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chaotichatsune · 3 years

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Heaven’s Gift

Summary: Though BlackWarGreymon may have awoken in a strange, foreign world comprised of nothing but Digimon, the dragon-man still possesses all of his memories of a world that he no longer has a part of, and now on this new land, he now has a chance to be a true Digimon. No longer was he alone in a world dominated by humans, where he lacked purpose, but learning to live in a world without them seems strange. But he must learn to live with his unprecedented circumstances, and find a reason for living--and perhaps, find something more.

...xX~~~Xx...

Immersed in a place devoid of light. I laid in a world of desolation. I felt muted. There was no touch. No sound. I existed in a world that lacked sensation and physicality. I couldn’t feel anything, my body lacking. I had no form. Anything resembling my previous physique, was absent, as I passively floated in this realm of oblivion.

I soon realized that this reality lacked heat and cold, yet I felt peace. There was no such thing as fear. Just a comfortable place of eternal black. I peered around, and decided to judge my surroundings.

Nothing.

I tried taking in a deep breath, but I felt no air enter my lungs. I was doubtful that I even held the capacity to do so. Wherever I was, in any place of time or space, oxygen wasn’t a necessary part of it. I was certain that I still held consciousness, as I held the capacity to observe my situation. I drifted for what felt was forever, but internally I knew that time did not exist in this pit. If it did, I most certainly didn’t feel it.

I tried to force myself to hear, feel or see anything.

I pushed my consciousness as far as possible, and attempted to connect with anything.

Then I heard a faint voice in the background.

“A BlackWarGreymon?”

What?

I could hear muffled voices, but I couldn’t identify the people behind them.

They sounded panicked.

“Seems so…”

I forced myself to grasp their words, yet everything was still lacking in substance.

“Yeah, he just washed up by the shore!”

A bright light engulfed my vision, drowning out the silence. And suddenly, where there was no sensation, I now felt multiple hands touching me. The prodding pulled me out of my state of unconsciousness, and out of that strange space I remembered waking up in. As soon as I registered that I was alive, I began a fit of hacking and coughing, my lungs demanding for air. Yet, I was on the verge of blinking out once more.

“Bring him to Fuchsia Agate!”

I didn’t want to fall back asleep. A dawning dread took hold of me. I didn’t want to go back to sleep! I wanted to live!

“She’ll know what to do!”

She? Who’s she?

“I don’t want to stay dead!”

I screamed those words in an act of delirium.

“Don’t worry! We’ll bring you to safety!”

I could faintly tell that I was being transferred, just before I blacked out completely.

...xX~~~Xx...

Fuchsia stared at the sky, there was a peculiar feeling in her heart. It was an emotion that confused her, an odd presence seemed to follow her throughout the day, distracting her from her duties. The persistent feeling of urgency that came with the premonitions could not be ignored. The dread that the LordKnightmon experienced gave her a strong impression that whatever was coming was not good. In the back of her mind, it was an omen of bad luck. Though, as strong as these sensations were, she had things to do. The woman decided to return back into her work, taking stock of her surroundings, before she arrived at her station. Here, within her home, the female Digimon would create different medicines. Elixirs, potions, ointments and other assortments of important remedies. The woman procured some of the most potent of cures.

Despite being a knight-based Mega, the female felt more at home in her workshop where she spent days using alchemy to help, not just the denizens of her hometown, but she even imported many of her mixtures to neighboring states. Her ability to create would allow her a place of work, no matter where she went.

Though she came from a long line of potion-makers, with vast secrets of magic that dated far back in her lineage, Fuchsia went above and beyond. Unlike her ancestors, whom rarely shared any of their precious wisdom, the woman was open about sharing her information and knowledge, and even acted as a sage of sorts.

Most of her time, whenever she was not producing medications, she’d be teaching others—children or adults—on the art of brewing, and the art of magic and science. She taught anyone willing to learn on how to treat injuries of any kind. The ancient arts of healing were no longer closely guarded by those that came before her. Fuchsia decided that her talents would not be wasted on secrecy. She had the power. Why hide her abilities, when instead they could be used to heal all of those who require her services? She knew that with her capabilities, she might as well base her legacy on the foundation of what she already knew. Her sole purpose in life was to create a place where everyone could benefit her work.

She picked up her list.

“Ah, yes.” The LordKnightmon mumbled. “I have to make more sleeping potions.”

She picked up a couple of dried herbs, and crushed them into a fine powder using her mortar and pestle. She immersed herself, putting all her attention into her craft, until she heard a scuffle.

Fuchsia placed down her incomplete drink.

“Agate!” screamed a female Flamedramon. “Miss. Agate!”

“Yes?” asked the pink-knight, her voice calm. “What’s the issue?”

“We found a random Greymon at the sea! Can you take a look at him?”

She nodded, and waved a hand towards a spare bed.

The group of men that carried the unconscious Digimon gingerly placed him down, while the Flamedramon watched with great anxiety.

“Flare, don’t worry. This doesn’t look bad at all."

The first thing Fuchsia Agate noticed was the broken armour, where there were multiple cracks surrounding a hole on his chest armor, whatever caused it was strong enough to destroy Chrome Digizoid, yet the wound didn’t look at all fatal. If anything, it was deeply superficial, as it did not affect not the flesh underneath it. As for the armor itself, the damage was beneath minor. There was no data pouring out from that location. Even those greatly lacking in experience, and had no idea what they were doing would know, without a doubt, that the fracture wasn’t an issue and wouldn’t need any treatment.

No data? No danger.

Fuchsia might as well do a full-body examine to see any other anomalies.

And so, she began right away.

She took off the BlackWarGreymon’s Dramon-Killers and checked his pulse.

Normal.

“Miss. Agate?” asked the nervous fire-Digimon. “Is he okay?”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice leveled. “The wound you saw was just a crack in the chest plating. There is no damage whatsoever on that area—or any area for that matter. No need to worry.”

She gave out a big sigh.

“All he needs is rest,” added the LordKnightmon, knowing that Flare needed that affirmation.

“Thank Yggdrasil!” The female Flamedramon rejoiced.

A small, but haggard cough drew their attention towards the black dragon-man.

“I’m…I’m not ready to leave!” the Digimon mumbled, wheezing. “I can’t die!”

Everyone turned to the knocked-out BlackWarGreymon, surprised to hear the man speak at all.

Fuchsia shook her head, already having an answer.

“That’s totally normal. This isn’t the first time a patient said something like that.”

Due to her words, they chose to ignore it.

She did another thorough check, before she began to strip him of his armor.

“Uh,” stammered a Gallantmon. “No offence, Miss. Agate, but shouldn’t it be a man to undress him?” his voice rather timid.

The pink-knight merely chuckled.

“If I were that uncomfortable around men I wouldn’t have this job.”

He frowned, feeling out of place.

“Why?” she asked. “Would you rather have someone else do it?”

Her words had no heat. It was a genuine question. There was no implications of impertinence.

“Yes.”

LordKnightmon stood back, signifying her agreement.

“Once he’s dressed call me. Okay?” she requested, making it clear that it was non-negotiable.

