to wearing silly headbands, to giving out soft smiles and posing with a thousand different stuffed animals. he teases them, playing along with their games and making them laugh, lives up to the nickname they create for him, tries to be their sun.

in performances and videos, jinsung wears confidence like a second skin, knows the right angles for his face and body, the right level of cockiness. a flash a skin, a small lip bite, and he’s done enough work to ensure that there will be enough photos, enough fan videos to keep his name in the mouths of strangers. he practices hard to ensure that when he tries, it looks effortless and requires no extra strain on his part. a carefully curated person to the public.

in private, jinsung is very much an ice prince. he cares little for the politics that go into being an idol. he’s much more concerned with his own agenda, chasing after what he wants with little no regard for others. he makes decisions based on if it would be beneficial for him, no matter the consequences. he’s known for having little to no patience and a fierce temper to go along with it, often lashing out at others with no respect for age and title. his family is well-known and jinsung uses that to his advantage, tossing around his father’s name and company if it’ll help him get what he wants. while this is the impression he leaves other idols with, it too is a carefully curated mask. one he hides behind too often, a way to ensure that he doesn’t get hurt while trying to accomplish his goals. there is only a small group of people that he’ll drop his act for, one that includes his sister, a few of his members, and one or two close friends he’s made in the industry.

IDOL HISTORY

i. he grows up in a sleepy and quiet neighborhood, so bright and happy, his mother jokes that it’s like he carries the sun around beneath his skin. he knows she doesn’t understand, doesn’t realize that it’s all of the love and joy he carries around shining through, but he knows one day she’ll learn. she teases him, calling him her prince charming, and threads their fingers together.

he grows up, filled to the brim with happiness, so much that he seems he wears a smile on his face even during the dull and grey weather of the winter and rainy season. it’s on those evenings, curled up in a heap of blankets in their small studio apartment, fingers running through his hair, that his smile has special powers. she tells him about how she’s always loved him, even before seeing him. but that the day they met, he was a bundle of energy, crying in the nurses arms until they allowed his mother to hold him, how he had smiled up at her and she knew that everything was going to be okay. and that it’s that kind of smile, that causes people to fall in love with him, teases him about the way he’s charmed the neighborhood ladies into cooing over him.

it’s in that moment that he learns, that she doesn’t know the power her own smile has. that his mother doesn’t see the way that the elders soften their edges around her, sees the way their neighbors stop them on the streets handing them bowls of food, claiming they made too much but smiling softly at his mother when they turn away. she doesn’t know about the comments they make to him on his way to and from school, how they ask him about her health, about her job, and remind him to make sure she eats, sleeps, and takes care of herself. he learns that she doesn’t realize how much people love her, doesn’t realize how much he loves her. he hugs her close to him on nights like that, and promises himself that he’ll always love and care for her.

ii. his classmates talk about having two parents, a mother and a father. and although jinsung had never questioned why he only had one, it doesn’t mean his classmates don’t. he leaves school one afternoon, the question burning on the tip of his tongue, his head so full with thoughts, he misses the extra set of shoes in the doorway. it isn’t until he spies a stranger sitting next to his mother on the couch, it catches him off guard, leaving all thoughts to fade away.

his mother introduces the stranger as his uncle, a kind looking man with a warm smile. they spend the afternoon and evening together, the apartment filled with the scent of food and the sound of laughter. and before he knows it, his uncle is slipping his feet into his shoes, and promising to visit again. and jinsung goes to sleep that night, belly full and content that while he doesn’t have a father in his life, at least he has a fun and loving uncle.

iii. the seasons past and spring arrives quickly. his mother, still loving begins to work late nights, the strain growing evident in the slope of her shoulder and the lines that grow in the corner of her eyes. he grows in height, grows a bit more quiet, a bit more observant. his mother, tired, still teases him about growing into a little old man. and something inside of him settles for a moment. but it’s not the only thing that changes. his uncle, the other constant in his life, comes to visit and asks his mother to move to seoul with them. admist the flurry of packing, his mother admits to him buried beneath their familiar heap of blankets, lights dimmed and the volume of the tv lowered, admits to him that his favorite person isn’t his uncle, but is actually his father and that he wants them to come and live with them in seoul. slowly the happiness he carries around inside of him begins to dim just a little bit, eaten up by confusion and anger. but he hides his feelings behind his smile, pretends to be excited and asks if he’ll have his own room in seoul. he lets his mother tickle and tease him and tries to fall asleep comforted by counting her deep breaths.

iv. and so they pack up their lives and move to seoul. jinsung hates it. he hates how loud the city is and how fast everything moves. he hates the giant house they move into and he hates the girl they introduce to him as his older sister. he hates the way her mother stares at him, hates the way she looks at her mother when her back is turned.

his mother says that most people don’t wear their feelings on their sleeve but hide them. and he didn’t understand that meant until now. but he’s quickly learning, spies the way people let true nature peek through carefully chosen words meant to hurt. he hates how he doesn’t understand certain words, but he doesn’t miss the way his mother flinches, pretending to be oblivious or writes things off as jokes.

and while he hates seoul and everything that comes with it, there’s nothing more than he hates than this man that’s supposed to be his father. gone were the caring smiles, the warm hands and the kind words. instead they’re replaced by long lectures, expectations and family legacies, accomplishments of people that jinsung couldn’t care less about. his mother promises him that she’s happy, tells him about the future they’re going to have together, and like the fly caught in the spider’s web, he bites his tongue and learns to listen.

and just as he continues to grow up, his father continues to change. jinsung drowns, weighed down by his father’s expectations. he hires private tutors and instructors, encouraging his children to compete, to crush each other for the prize of being his heir. he lit and kept the fires of resentment, anger, and jealousy burning in both of them. and jinsung, like sisyphus pushing the boulder up the hill, was crushed underneath it all everytime he thought he reached the top. living in a house of sharp eyes, he begins to wither away, loses himself into the swarms of paper and ink. he finds his solace in music and despite his father’s best effort, he joins his school music club. the distraction is enough for the moment.

it’s all enough until it isn’t anymore. and instead of pushing the boulder up the hill one more time only to be crushed by it again, he decides to just stop.

v. and so he runs away from it all. with the weight of the family legacy at his back and desperation in front of him, he throws himself into the music, into his audition with kjh. and despite his worries, he passes. and of course, jinsung knew he’d have to work hard, had heard rumors about companies and what it takes to debut, but he never imagined this. struggling with homesickness, he loses himself to hours of dance practices, of vocal lessons until his throat is sore. but he’s nothing if not stubborn and filled with a little too much pride. so he grits his teeth and rises to every challenge, refusing to admit to defeat despite the struggles he faces.

and god does he struggle. he struggles to just interact with the other trainees, feeling too frail from years competing with his own family, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. but as time passes and it doesn’t happen, he relaxes, lets his walls down. and he begins to make friends, begins to fall in line with the people he can see building a future with.

vi. atlas, it’s like nothing and everything he’s ever dreamt of, ever expected. it happens in a blur, a whirlwind, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he signs the contract and then it’s more practices, recordings, debut and then. well, he sings, he dances, he performs, and he falls in love with the stage, with it all. and despite their shortcomings, despite the recognition they never quite fully get, he’s some kind of happy.

he’s so happy, until he’s not. because for as hard as things were, are, he didn’t think it would come to this. the members toss around words like respect, control, about their future as a group, about being manufactured, about being more than what they are, about being authentic. and jinsung understands, until he doesn’t, doesn’t get why it boils down to threats of breaking up, of quitting. and the trust he placed in the hands of others, the brittle fragility of his relationships begin to crumble around him when his career and his happiness are placed on the line. for as much as they talk about having more freedom, more control, he watches almost helpless as his choices, his career is being pulled harshly away from him.

perhaps it’s lady luck on their side when it works out, but the frustration and tension never fully fades away. instead, he slowly begins to drown in his own head, struggling to keep swimming under his own thoughts and insecurities. and as he grows in age and height, he retreats, overwhelmed at the sudden success being thrust their way. the spotlight although warm and bright always seemed so inviting before, but now it haunts his dreams, just like the bright pulsing of camera flashes. there isn’t many people that get to do what he does at his age, and he knows that, is grateful for the opportunities that have been granted to him. but there’s a scuffmark on him, the taste of sawdust on his tongue, words that burn bright that he’s never spoken. he continues to swallow them up, as salty as sea water. but he can only take so much before he’s more water, than boy.

#id.bio #id.kjh #id.atlas #id.jeon jungkook

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tutorsof · 3 years

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Question 1 5 / 5 pointsHow does the appearance of a classroom impact learning and teaching?Question options: a) Parents are impressed with how a place looks. b) Children tend to imitate behaviors they observe and they are more likely to maintain a clean and orderly room, if the adults do it. c) If materials are in approximately the same area, children will be attracted to that area without other prompts. d) If all of the materials that the children will use in a year are visible and available all of the time, the curriculum will be enhanced.Question 2 5 / 5 pointsWhich of the following attributes does NOT fit the behavior pattern of an authoritarian adult? The adult:Question options: a) has high expectations for children's behavior. b) is flexible. c) is detached. d) expects unquestioning obedience.Question 3 5 / 5 pointsMrs. Schmidt noticed that Jacob had cut his leg on some outdoor play equipment that had a rough edge. What is her responsibility in this matter?Question options: a) She should send him to the office. b) She should put on gloves and apply first aid. c) She should use gloves, apply first aid, and comfort the child. d) She should use gloves, apply first aid, comfort the child, and report the need for equipment repair.Question 4 5 / 5 pointsWhen assessing the overall layout of a classroom, what two factors should be so clear that children's movement behavior will be directly influenced?Question options: a) Boundaries and pathways b) Location of large group area and the teacher's area c) Size of the furnishings and the numbers and locations of books d) The amount of child accessible storage and the presence of children's art materialsQuestion 5 5 / 5 pointsHow do children learn moral reasoning?Question options: a) Listening to stories about characters' moral decision making b) Making decisions to avoid punishments or gain rewards c) Observing decisions and the consequences of decisions by peers d) All of these strategies are effective.Question 6 5 / 5 pointsFour-year-old Sara waits to take a second helping until everyone else has one. Her teacher says, "Sara, you waited to take more snack. Now you know that everyone got a chance to have some crackers. That was a kind thing to do." What strategy did her teacher use?Question options: a) Positive consequences b) Modeling c) Direct instruction d) Communicating expectationsQuestion 7 5 / 5 pointsWhich of the following reasons is LEAST likely to be one that children in the early childhood years use in determining that an action is bad?Question options: a) The action harms a person (e.g., hitting). b) The action disrupts the social order (e.g., not putting toys away). c) The action violates people's rights (e.g., name calling). d) The action damages property (e.g., breaking something).Question 8 5 / 5 pointsMrs. Garner wanted children to understand how people were housed in the community. All of the children in the classroom lived in suburban houses on large lots. Which materials and strategies would be most effective in helping them understand that others had different experiences?Question options: a) Photographs and pen and ink drawings of community housing alternatives. b) A field trip to an apartment house and a mobile home, and having a large tent put up on the playground. c) A storybook about houses around the world, featuring those in Africa. d) A furnished dollhouse, furnished doll apartment house, and a small or toy tent in the classroom.Question 9 5 / 5 pointsHow do you structure a self-sustaining activity?Question options: a) Just place new materials and equipment in a space large enough for it. b) Introduce the activity to a small group who can then show other children how to do it. c) Set limits so that children behave properly when using materials new to them. d) Go ahead with the activity that had been planned as a guided learning activity and help the children out if they have difficulty.Question 10 5 / 5 pointsWhy use centers in early childhood settings?Question options: a) The instructional difficulties related to individual and experiential differences are minimized. b) Teacher planning and preparation time is minimized, especially in the beginning. c) It assures that all children participate in the same things. d) Once set up, there is little for the teacher to do the rest of the year.Question 11 5 / 5 pointsAuthoritative teachers do all of the following EXCEPT:Question options: a) explain why some behaviors are appropriate and acceptable and others are not. b) inform children of expectations. c) encourage and reward certain behaviors. d) focus their comments to children on what children have done wrong.Question 12 5 / 5 pointsTracy is surrounded by permissive adults. Over time, what does the research say she will probably be like?Question options: a) Affectionate b) Compliant c) Independent d) AnxiousQuestion 13 5 / 5 pointsThe best strategy in reducing the level of sound in the classroom where children are engaging appropriately in center learning is to do what?Question options: a) Set rules so children must remain quiet. b) Add carpet, cushions, corkboard or other soft materials. c) Limit movement of the children to a few at a time. d) Use more whole group instruction.Question 14 5 / 5 pointsMs. Rosario was concerned about monitoring the progress of individual children in the second-grade classroom. What would be the best advice to give her?Question options: a) Use centers only for exploration and practice. b) Give a test periodically to see if the children have achieved according to the standards set. c) Use a participation chart periodically. d) Develop a "have-to" center and ask children to check with her once they have completed the tasks therein.Question 15 5 / 5 pointsWhen deciding what rules to make for the classroom, teachers should ask themselves which of the following questions?I. "Is the child's behavior irritating to me?"II. "Is the child's behavior violating someone's rights?"III. "Is the child's behavior unsafe?"IV. "Is the child's behavior damaging to property?" Question options: a) I and II b) I, II, and III c) I, II, III, and IV d) II, III, and IVQuestion 16 5 / 5 pointsLoretta slams the keys on the computer very roughly after being told to push them more gently. What would be a logical consequence?Question options: a) A key breaks. b) Five minutes deducted from recess c) Loretta can only use the computer with adult assistance. d) Loretta must leave the area.Question 17 5 / 5 pointsMr. Davidson cordoned off a section of the school grounds as a nature study area featuring plants that grow naturally in the region. What is the BEST educational response to the question: "Why have the children not planted a formal flower garden?"Question options: a) This portion of the playground wasn't getting much use anyway. b) This area gives children a first-hand opportunity to study plants, insects, and small animals typical of the region. c) Children like to be outdoors. d) Natural habitats are less expensive to maintain than formal flower beds.Question 18 5 / 5 pointsWhich of the following statements is NOT a criterion for the establishment of an effective center? Question options: a) The center contributes to the long-range goals of the program. b) The activity is the best use of the children's time. c) The activity is a cute and appealing one to do. d) The materials and methods used are well-matched to the children's interests and developmental levels.Question 19 5 / 5 pointsWhich of the following statements is a characteristic of preschool-age children's thinking?Question options: a) Children's notions of cause and effect are based on mature concepts. b) Children know what is right, but often choose not to do it. c) Children's thinking about right and wrong is well-established. d) Children's thinking is characterized by centration.Question 20 5 / 5 pointsIf a group of young children are all the same race, how would this influence the selection of materials?Question options: a) Only materials that are consistent with that race should be provided. b) Books and materials that honorably represent all races should be provided. c) The focus should be on materials and books from the countries and cultures from which the children descended. d) The background of the children is not relevant and should not influence the selection of materials.

http://myhomeworkmarket.blogspot.com/2021/04/e03v-curriculum-development-lesson-3.html

#Homework #Assignments #Homework paper

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impressivepress · 3 years

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Art review: 'Matisse: Radical Invention, 1913-1917' @ Art Institute of Chicago

If the world is coming apart at the seams and society's provisional fabric is being shredded, how does an artist respond? With anger? Analysis? Denial? Disinterest?