With that said. The LordKnightmon decided to carry on with her previous task, turning back on filling out her orders, continuing what she did best.

Yet, Fuchsia Agate still had feelings of uneasiness.

She chose to ignore the men as they helped the poor BlackWarGreymon into proper clothes.

Once she accomplished her task, she went straight away and asked.

“Will you be staying for dinner?”

It wasn’t an invitation, not really. Though it’d be rude to not ask.

“Nah, my wife’s expecting me.” Answered the same Gallantmon from before.

“Well, like, no offence I do live here so I’ll be staying for dinner.”

“Flare,” she started. “May you help me with preparations? I’ll probably be tending to him, so I would appreciate it if you helped. We’re making your favourite.”

“Lamb stew?” the young Digimon asked, looking downright overjoyed.

“What else would it be?”

“Oh, hell yes!” she beamed, making a beeline into the kitchen.

The men were soon finished dressing the BlackWarGreymon.

“We’re done, Miss. Agate. We will be taking our leave.”

“Before you men go, may one of you be kind enough to give Mrs. Olivia her meds?”

“I’ll do it!” volunteered a young teenaged Digimon. It was a Strikedramon, a Champion-level.

Fuchsia gave him multiple bottles filled with a colourful blue liquid.

“Goodnight, you two!”

With that, the Gallantmon, the WarGreymon, the Cyberdramon and Strikedramon politely waved their goodbyes before leaving the manor.

After their departure, sounds of chopping vegetables were heard from the other room, accompanied by the sounds of humming. After a time, a delicious scent wafted into the room, a tantalizing aroma that made her mouth water. The smell of lamb stew was pleasant. Yet, it was apparent that she was not the only one to admire the smell of home-cooked food. The man, whom was once unconscious woke up with a start.

“Where am I?” he asked, confused, his voice rasp. “And what is that amazing smell?”

Men, she thought, amused. Always thinking about their stomachs. Just like mother said, even the fragrance of enjoyable food could wake up the dead.

“Greetings, stranger. I am Fuchsia Agate, and you are at the Abalone Seas. Do you remember anything?”

He grimaced, his voice grim.

“Yes.”

“Hm,” she nodded, understanding, but was taken aback. She wasn’t expecting him to remember anything. Most people had a case of amnesia when washed up on shore, so learning that he retained memories from his previous life was curious. She was brimming with questions, but believed that this was a conversation for another time. “You can tell us later. Would you care for some food?”

“Uh,” he blushed, embarrassed to ask for help. “That’d be good.”

“Can you walk?” she inquired.

“I don’t know.”

She offered a hand, which he accepted, only for a jolt of electricity to course through them.

The LordKnightmon was stunned, dazed by what just transpired. The BlackWarGreymon stared, his face blank, he lacked the ability to process what had occurred. The both of them then stared at each other, and then it clicked—

“Hey! You guys! Dinner’s ready!”

She almost fell over herself. Fuchsia Agate shook her head, not ready to confront the situation, and chose to pretend that never happened.

“I’ll get you something.”

In an attempt to regain her composure, the woman immediately left, but her mind strayed towards her right hand. I don’t have time to think about this. She mused, doing her best to ignore the heat rushing to her face. I’ll deal with this another time.

She entered into a small, clean kitchen.

Flare was done cooking.

“Here you go!” Flare chimed, giving her a single bowl of warm broth. “This one’s for the BlackWarGreymon—wait! Will he be joining us or something?”

“I’ll give it to him.”

“Cool,” she bowed her head. “I hope he likes it!”

The LordKnightmon grabbed the bowl, gave her thanks, and returned to the BlackWarGreymon, whom had a look on his face, filled with guilt and anger. He saw the female knight, and graciously accepted the soup. He began to eat, but his distant, faraway look concerned her.

“Is it to your liking?”

He only shook his head “yes”, but recognized that he was being discourteous.

“I apologize,” he frowned, his face scrunching up. “I was thinking about my friends.”

“I understand, you must be worried about them.”

He looked down at his meal, his state of distress was explicit. He had no desire to discuss about his past. Fuchsia knew not to pry.

“Would you like a drink? I can make any beverage of your choosing. Tea? Coffee? Maybe even juice?”

“Water’s fine.”

Not much of a talker, is he? She dully noted, accepting this to be his nature.

“Water it is.”

She took the jug that was on the bedside table, picked up a glass and filled it with water.

The BlackWarGreymon drank it all, but took care to not come across as impolite.

“I’m exhausted,” he stated, his voice low.

“I understand,” she answered in turn, and gave him a gentle smile, her healing nature shining through. “You can stay here for the night.”

“Thank you,” was the last thing he said, only for him to doze off.

“Have a pleasant sleep.” The ribboned-warrior said, and flicked off the switch.

Fuchsia decided to end her day by joining Flare for dinner before all the lights went out.

However, the feelings of danger didn’t subside, nor did they leave the LordKnightmon’s mind.

Notes: In this reality, Digimon have sex/genders, so children are a thing. In this universe, anything below Rookie, are babies, and Champion-levels happen to be teenagers, while Mega-levels are considered full-grown adults. I will be using both Japanese and English names, but I will be using English terminology for things like attacks or weapons.

#digimon #lordknightmon #rhodoknightmon #crusadermon #blackwargreymon #digimon adventure #digimon adventure 02

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pearlplusau · 5 years

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Chapter 4, The bright light Part 1

In the midst of the red, dark battlefield, multiple gems lay poofed or shards scattered as far as an eye could see. The war had yet concluded.

With the crystal gems gaining the upper hand, the leader of the rebellion, “Rose Quartz”, in the heat of battle, her shield rose, her sword gripped, her comrades fighting as one. As Pearl fends off an elite soldier all on her own in a distance, her spear shining as she fought with grace and elegance within the cacophony of battle. While Garnet charges and finishes the jaspers, Coral stood alongside Rose, with her lance fencing off surprised attacks from the sides, and whacks a topaz on her head. “Poof!” as yellow smoke dissipated and her gem on the ground.

Rose thought to herself with glee, “We’re almost there! We’ll finally be able to stay here after all this is over!” Victory seems to be closer and closer, but none of them will be leaving without consequences.

On Homeworld,

A red ruby ship approaches the landing site, as it descends, a tattered up Amethyst guard faceplants off the ship, “Ughhhhh!” She moaned, her long, puffy white hair in horrendous state and she was wearing a uniform that signifies her diamond in serving, Pink Diamond.

This Amethyst guard had never been to Homeworld before, but her orders were clear, “ONE OF YOU UPPER CRUST! Find the Diamonds! State the situation and request back up!” In a rush, her elite sisters decided to send 8XWJ, a soldier that’s not in the fighting shape anymore, and threw her into a small ruby ship and launched it manually from the control panel on Earth.

The amethyst regains her strength, and proceeds her mission.

She knew the urgency of this message, but she couldn’t stop from gawking as the scenes in Homeworld get more and more alien than what’s she’s used on Earth. Instead of forests and hills and rocks, it’s buildings, skyscrapers, and fellow new gems!

She’s never seen other types of gems other than herself and jaspers, so seeing so many gems who are clearly in higher positions intimidates her.