That's a question that thrums through a breathtaking exhibition, newly opened at the Art Institute of Chicago. And in the case of its subject, the great French painter Henri Matisse (1869-1954), the answer is not so simple.

The show is a concentrated look at a nearly five-year period between Matisse's last visit to Morocco, where the saturated light had such a deep impact on his color sense, and his departure from Paris, where he made his career, to live in the ancient Mediterranean resort at Nice. It includes some of the greatest, most enigmatic works of his long career but has never been the focus of a show.

The period also roughly coincides with World War I. When the German army advanced on Paris in 1914, having already occupied the town in northern France where the artist grew up (and members of his family still lived), and as the mountain of gruesome corpses in the most horrific conflict Europe had known since the Middle Ages piled ever higher in ensuing years, Matisse did something unexpected: He reinvented his art.

One painting places his young son Pierre by an open window, seated at a piano awaiting a lesson. Another shows the willowy figure of a dark-haired Italian woman, the wall behind her miraculously wrapping around her right shoulder like a consoling shawl. A studio interior juxtaposes a painter's palette, propped on a table, with a big cylindrical glass vase filled with water, in which a couple of goldfish swim.

Perhaps most remarkably, a huge canvas poses four monumental nudes by a river. The four stone-colored, monolithic figures might also be a single woman, seen from different sides. Statuesque, they're like prehistoric goddesses in a landscape at once lush and forbidding. And if that narrow, pointed white shape rising from the bottom edge of the 12-foot-wide canvas is indeed a serpent, are these "Bathers by a River" meant to conjure up an archaic Eve?

Matisse made several exceptional bronze sculptures too. One series began as a life-size bust of a young woman, its richly modeled surface appealing to a viewer's sense of touch through the intricate play of light and shadow. That bust becomes progressively more abstract through each of the next four iterations until, by the end, it consists of two enormous eyes split by a nose that rises into a bulbous brow. "Jeannette (V)," made in 1916, bristles with the formal power of the African tribal sculptures Matisse admired and collected.

Another series of 6-foot bronze reliefs resonates with "Bathers by a River." In each, a nude woman seen from the back, presses her body against a wall. Her head rests in the crook of her upraised left arm, and the fingers of her right hand are splayed. The pressure between body and wall seems to energize both, until finally the structure of the body, the wall and the entire relief fuse into one.

Matisse also produced prints. The most surprising are little monotypes, made by covering small copper plates with black ink, incising a linear drawing of a still life or head and pressing the plate into paper for a single quick impression. You peer into the dark surface, and the black glows with an inner light.

How do these and other of the 117 works assembled for the exhibition respond to the cruel chaos of war? The show's title says it: "Matisse: Radical Invention, 1913-1917."

Invention was not new to his art, but after 1913 he cranked up the visual volume. Matisse was 44 and already successful as war broke out, but he was turned down when he volunteered for military service. Friends did march off to fight, and some did not return. They gave their all, and he did too.

It's not a question of subject matter. In a quotation posted in the show, the artist told an interviewer in 1951: "Despite pressure from certain conventional quarters, the war did not influence the subject matter of painting, for we were no longer merely painting subjects." Instead, Matisse just never let up. The intensity of wartime Paris is matched by the fervor of his experiments.

The show begins with a necessary, even lengthy throat-clearing -- more than two dozen works that precede 1913, including 1907's still-startling "Blue Nude (Memory of Biskra)," with its transformation of a classical odalisque into something formidable and aggressive, and "Le Luxe (II)," with its sumptuous trio of female bathers abstracted from observable form. They resonate with the small Cézanne painting of bathers that Matisse owned -- the only work not made by him included in the show -- a picture of primitive paradise.

A weirdly beautiful 1913 still life, "Flowers and Ceramic Plate," is an almost entirely blue canvas with a green disk (the ceramic plate) hovering like some exotic sun above a vase of red, yellow and orange flowers below. A loose sheet of paper, perhaps a drawing or print, hangs suspended, tucked between the plate and the wall. Raking black shadows connect the disparate objects, while the colors breathe optical space into flattened shapes.

Look slowly, and the history of this painting's fabrication soon emerges -- circular echoes of larger green plates, for example, which Matisse painted over to make the shape smaller and smaller. Finally the painting assumed an existence independent of the actual still life he looked at in his studio. Color, structure and aesthetic decisions combine to assemble this amazing picture, and Matisse displays them all.

Art is not an image here, but a complex process of becoming.

He called his radical invention the development of "methods of modern construction." First inspired by color, then by the Cubism of his friend and rival Picasso, he made painting analogous to sculpture as a physical art form with distinctive material qualities. Using a variety of tools, Matisse scumbled, scored, layered, scratched and incised the paint; he scraped, scuffed and wiped the paintings' surfaces. Black and gray became voluptuous colors, rather than a void or neutral space.

Things reach a crescendo in 1916. One gallery holds the newly monumental canvases "The Piano Lesson," "Bathers by a River" and "The Moroccans" -- the last a memory of his final trip to Tangier -- plus the bronze relief "Back (III)" and that final head of Jeannette. They propose complex themes of art, sensuality and Arcadian accord.

Curators Stephanie d'Alessandro and John Elderfield note that these "radically inventive" paintings and sculptures date from the war's most menacing moment. Ferocious battles in nearby Verdun, where the German army chief Erich von Falkenhayn promised to "bleed France white," and in the region of the Somme threatened to let rivers of blood flow to Paris.

Matisse was not, as is sometimes claimed, indulging in escapist fantasy. Instead, the show's remarkable example (and first-rate catalog) suggests a profound understanding: Great artists know that the world is always already in the process of unraveling. During the epic convulsion of World War I, Matisse made sure his radical inventiveness was commensurate to the gravity of the circumstance.

~ Christopher Knight · March 22, 2010.

#matisse #painting #fauvism #art article #exibition review #review #ww1 #los angeles times #Bathers by a River

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theillustrationconference · 6 years

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ICON10 WORKSHOP REGISTRATION INFO

April 13th, 2018 at 1pm EDT / 10am PDT / 6PM GMT It's time to get your hands dirty, expand your mind, put your business on solid footing, and have a whole lot of fun. We have crafted two days of informative and inspiring hands-on workshops, lectures, tours, and events led by an impressive roster of illustrators, educators, and creative professionals (some from our Main Stage) designed to jumpstart your ICON10 experience.

ICON10 WORKSHOP DESCRIPTIONS

KIMBERLY HALL – Lecture, WED 9-10:20am, $25 Ideas on the Wall Getting drawings into people's homes is Nottene’s, Kimberly Hall’s studio, favorite thing to do—so she makes wallpaper! In this talk, Hall will discuss pattern and imagery on the wall and how it works, plus the different ways to make it real, whether manufacturing the product or selling designs at trade shows.

WILL VARNER – Lecture, WED 9-10:20am – $25 How Illustration Can Feed the Internet For years Will has explored the potential for original, illustrated content on the internet. He’ll discuss topics like: building artistic quality in an age of meme generators, the new rules for selling art and maintaining creative control, ways to maximize your social media presence, and more!

ESTHER PEARL WATSON & MARK TODD – Making, WED 9-12pm, $45 Zine Machine! Participants will create a one-of-a-kind book culled and edited from drawings, collage and research material that serve as a collection of thoughts, process and finished works. The goal is to disrupt the norm, discover ways to capture transitory thoughts and observations, construct interesting narratives and re-contextualize visuals.

MELANIE REIM – Making, WED 9-12pm, $45 Surf and Turf Participants will capture beach bodies under the majesty of downtown Detroit in this fast-paced reportage workshop about drawing people while they’re moving and getting the scale of Detroit architecture-drawing directly onto the page, with happy accidents of ink splatter and a variety of line and tone.

STEVE SIMPSON – Making, WED 9-4pm, $60 Illustrated Beer Label Workshop In Steve Simpson’s workshop, participants will illustrate their own beer label using traditional analogue techniques. The final piece of art will be glued to a bottle. This course is suitable for anyone with an interest in illustration, hand lettering and character design, and is very much illustration-focused.

TOM FROESE – Making, WED 9-4pm, $60 Inky Maps! Illustrate a Beautiful Map Using Digital and Analog Media For those who want to learn how to create a beautiful illustrated map, this is the class. Tom Froese will show, step by step, how to illustrate a map of a hometown or favorite city using the same techniques from his popular class, Inky Illustrations.

ADAM OSGOOD – Making, WED 9-4pm, $60 Intro to Animation Techniques for Illustrators in After Effects Participants will explore a workflow for creating layered artwork in Photoshop and then add animation within After Effects. Each person will create a small personal project using their own illustrations and complete the workshop with an exercise that demonstrates basic animation techniques.

DON KILPATRICK III – Making, WED 9-4pm, $60 Motor City Mega Print Jam This workshop will be held at The Detroit Wood Type Co. on Detroit’s east side and will allow participants to choose three of five types of relief printmaking: Risograph printing, silkscreen, letterpress, linocut and woodcut. Attendees can create either a poster, zine or card.

AKI CHOKLAT & TOM CARBONE – Making, WED 9-4pm, $60 Tote Your Own Creation In this hands-on workshop, participants will make their own unique tote bag from leather or canvas. The workshop will take place in the beautiful 20,000 square-foot College for Creative Studies Fashion Accessories Design Department. No previous sewing or making experience necessary.

BETSY & CHUCK CORDES – Lecture, WED 10:40-12pm, $25 To Thine Own Self Be True: Understanding and Using Your Bargaining Power In this workshop Betsy & Chuck Cordes will help prepare you for making your next big deal. Attendees will look at the changing nature of the artist/industry relationship, how to assess your bargaining power, and how to move past points of fear and resistance. They'll also go over the key parts of a rights agreement and offer specific language that you can suggest to contract partners as you negotiate usage rights for your work.

GRACE DANICO – Lecture, WED 10:40-12pm, $25 Be Your Own Archivist: A How-To Guide Grace Danico, professional archivist and freelance illustrator, will teach the ins and outs of creating a personal archive. Topics include basic care of paper and digital materials, file structure organization and metadata.

ANDY ESPINOZA – Making, WED 1-4pm, $45 Quick Sketching in Fashion Throughout the workshop, Andy Espinoza will explore various techniques of quick sketching the fashion figure. Drawing from life, the class will experiment with mark making and color to capture the gesture of the model and their outfits.

SEAN QUALLS – Making, WED 1-4pm, $45 Quallage Workshop: A New Way of Thinking About Collage Sean Qualls is a children’s book illustrator, author and artist. Sean will demonstrate how he paints and prepares textured papers for his collage and mixed media work. After a brief slideshow and demonstration, participants will then prepare their own papers and create their own mixed media piece.

JOHN ENGLISH – Lecture, WED 2:40-4pm, $25 Advanced Portfolio: A How-To Guide to Industry Success This workshop outlines a path for you to develop a professional portfolio. Your portfolio defines you as an illustrator and an advanced portfolio is the key to your industry success. We will tackle how to enter the competitive market using techniques taught at The Illustration Academy.

MOTION COMMOTION – Event, WED 6-8pm, FREE FREE Event: Screening of animated projects by attendees and beyond, held after the Education Symposium cocktail party at CCS.

GAIL MAROWITZ – Lecture, THUR 9-10:20am, $25 Illustration Makes Music Sound Better Gail Marowitz will talk about what it is to create art from what you “HEAR”, the process of finding illustrators for projects, other avenues of illustration for music such as gig posters and merchandise, and the tricky challenges of working with a product/brand with a heart, mind and voice.

ROBERT BEATTY – Lecture, THUR 9-10:20am, $25 Digital Airbrush: Adapting classic techniques to Photoshop and Illustrator Known for a prolific body of work in the field of album cover artwork, Illustrator Robert Beatty has developed an idiosyncratic take on classic airbrush artwork. Approaching the digital world using the classic techniques of airbrush artists, learn how to adapt pre-digital techniques to the world of Illustrator and Photoshop.

ROBERT HUNT – Lecture, THUR 9-12pm, $45 Painting Workshop: Using analog materials in a digital age, how to start and when to stop A demonstration of oil painting for contemporary illustrators. Focus of this workshop will be on techniques, materials and methods to enable the use of analog materials in a time effective, efficient manner in illustration. Photography/reproduction of paintings will also be discussed.

ROB WILSON – Making, THUR 9-12pm, $45 Drawing the Line In this workshop, participants will illustrate using various media—pens, sticks, inks, pencils—to understand how the experience of drawing changes given limitations, accidents and the inability to press Command Z. This means sketching on paper, creating a folio of images and exploring new ways of thinking.

LILLI CARRÉ – Making, THUR 9-12pm, $45 Experimental Comics Lilli Carré’s drawing and writing workshop is about loosening up and discovering new ways of generating ideas and structures for comics. Participants will try a number of fast-paced approaches to thinking through the arrangement of comics panels, collaborative play and the varied possibilities of sequential narrative.

THOMAS ALLEN – Making, THUR 9-12pm, $45 Pulp Fiction - Reimagining Paperback Covers In this hands-on workshop, you will learn how to carefully cut out and remove the characters found on the covers of vintage paperbacks. Once free, you will make good use of anything but state-of-the-art materials (pins, tape, wooden blocks) to fold and create spicy, pop-up visual narratives!

ADOBE Sponsored Workshop

SYD WEILER – Making, THUR 9-12pm, FREE Handcraft Magical Brushes In this hands-on-workshop Syd Weiler, freelance Illustrator & former Adobe Resident, demystifies the Photoshop brush engine. Learn to craft magical brushes and use them across desktop & mobile. Deep-dive into customization of Photoshop brushes on desktop. Tweak and finesse tools for desired effects, apply brushes to existing work, and think tactically by making brushes to speed up your workflow. Syd will use Adobe Capture to grab textures from real life, & explain the advantages of CC Libraries. Walk away knowing how to create perfect brushes, & finesse old favorites.

JOOHEE YOON BlockPrinting – Making, THUR 9-4pm, $60 In this intro to relief printmaking, participants will use rubber blocks as a carving surface to create bold images in a limited palette. Everyone will create a two-color print (black and one color) based on a prompt sent by the instructor after registration. Bring a design sketch/idea ready to carve.

MELINDA BECK – Lecture, THUR 10:40-12pm, $25 25 Lessons Learned from 25 Years as an Illustrator After a quarter century as an illustrator, Melinda Beck has learned a few things. She will be sharing tips on how to run an efficient business, balancing work and kids, being creative on a deadline, finding new clients and successfully dealing with difficult ones.

ALISSA LEVIN – Lecture, THUR 10:40-12pm, $25 Small Mags, Big Ideas Illustration thrives in independent and academic publications, where artists contribute to ambitious, award-wining projects. Alissa Levin shares insights on creating editorial art from initial assignment to final publication, focusing on the powerful collaboration between art directors and illustrators.

JENNIFER TOLO PIERCE – Lecture, THUR 1-2:20pm, $25 NARWHALS, APHRODITE AND DARTH VADER: Publishing Illustrators at Chronicle Books Ever wondered what it’s like to work with Chronicle Books? Design Director Jennifer Tolo Pierce will take participants through the how, what and when of publisher-illustrator collaboration. She’ll discuss both illustrating for adults and children and what it takes to be a Chronicle illustrator.

DANIEL SALMIERI & ADAM RUBIN – Lecture, THUR 1-4pm, $45 Pairing Words and Images In this workshop, best-selling picture book creators Daniel Salmieri and Adam Rubin will share some of their favorite collaborative techniques and games. They will lead interactive activities designed to highlight the complimentary power of text and illustration.

MARIA CARLUCCIO – Making, THUR 1-4pm, $45 The Book as Object and Experience Maria Carluccio will guide participants on making an accordion book, using the ideas discussed in the presentation. Accordion books provide a wonderful opportunity to experiment because they can be seen both as a whole and page by page. This can be a freeing way to explore narrative and allow the imagination to wander.

MIKE PERRY – Making, THUR 1-4pm, $45 Meditation, Moleskines, and Magic Makers: Things Go Bananas Mike Perry will discuss the sketchbook as the artist’s best friend throughout the chaos of life.

FRANCIS VALLEJO – Making, THUR 1-4pm, $45 Mixed Media Experimentation with the Costumed Figure The first half of this intensive workshop will review various mixed media techniques used by artists throughout history, and participants will receive a packet summarizing each process. The second half provides everyone space to work from numerous costumed models via assorted mixed media stations. Supplies will be provided.

CARIN BERGER– Making, THUR 1-4pm, $45 Wonder Cabinets and Memory Theaters Artists are treasure hunters and collectors. Inspired by the aesthetics of natural history collections and drawing from the imagination, Carin Berger will focus on creating specimen boxes of unique objects and invented creatures—miniature cabinets of wonder—from found paper and ephemera.

SABRINA NELSON – Tour, THUR 1-4pm, $45 Detroit Art Tour Led by Detroit native, artist and educator Sabrina Nelson, participants will tour four (4) of the must-see Detroit art venues! First stop, Dabls Mbad African Bead Museum — 18 outdoor installations as well as the African Bead Gallery, N'kisi House and the African Language Wall. The next stop on the tour, Diego Rivera’s Detroit Industry Murals at Detroit Institute of Arts — a twenty-seven panel work considered to be the finest example of Mexican mural art in the U.S.A. The third stop, The Heidelberg Project is an outdoor art environment in the heart of an urban area and a Detroit based community organization designed to improve the lives of people and neighborhoods through art. The artist and creator, Tyree Guyton, is also a ICON10 Main Stage presenter. The fourth and final stop will be Pewabic Tile — a ceramic studio and school founded in 1903 known for its iridescent glazes. Travel: Transportation will be provided. We will meet in the lobby of the Westin at 1pm sharp.

LYNDA WEINMAN and LAURIE BURRUSS – Making, THUR 2:40-4pm, FREE Reinventing School Can we as educators create a blueprint for the classroom of the future? Lynda Weinman and Laurie Burruss lead a 3-pronged workshop delving first into the problems facing students, faculty, and the school followed by a design thinking/problem-solving approach to reinventing the educational experience.

Plan you schedule, and get ready to REGISTER for workshops!

Note: Workshops are sold a la carte to registered attendees only and require additional fees, though some are FREE. So what are you waiting for? Register for ICON10 today.

Workshops run Wednesday through Thursday concurrently with the Education Symposium (view the schedule), which is open to all attendees (no pre-registration required). Plan your schedule accordingly.

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ryukoishida · 7 years

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Quan Zhi Gao Shou | King’s Avatar Fic: In which Shaotian makes observations about Wenzhou’s hands.

Title: These Broken Hands of Mine Fandom: The King’s Avatar / Quan Zhi Gao Shou Character(s)/Pairing(s): Yu/Huang (Wenzhou/Shaotian) Summary: Five times Shaotian makes observations about Wenzhou’s hands + one time Wenzhou keeps Shaotian’s hands warm. Rating: Part v. is NSFW; otherwise it’s PG A/N: Based on @andthenabanana‘s precious Yu/Huang HCs! I’m still reading the novels so I’m writing this based on the knowledge I have of the anime only. If there are inaccuracies in the fic, please forgive me!

Writing Commission | Editing & Translation Services

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Huang Shaotian hates it when people teases his captain about his hands — “crippled”, they call him, often accompanying the comment with sympathetic gazes. Even if it isn’t meant to be derogatory, just a harmless joke, even if the captain himself laughs it off because he’s so used to it already, Shaotian still hates it.

“Let me go teach those bastards a lesson, captain, come on, come on, come on! I won’t let them get away with dissing Blue Rain’s brilliant leader like that! I’ll kick their ass so hard they won’t even know what’s coming for them—”

“Shaotian,” he calls his name with his usual tone — frustratingly calm, like the mirror surface of a summer lake, undisturbed by the wind. The two syllables are enough to shut the other man up, and from his seat at the computer, Wenzhou looks over at his vice-captain and gives him a reassuring smile, an expression Shaotian has seen so many times, before shifting his attention back to the game.

The captain doesn’t need his protection, Shaotian knows that — knows Wenzhou well enough that even without a terrifying hand speed, the man can carry himself and his team using clever tactics and deliberate strategies. He doesn’t doubt Wenzhou’s strength and prowess in Glory.

Shaotian finishes off his opponents within about fifteen seconds, but he does so in a surprisingly quiet manner. As he stands up and stretches, his gaze falls onto Wenzhou’s figure: he has his headphones on, and he’s completely immersed in the game before him, his fingers tapping out a gradual but melodic rhythm that has Shaotian mesmerized.

They may not be fast, but the movements of his fingers are precise and calculated, similar to well-practiced choreography that brings out the beauty and grace of his avatar’s attack and defense. It’s something that both baffles and intrigues Shaotian even after all these years of watching Wenzhou play.

The logo of Glory flashes across Wenzhou’s screen, signifying his victory, and Shaotian snaps out of his reverie when Wenzhou turns around and looks at him with an expectant smile.

Always unfathomable. Always warm.

ii.

“Yo, vice-captain, I think Captain Yu left this.”

One of the members of Blue Rain throws a notebook at him without another warning, and Shaotian catches the corner of it with quick reflex, all the while swearing nonstop at his teammate.

The other man just flashes him a grin and waves goodbye as he steps out of the training room, closing the door behind him as fast as he can before Shaotian decides to throw something at him.

The notebook is the one that Wenzhou always carries around with him wherever he goes. He has a habit of jotting down notes — he’s the Master Tactician and an immaculate analyst after all — so whenever the members are at a meeting and discussing about various tactics before an important match, or when he’s hastily noting down new ideas while being engrossed in the world of Glory, the notebook, its cover slightly battered and the corners dog-eared, is always in Wenzhou’s hands.

Curiosity is singing temptation in Shaotian’s mind, and he casually start to flip through the spiraled notebook. He sees the captain’s neat handwriting, the flow of blue ink across paper elegant yet powerful like sweeping rivers that carve and create valleys. It’s all data and numbers and tables — nothing Shaotian is genuinely interested in — but then he spots the little doodles on the margins that makes him sputter out a chuckle: there are messy sketches of cartoon birds and kittens, as well as more realistic drawings of plants and flowers that dotted Blue Rain Club’s hallways.

Probably products of boredom.

And here Shaotian thinks their team captain is always preoccupied with nothing but Glory gameplay.

As he continues flipping through the notepad, he stops towards the end. Shaotian frowns in confusion: there is no writing on these pages, but the space is filled with sketches of the same person from different angles and with various expressions.

A short moment later, his eyes widen in realization, and he mutters with disbelief, “Wait, wait, wait, what the fuck, that’s me, isn’t it, what the fuck?!”

Splattered all over the lined pages are rough drawings of Shaotian sketched in pencil. A few are of him in different poses and in mere outlines and crisp shadings, though the body shape is familiar enough that Shaotian can recognize it as his own; however, most of the sketches are embarrassing close-ups of his face: his expressive eyes, the side and back of his head, the hard, impelling lines of his mouth when he talks a mile a minute and the sensual curves of his lips when he’s silent and smiling.

‘What the hell is this?’ Shaotian wonders in confusion, his cheeks burning warmer and warmer the longer he stares at the detailed portraits of himself drawn by the careful hand of his captain.

“Ah, so I did leave my notebook here,” Wenzhou starts from the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest and an amused smile grazing along his lips.

Shaotiao snaps the notebook shut, the sound like the firing of a bullet in the stillness of the room.

“Uh, yeah, you did! You shouldn’t leave your shit just lying around, you know? Who knows what would have happened if I haven’t picked it up, huh? What if—” he babbles on and on, unable to shut up as he feels Wenzhou’s gaze penetrating through his frail wall of words.

“Did you read what’s inside?” Wenzhou interrupts, his eyes glimmering with a knowing look.

“I-inside? Why would I — does it look like I would do such a thing? I do know to respect privacy, okay?”

“You did, didn’t you?” Wenzhou isn’t fooled, and Shaotian should have known better.

He sighs, and hands over the notebook in defeat when Wenzhou finally walks over to stand before him.

“I didn’t know you draw,” Shaotian mutters, head turned to the side with a pout. He has thought that he knows everything about him, but this is clearly not the case. For some reason, this fact irritates him, and it’s starting a lick of flame in the pit of his stomach that’s impossible to put out, and so the statement comes out like an accusation more than anything else.

“It’s just a hobby,” Wenzhou replies, “something to occupy my hands with.”

Shaotian considers asking about the drawings on the back of the notebook, but he doesn’t, and Wenzhou doesn’t talk about it, either.

iii.

Wenzhou’s hands can be terribly distracting, Shaotian notes — not for the first time — as he leans back against his chair during one particularly boring meeting in Blue Rain Club’s conference room.

It’s three days before the big match against Excellent Era, and the core members of the Blue Rain team have gathered here to discuss tactics and strategies.

As Wenzhou talks, his serene voice washing over the room like waves lapping gently against the shore, Shaotian finds his mind wandering, and his eyes, which have been previously focusing on the stormy weather beyond the windows smeared with raindrops, have now turned their attention back to the speaker at the front of the room, or more specifically, the speaker’s hands.

For Wenzhou’s hands are constantly moving in interesting little gestures even when he talks about dry topics like laying sieges and attacking opponents — whether it’s rhythmic tapping against his notebook, or twirling his mechanical pencil ‘round and ‘round, just as he’s currently doing.

The writing utensil is twirled back and forth with so much speed that it has become nothing but a blur of yellow and black, and Shaotian is transfixed. How much control Wenzhou must have, and how nimble his fingers must be in order to balance and spin the thin pencil between his digits while he walks and speaks.

Well, the captain isn’t speaking anymore, Shaotian thinks a little belatedly.

And the pencil has stopped spinning, too.

The room has become quiet except for the humming of the air condition, and when he finally realizes that everyone has their eyes on him, including Wenzhou, who is staring at him with those chilling blue eyes, Shaotian gives them all a bright, harmless grin.

Wenzhou sighs softly, and asks, his fingers instinctively starting to twirl the pencil again, “Shaotian, what do you think of the tactic we’ve just been going over?”

“Uhhh…” Shaotian hasn’t heard or retained a word for the last ten minutes, and Wenzhou probably knows that, “it’s… it’s good?”

Wenzhou cocks up one of his eyebrows, clearly unamused.

iv.

Shaotian likes vegetables; he will argue his tongue off about this topic if he has to.

It’s just that people tend to put certain vegetables in the weirdest, grossest dishes. Like, who the fuck in their right mind would put okra in a stir fry? Not him, and he definitely won’t allow Wenzhou to ruin a good dish if it’s the last thing he does.

On the other hand, stewed okra with tomatoes, onions, and spicy sausages — he can consume that delicacy over two bowls of rice. So, that’s what they’ve decided to make for tonight’s dinner, along with steamed carp fresh from the market, and broth with watercress and pork.

He should probably be paying attention to the pot over the open flames, but Wenzhou has picked up a knife and started expertly chopping the scallions for the steamed fish into fine, soft ribbons. Water droplets slither down between knuckles and disappear into the gaps between his fingers, his manicured nails a contrast against the spring green of the herb he’s chopping, and the way he gently eases the blade over the stems as he cuts them, as if he’s taking the greatest care to doing it right, is somehow even more enthralling than watching his fingers flying over the keyboard while playing Glory.

Shaotian thinks he may have a huge problem: namely, Wenzhou’s hands.