“You there!” A blue gem approaches her with the sound of heels “clonk, clonk, clonk” getting louder and angrier.

She begins to panic! She raced through her mind and forgot what to do. What was she supposed to do when greeting a higher level gem? Oh right! The diamond arm thing! She shaped her arms as the big gem stood right in front of her.

“State your purpose!” The blue gem ordered, but 8XWJ has no clue who or forgot what she has to say as she begins to get very nervous and sweats. “I…ahh…uhh…” 8XWJ stammered and fiddled her fingers, the blue gem narrowed her eyes, “Newcomer huh?” She smirked and continued, “How am I not surprised?” Her tone was filled with disgust and prejudice.

“I am Holy Blue Agate! I have been urgently assigned to receive a message from an Amethyst guard from Earth by a fellow Hessonite, now tell me…”

She reached to the back of her head, where her gem placement is, and conjured an electric whip full of static! She flings towards the purple gem, grips her hip, and sends a wave of electricity as 8XWJ screeched in pain and got yanked towards Holy.

“What…is…THE MESSAGE?!” she screams as she grabbed her by the uniform, and shook her as violent as she was allowed.

“ALRIGHT ALRIGHT!” 8XWJ shouted and plead, the whip dissipates and she fell on her knees, which was painful as her gem is located on the left.

She explained the situation on Earth as the soldiers were close to losing the battles, and she was told to inform the diamonds personally by another commander, but was cut short when she heard Holly laughing.

“You? Informing the Diamonds? Ha!” She mocked and continued, “Don’t even try, you won’t even make it to The Great Ballroom without another few centuries in this confusing labyrinth! I’ll deliver the message to the diamonds myself.” With that, she turned and walked back where she came.

The amethyst plead, “Wait! Wait a sec!” With her raspy voice, she requests permission to follow the Agate. The blue gem scoffed and said, “What makes you think I’ll let you?” She looked at AXWJ as if she’s gone corrupted, “An Amethyst guard with an Agate! What will the others say?”

Looks like AXWJ was stuck finding her way back to the ship, she turned and sighed, “Guess I’ll just find another way back then…” she considered tracing her steps when the agate changed her mind, “Fine, you can tatter along, but just so we’re clear, I will be the one speaking to the diamonds! Don’t make a pip while I’m talking!”

Before they proceed to the diamonds, AXWJ made another diamond symbol and request to speak freely, “What was the whip all about? It hurts so MUCH!”

Holy smirked, “That, was just a little fun I needed, and also the tip of the iceberg, step out of line or waste my time again, you’ll be wishing you were never made.” 8XWJ gulped and nodded.

In Blue Diamond’s chamber (pool),

A blue themed chamber, with pillars connected to each other and tubes beneath the pathway up to the pool, where the three massive diamonds are present. The water resembles the color of lime, with the beautiful White Diamond in front of the waterfall, and Blue and Yellow on her left and right. They stayed still and quiet, as they were finally done with their work and tried to relax for a bit, but Yellow had something in mind she wished to share.

It wasn’t long until relaxation was over, Yellow decided to drag work into everything once more, “An idea occurred to me the other day, as you both know, Pink’s colony is still a work in progress after all those centuries given, as not much resources are useful towards our expanding Empire anymore, so I propose…an Alternative.”

White opens her eyes as a sign of interest, and turned to her fellow sister, mouthed “Go on”. Blue however, was not pleased as their time together has been restricting since pink’s absence, she just wished they could all have some quality time together, but sometimes opportunities like this are extremely rare, so she understood why Yellow decided to bring up work into their bonding time.

Blue sighed, “What is it you have in mind Yellow?” As she was interested as well, but would still rather have a nice quiet pool time, so maybe it’ll be over soon.

“Pearl?” Yellow summoned her little servant and continued, “Bring me the blueprints marked EX-293.”

The yellow pearl shaped her arms and bowed, “Right away my Diamond!” and scurries off to the exit.

“A few days ago I was experimenting with the “Fallen” soldiers from battles, I pieced them together and see if it would reform as a fusion, and sure enough, it did, with very little resources, I produced hundreds of little monsters crawling around, in very little time might I add, so I propose…”

She paused as her pearl had retrieved the data she needed, it was a palm-sized green sphere, the poor pearl had to use all her strength to push the sphere into the water. As it finally drifted in the midst of the diamond, a hologram projected above the pool and showed the data of what she experimented.

“From what you see here are the results of the experiment aforementioned, the duration of each fusion depends on its size and quality, each of these has the capability of mass destruction to anyone in their path, so…” The image flickered to a blank state, but with a slight touch on the screen, millions of shards grouped into a massive form, its gem size was bigger than White Diamond herself!

“I call it, the Cluster.” She presumes as the image regained its form. “When it emerges, it will tear apart the Earth, forming as a massive Geo weapon, and with it, conquering the galaxy would be so much easier and effective with it on our side!” Yellow Diamond pictured the cluster on a rampage on their enemy territory, declaring victory and taking over the galaxies.

“But…it will tear apart the Earth?” Blue Diamond was concerned on that particular segment, “Was Pink in on this Yellow?” She hoped to receive comfort with Pinks agreement with the plan.

“This…is the alternative for when she… Fails, Blue.” Yellow was expecting comments from the leader, but she was quiet and tranquil, as if she knew their faith in their youngest diamond would be diminished somehow.

“You…”Blue was in disbelief! Pink losing her first colony just because she couldn’t handle the little “issues” she stated a few decades ago. She had to do something! She wanted to scream, she wanted to shout, she wanted to let her anger loose and end the conversation! But she knows nothing will change Yellow’s mind once she establishes a plan for it, but she still wants to try, for her dear Pink.

The faint lime colored water retreated into the “drain”, as Blue stood up, she spoke, “I…object this proposal, Yellow…”

Back to Holly,

The two gems were almost there, they just need to gain access into The Great Ballroom which was guarded by two topazes and an aquamarine.

“State your facets, cut and purpose.” The small floating gem requested while adjusting her wand/hairband.

“Holly Blue Agate, facet 2D cut-22, and this is…” Holly gestured to Amethyst, who was trying not to stare at the giant golden doorway shimmering, reflecting rays of light into her eyes, which cut her back to reality and stammered.

“Amethyst, facet 5 cut 8XWJ! I was sent here by the orders from the military force, Jasper 3LJ, to deliver important information to the Diamonds!” She stated with her best.

“How lovely! An Amethyst delivering vital information to the Diamonds? Ha! Don’t make me laugh!” She definitely looked like she was somehow offended and shamed. “Unfortunately, the Diamonds are not in the Great Ballroom, if you wish to see them right away, they are currently in My Diamonds pool chamber, please await here for their arrival, they would be free to hear your “vital” information in another few decades or so.”

“Wait what!?” Amethyst 8XWJ slipped a bit but remained calm, “I mean...the war is in progress as we speak! The commander request back up from the diamonds immediately! Can’t you just let us cut or something?”

“Oh, sure you can! I mean, where would we be with all this waiting and order? Just go to the diamond’s chamber pool and see if they’re willing to take the time for you.” The tiny floating gem replies with much sarcasm, but Amethyst took no notice.