“Shaotian, your stew is boiling over,” Wenzhou looks over, brows puckered in concern.

“Oh shit, shit, shit!” he tries to pick up the lid after turning down the heat but the steam gets him first, and he yelps in pain as the torrent of hot steam scalds his skin into an angry shade of red, his swearing going off like rounds from a machine gun.

The blond immediately turns the tap and lets cool water run over his injured hand, and the angry cussing quickly transforms to pained hissing as the water splashes over the burned area.

“Here, let me take a look.”

Standing close behind him with his chest touching Shaotian’s back, Wenzhou winds his arms around the vice-captain’s smaller frame and pulls his hand lightly towards them, his head lowered to inspect the wound more closely so that Shaotian can feel the other man’s every warm exhale against his cheek.

“You should be more careful,” Wenzhou murmurs, soft like his caresses against Shaotian’s sensitive skin along the inner wrist, meticulous like the way he handles a knife, calculating like he’s about to launch a final attack with a few presses of keys. “These hands are your livelihood. Last time it was the knife; this time it was a pot; what shall I do with you, hmm?”

“U-umm, I’m fine, this is fine, I’m absolutely fine. This is nothing serious at all. I’ll just go and get the ointment for it, okay? Okay.”

He’s trying to squirm out of Wenzhou’s embrace, but it’s useless because the moment Wenzhou drops a soft kiss on his forehead and finally releases him with a “I’ll go get it,” Shaotian knows he’s been utterly defeated.

Ever since they’ve started sleeping with each other, Shaotian discovers another talent that Wenzhou’s hands are capable of.

“Ah fuck, fuck, fuck, stop fucking teasing me and get on with the actual fucking, will you? Goddamnit…” Shaotian whines into the crook of his elbow as Wenzhou’s fingers — two fingers drenched with lube — skim that spot again that scatters stars along his spine, making him shudder and curve up from the mattress with an embarrassingly loud mewl.

Wenzhou chuckles and continues the sweet torture by adding a third finger, the speed painstakingly slow — slow enough that Shaotian can feel every inch of his skin, every knuckle of his finger, entering and pulling out, leaving pinpricks of flames that spread and grow along the surface of his skin, sinking into his flesh, swimming in his blood.

“Captain…” Shaotian gasps, and the title makes him pause despite his desire for more; it sounds too stifling, too formal for what they’re doing — for what they’ve been doing for months now — but he doesn’t know how else to address him, so he tries the name he hasn’t called him with since their training camp days. “Wenzhou, Wenzhou… please, let me— I’ve gotta—”

Wenzhou doesn’t think too much of it when he sticks his index finger into Shaotian’s mouth in an attempt to muffle his mindless babbling, and it works a little until the little demon starts licking him with some sort of deliberation. Golden eyes watch him hungrily as he licks the length of Wenzhou’s finger, taking care to fondle every crease and nook, and humming appreciatively when he swallows his digit whole. He sucks on it with such enthusiasm that Wenzhou is starting to feel the effect, making him imagining that talented tongue and mouth licking and sucking on something else.

The image is too much, too real, and like the opportunist that he is, Shaotian takes advantage of the moment Wenzhou breaks his momentum and focus, and strikes back with a vengeance.

+ i.

When Wenzhou passes the folder filled with research data of their next opponents to his vice-captain, he exclaims, “Shaotian, your hand is freezing! Are you sick?”

“Hmm?” Shaotian looks down at his hands and flexes his fingers experimentally, “No. My hands are always like that during this kind of weather — shitty circulation, y’know. I left my gloves at home, so that’s probably why they feel especially cold right now. Don’t worry though!” he quickly says, “I’ll warm up properly before we start.”

“Ah,” Wenzhou nods once.

It’s true that Shaotian always seems so much more sensitive to the cold than everybody else. His hands are especially bad — the chill seeps deep past his flesh and stiffens his bones, so before every match or training session, he needs to spend at least half an hour warming up his fingers.

As the weather becomes bleaker in the winter, Shaotian’s wardrobe goes from a scarf around his neck, a long coat, and a pair of gloves to a thicker scarf long enough to wind around his neck and cover his head, earmuffs, a puffier coat, and two pairs of gloves with hand warmer packs stuffed inside.

Even wearing all those layers, Shaotian can still be seen shivering and burying his face into the warmth of his scarf during snowy days or when the temperature drops below zero. His cheeks flush with cold then, and the tips of his nose, too, and Wenzhou always finds that part of the chatterbox vice-captain sort of endearing, though of course he’ll never admit so.

The captain of Blue Rain checks the time; there are still twenty minutes until they start, so he decides to make the best of it.

“Hold on,” Wenzhou calls for him, and Shaotian turns around, topaz eyes round with confusion. He takes the few steps to close their distance, reaches out for Shaotian’s hand, and before the other man can protest, Wenzhou pulls them into one of the deserted hallways that they both know most people won’t normally trespass at this time of the day.

“Captain? What’s up?” Shaotian looks up at him through his blond fringes, the folder tucked securely under his arm when Wenzhou takes hold of both of his hands.

“We still have some time, right?” Wenzhou only says, cupping the other man’s hands into his slightly bigger, warmer ones. He starts to rub them back and forth gently, allowing the soft friction to generate heat and encourage blood circulation in Shaotian’s limbs.

“Right,” Shaotian ducks his head low, cheeks heating up.

After a few minutes of silence, Wenzhou laughs, the sound soft like dawn mist, “It’s kind of strange when you’re not chattering away about one thing or another when you’re around me.”

“That’s so incredibly rude, captain!” Shaotian jumps in to defend himself, eyes flashing with mock irritation, “if you’ve missed my voice that much, you only need to tell me. No need to go about it in such a convoluted way and no need to be shy either, Captain Yu. Also, reverse psychology won’t work on me at all.”

“No?” Wenzhou’s tone drops a degree lower, one corner of his lips curling upwards, “I think it’s working rather well.” He nudges the turfs of blond locks by Shaotian’s temple and places a kiss there with another knowing smile.

“Hmph, whatever, whatever. Just warm me up properly,” he tilts his head up, his ardent eyes beckoning him, his message never clearer.

“Of course,” Wenzhou leans forward without a second thought.

#quan zhi gao shou #qzgs #the king's avatar #huang shaotian #yu wenzhou #huang/yu #shaotian/wenzhou #bowie's crappy writing

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liesandarbor · 7 years

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Every mention of “obsidian” and “dragonglass” in the books.

Happy Friday Thrones and ASOIAF fans! With all of the talk of obsidian, dragonglass and the great war to come this season, I gathered an ultra post of every mention in ASOIAF text of Dragonglass and Obsidian (BONUS: and some ‘black oily structures’). There’s a little crossover in a few of the quotes!

Let’s jump to them at the cut.

Every mention of “Dragonglass” in the books:

"Take a lesson, Bran. The man who trusts in spells is dueling with a glass sword. As the children did. Here, let me show you something." He stood abruptly, crossed the room, and returned with a green jar in his good hand. "Have a look at these," he said as he pulled the stopper and shook out a handful of shiny black arrowheads. Bran picked one up. "It's made of glass." Curious, Rickon drifted closer to peer over the table. "Dragonglass," Osha named it as she sat down beside Luwin, bandagings in hand. "Obsidian," Maester Luwin insisted, holding out his wounded arm. "Forged in the fires of the gods, far below the earth. The children of the forest hunted with that, thousands of years ago. The children worked no metal. In place of mail, they wore long shirts of woven leaves and bound their legs in bark, so they seemed to melt into the wood. In place of swords, they carried blades of obsidian." "And still do." Osha placed soft pads over the bites on the maester's forearm and bound them tight with long strips of linen. Bran held the arrowhead up close. The black glass was slick and shiny. He thought it beautiful. "Can I keep one?" "As you wish," the maester said. "I want one too," Rickon said. "I want four. I'm four." Luwin made him count them out. "Careful, they're still sharp. Don't cut yourself." "Tell me about the children," Bran said. It was important. A Game of Thrones - Bran VII

The next day two of them came together to audience; the Greatjon's uncles, blustery men in the winter of their days with beards as white as the bearskin cloaks they wore. A crow had once taken Mors for dead and pecked out his eye, so he wore a chunk of dragonglass in its stead. As Old Nan told the tale, he'd grabbed the crow in his fist and bitten its head off, so they named him Crowfood. She would never tell Bran why his gaunt brother Hother was called Whoresbane.

A Clash of Kings - Bran II

A length of frayed rope bound the bundle together. Jon unsheathed his dagger and cut it, groped for the edges of the cloth, and pulled. The bundle turned, and its contents spilled out onto the ground, glittering dark and bright. He saw a dozen knives, leaf-shaped spearheads, numerous arrowheads. Jon picked up a dagger blade, featherlight and shiny black, hiltless. Torchlight ran along its edge, a thin orange line that spoke of razor sharpness. Dragonglass. What the maesters call obsidian. Had Ghost uncovered some ancient cache of the children of the forest, buried here for thousands of years? The Fist of the First Men was an old place, only . . .

Beneath the dragonglass was an old warhorn, made from an auroch's horn and banded in bronze. Jon shook the dirt from inside it, and a stream of arrowheads fell out. He let them fall, and pulled up a corner of the cloth the weapons had been wrapped in, rubbing it between his fingers. Good wool, thick, a double weave, damp but not rotted. It could not have been long in the ground. And it was dark. He seized a handful and pulled it close to the torch. Not dark. Black.

A Clash of Kings - Jon IV

"This Andrik may be a great fighter, but men do not fear him as they fear you." "Aye, that's so," Dagmer said. The fingers curled around the drinking horn were heavy with rings, gold and silver and bronze, set with chunks of sapphire and garnet and dragonglass. He had paid the iron price for every one, Theon knew.

A Clash of Kings - Theon III

Trader captains brought lace from Myr, chests of saffron from Yi Ti, amber and dragonglass out of Asshai. Merchants offered bags of coin, silversmiths rings and chains. Pipers piped for her, tumblers tumbled, and jugglers juggled, while dyers draped her in colors she had never known existed. A pair of Jogos Nhai presented her with one of their striped zorses, black and white and fierce.

A Clash of Kings - Daenerys III

"A fine trick," announced Jhogo with admiration. "No trick," a woman said in the Common Tongue. Dany had not noticed Quaithe in the crowd, yet there she stood, eyes wet and shiny behind the implacable red lacquer mask. "What mean you, my lady?"

"Half a year gone, that man could scarcely wake fire from dragonglass. He had some small skill with powders and wildfire, sufficient to entrance a crowd while his cutpurses did their work. He could walk across hot coals and make burning roses bloom in the air, but he could no more aspire to climb the fiery ladder than a common fisherman could hope to catch a kraken in his nets."

Dany looked uneasily at where the ladder had stood. Even the smoke was gone now, and the crowd was breaking up, each man going about his business. In a moment more than a few would find their purses flat and empty. "And now?"

A Clash of Kings - Daenerys III

Sam came puffing up as Jon crossed the camp. Under the black hood his face was as pale and round as the moon. "I heard the horn. Has your uncle come back?" "It's only the men from the Shadow Tower." It was growing harder to cling to the hope of Benjen Stark's safe return. The cloak he had found beneath the Fist could well have belonged to his uncle or one of his men, even the Old Bear admitted as much, though why they would have buried it there, wrapped around the cache of dragonglass, no one could say. "Sam, I have to go."

A Clash of Kings - Jon V

Jon slid his new dagger from its sheath and studied the flames as they played against the shiny black glass. He had fashioned the wooden hilt himself, and wound hempen twine around it to make a grip. Ugly, but it served. Dolorous Edd opined that glass knives were about as useful as nipples on a knight's breastplate, but Jon was not so certain. The dragonglass blade was sharper than steel, albeit far more brittle. It must have been buried for a reason.

A Clash of Kings - Jon V

Every fourth or fifth step he had to reach down and tug up his swordbelt. He had lost the sword on the Fist, but the scabbard still weighed down the belt. He did have two knives; the dragonglass dagger Jon had given him and the steel one he cut his meat with. All that weight dragged heavy, and his belly was so big and round that if he forgot to tug the belt slipped right off and tangled round his ankles, no matter how tight he cinched it. He had tried belting it above his belly once, but then it came almost to his armpits. Grenn had laughed himself sick at the sight of it, and Dolorous Edd had said, "I knew a man once who wore his sword on a chain around his neck like that. One day he stumbled, and the hilt went up his nose."

A Storm of Swords - Samwell I

His duty done, he finished dressing with clumsy, frightened fingers, donning his cap and surcoat and hooded cloak and buckling on his swordbelt, buckling it real tight so it wouldn't fall down. Then he found his pack and stuffed all his things inside, spare smallclothes and dry socks, the dragonglass arrowheads and spearhead Jon had given him and the old horn too, his parchments, inks, and quills, the maps he'd been drawing, and a rock-hard garlic sausage he'd been saving since the Wall. He tied it all up and shouldered the pack onto his back. The Lord Commander said I wasn't to rush to the ringwall, he recalled, but he said I shouldn't come running to him either. Sam took a deep breath and realized that he did not know what to do next.

A Storm of Swords - Samwell I

When he opened his eyes the Other's armor was running down its legs in rivulets as pale blue blood hissed and steamed around the black dragonglass dagger in its throat. It reached down with two bone-white hands to pull out the knife, but where its fingers touched the obsidian they smoked.

Sam rolled onto his side, eyes wide as the Other shrank and puddled, dissolving away. In twenty heartbeats its flesh was gone, swirling away in a fine white mist. Beneath were bones like milkglass, pale and shiny, and they were melting too. Finally only the dragonglass dagger remained, wreathed in steam as if it were alive and sweating. Grenn bent to scoop it up and flung it down again at once. "Mother, that's cold."

"Obsidian." Sam struggled to his knees. "Dragonglass, they call it. Dragonglass. Dragon glass." He giggled, and cried, and doubled over to heave his courage out onto the snow.

A Storm of Swords - Samwell I

"Why can't I just be Samwell Tarly?" He sat down heavily on a wet log that Grenn had yet to split. "It was the dragonglass that slew it. Not me, the dragonglass."