“Great! Let’s go Holly!” The amethyst said but abruptly stopped, and gulped…

“Oh let’s go indeed! And it looks like you know exactly what will happen next!” Holly spoke with such cheer and enthusiasm it was scary…

To be continued…

(A/N: Sooo, as you finished reading you will realize I will be heading towards story interpretation of what might have happened from different perspectives. By reading these, you will see how scenes MIGHT lead to the title, the bright light.

Most of you might be thinking, “I'm here for Pink Pearl and HER au! Just because you include her as a small character in this story doesn’t make her your main focus!”

And to that I say,

Yeah you’re right.

But prior to this story, the other story not really focusing on Pink Pearl, “Coral” is Part 2 of Bismuth, which is similar to this chapter, writing mainly the story of how it might have went, cuz honestly, im pretty curious how everything happened from the rebellion to the corruption even to the cluster.

So if theres any questions or confusion, feel free to ask them so you can get the clear picture. I won't reveal my next chapters tho, that would be a surprise for yall.

So this tells me you read the whole thing, which is pretty impressive, Part 2 of this chapter will be coming up in a week or two.

Happy reading and till next time!)

#holly blue agate #stevenuniverse #Rosequartz #Bluediamond #Yellowdiamond #Whitediamond #corruption #owninterpretation

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oscopelabs · 5 years

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3D, Part 2: How 3D Peaked At Its Valley by Vadim Rizov

I didn’t expect to spend Thanksgiving Weekend 2018 watching ten 3D movies: marathon viewing is not my favorite experience in general, and I haven’t spent years longing to see, say, Friday the 13th Part III, in 35mm. But a friend was visiting, from Toronto, to take advantage of this opportunity, an impressive level of dedication that seemed like something to emulate, and it’s not like I had anything better to do, so I tagged along. Said friend, Blake Williams, is an experimental filmmaker and 3D expert, a subject to which he’s devoted years of graduate research and the bulk of his movies (see Prototype if it comes to a city near you!); if I was going to choose the arbitrary age of 32 to finally take 3D seriously, I couldn’t have a better Virgil to explain what I was seeing on a technical level. My thanks to him (for getting me out there) and to the Quad Cinema for being my holiday weekend host; it was probably the best possible use of my time.

The 10-movie slate was an abridged encore presentation of this 19-film program, which I now feel like a dink for missing. What’s interesting in both is the curatorial emphasis on films from 3D’s second, theoretically most disreputable wave—‘80s movies with little to zero critical respect or profile. Noel Murray considered a good chunk of these on this site a few years ago, watching the films flat at home, noting that when viewed this way, “the plane-breaking seems all the more superfluous. (It’s also easy to spot when these moments are about to happen, because the overall image gets murkier and blurrier.)” This presumes that if you can perceive the moments where a 3D film expands its depth of field for a comin’-at-ya moment and mentally reconstruct what that would look like, that’s basically the same experience as actually seeing these effects.

Blake’s argument, which I wrestled with all weekend, is that these movies do indeed often look terrible in 2D, but 3D literally makes them better. As it turns out, this is true surprisingly often. Granted, all concerned have to know what they’re doing, otherwise the results will still be indifferent: it turns out that Friday the 13th Part III sucks no matter how you watch it, and 3D’s not a complete cure-all. This was also demonstrated by my first movie, 1995’s barely released Run For Cover, the kind of grade-Z library filler you’d expect to see sometime around 2 am on a syndicated channel. This is, ostensibly, a thriller, in which a TV news cameraman foils a terrorist plot against NYC. It features a lot of talking, scenes of Bondian villains eating Chinese takeout while plotting and/or torturing our ostensible hero, some running (non-Tom Cruise speed levels), and one The Room-caliber sex scene. Anyone who’s spent too much time mindlessly staring at the least promising option on TV has seen many movies like these. The 3D helps a little: an underdressed TV station set takes on heightened diorama qualities, making it interesting to contemplate as an inadvertent installation—the archetypal TV command room, with the bare minimum necessary signifiers in place and zero detail otherwise—rather than simply a bare-bones set. But often the camera is placed nowhere in particular, and the resulting images are negligible; in the absence of dramatic conviction or technical skill, what’s left is never close enough to camp to come back out the other side as inadvertently worthwhile. I’m glad I saw it for the sheer novelty of cameos from Ed Koch, Al Sharpton and Guardian Angels founder Curtis Sliwa—all doing their usual talking points, but in 3D! But it’s the kind of film that’s more fun to tell people about than actually watch.

But infamous punchlines Jaws 3-D and Amityville 3-D have their virtues when viewed in 3D. The former, especially, seems to be the default punching bag whenever someone wants to make the case that 3D has, and always will be, nothing but a limited gimmick upselling worthless movies. It was poorly reviewed when it came out, but the public dug it enough to make it, domestically, the 15th highest-grossing film of 1983 (between Never Say Never Again and Scarface) and justify Jaws: The Revenge. Of course I was skeptical; why wouldn’t I be? But I was sucked in by the opening credits, in which the familiar handheld-underwater-cam-as-shark POV gave way to a severed arm floating before a green “ocean.” Maybe flat it looks simply ludicrous, but the image has a compellingly Lynchian quality, as if the limb were detached from one of Twin Peaks: The Return’s more disgusting corpses, its artifice heightened and literally foregrounded, the equally artificial background setting it into greater relief.

The film’s prominent SeaWorld product placement is, theoretically, ill-advised, especially in the post-Blackfish era; in practice, it’s extremely productive. The opening stretches have a lot of water-skiing; in deep 3D, the water-skiers serve as lines tracing depth towards and away from the camera over a body of water whose horizon line stretches back infinitely, producing a greater awareness of space. It reminded me of the early days of the short-lived super-widescreen format Cinerama, as described by John Belton in his academic history book Widescreen Cinema (recommended). The very first film in the format, This is Cinerama, was a travelogue whose stops included Cypress Gardens, Florida’s first commercial tourist theme park (the site is now a Legoland), which has very similar images of waterskiiers. Cinerama was, per the publicist copy Belton quotes from the period, about an experience, not a story: “Plot is replaced by audience envelopment […] the medium forces you to concentrate on something bigger than people, for it has a range of vision and sound that no other medium offers.” Cinerama promised to immerse viewers, as literalized in this delightful publicity image; Belton argues that “unlike 3-D and CinemaScope, which stressed the dramatic content of their story material and the radical new means of technology employed in production, Cinerama used a saturation advertising campaign in the newspapers and on radio to promote the ‘excitement aspects’ of the new medium.” There’s a connection here with the earliest days of silent cinema, short snippets (“actualities”) of reality, before it was decided that medium’s primary purpose was to tell a story. It didn’t have to be like that; in those opening stretches, Jaws 3-D’s lackadaisical narrative, which might play inertly on TV, recalls the 1890s, when shots of bodies of water were popular subjects. This is something I learned from a recent presentation by silent film scholar Bryony Dixon, and her reasoning makes sense. The way water moves is inherently hypnotic, and for early audiences assimilating their very first moving images, water imagery was a favorite subject. It’s only with a few years under its belt that film started making its drift towards narrative as default; inadvertently or not, Jaws 3-D is very pure in its initial presentation of water as a spectacular, non-narrative event.

If this seems like a lot of cultural and historical weight to bring to bear upon Jaws 3-D, note that it wasn’t even my favorite of the more-scorned offerings I saw that weekend, merely one that makes it easiest for me to articulate what I found compelling about the 3D immersion experience. I haven’t described the plot of Jaws 3-D at all, which is indeed perfunctory (though it was nice to learn where Deep Blue Sea cribbed a bunch of its production design from). I won’t try to rehabilitate Amityville 3-D at similar length: set aside the moronic ending and Tony Roberts’ leading turn as one of cinema’s most annoyingly waspish, unearnedly whiny divorcees, and what’s left is a surprisingly melancholy movie about the frustrations, and constant necessary repairs, of home ownership. There’s very little music and a surprising amount of silence. The most effective moment is simply Roberts going upstairs to the bathroom, where steam is hissing out for no apparent reason and he has to fix the plumbing. The camera’s planted in the hallway, not moving for any kind of emphasis as the back wall moves closer to Roberts; it doesn’t kill him and nothing comes of it, it’s just another problem to deal with (the walls, as it were, are settling), made more effective by awareness of how a space whose rules and boundaries seemed fixed is being altered, pushing air at you.

Watching a bunch of these in sequence, some clear lessons emerge: if you want to generate compelling depth by default, find an alleyway and block off the other half of the frame with a wall to present two different depths, or force protagonists to crawl through ducts or tubes. This is a good chunk of Silent Madness, a reasonably effective slasher film that, within the confines of its cheap sets and functional plotting, keeps the eye moving. It’s an unlikely candidate for a deep-dive New York Times Magazine article from the time period, which is well worth reading in full. It’s mostly about B-movies and the actresses trying to make their way up through them, though it does have this money quote from director Simon Nuchtern about why, for Bs, it’s not worth paying more for a good lead actress: “If I had 10,000 extra dollars, I’d put it into lights. Not one person is going to say, ‘Go see that movie because Lynn Redgrave is in it.’ But if we don’t have enough lights and that 3-D doesn’t pop right out at you, people are going to say, ‘Don’t see that movie because the 3-D stinks.’” Meanwhile, nobody appears to have been thinking that hard while making Friday the 13th: Part III, which contains precisely one striking image: a pan, street morning, as future teen lambs-to-the-slaughter exit their van and walk over to a friend’s house. A lens flare hits frame left, making what’s behind it briefly impossible to see: this portion of the frame is now sealed off under impermeable 2D, in contrast to the rest of the frame’s now far-more-tangible depth. The remainder of the movie makes it easy to imagine watching it on TV and clocking every obvious, poorly framed and blocked 3D effect, from spears being thrown at the camera to the inevitable yo-yo descending at the lens. (This is my least favorite 3D effect because it’s just too obvious and counterproductively makes me think of the Smothers Brothers.)

Friday the 13th was the biggest slog of the 3D weekend, and the one most clearly emulating 1981’s Comin’ at Ya! I am not going to argue for that movie, either, which is generally credited with kicking off the second 3D craze; it’s a sludgy spaghetti western that delivers exactly as its title promises, using a limited number of effects repeatedly before showing them all again in a cut-together montage at the end, lest you missed one in its first iteration. It’s exhausting and oddly joyless, but was successful enough to generate a follow-up from the same creative team. Star Tony Anthony and director Ferdinando Baldi (both veterans of second-tier spaghetti westerns) re-teamed for 1983’s Treasure of the Four Crowns, the movie which (two screenings in) rewired my brain a little and convinced me I should hang around all weekend. This is not a well-respected film, then or now: judging by IMDb user comments, most people who remember seeing it recall it playing endlessly on HBO in the ‘80s, where it did not impress them unless they were very young (and even then, perhaps not). Janet Maslin admitted to walking out on it in her review; then again, she did the same with Dawn of the Dead, and everyone loves that.

An unabashed Indiana Jones copy, Treasure begins strong with a lengthy opening sequence of tomb raider J.T. Striker (Anthony) dropping into a cave, where he’s promptly confronted not only with a bunch of traps but, for a long stretch, a small menagerie’s worth of owls, dogs, and other wildlife. There are a lot of animals, and why not? They’re fun to look at, and having them trotted out, one after another, is another link back to silent cinema; besides water, babies and animals were also popular subjects. The whole sequence ends with Striker running away from the castle above the cave, artifact retrieved, in slow-motion as Ennio Morricone’s score blares. There is, inevitably and nonsensically, a fireball that consumes the set; it unfolds luxuriously in detailed depth, the camera placed on a grassy knoll that gives us a nice angle to contemplate it looking upwards, a nearly abstract testament to the pleasures of gasoline-fueled imagery. Shortly thereafter, Striker is in some European city to sell his wares, and in every shot the camera is placed for maximum depth: in front of a small city park’s mini-waterfall, views of streets boxed in by sidewalks that narrow towards each other, each position calibrated to create a spectacular travelogue out of what’s a fairly mundane location. There’s an expository sequence where Striker and friends drop into a diner to ask about the whereabouts of another member of the crew they need to round up. Here, with the camera on one side of a bar encircling a center counter, there are something like six layers of cleanly articulated space, starting with a plant’s leaves right in front of the lens on the side, proceeding to the counter, center area, back counter, back tables and walls of the establishment. Again, the location is mundane; seeing it filleted in space so neatly is what makes it special.

The climax finally convinced me I was watching forgotten greatness. This is an elaborate heist sequence in which, of course, the floor cannot be touched, necessitating that the team perform all kinds of rappelling foolishness. At this point I thought, “the only way I could respect this movie more is if it spent 10 minutes watching them get from one side of the room to another in real time.” First, the team has to gear up, which basically means untangling a bunch of ropes—clearly not the most exciting activity. The camera is looking up, placed below a team member as they uncoil and then drop a rope towards the lens. This is a better-framed variant of the comin’-at-ya principle, but what made it exciting to me was the leisurely way it was done: no more whizzing spears, but a moment of procedural mundanity as exciting as any ostensible danger. Basic narrative film grammar is being upended here: if a rope being dropped is just as exciting as a big, fake rip-off boulder chasing our hero down the cave, then all the rules about what constitutes narrative are off—narrative and non-narrative elements have the exact same weight, and even the most mundane, A-to-B connective shot is a spectacular event.