A Storm of Swords - Samwell II

But Dywen listened, and Dolorous Edd, and they made Sam and Grenn tell the Lord Commander. Mormont frowned all through the tale and asked pointed questions, but he was too cautious a man to shun any possible advantage. He asked Sam for all the dragonglass in his pack, though that was little enough. Whenever Sam thought of the cache Jon had found buried beneath the Fist, it made him want to cry. There'd been dagger blades and spearheads, and two or three hundred arrowheads at least. Jon had made daggers for himself, Sam, and Lord Commander Mormont, and he'd given Sam a spearhead, an old broken horn, and some arrowheads. Grenn had taken a handful of arrowheads as well, but that was all.

So now all they had was Mormont's dagger and the one Sam had given Grenn, plus nineteen arrows and a tall hardwood spear with a black dragonglass head. The sentries passed the spear along from watch to watch, while Mormont had divided the arrows among his best bowmen. Muttering Bill, Garth Greyfeather, Ronnel Harclay, Sweet Donnel Hill, and Alan of Rosby had three apiece, and Ulmer had four. But even if they made every shaft tell, they'd soon be down to fire arrows like all the rest. They had loosed hundreds of fire arrows on the Fist, yet still the wights kept coming.

A Storm of Swords - Samwell II

"Yes," said Sam, "but is it the cold that brings the wights, or the wights that bring the cold?"

"Who cares?" Grenn's axe sent wood chips flying. "They come together, that's what matters. Hey, now that we know that dragonglass kills them, maybe they won't come at all. Maybe they're frightened of us now!"

Sam wished he could believe that, but it seemed to him that when you were dead, fear had no more meaning than pain or love or duty. He wrapped his hands around his legs, sweating under his layers of wool and leather and fur. The dragonglass dagger had melted the pale thing in the woods, true . . . but Grenn was talking like it would do the same to the wights. We don't know that, he thought. We don't know anything, really. I wish Jon was here. He liked Grenn, but he couldn't talk to him the same way. Jon wouldn't call me Slayer, I know. And I could talk to him about Gilly's baby. Jon had ridden off with Qhorin Halfhand, though, and they'd had no word of him since. He had a dragonglass dagger too, but did he think to use it? Is he lying dead and frozen in some ravine . . . or worse, is he dead and walking?

A Storm of Swords - Samwell II

Lord Commander Mormont gave him a withering look. "You are a man of the Night's Watch. Try not to soil your smallclothes every time I look at you. Come, I said." His boots made squishing sounds in the mud, and Sam had to hurry to keep up. "I've been thinking about this dragonglass of yours."

"It's not mine," Sam said.

"Jon Snow's dragonglass, then. If dragonglass daggers are what we need, why do we have only two of them? Every man on the Wall should be armed with one the day he says his words."

"We never knew . . ."

"We never knew! But we must have known once. The Night's Watch has forgotten its true purpose, Tarly. You don't build a wall seven hundred feet high to keep savages in skins from stealing women. The Wall was made to guard the realms of men . . . and not against other men, which is all the wildlings are when you come right down to it. Too many years, Tarly, too many hundreds and thousands of years. We lost sight of the true enemy. And now he's here, but we don't know how to fight him. Is dragonglass made by dragons, as the smallfolk like to say?"

"The m-maesters think not," Sam stammered. "The maesters say it comes from the fires of the earth. They call it obsidian."

A Storm of Swords - Samwell II

Sam stumbled. “Jon found more, on the Fist. Hundreds of arrowheads, spearheads as well . . .” “So you said. Small good it does us there. To reach the Fist again we’d need to be armed with the weapons we won’t have until we reach the bloody Fist. And there are still the wildlings to deal with. We need to find dragonglass someplace else.” Sam had almost forgotten about the wildlings, so much had happened since. “The children of the forest used dragonglass blades,” he said. “They’d know where to find obsidian.” “The children of the forest are all dead,” said Mormont. “The First Men killed half of them with bronze blades, and the Andals finished the job with iron. Why a glass dagger should—” The Old Bear broke off as Craster emerged from between the deerhide flaps of his door. The wildling smiled, revealing a mouth of brown rotten teeth. “I have a son.”

A Storm of Swords - Samwell II

"Tell them what, my lord?" Sam asked politely.

"All. The Fist. The wildlings. Dragonglass. This. All." His breathing was very shallow now, his voice a whisper. "Tell my son. Jorah. Tell him, take the black. My wish. Dying wish."

"Wish?" The raven cocked its head, beady black eyes shining. "Corn?" the bird asked.

"No corn," said Mormont feebly. "Tell Jorah. Forgive him. My son. Please. Go."

"It's too far," said Sam. "I'll never reach the Wall, my lord." He was so very tired. All he wanted was to sleep, to sleep and sleep and never wake, and he knew that if he just stayed here soon enough Dirk or Ollo Lophand or Clubfoot Karl would get angry with him and grant his wish, just to see him die. "I'd sooner stay with you. See, I'm not frightened anymore. Of you, or . . . of anything."

A Storm of Swords - Samwell II

"You—" she started.

"I have the knife. The dragonglass dagger." He fumbled it out as he got to his feet. He'd given the first knife to Grenn, but thankfully he'd remembered to take Lord Mormont's dagger before fleeing Craster's Keep. He clutched it tight, moving away from the fire, away from Gilly and the babe. "Paul?" He meant to sound brave, but it came out in a squeak. "Small Paul. Do you know me? I'm Sam, fat Sam, Sam the Scared, you saved me in the woods. You carried me when I couldn't walk another step. No one else could have done that, but you did." Sam backed away, knife in hand, sniveling. I am such a coward. "Don't hurt us, Paul. Please. Why would you want to hurt us?"

Gilly scrabbled backward across the hard dirt floor. The wight turned his head to look at her, but Sam shouted "NO!" and he turned back. The raven on his shoulder ripped a strip of flesh from his pale ruined cheek. Sam held the dagger before him, breathing like a blacksmith's bellows. Across the longhall, Gilly reached the garron. Gods give me courage, Sam prayed. For once, give me a little courage. Just long enough for her to get away.

Small Paul moved toward him. Sam backed off until he came up against a rough log wall. He clutched the dagger with both hands to hold it steady. The wight did not seem to fear the dragonglass. Perhaps he did not know what it was. He moved slowly, but Small Paul had never been quick even when he'd been alive. Behind him, Gilly murmured to calm the garron and tried to urge it toward the door. But the horse must have caught a whiff of the wight's queer cold scent. Suddenly she balked, rearing, her hooves lashing at the frosty air. Paul swung toward the sound, and seemed to lose all interest in Sam.

There was no time to think or pray or be afraid. Samwell Tarly threw himself forward and plunged the dagger down into Small Paul's back. Half-turned, the wight never saw him coming. The raven gave a shriek and took to the air. "You're dead!" Sam screamed as he stabbed. "You're dead, you're dead." He stabbed and screamed, again and again, tearing huge rents in Paul's heavy black cloak. Shards of dragonglass flew everywhere as the blade shattered on the iron mail beneath the wool.

A Storm of Swords - Samwell III

"Sam?"

Grenn looked away. "He killed one of the Others, Jon. I saw it. He stabbed him with that dragonglass knife you made him, and we started calling him Sam the Slayer. He hated that."

Sam the Slayer. Jon could hardly imagine a less likely warrior than Sam Tarly. "What happened to him?"

A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

Ser Ilyn bowed before the king and queen, reached back over his shoulder, and drew forth six feet of ornate silver bright with runes. He knelt to offer the huge blade to Joffrey, hilt first; points of red fire winked from ruby eyes on the pommel, a chunk of dragonglass carved in the shape of a grinning skull.

Sansa stirred in her seat. "What sword is that?" Tyrion's eyes still stung from the wine. He blinked and looked again. Ser Ilyn's greatsword was as long and wide as Ice, but it was too silvery bright; Valyrian steel had a darkness to it, a smokiness in its soul. Sansa clutched his arm. "What has Ser Ilyn done with my father's sword?"

I should have sent Ice back to Robb Stark, Tyrion thought. He glanced at his father, but Lord Tywin was watching the king.

A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

"And Sam the Slayer," said Grenn. "You slew an Other."

"It was the dragonglass that killed it," Sam told him for the hundredth time.

"A lord's son, the maester's steward, and Sam the Slayer," Pyp mused. "You could talk to them, might be . . ."

A Storm of Swords - Samwell IV

Stannis snorted. "I know Janos Slynt. And I knew Ned Stark as well. Your father was no friend of mine, but only a fool would doubt his honor or his honesty. You have his look." A big man, Stannis Baratheon towered over Jon, but he was so gaunt that he looked ten years older than he was. "I know more than you might think, Jon Snow. I know it was you who found the dragonglass dagger that Randyll Tarly's son used to slay the Other."

"Ghost found it. The blade was wrapped in a ranger's cloak and buried beneath the Fist of the First Men. There were other blades as well . . . spearheads, arrowheads, all dragonglass."

"I know you held the gate here," King Stannis said. "If not, I would have come too late."

A Storm of Swords - Jon XI

King Stannis gazed off north again, his gold cloak streaming from his shoulders. "It may be that I am mistaken in you, Jon Snow. We both know the things that are said of bastards. You may lack your father's honor, or your brother's skill in arms. But you are the weapon the Lord has given me. I have found you here, as you found the cache of dragonglass beneath the Fist, and I mean to make use of you. Even Azor Ahai did not win his war alone. I killed a thousand wildlings, took another thousand captive, and scattered the rest, but we both know they will return. Melisandre has seen that in her fires. This Tormund Thunderfist is likely re-forming them even now, and planning some new assault. And the more we bleed each other, the weaker we shall all be when the real enemy falls upon us."

A Storm of Swords - Jon XI

"Y-yes, Your Grace. Jon Snow gave it to me."

"Dragonglass." The red woman's laugh was music. "Frozen fire, in the tongue of old Valyria. Small wonder it is anathema to these cold children of the Other."

"On Dragonstone, where I had my seat, there is much of this obsidian to be seen in the old tunnels beneath the mountain," the king told Sam. "Chunks of it, boulders, ledges. The great part of it was black, as I recall, but there was some green as well, some red, even purple. I have sent word to Ser Rolland my castellan to begin mining it. I will not hold Dragonstone for very much longer, I fear, but perhaps the Lord of Light shall grant us enough frozen fire to arm ourselves against these creatures, before the castle falls."

Sam cleared his throat. "S-sire. The dagger . . . the dragonglass only shattered when I tried to stab a wight."

Melisandre smiled. "Necromancy animates these wights, yet they are still only dead flesh. Steel and fire will serve for them. The ones you call the Others are something more."

A Storm of Swords - Samwell V

"Sam the Slayer!" he said, by way of greeting. "Are you sure you stabbed an Other, and not some child's snow knight?"

This isn't starting well. "It was the dragonglass that killed it, my lord," Sam explained feebly.

"Aye, no doubt. Well, out with it, Slayer. Did the maester send you to me?"

A Storm of Swords - Samwell V

He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade. A hunger . . . he could feel it. It was food he needed, prey, a red deer that stank of fear or a great elk proud and defiant. He needed to kill and fill his belly with fresh meat and hot dark blood. His mouth began to water with the thought.

A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Armen crossed his arms. "Obsidian does not burn."

"Dragonglass," Pate said. "The smallfolk call it dragonglass." Somehow that seemed important.

"They do," mused Alleras, the Sphinx, "and if there are dragons in the world again . . ."

A Feast for Crows - Prologue

"Long ago," Jon broke in. "What about the Others?"

"I found mention of dragonglass. The children of the forest used to give the Night's Watch a hundred obsidian daggers every year, during the Age of Heroes. The Others come when it is cold, most of the tales agree. Or else it gets cold when they come. Sometimes they appear during snowstorms and melt away when the skies clear. They hide from the light of the sun and emerge by night . . . or else night falls when they emerge. Some stories speak of them riding the corpses of dead animals. Bears, direwolves, mammoths, horses, it makes no matter, so long as the beast is dead. The one that killed Small Paul was riding a dead horse, so that part's plainly true. Some accounts speak of giant ice spiders too. I don't know what those are. Men who fall in battle against the Others must be burned, or else the dead will rise again as their thralls."

"We knew all this. The question is, how do we fight them?"

"The armor of the Others is proof against most ordinary blades, if the tales can be believed," said Sam, "and their own swords are so cold they shatter steel. Fire will dismay them, though, and they are vulnerable to obsidian." He remembered the one he had faced in the haunted forest, and how it had seemed to melt away when he stabbed it with the dragonglass dagger Jon had made for him. "I found one account of the Long Night that spoke of the last hero slaying Others with a blade of dragonsteel. Supposedly they could not stand against it."

"Dragonsteel?" Jon frowned. "Valyrian steel?"

A Feast for Crows - Samwell I/A Dance with Dragons Jon II

"Scared? Of what? The chidings of old men? Sam, you saw the wights come swarming up the Fist, a tide of living dead men with black hands and bright blue eyes. You slew an Other."

"It was the d-d-d-dragonglass, not me."

"Be quiet. You lied and schemed and plotted to make me Lord Commander. You will obey me. You'll go to the Citadel and forge a chain, and if you have to cut up corpses, so be it. At least in Oldtown the corpses won't object."

A Feast for Crows - Samwell I/A Dance with Dragons Jon II

". . . obsidian," said the other man in the room, a pale, fleshy, pasty-faced young fellow with round shoulders, soft hands, close-set eyes, and food stains on his robes.

"Call it dragonglass." Archmaester Marwyn glanced at the candle for a moment. "It burns but is not consumed."

"What feeds the flame?" asked Sam.

A Feast for Crows - Samwell V

"Some smaller than others." Valyria. It was written that on the day of Doom every hill for five hundred miles had split asunder to fill the air with ash and smoke and fire, blazes so hot and hungry that even the dragons in the sky were engulfed and consumed. Great rents had opened in the earth, swallowing palaces, temples, entire towns. Lakes boiled or turned to acid, mountains burst, fiery fountains spewed molten rock a thousand feet into the air, red clouds rained down dragonglass and the black blood of demons, and to the north the ground splintered and collapsed and fell in on itself and an angry sea came rushing in. The proudest city in all the world was gone in an instant, its fabled empire vanished in a day, the Lands of the Long Summer scorched and drowned and blighted.