This isn’t how narrative cinema is supposed to work, and certainly not what James Cameron’s conception of good 3D proposed. The movie keeps going, building to a bizarrely grim climax involving a lot of face-melting, scored by Morricone’s oddly beatific score, which seems serenely indifferent to the grotesqueness of the images it’s accompanying. (This is a recurring trait in the composer’s ‘80s work; the score for White Dog often seems to bear no relation to the footage it’s accompanying.) That would make the movie oneiric and weirdly compelling even on a flat TV, but everything preceding convinced me: 3D can be great because it’s 3D, not because it serves a story. I’ve spent the last decade getting more angry about the format than anything, but that was a misunderstanding. Treasure of the Four Crowns is, yes, probably very unexceptional seen flat; seen in all three dimensions, it’s a demonstration of how 3D can turn banal connective tissue and routine coverage into an event. The spectacle of 3D might never have been its potential to make elaborate CG landscapes more immersive, something I still haven’t personally been convinced of; as those 19 non-CG shots in Avatar showed (undermining Cameron’s own argument!), 3D’s renderings of the real, material world and objects have yet to be fully explored. 3D’s ability to link film back to its earliest days is refreshing, in the way that any rediscovery of forgotten parts of film language can be, while also encouraging thought about all the things narrative visual language hasn’t yet explored, as if 3D could take us forwards and backwards simultaneously. In any case, I’m now won over—ten years after Avatar, but better late than never.

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peerbear · 3 years

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Workflow & Creative Camera Techniques: Introduction to Visual Exercuse 2 & Visual Exercise 1 Due - Week 3 (01/10/20)

This week we had our introduction to Visual Exercise 2, in which we we will have to do 2 shots of a character performing an action. One of the shots will be handheld and the other will be filmed on a tripod. The purpose of this will be to understand the pros and cons of using both tripods and handheld equipment.

This week I watched Modern Family, which looks at the lives of the people in a ‘modern family’ of today. Something I find very interesting in this series are the establishing shots that are created to establish the setting in which the family members live in. This shots are used to tell the viewer where they are and in which person’s house they are specifically, in this series this includes just an outside shot of the house, which is often the exact same shot as previously used. What I find interesting is that the act of reusing these shots doesn’t take away from the quality of the episodes or programme itself, but is merely used as a device to create unerstanding for the viewer.

Below are both the parts of my Visual Exercise 1 Submission.

Visual Exercise 1 Part 1: Film Analysis of the Death of Maximus Scene from Gladiator by Peer Theilen

This analysis will look at the scene ‘The Death of Maximus’ from Gladiator, directed by Ridley Scott (2000). Gladiator follows Roman general Maximus’ journey as he is betrayed into slavery by the emperor’s son Commodus. As a gladiator he fights his way to Rome where he avenges his killed family, killing Commodus and saving Rome from tyranny. In this scene Maximus has killed his nemesis and delivers the last wishes of the true emperor before he dies. The focus of the scene is on Maximus as he leaves the world to go to the afterlife. Lucilla Commodus’ sister speaks to Maximus as he dies telling him to go to his family. After his death everyone else who is left with his victory honours him as their hero. The scene’s cinematography encapsules Maximus’ point of view and shows him entering the afterlife. The costume and setting establish time and place, showing the splendour of the wealthy and the struggle of the poor in the times of ancient Rome. The lighting and editing create the atmosphere in the scene, clearly making Maximus the hero and showing the difference between the world that he leaves and the one that he enters. The soundtrack further enhances the ethereal and empowered atmosphere in the scene and highlights a connection between the two worlds. Finally, it is a thought-provoking piece that creates a sense of connection with the protagonist and addresses the injustice that he faces.

Through close up shots, point of view shots and camera movement the cinematography tells the story of how Maximus dies showing him leaving one world and entering another. The cuts between both worlds show the transition of Maximus soul from one space to another, blurring the line of realities, demonstrating Maximus is journey to his family. The scene begins and ends with arial and wide shots which establish the setting of the colosseum and the character relations to their setting, specifically Maximus as the hero. Interestingly the angles from above indicate that those in the ring are inferior which typically fits into the culture of colosseums but as the gladiator depicted is a hero it appears to turn this view on its head, questioning the morality of this culture. In the opening shot the camera captures a movement across an entirely silent audience looking in anticipation creating a focal point that is out of the shot. The shot shifts to an arial shot in which a circle of armed soldiers surround 2 people highlighting them as the centre of attention, and what the audience was looking at. A series of medium shots and close ups encapsule Maximus and the people who he talks to, this highlights the importance of his message and aligns the viewers perspective with that of the main character, making it possible to imagine how he feels as he is dying. The entire scene interludes with tracking point of view shots, the movement of which guide the viewer towards the place where Maximus is going, to his family in the afterlife. This is a recurring shot throughout the film in the form of flashbacks, but this time the colour scheme is different, suggesting he is entering a different realm and accurately conveys his point of view to the viewer as he is the only one who can see that other world. Soon he falls to the ground and a series of close ups show him dying talking to princess Lucilla, these shots demonstrate the intimacy between them as he dies. Once he dies the perspective shifts onto Lucilla who appears to now be in charge. Hereafter the shots move further and further away from the characters, this demonstrates the impact Maximus made on those around him.

Both the costume and the setting establish the time and place. Maximus’ costume is characteristic of a Roman gladiator giving him the social status of someone who is owned but worth more than a common slave but less than someone of the upper or middle class. His hair is sweaty, and his body is blood-soaked and grimy showing his fight to survive without having time to stay clean. Lucilla’s costume conveys her wealth and her beauty, she wears golden drapes and a dress of different patterns and textures and large jewels that further demonstrate her wealth, but these are put together in a complimentary way with her make up being subtle demonstrating her purity. The audience that watches appears clean and well-dressed showing that they would never have to be in the ring below and are there purely for entertainment at others expense. The setting of the colosseum further establishes the time of the Roman empire and is a key feature of the city of Rome, thus establishing setting. The set also indicates exactly what goes on in the arena, people watch as slaves fight to the death, suggesting a power imbalance and a thirst for power in this culture. The set appears realistic and of this world but has clearly been edited as no such building exists in a complete form today.

The lighting and editing create the atmosphere of the two worlds that are shown in the scene. The late sun creates many long shadows in the scene demonstrating that it is the end of the day. Maximus is the only person who is truly in the light of the sun within the colosseum, this makes him appear as the hero. Although not noticeable upon first glance the shadow shapes change position throughout the scene and this must have been overlooked in editing or shooting, but this will have been hard to plan if shot by daylight, it appears this was the case. The colour pallet in the scene consists of blues reds and yellows, mostly red and yellow in the real world and blue in the ethereal one. There is not a trace of green which could be a signification of the loss of life in the scene as green signifies life. In the shots in which Maximus goes to his family there is a distinct blue filter put over the screen, tinting it making it clearly another realm but in my opinion the filter is too harsh and so does not combine as well as it could with the scene as a whole and although the shots are beautiful I think it would work better if the contrast was more subtle but this will have been an intentional artistic decision rather than a mistake like the shadows were. Although in part the colour pallet is dull the shots are bright and eye catching, perhaps indicating the reality of the world which it shows which is bleak but also beautiful.

The soundtrack and language in the scene further create a spiritual atmosphere, further emphasizing the connection between the real world and the spiritual world. The soundtrack is eery appearing to be folk or spiritual music. The language of the music sounds Gaelic but is in fact a language that the singer made up as a child to speak to god, which appears fitting as a god is called upon for faith when someone dies. The soundtrack is called Elysium which is a mythological term for the fields in which people especially soldiers would go to in their afterlife, it was their promised paradise. The moments of silence or struggle for words by Maximus show him fighting for life to deliver a final message as he drifts away. The music’s purpose appears to be to show the transition from life to death, demonstrating the importance of serving your civilization in these times. It further directs the viewer’s attention onto Maximus, shaping him as the fallen hero. The language of the film is spoken English as it is a British-American production, but the language that they would be speaking in is Latin or Italian.

The scene establishes certain reactions and critics certain aspects of the civilisation that it depicts. As a whole the film cues reactions of bewilderment as it is a story of injustice versus justice and ultimately victory. As a standalone the scene cues a sense of loss but also fulfilment. The film encourages these reactions as it shows the injustice that the protagonist faces, making the viewer sympathise with him. And by bringing across his point of view his feelings are brought to the forefront. The film addresses the injustice of slavery and the danger in the lust for power that was found within the Roman empire, thus reflecting on how this is not acceptable. The film appears relatively high budget although the filter for when Maximus is dying seems cheap and the script is not written in a way that people speak, but overall it is a very good production.

In conclusion this essay has critically analysed the scene ‘the Death of Maximus’ from Gladiator. The scene’s cinematography demonstrates Maximus’ perspective. The costume and setting establish time and place, establishing the power struggle and class injustice of ancient Rome. The lighting and editing create the dynamics in the scene, highlighting two different worlds and the focus onto the protagonist. Additionally, the soundtrack improves the ethereal and empowered undercurrents in the scene emphasizing the beauty of life and the hope for an afterlife. Finally, it effectively addresses the struggle of the protagonist and creates empathy for him.

Here Maximus is shown having killed his arch nemesis, the circle of people around him and the shadows in the rest of the frame clearly mark him as the centre of focus. The rose petals or red confetti on the colosseum floor represent the bloodshed and foreshadow the death that is about to happen.

The cool pallet demonstrates a different atmosphere or even realm. And the fields represent Elysium, the fields of paradise from ancient mythology where honourable people go after death.

Here Maximus is shown literally walking towards his family who are barely visible in the distance which shows that they are coming back together again.

Here his wife is shown in a close up, smiles as she sees him knowing they will be together again.

Princess Lucilla looking at Maximus and telling him to go to his family and let go as he has done enough. And is clearly dying. She cries at his loss. Expensive jewels.

Shows Princess Lucilla giving a speech to honour Maximus saviour of Rome.

[1774 Words]

Bibliography

The Death of Maximus Scene: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=12iorWj83P0

The link to where the images are taken from: https://film-grab.com/2017/09/13/gladiator/#

Director and film information:

- https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0172495/

- https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gladiator_%282000_film%29

Soundtrack info: https://www.filmtracks.com/comments/titles/gladiator/index.cgi?read=904&expand=1

Elysium definition: https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/Elysium

Visual Exercise 1 Part 2: Framing

In all 6 of these shots I took a photo of at friend in the same location in different shots and framings, to see how much affect the shot has on the story that it tells. We were going from one place to another, so it was not the ideal location but hopefully they have turned out as planned. Interestingly the colour pallet in my shots mainly consists of green which was the main tone that was missing in my analysis piece.

Wide Shot (Rule of Thirds)

In this shot I positioned the subject at the edge of the first and second thirds. He is still the subject, but the eye is not only drawn to him, with the leading lines of the empty pathways appearing ominous, giving the shot an interesting depth of field. The fact that he is positioned to the side adds to his lonely appearing expression, he seems very alone in this photo with the empty space around him.

Medium Shot (Rule of Thirds)

In this medium shot the subject being on the side with people in the background makes him appear thoughtful, but as he is closer it seems that this is more from his point of view than the previous shot. The headroom give him space to breath or even think and frames him comfortably.

Close Up (Rule of Thirds)

Here the space to the right of the subject gives the frame space to breath allowing for it to evoke another pensive atmosphere. But the cutting off of the top of the head creates an unease and the pursed lip and sidewards glance also indicate sadness.

Wide Shot (Centre Framing)

Here the subject is clearly the centre of attention, with ample space all around him. What might have been a mistake here and in the following shots is that his background is not symmetrical which might be an issue to this type of shot.

Medium Shot (Centre Framing)

Here the subject looks quite happy as he looks directly into the camera half smiling, as he is central he immediately pulls the attention of the viewer and is the unquestionable focal point of the shot.

Close Up (Centre Framing)

Here the subject is pictured laughing and the fact that he is pictured so close brings out his emotions even more. He is clearly happy. The space around him is blurry and out of focus, further highlighting him as the key part in the shot.

#Workflow&CreativeCameraTechniques

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fairladymarian · 7 years

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Love Goes On and On || Graduation

May knew she should be feeling excited. After all, it was graduation day. It was the day to signal that she had made it through the education system, passed her NEWTs, and was ready to participate in the world as a fully functioning adult. It was a day that marked the end of childhood and the start of something new. It was what she had been working towards for the past seven years.

The thing was, none of those signifiers were really true for May. She had stopped being treated as a child when her mother died, and the last semblances of it vanished when her father disappeared and her uncle forced her into an adult’s responsibilities. She was already the head of a major corporation, and she had been actively working as such throughout the entire year. In the eyes of the law, she was the Head of the Marian household with all of its connected responsibilities, and now she was her own father’s legal guardian while he was still incapacitated by the curse on his mind. There was no real new start for her, just more of the same.

Instead of feeling excited, all she could feel was relief. Graduation day meant that she didn’t have to straddle two worlds at the same time. She no longer had to be both student and business woman, child and adult, guardian and the guarded. Graduation day meant that it was over.

But even the relief was bittersweet. As Elsa approached the stage, ready to perform her magical feat that would showcase what she had learned, May couldn’t help glancing at the chair next to her. The chair holding Kida Nedakh, a perfectly lovely girl who May wasn’t close to, but enjoyed the company of all the same. The chair that should have been holding her best friend – Thaddeus McAllister.

Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised her that he wasn’t graduating. With how much school he had missed, was it any wonder that his grades had slipped entirely beyond saving? Of course, she didn’t blame him for running away either, and Dash had told her enough of what was going on to keep her from worrying too much. But it still hurt more than she could say to know that a day which should have been theirs wasn’t. He wasn’t there to grin at her snarkily, to make shrewd and funny comments about the people in the crowd while she shushed him, to hold her hand and give her that boost of encouragement she could never admit that she needed right before a challenge like this. Instead, she sat next to Kida and Francois, fingers twined tightly together, feeling worried and alone.

Which was ridiculous. It wasn’t the end of the world. After the ceremony, she would go back to the dorm and find him. He would only be a year behind, and then he would graduate anyway. It meant she could keep track of him for at least one more year while she settled into the balance of what it meant to be an adult. More than that, it meant she could keep an eye on Dash as well, as the two of them were never apart for long. So really, it meant her two best friends would be close by all through next year at least instead of all of them drifting to different parts of the world. She should find that comforting.

Or maybe she was just trying to put a good spin on a bad situation. She didn’t know anymore.

That was the way things felt with her father at the moment. He was home, but he wasn’t. His body was there, but his mind was still hidden behind layers and layers of a spell that somehow still hadn’t budged. She was able to look into his eyes, speak to him, hold his hand. Something she’d wanted to do more than anything else in the world over these last two years. But the eyes held no recognition, her words elicited the barest of responses, and the fingers were lax in hers. It was everything and not enough simultaneously, and it was breaking her heart.