A Dance with Dragons - Tyrion VIII

Seven hundred feet up, Jon Snow stood looking down upon the haunted forest. A north wind swirled through the trees below, sending thin white plumes of snow crystals flying from the highest branches, like icy banners. Elsewise nothing moved. Not a sign of life. That was not entirely reassuring. It was not the living that he feared. Even so …

The sun is out. The snow has stopped. It may be a moon's turn before we have another chance as good. It may be a season. "Have Emmett assemble his recruits," he told Dolorous Edd. "We'll want an escort. Ten rangers, armed with dragonglass. I want them ready to leave within the hour."

"Aye, m'lord. And to command?"

A Dance with Dragons - Jon VII

Nearby midnight the winds finally died away, and the sea grew calm enough for Tyrion to make his way back up onto deck. What he saw there did not reassure him. The cog was drifting on a sea of dragonglass beneath a bowl of stars, but all around the storm raged on. East, west, north, south, everywhere he looked, the clouds rose up like black mountains, their tumbled slopes and collossal cliffs alive with blue and purple lightning. No rain was falling, but the decks were slick and wet underfoot.

A Dance with Dragons - Tyrion IX

The arms most wildlings carry are little more than sticks, thought Jon. Wooden clubs, stone axes, mauls, spears with fire-hardened points, knives of bone and stone and dragonglass, wicker shields, bone armor, boiled leather. The Thenns worked bronze, and raiders like the Weeper carried stolen steel and iron swords looted off some corpse … but even those were oft of ancient vintage, dinted from years of hard use and spotted with rust.

A Dance with Dragons - Jon XI

The giants had no kings and no lords, made no homes save in caverns or beneath tall trees, and they worked neither metal nor fields. They remained creatures of the Dawn Age even as the ages passed them by, men grew ever more numerous, and the forests were tamed and dwindled. Now the giants are gone even in the lands beyond the Wall, and the last reports of them are more than a hundred years old. And even those are dubious—tales that rangers of the Watch might tell over a warm fire. The children of the forest were, in many ways, the opposites of the giants. As small as children but dark and beautiful, they lived in a manner we might call crude today, yet they were still less barbarous than the giants. They worked no metal, but they had great art in working obsidian (what the smallfolk call dragonglass, while the Valyrians knew it by a word meaning "frozen fire") to make tools and weapons for hunting. They wove no cloths but were skilled in making garments of leaves and bark. They learned to make bows of weirwood and to construct flying snares of grass, and both of the sexes hunted with these.

The World of Ice and Fire - Ancient History: The Dawn Age

The one thing that can be said for certain is that it was a cataclysm such as the world had never seen. The ancient, mighty Freehold—home to dragons and to sorcerers of unrivaled skill—was shattered and destroyed within hours. It was written that every hill for five hundred miles split asunder to fill the air with ash and smoke and fire so hot and hungry that even the dragons in the sky were engulfed and consumed. Great rents opened in the earth, swallowing palaces, temples, and entire towns. Lakes boiled or turned to acid, mountains burst, fiery fountains spewed molten rock a thousand feet into the air, and red clouds rained down dragonglass and the black blood of demons. To the north, the ground splintered and collapsed and fell in on itself, and an angry sea came boiling in.

The World of Ice and Fire - Ancient History: The Doom of Valyria

The children fought back as best they could, but the First Men were larger and stronger. Riding their horses, clad and armed in bronze, the First Men overwhelmed the elder race wherever they met, for the weapons of the children were made of bone and wood and dragonglass. Finally, driven by desperation, the little people turned to sorcery and beseeched their greenseers to stem the tide of these invaders.

And so they did, gathering in their hundreds (some say on the Isle of Faces), and calling on their old gods with song and prayer and grisly sacrifice (a thousand captive men were fed to the weirwood, one version of the tale goes, whilst another claims the children used the blood of their own young). And the old gods stirred, and giants awoke in the earth, and all of Westeros shook and trembled. Great cracks appeared in the earth, and hills and mountains collapsed and were swallowed up. And then the seas came rushing in, and the Arm of Dorne was broken and shattered by the force of the water, until only a few bare rocky islands remained above the waves. The Summer Sea joined the narrow sea, and the bridge between Essos and Westeros vanished for all time.

The World of Ice and Fire - Dorne: The Breaking

Every mention of “Obsidian” in the books:

Catelyn had more faith in a maester's learning than a septon's prayers. She was about to say as much when she saw the battlements ahead, long parapets built into the very stone of the mountains on either side of them. Where the pass shrank to a narrow defile scarce wide enough for four men to ride abreast, twin watchtowers clung to the rocky slopes, joined by a covered bridge of weathered grey stone that arched above the road. Silent faces watched from arrow slits in tower, battlements, and bridge. When they had climbed almost to the top, a knight rode out to meet them. His horse and his armor were grey, but his cloak was the rippling blue-and-red of Riverrun, and a shiny black fish, wrought in gold and obsidian, pinned its folds against his shoulder. "Who would pass the Bloody Gate?" he called.

A Game of Thrones - Catelyn VI

The stewards! For a moment Jon could not believe what he had heard. Mormont must have read it wrong. He started to rise, to open his mouth, to tell them there had been a mistake … and then he saw Ser Alliser studying him, eyes shiny as two flakes of obsidian, and he knew.

A Game of Thrones - Jon VI

The next morning it was Ser Brynden Tully himself who rode back to them. He had put aside the heavy plate and helm he'd worn as the Knight of the Gate for the lighter leather-and-mail of an outrider, but his obsidian fish still fastened his cloak.

A Game of Thrones - Catelyn IX

Bran picked one up. "It's made of glass." Curious, Rickon drifted closer to peer over the table.

"Dragonglass," Osha named it as she sat down beside Luwin, bandagings in hand.

"Obsidian," Maester Luwin insisted, holding out his wounded arm. "Forged in the fires of the gods, far below the earth. The children of the forest hunted with that, thousands of years ago. The children worked no metal. In place of mail, they wore long shirts of woven leaves and bound their legs in bark, so they seemed to melt into the wood. In place of swords, they carried blades of obsidian."

"And still do." Osha placed soft pads over the bites on the maester's forearm and bound them tight with long strips of linen.

Bran held the arrowhead up close. The black glass was slick and shiny. He thought it beautiful. "Can I keep one?"

"As you wish," the maester said.

"I want one too," Rickon said. "I want four. I'm four."

Luwin made him count them out. "Careful, they're still sharp. Don't cut yourself."

"Tell me about the children," Bran said. It was important.

A Game of Thrones - Bran VII

"But some twelve thousand years ago, the First Men appeared from the east, crossing the Broken Arm of Dorne before it was broken. They came with bronze swords and great leathern shields, riding horses. No horse had ever been seen on this side of the narrow sea. No doubt the children were as frightened by the horses as the First Men were by the faces in the trees. As the First Men carved out holdfasts and farms, they cut down the faces and gave them to the fire. Horror-struck, the children went to war. The old songs say that the greenseers used dark magics to make the seas rise and sweep away the land, shattering the Arm, but it was too late to close the door. The wars went on until the earth ran red with blood of men and children both, but more children than men, for men were bigger and stronger, and wood and stone and obsidian make a poor match for bronze. Finally the wise of both races prevailed, and the chiefs and heroes of the First Men met the greenseers and wood dancers amidst the weirwood groves of a small island in the great lake called Gods Eye.

A Game of Thrones - Bran VII

All the colors that had been missing from Vaes Tolorro had found their way to Qarth; buildings crowded about her fantastical as a fever dream in shades of rose, violet, and umber. She passed under a bronze arch fashioned in the likeness of two snakes mating, their scales delicate flakes of jade, obsidian, and lapis lazuli. Slim towers stood taller than any Dany had ever seen, and elaborate fountains filled every square, wrought in the shapes of griffins and dragons and manticores.

A Clash of Kings - Daenerys II

A Clash of Kings - Jon IV

A Storm of Swords - Samwell I

"Obsidian." Sam struggled to his knees. "Dragonglass, they call it. Dragonglass. Dragon glass." He giggled, and cried, and doubled over to heave his courage out onto the snow.

A Storm of Swords - Samwell I

"The m-maesters think not," Sam stammered. "The maesters say it comes from the fires of the earth. They call it obsidian."

Mormont snorted. "They can call it lemon pie for all I care. If it kills as you claim, I want more of it."

A Storm of Swords - Samwell II

Sam had almost forgotten about the wildlings, so much had happened since. "The children of the forest used dragonglass blades," he said. "They'd know where to find obsidian."

"The children of the forest are all dead," said Mormont. "The First Men killed half of them with bronze blades, and the Andals finished the job with iron. Why a glass dagger should—"

A Storm of Swords - Samwell II

Sleeping alone in my own cold cell never made me any harder or braver, though. He wondered what his father would say if he could see him now. I killed one of the Others, my lord, he imagined saying. I stabbed him with an obsidian dagger, and my Sworn Brothers call me Sam the Slayer now. But even in his fancies, Lord Randyll only scowled, disbelieving.

A Storm of Swords - Samwell III

Roro had sailed past Skagos into the Shivering Sea, visiting a hundred little coves that had never seen a trading ship before. He brought steel; swords, axes, helms, good chainmail hauberks, to trade for furs, ivory, amber, and obsidian. When the Cobblecat turned back south her holds were stuffed, but in the Bay of Seals three black galleys came out to herd her into Eastwatch. They lost their cargo and the Bastard lost his head, for the crime of trading weapons to the wildlings.

A Storm of Swords - Davos V

The king gave that a curt nod, as if to say he knew and did not care. "You slew this creature with an obsidian dagger, I am told," he said to Sam.

"Y-yes, Your Grace. Jon Snow gave it to me."

A Storm of Swords - Samwell V

"What are these glass candles?" asked Roone.

Armen the Acolyte cleared his throat. "The night before an acolyte says his vows, he must stand a vigil in the vault. No lantern is permitted him, no torch, no lamp, no taper . . . only a candle of obsidian. He must spend the night in darkness, unless he can light that candle. Some will try. The foolish and the stubborn, those who have made a study of these so-called higher mysteries. Often they cut their fingers, for the ridges on the candles are said to be as sharp as razors. Then, with bloody hands, they must wait upon the dawn, brooding on their failure. Wiser men simply go to sleep, or spend their night in prayer, but every year there are always a few who must try."

"Yes." Pate had heard the same stories. "But what's the use of a candle that casts no light?"

A Feast for Crows - Prologue

"I know what I saw. The light was queer and bright, much brighter than any beeswax or tallow candle. It cast strange shadows and the flame never flickered, not even when a draft blew through the open door behind me."

Armen crossed his arms. "Obsidian does not burn."

"Dragonglass," Pate said. "The smallfolk call it dragonglass." Somehow that seemed important.

A Feast for Crows - Prologue

"We knew all this. The question is, how do we fight them?"

A Feast for Crows - Samwell I/A Dance with Dragons Jon II

The candle was unpleasantly bright. There was something queer about it. The flame did not flicker, even when Archmaester Marwyn closed the door so hard that papers blew off a nearby table. The light did something strange to colors too. Whites were bright as fresh-fallen snow, yellow shone like gold, reds turned to flame, but the shadows were so black they looked like holes in the world. Sam found himself staring. The candle itself was three feet tall and slender as a sword, ridged and twisted, glittering black. "Is that . . . ?"

". . . obsidian," said the other man in the room, a pale, fleshy, pasty-faced young fellow with round shoulders, soft hands, close-set eyes, and food stains on his robes.

"Call it dragonglass." Archmaester Marwyn glanced at the candle for a moment. "It burns but is not consumed."

A Feast for Crows - Samwell V

The soldier pines and sentinels wore thick white coats, and icicles draped the bare brown limbs of the broadleafs. Jon sent Tom Barleycorn ahead to scout for them, though the way to the white grove was oft trod and familiar. Big Liddle and Luke of Longtown slipped into the brush to east and west. They would flank the column to give warning of any approach. All were seasoned rangers, armed with obsidian as well as steel, warhorns slung across their saddles should they need to summon help.

A Dance with Dragons - Jon VII

The World of Ice and Fire - Ancient History: The Dawn Age

It has long been held that they did this for protection from predators such as direwolves or shadowcats, which their simple stone weapons—and even their vaunted greenseers—were not proof against. But other sources dispute this, stating that their greatest foes were the giants, as hinted at in tales told in the North, and as possibly proved by Maester Kennet in the study of a barrow near the Long Lake—a giant's burial with obsidianarrowheads found amidst the extant ribs. It brings to mind a transcription of a wildling song in Maester Herryk's History of the Kings-Beyond-the-Wall, regarding the brothers Gendel and Gorne. They were called upon to mediate a dispute between a clan of children and a family of giants over the possession of a cavern. Gendel and Gorne, it is said, ultimately resolved the matter through trickery, making both sides disavow any desire for the cavern, after the brothers discovered it was a part of a greater chain of caverns that eventually passed beneath the Wall. But considering that the wildlings have no letters, their traditions must be looked at with a jaundiced eye.

The World of Ice and Fire - Ancient History: The Dawn Age

The "unicorns" of Skagos were once scoffed at by maesters at the Citadel. The occasional "unicorn horn" offered by disreputable merchants has never been more than the horn of a kind of whale hunted by the whalers of Ib. However, horns of quite a different kind—reputed to be from Skagos—have been seen by the maesters at Eastwatch upon occasion. It is also said that those seafarers brave enough to trade on Skagos have glimpsed the stoneborn lords riding great, shaggy, horned beasts, monstrous mounts so sure-footed they have been known to climb the sides of mountains. A living example of such a creature—or even a skeleton—has long been sought for study, but none has ever been brought to Oldtown.

Though rarely seen off their island, the stoneborn once were accustomed to crossing the Bay of Seals to trade or, more oft, raid—until King Brandon Stark, Ninth of His Name, broke their power once and for all, destroyed their ships, and forbade them the sea. For most of recorded history, they have remained an isolated, backward, savage folk, as like to murder those who land upon their isle as to trade with them. When they do consent to trade, the Skagosi offer pelts, obsidian blades and arrowheads, and "unicorn horns" for goods they desire.

Some Skagosi have served in the Night's Watch as well. More than a thousand years ago, a Crowl (a member of a clan that passes for nobility on Skagos) was even Lord Commander for a time, and the Annals of the Black Centaur speak of a Stane (a member of another Skagosi family) who rose to become First Ranger but died shortly thereafter.

The World of Ice and Fire - The North: The Stoneborn of Skagos

Mentions of oily black buildings/stone/structure:

Neither the dancers nor the drinkers took much note of Theon Greyjoy as he strode to the dais. Lord Balon occupied the Seastone Chair, carved in the shape of a great kraken from an immense block of oily black stone. Legend said that the First Men had found it standing on the shore of Old Wyk when they came to the Iron Islands. To the left of the high seat were Theon's uncles. Asha was ensconced at his right hand, in the place of honor. "You come late, Theon," Lord Balon observed.

A Clash of Kings - Theon II

Even among the ironborn there are some who doubt this and acknowledge the more widely accepted view of an ancient descent from the First Men—even though the First Men, unlike the later Andals, were never a seafaring people. Certainly, we cannot seriously accept the assertions of the ironborn priests, who would have us believe that the ironmen are closer kin to fish and merlings than the other races of mankind.

Archmaester Haereg once advanced the interesting notion that the ancestors of the ironborn came from some unknown land west of the Sunset Sea, citing the legend of the Seastone Chair. The throne of the Greyjoys, carved into the shape of a kraken from an oily black stone, was said to have been found by the First Men when they first came to Old Wyk. Haereg argued that the chair was a product of the first inhabitants of the islands, and only the later histories of maesters and septons alike began to claim that they were in fact descended of the First Men. But this is the purest speculation and, in the end, Haereg himself dismissed the idea, and so must we.

The World of Ice and Fire - The Iron Islands

Maesters and other scholars alike have puzzled over the greatest of the engimas of Sothoryos, the ancient city of Yeen. A ruin older than time, built of oily black stone, in massive blocks so heavy that it would require a dozen elephants to move them, Yeen has remained a desolation for many thousands of years, yet the jungle that surrounds it on every side has scarce touched it. ("A city so evil that even the jungle will not enter," Nymeria is supposed to have said when she laid eyes on it, if the tales are true). Every attempt to rebuild or resettle Yeen has ended in horror.

The World of Ice and Fire - Beyond the Free Cities: Sothoryos

The maester did not believe in omens. And yet . . . old as he was, Cressen had never seen a comet half so bright, nor yet that color, that terrible color, the color of blood and flame and sunsets. He wondered if his gargoyles had ever seen its like. They had been here so much longer than he had, and would still be here long after he was gone. If stone tongues could speak . . .

Such folly. He leaned against the battlement, the sea crashing beneath him, the black stone rough beneath his fingers. Talking gargoyles and prophecies in the sky. I am an old done man, grown giddy as a child again. Had a lifetime's hard-won wisdom fled him along with his health and strength? He was a maester, trained and chained in the great Citadel of Oldtown. What had he come to, when superstition filled his head as if he were an ignorant fieldhand?

A Clash of Kings - Prologue

Lord Stannis Baratheon's refuge was a great round room with walls of bare black stone and four tall narrow windows that looked out to the four points of the compass. In the center of the chamber was the great table from which it took its name, a massive slab of carved wood fashioned at the command of Aegon Targaryen in the days before the Conquest. The Painted Table was more than fifty feet long, perhaps half that wide at its widest point, but less than four feet across at its narrowest. Aegon's carpenters had shaped it after the land of Westeros, sawing out each bay and peninsula until the table nowhere ran straight. On its surface, darkened by near three hundred years of varnish, were painted the Seven Kingdoms as they had been in Aegon's day; rivers and mountains, castles and cities, lakes and forests.

A Clash of Kings - Prologue

#asoiaf #dragonglass #game of thrones #asoiaf references #asoiaf resources #mine

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rebeccalartfoundation · 3 years

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Printmaking 1- Experiments and Artist research

Today was my first print making session of the summer term. I was very excited to get back into it!

Inspiration

Brian had some examples of previous students’ work on Moodle and I looked there to gain inspiration of what i would like to achieve.

Student work from Moodle

Naturally I was drawn to the prints featuring leaves and natural imagery. Real plants were used for a relief print, along with Drypoint of the butterflies and bird. I love the contrast of the coloured print of the leaves against the black imagery of the animals. It reminded me of botanical illustrations that you would find in a Victorian Encyclopaedia. I would like to try printing with real plants, although it would be ideal to dry the plant before to prevent moisture from pressing.

Student work from Moodle

I loved the textures of the dress and would like to print different fabrics to see how they would print. It creates a 3D shape to the print. I also like the contrast of the mark making in the background to create a pattern- something I am also very interested in. The pattern in the background reminds me of twigs and would be interesting create something similar through mark making.

Student work from Moodle

Lastly I was inspired by this print with the use of colours and layering to create a print. It partly reminded me of how this can be achieved with screen printing but also of Riso Printing.

Riso Print

Similar to screenprinting, Riso print requires a layering technique to build up multi coloured prints. However this is achieve digitally through a machine.

The Riso Machine and Print Process

Riso brand digital duplicators were invented by the Riso Kagaku Corporation in the mid-1980s in Tokyo, Japan. A digital duplicator is essentially a modern-day mimeograph machine or stencil printer. The Riso internally creates a stencil that is laid onto a drum filled with ink which then spins at high speed, forcing the ink through the stencil onto the paper. This process creates a unique textured print that cannot be replicated.

- Burke, Fleck (2020) Dribble.com

Boicut, To Get There -Together edition 2019. Riso Print

Boicut, Puberty, 2017. Riso print.

I was also inspired by contemporary artist Boicut and their riso prints. Again intrigued by the use of layering, mark making and lettering within the prints.

Printing samples: Colours, layering, texture and mark making

Colour and layering

Drawing inspiration from the above art, I decided to focus on colour, textures and markmaking for this class. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do Riso Printing as there wasn’t a machine available but wanted to recreate some similar by layering colours and shapes on top of each other.

Acrylic background with corrugated cardboard and lace on top

Acrylic background with embossed wallpaper and satin like ribbon.

Acrylic background with lace and shirred fabric (in pink)

I wanted to print on a solid colour background so painted card with acrylic. Brian did warn that too much acrylic would make the ink difficult to print as acrylic is plastic and could essentially slide off. With this in mind I tried not to apply it too thickly but enough to have a solid background. The prints came out quite well and I could always explore with lighter washes and see how that looks. However I liked the solid background with these set of prints.

Textures

I also wanted to explore texture with printing making. With the above acrylic based samples I placed a variety of materials- corrugated cardboard, shirred fabric and embossed wallpaper to see how it would print. All materials printed quite well, especially the embossed wallpaper and lace. I also wanted to see how visible textures can be printed with a white background and played around with composition with these samples.

Lace, ribbon and stringed fabric printed via Bellini press.

Mark making

At the start of the lesson Brian suggested starting off engraving a design on card with a burnisher and see how that would print. I wanted to depict mark making, so had started off with cutting shapes and embossing a design into them. I was inspired by Marta Rogoyska and the simple shapes and colours used in her tapestry work.

Pieces of card engraved with a burnisher.

Marta Rogoyska, Courtyard Series III. Tapestry.

I then moved onto pieces of card and embossing a simple designs with lines based on plant imagery, featuring simplified drawings of lavender and chamomile leaves. I had mixed the ink to create the pink and green colours.

Print of engraved design

Ghost print.

Print of design featuring multi colours on plate.

Brian had also shown use that applying a thin layer of etching ink, wiping away to create a design and then applying a thicker ink on top on a plate can create a design featuring different colours at the same time. I don’t think I’ve fully done it correctly as the orange had tampered with the purple background but the marks were coloured well by the orange. It was also interesting to work directly from the plate and wiping away a design. I decided to give this another go, using a rag to wipe away (same as the first one) and a paintbrush end for finer lines.

Print featuring wiped away marks

Print of blending colours

I also decided to print the plate with these colours. I had rolled the ink directly onto the plate and blended them together.

Reflection

What went well - Overall it was a very successful day of printing where I had explored colour, texture and markmaking as intended. I am happy with how my samples came out and despite not being able to do Riso printing, I was able to experiment with layering and colour. I was also intrigued of applying ink directly to the plate and wiping away a design, something I hadn’t done before and creating interesting marks that way. I was also happy with how I was able to get clear prints of texture, particularly with the embossed wallpaper and lace.

What I would do differently- I would’ve like to do more layering with the prints with the acrylic background. Unfortunately it took a while to set up as I had to wait for the paint to dry and was distracted with other prints. Waiting for each print to dry before layering is something I forgot to account for so couldn’t make more complex samples via layering but will keep this in mind for next time. However I was able to do a version of layering by placing different fabrics on top of each other in some samples.

Next steps

Inspired by Sofia I would like to print on fabric, in which Brian has some lightweight poly cotton I could print on. I was also inspired by Emma’s amazing cocktail prints with a rainbow roll and would like to create a print with that technique.

I also had a chat with Brian about linoprinting again after I abandoned my first attempt in Unit 2 due to lack of time. I would like to revisit lino print but will need to give myself enough time to prepare a design, perhaps I could do this for next week. I had also enjoyed Drypoint and love how lines can be depicted l but I think I will have to decided to do either that or lino as creating a design is time consuming for both. I will also explore different line weights within a design per Brian’s suggestion and see how that will look within a print.

Biblograpghy

Burke, L., Flack, R. 2021. Dribble.com. An introduction to Risograph Printing (& how to start your first project) | Dribbble Design Blog. [ONLINE] Available at: https://dribbble.com/stories/2020/03/02/intro-to-risograph. [Accessed 15 May 2021].

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moontain · 5 years

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It’s been a long time i’ve been away from social medias and there are many new artworks i wish to share with you. For regular updates you can always check this post: SIGNS OF LIFE … or send me an email [email protected]

For now, my website is the only place to discover them. I hope you will like their colors, find their meaning and more importantly, invent your own interpretation (of which i’m always curious) -> Click the pics to see them full-size

You’re invited to share them if you want and remember they’re all available as limited fine art prints

To check the previous post with some 2018′ works click HERE

Being an independant artist, i depend on people’s curiosity & support, you’re welcome, Thank You*

(FRENCH at the bottom of the page)

So, here is a sum up of the recent artworks i’ve put online as well as some news, enjoy

CLICK on them to appreciate the details / CLIQUER sur les images pour les détails

• LE PORTEUR D’ÂMES … (this is my latest painting, click for the details)

This painting was intense and has a deep meaning for me.

Of course you can notice the main big bird as a central character.

But it’s much more, all the entities are circling around it.

Melted with one another like Mayan’ glyphes entertaining mutiple significations.

I interpret it as an ark of souls, its french title means “soul bearer”

In its feathering (just like birds with seeds) it carries new entities …

From the Sky … to the Earth *

• Some paintings … ( to see more, HERE, HERE & HERE – to order click HERE )

To paint has always being a challenge, because of the meanings i’ll have to guess once the work is over, but also the details and dedication it involves. I usually let them and myself mature in parallel. So i can come back to them ( and them to me ) at different periods which is a nice way to enrich our respective entities. There is always a story inside of the story.

TITANOMACHIA

BARDO

PANDORAMA

AGNOSIA

THE BALLAD OF DAVY CROCKETT

TWONE

DREAMANTRA

EIDOS

• Some drawings … ( to see more click HERE – to order them click HERE )

Once again you’re invited to click on the images to get it full-size, here are the latest series of “Drawinks” (drawings with gouache markers born from indians inks backgrounds).

THE PATH OF LIFE

E.V.E

SPACE EXPLORER

AERIAL VIBRISSAE

THE MIRROR OF AFFECT

MISSYA

DUMUZI

INANNA

• The linocuts … ( click HERE for more )

This series was started in january 2019, when i discovered the old linocut’ kit my mother used to have in the fifties. It was moving and i knew i had to try it. Although this is a totally unknown territory to me, i found some pleasure and happiness working this medium. My approach is the same here, i start from scratch just like if if was a sculpture, i don’t prepare anything & see / let it appear. The smells and touches were nice and i look to do some more, here are the first ones (description & titles to be added)

LINO III

LINO IV

LINO VII

LINO II –

LINO V

LINO VI

TIGERRR

• Collaboration Gee Vero (click HERE for more informations)

I made this drawing as a part of a project called “The Art Of Inclusion”, which was started by the german artist Gee Vero.

In April 2010, when World Autism Day went unnoticed in Germany, Gee conceived of The Inclusion Project. At that time, she was drawing half-faces of people. Her concept was simple. She would send prominent people half-faces to complete along with a letter explaining the project. Her letter states: “I am inviting well known people to take a step towards inclusion together with me. I am asking them to come and meet me in their own way on my picture which will then become ours! We would be showing in art something that we are still light years away in reality: tolerance, inclusion and acceptance of autistic people are not an illusion. Even two worlds that could not be more different can exist on one common territory, not just next to each other but with one another! The Art of Inclusion grows as it goes.”

• Anamorphæ & Gratiæ (PICTURES TO BE ADDED)

These are two of my steatite’ sculptures (2018/2019). Anamorphæ was my first one with this kind of stone and it was a pleasant discovery. I enjoyed it even more than wood. Once again, this is the humbling process that pleases me, there is also a magical feel to work of such a raw piece of mineral Nature, knowing the result, future entity, is already inside of it. Waiting for you to discover it, after thousands years of life, making the meeting between the stone and the mind/hands even more moving.

• A Stride On The Moon (soon … a picture to be added)

This project will be the largest painting i ever made ( to this day ). Its size is approx. 260/218cm.

It represents a new challenge, as i’m always taking a lot of time to complete a painting (months to years, so we can grow in parallel). But although it might ask quite some time, i guess it won’t be “years” before i finish this one, because it feels like the first chapter of more to come.

This painting will tell a story of an out of time meeting between two entities. Each elements echoing the so called trinity of past-present-future of the characters. It may enlighten the interconnections of people, from different origins but in the end never separated. The experiences of people might differ but their lessons and the knowledge to get from them, is the one thing allowing us to realize we are from the same Source, with the same thirst for fulfillment.

• Publications, shows etc

To keep in touch you can click this LINK

You’ll see the present and future exhibitions and more … they’re mainly in France, obviously but i’m eager to get some things going on in other places of the planet, i feel it’s time to share on a larger scale, help me to achieve it. Contact me if you have any idea how to do it … thanks.

acheter des tirages d’art et me permettre de continuer, cliquer ICI

s’informer des expositions présentes ou futures, cliquer ICI

me proposer des projets divers et variés -> [email protected]

Bonjour aux francophones,

Au moment d’écrire ces lignes, beaucoup de temps s’est écoulé depuis que j’ai partagé des nouvelles.

Voici présentés dans cet article, un bon nombre des dernières oeuvres que j’ai pu mettre sur mon site internet.

Tout n’est pas présenté, et les liens à suivre pour en voir plus, sont à votre disposition.

J’espère que vous prendrez plaisir à voir les couleurs et à inventer vos interprétations de ces travaux. Leurs titres sont autant de pistes pour en retrouver l’origine. Je suis toujours curieux de découvrir les ressentis exterieurs, n’hésitez pas à m’écrire.

L’existence des créations, ne tient qu’aux interactions qu’elles entretiennent avec la personne qui les ressent, en cela, elles dépendent de vous. Aussi, sentez-vous libres de les partager, en vos zones plus secrètes, avec les autres … voyager et faire voyager, là où nos sens pourront trouver un nouveau … sens. C’est bien là tout l’interêt de l’art et de la vie en générale.

MERCI

To Be Continued *

NEWSUMMARY V It's been a long time i've been away from social medias and there are many new…

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asegbolu · 7 years

Text

Six

ISLAND BUILDERS BAPTIST SCHOOL

(NURSERY & PRIMARY)

1A, MOBOLAJI BANK-ANTHONY STREET, LAGOS.

SECOND TERM EXAMINATION 2017

CLASS: PRIMARY 6 SUBJECT: BASIMATHEMATICS

NAME:……………………………………………………………………………………

Solve the following questions and put the right answers from the given

alternatives

Part A: Objectives

1.) Express 3/5 of 2 hours in minutes ____ (a) 500 minutes (b) 300minutes (c) 72 minutes

2.) Express 15grammes as a decimal of 3kg (a) 0.005 (b) 0.015 (c) 0.315

3.) Add up 1.03, 0.006 and 2.1 (a) 3.136 (b) 2.103 (c) 3.1487

4.) Write out all factors of 8. (a) 1, 2, 3, 4 (b) 1,2 4, 8 (c) 8, 16, 24, 32

5.) Express 25 as a fraction of 125 (a) 1/25 (b) 1/125 (c) 1/5

6.) Express three thousand nine hundred and forty two in roman numerals

(a) MMM (b) MXMIII (c) MMMCMXLII

7.) Write out all factors of 12 (a) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 12 (b) 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 12 (c) 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 12

8.) Express 1010111 in words (a) One million, ten thousand one hundred and eleven (b) one billion ten thousand one hundred and eleven (c) one hundred thousand, one million and ten

9.) Write fifty three million, eight hundred thousand and thirteen in figures

(a) 53800130 (b) 50308013 (c) 53800013

10.) What is the place value of 8 in 148214 (a) 8000 (b) 80000 (c) 800000

11.) Sum up the place value of 8 and 4 in 18423 (a) 80400 (b) 4800 (c) 8400

12.) Express 85/1000 as a decimal number (a) 0.085 (b) 0.850 (c) 0.85

13.) Change 0.34 to a fraction in its lowest term (a) ¾ (b) 17/50 (c) 34/10

14.) Write 20,220,110 in words (a) Twenty billion, two hundred and twenty thousand, one hundred and ten (b) twenty million, ten million two hundred and ten (c) ten million, twenty thousand and eleven

15.) What is the place value of 2 in 198.42 (a) two tenth (b) two hundred (c) two thousand

16.) A line that is drawn from one part of the circle that passes through the centre to the other part of the circle is called _________ (a) chord (b) diameter (c) radius

17.) The prime numbers between 50 and 60 are _________ and ________

(a) 51 and 53 (b) 53 and 59 (c) 57 and 59

18.) Change 75% to decimal (a) 0.75 (b) 0.705 (c) 7.5

19.) Calculate the L.C.M of 18, 27 and 36 (a) 108 (b) 54 (c) 27

20.) What is the product of 5.2 and 1.3 (a) 6.76 (b) 7.66 (c) 5.86

Part B: Show all workings

1.) One quarter of a number is 84. What is the number

2.) How many times is 0.05 contained in 85

3.) Calculate the average of 76, 50, 44, 20 and 40

4.) Decrease 2000 by 20%

5.) Find the difference between 132/3 and 21/3

ISLAND BUILDERS BAPTIST SCHOOL

(NURSERY & PRIMARY)

1A, MOBOLAJI BANK-ANTHONY STREET, LAGOS.

SECOND TERM EXAMINATION 2017

CLASS: PRIMARY 6 SUBJECT: ENGLISH LANGUAGE

NAME:……………………………………………………………………………………

Read the passage below and answer the questions that follow

24 Broad Street,

Lagos Island,

Lagos State,

8th January 2017

The Headteacher,

Asebolu Group of Schools

38, Bode Thomas Street,

Lagos

Dear Sir,

A Letter of Complaints

I wish to draw your attention to some problems that we pupils of this great institution now face. In the first place, the noise that comes from the Ajibola block industry located at the back of the school is an unpleasant and disturbing. Hearing the noise when teaching is going on is enough to distract us.

We find it difficult to concentrate on our lessons when teaching is going on. One of our teachers made us to understand that the owner of the industry did not get the government's approval to locate the industry there.

Dear Sir you need to do something urgently about this as a stitch in time saves time.

Thank you.

Yours faithfully,

Davies Agboola

Questions

1.) Who is the writer of the letter ___________________________________________________

2.) To whom is the letter addressed _________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

3.) Mention what the author complained about ________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

4.) Who do you think owns the block industry ________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

5.) Where do you think the block industry should be located

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Part B

Active Voice Passive Voice

6.) Cats eat mice

7.) The horses are pulling the wagon

8.) The girls swept the classroom

9.) The woman was selling some oranges

10.) I love my school

Part C

Identify the type of pronoun that is underlined in each of the following sentences

Sample: I am happy (personal pronoun)

11.) Where are you going (_________________ pronoun)

12.) It is good to be good ( _________________ pronoun)

13.) This is my class teacher ( ________________ pronoun)

14.) Who is an accountant ( ______________ pronoun)

15.) These books are mine ( __________________ pronoun)

Part D

Fill the gaps with the synonyms of the underlined words

16.) Mungo Park discovered the source of the River Niger (a) made (b) found (c) formed

17.) I remembered what you said (a) forgive (b) recall (c) think

18.) The thieves intended to attack the rich man in the night (a) attempted (b) went (c) planned

19.) He is a faithful man, you can depend on him (a) reply (b) rely (c) rest

20.) My Uncle is the head of the village (a) judge (b) priest (c) leader

Part E

Direct Speech Indirect Speech

21.) Olu said "I have two pencils"

22.) The woman said" I can drive

23.) Olu said that he could do it

24.) The pastor said "My wife is a woman"

25.) The woman said" I may travel tomorrow

Part F

Write a letter to your dad narrating your experience to him during the last excursion to general post, marina.

ISLAND BUILDERS BAPTIST SCHOOL

(NURSERY & PRIMARY)

1A, MOBOLAJI BANK-ANTHONY STREET, LAGOS.

SECOND TERM EXAMINATION 2017

CLASS: PRIMARY 6 SUBJECT: VERBAL REASONING

NAME:……………………………………………………………………………………

Study the samples and answer the questions that follow

Section A

Write out the word that will complete the first word and start the second word

Sample: M ___ck

___lc (a) a (b) e (c) o The answer is o i.e. Mock and Old which is option C. Now answer the following questions

1.) Give ____ trife (a) d (b) n (c) s

2.) _____orn _____lose (a) b (b) c (c) w

3.) Lea____ ____owl (a) c (b) d (c) f

4.) Kitt____n ____mpire (a) a (b) e (c) i

5.) _____lright ____rrow (a) a (b) b (c) c

Section B

Write out the word that cannot be formed from the word that is written in capital letter

Sample EDUCATION (a) action (b) lotion (c) caution The answer is Lotion. Now do the following

6.) BECOMING (a) comb (b) game (c) gone

7.) ASSAULT (a) lass (b) loss (c) salt

8.) ADJUSTMENT (a) Amuse (b) Must (c) Near

9.) AGRICULTURE (a) Attire (b) late (c) agric

10.) INFORMATION (a) nation (b) from (c) normal

Section C

In each of the following numbers there are three sentences

Read them carefully and decide which of them should come first, second and third

An example is given below

i.) The boys were stung by the bees

ii.) The boys went honey hunting

iii.) Their friends laughed at them (a) 123 (b) 213 (c) 231 The answer is B

11.) i.) I'll go by air

ii.) I'll travel to London

iii.) I'll call on the queen (a) 1,3,2 (b) 2,3,1 (c) 3,2,1

12.) i.) The defenders were careless and slow

ii.) The goalkeeper was angry

iii.) Two cheap goals were scored (a) 1,3,2 (b) 1,2,3 (c) 3,2,1

13.) i.) Olu bought an entry form

ii.) They offered him admission

iii.) He wrote an entrance examinations (a) 1,2,3 (b) 1,3,2 (c) 3,2,1

14.) i.) The teacher flogged David

ii.) Other pupils laughed at David

iii.) David came late to school (a) 1,3,2 (b) 1,2,3 (c) 3,1,2

15.) i.) I bought biros with my money

ii.) I kept it in my purse

iii.) My brother gave me money (a) 1,2,3 (b) 3,2,1 (c) 1,3,2

Section D

Choose the best answer from a, b or c

Sample: We judge people by what they do rather than what they say. Why?

(a) Words are sometimes hard to understand

(b) What people do, tells us what they are really alike.

16.) Why do we breast-feed

(a) It is because it is the cheapest way of feeding babies

(b) It is because no other food is so nourishing to babies

17.) Why do so many boys wear school cap?

(a) Because they look silly

(b) because they look smarter tan those without caps

18.) What is a pen?

(a) Something to write with

(b) something that holds ink as you write

19.) What is the meaning of "Never say die"

(a) Always say live

(b) try, try and try again

20.) Why do police wear uniform

(a) To frighten burglars

(b) To show what they are

ISLAND BUILDERS BAPTIST SCHOOL

(NURSERY & PRIMARY)

1A, MOBOLAJI BANK-ANTHONY STREET, LAGOS.

SECOND TERM EXAMINATION 2017

CLASS: PRIMARY 6 SUBJECT: SOCIAL STUDIES

NAME:……………………………………………………………………………………

Read the following questions and pick out the best answer from the given alternatives

1.) Social studies is the study of man and his ______ (a) body (b) environment (c) religion

2.) The most expensive means of transportation is by ____ (a) air (b) water (c) land

3.) All the followings are benefits of division of labour except ____

(a) It is onotonous (b) It saves time (c) it saves energy

4.) All these are problems of marriage except ____ (a) adultery (b) love (c) childlessness

5.) The head of a primary school is called the ____ (a) vice chancellor (b) head teacher (c) baron

6.) Whose picture is on the One Hundred naira Nigerian note (a) General Muritala Mohammed (b) Chief Obafemi Awolowo (c) Alhaji Sir Ahmed Bello

7.) The following are man-made resources except ____ (a) boreholes (b) forests (c) cars

8.) Formal education is received in the _____ (a) churches (b) school (c) markets

9.) _____ is the legal union between a man and a woman to become husband and wife

(a) marriage (b) couples (c) family

10.) ______ is a type of marriage where a man marries a woman

(a) polygamy (b) monogamy (c) secret

11.) _____ is the social smallest unit (a) marriage (b) school (c) family

12.) A follower or faithful of Islam is called a _______ (a) Moslem (b) Christian (c) Buddhist

13.) The holy book of the Christian is called the Holy _____ (a) grail (b) Bible (c) Mantras

14.) The founder of Christianity is _____ (a ) Jesus Christ (b) Mohammed (c) Budah

15.) The killing of twins in Nigeria was stopped by _____

(a) Jaja of Opbob (b) Mungo Park (c) Mary Slessor

16.) Kano was famous in the olden days for its _____

(a) groundnuts pyramids (b) cocoa (c) coffee

17.) Crude oil was first discovered in _____ (a) Oloibiri (b) Ijebu Ode (c) Badagry

18.) The major source of government revenue in Nigeria is ____

(a) Cocoa (b) cotton (c) petroleum

19.) ______ means a breakup in marriage (a) courtship (b) engagement (c) divorce

20.) _____ is the movement of people from one country to another country

(a) Abroad (b) migration (c) custom

Part B: Theory

1.) Write out four ways that Nigerians are influenced by foreign culture

(a) ________________________________ (b) ________________________________

2.) Write out four problems in marriage

(a) ________________________________ (b) ________________________________

3.) Write out four causes of religious intolerance

(a) ________________________________ (b) ________________________________

4.) Explain the following on the Nigeria coat of arm

(a) The eagle (b) The two horses

5.) Write out the National Anthem

ISLAND BUILDERS BAPTIST SCHOOL

(NURSERY & PRIMARY)

1A, MOBOLAJI BANK-ANTHONY STREET, LAGOS.

SECOND TERM EXAMINATION 2017

CLASS: PRIMARY 6 SUBJECT: AGRICULTURAL SCIENCE

NAME:……………………………………………………………………………………

Part A: Objective

Pick out the right answers from the given alternatives

1.) Mechanized farming involves the use if farms _____

(a) implements (b) equipments (c) machines

2.) The early men were (a) pilots (b) wanderers (c) civilized

3.) The branch of agricultural science that deals with fish production is known as ____

(a) fishing (b) fishery (c) fishes

4.) The rearing of animals for man's use s known as animal ____

(a) husbandry (b) midwifery (c) cultivation

5.) Cocoa can be used to produce beverage like ____ (a) Nescafe (b) Lipton (c) Milo

6.) _____ can further be processed to produce garri (a) cassava (b) tomatoes (c) potatoes

7.) One of the advantages of agricultural science is that farm product are used as ____ for industries (a) electricity (b) raw materials (c) capital

8.) Hide and skin are the raw materials that are used to produce ____

(a) wear and tear (b) shoes and bus (c) gold and silver

9.) ____ is the uppermost part of the earth that supports plants growth (a) soil (b) ground (c) land

10.) _____ soil is used to build houses and bridges (a) sandy (b) loamy (c) clay

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