Of course she put a brave face on for the other servants. It was important that he was home. The fact that he was alive meant there was hope of breaking the spell. All they had to do was be patient, and work hard to give him the time to heal. She was confident that everything would turn out fine. She needed their support now more than ever, but she wouldn’t give up so neither could they.

But in her heart, she couldn’t help wondering if this was all a pathetic lie. Did she really believe it was possible? Or was that just what she needed to tell herself in order to face going back home? Could she really handle living with the shell of the man her father had been?

Up on stage, Perri Ellis was called to perform her spell. Perri was one of the few Gryffindors with a name earlier in the alphabet than hers, and it drew her mind back up to her room. There, her suitcases waited, mostly packed except for the few things she would need tonight and tomorrow. But inside, there was almost the source of her newest emotional turmoil.

Back in her dorm, a letter was hidden under a stack of other correspondence, although she couldn’t explain exactly why she’d done that. After all, it was a short letter like so many of the others she had received recently. There wasn’t even anything identifying the sender. Nothing except her own knowledge of the writer’s hand.

Congratulations on winning that case. You earned it. Hope your Father is well.

That was it. Just three sentences, one line, hardly anything at all. Certainly nothing personal or damning in any sort of way. But May had recognized Danny’s handwriting immediately, and she’d felt her heart turning over in her chest. This was the first time he’d written her in the entire time they’d known each other. The first time he’d reached out voluntarily in the last year. More than that, he’d given her the highest compliment he could possibly give her. He’d said she earned it. Earned the win, earned her estate, earned her right to the advantages of the Marian name instead of being merely born into them. She’d earned the win. And he meant it.

Perhaps…perhaps there was hope after all? Not for them to go back to what they were. Too much had happened, there was too much hurt and blame on both sides to naively turn back the clock. But perhaps it was possible for them to move forward and be something new. Someday, maybe, they could be friends. Wasn’t this that first step she’d been hoping for all along?

She didn’t know. Everything seemed possible, and yet, it seemed like such a terrible risk to take. She had loved him once, with all her heart. Even when everyone had told her it was a bad idea, when he himself had said that her love was a mistake, she hadn’t been able to stop herself. Was it possible for a love like that to fade? If it didn’t, how could she face him?

How was it possible that she had so much love inside her to give, and yet so often, she was the outsider falling in love alone?

May had been staring blindly forward at the stage through the entire ceremony. Vaguely she was aware of each impressive feat of magic, and a part of her brain was cataloguing what happened so she could reference it to the appropriate person later and not sound like the distracted mess she currently felt like. But most of her attention was held captive by her swirling thoughts.

Finally, she heard her own name calling her to the stage. Standing gracefully, she approached the center, calling to mind the spell she hoped to perform as her final act as a student.

But in the moment she stepped forward, she was somewhere else.

She was still standing. But that was the only thing that was the same. Before her eyes, the crowd of people had all become animals of various kinds – from rabbits to crocodiles to bears to chickens. A large section of the green had been cleared and multiple targets had been set up. As if there was about to be some sort of archery contest. But could animals shoot? And why was this a question she was asking herself? Had all the stress finally driven her mad?

Beside her, a large chicken dressed in a pale blue overdress and a simple matching wimple shooed her forward. “Come on m’lady. You know the Prince hates to be kept waiting, and what with your kiss being the prize for this archery contest, he’s bound to want you on display as soon as possible.”

Prince? Prize? Kiss? What strange fantasy had she stumbled into that all of this could be said as if it was something completely reasonable?

Still, the chicken who spoke reminded her of Lorna. Maybe it was the clear Scottish burr, maybe it was that mix of comfortable friendliness and absolute deference, but whatever it was, May found herself trusting her instinctively. Maybe she had gone mad, or maybe there was some sort of strange magic that she’d been swept up in. No matter what, she wanted to be sure that Lorna-chicken was by her side.

They approached a dais where a dissolute lion lounged in a throne much too big for him. Or at least, May assumed he was a lion. He looked like the kind of lion that was usually driven out of every pack for being too weak to compete for resources with any of the stronger braver lions. After all, he didn’t have the full mane she always associated with them. If he was the prince, she wasn’t particularly impressed. And why was he sitting in the throne if he was only the prince? Where was the king?

Mind working overtime, she approached him and sank into a curtsey, ducking her head at the same time. Which was almost the first time she’d looked down. Good lord, she was some kind of animal as well. Her comfortable robes had been replaced by a pink underdress with a lavender overdress that tied around the waist. Her sleeves only came halfway down her forearms, revealing the red fur that covered her hands. Did they still count as hands? Were they paws? Potentially not something she wanted to think about in the moment. She could just see the edge of her black nose on the tip of her, well, snout as she looked back up. The pale pink wimple fluttered lightly in the wind, and she was suddenly aware of the way her ears brushed the tips of the caul she was wearing on her head.

Could today get any weirder?

May looked up from her curtsey and found herself staring into the eyes of the prince. Eyes that were familiar enough to send chills down her spine. When she looked into the face of that lion, she saw her Uncle John staring back at her. He grinned smugly at her as he gestured to the small wooden seat next to him. Luckily, there were two of them so Lorna-chicken was able to follow her up onto the dais and settle in beside her. Trapped in the strange familiarity of this place, with her almost uncle on one side giving her the same look she’d seen after her ‘engagement’, she wanted the comfortable feeling of Lorna to steady her more than ever.

As they sat down, a parade of archers began to walk in front of them. They were made up of all kinds, a dog, a pig, a goat, a boar. The one that caught her attention though was the wolf. He wore the badge of sheriff, showing that he had some degree of power here. But that hardly mattered to her. What mattered more was the way he turned and looked at her. Looked at her and grinned. The only thing more obvious would have been if he’d straight up licked his lips at the sight of her. Once again, she found herself reminded of a person from her own life – this time the horrible Jasper, her ex-fiancé. The man who had only wanted her for sex and nothing else.

May quickly looked away, hoping that someone else, anyone else, would win the prize of her ‘kiss’. But a moment later, May felt a sharp jab in her side from Lorna. When she looked up, there was a stork standing there.

“Ah, Your Ladyship. Beggin' your pardon, but it's a great honor... to be shootin' for the favor of a lovely lady like yourself. I hopes I win the kiss.” As he spoke, he handed her a small daisy he had been carrying in his coat. His voice was cheerful, if a little raspy, and she almost dismissed him as a harmless well wisher. But then, he winked. And she was drawn to his eyes.

“Oh!” They were Danny’s eyes. But Danny’s eyes as she hadn’t seen them since before she’d told him the truth. They were full of love and a sort of hopeful longing. As if he was certain of his feelings, but uncertain of hers, and couldn’t help himself from making some sort of dramatic move to try and understand.

Of course, it wasn’t really Danny. And she wasn’t really the ladyship he was in love with. But that small logical voice faded in the overwhelmingly emotional response of seeing that look in the eyes of the man she loved. And who knew? Maybe the woman who normally lived inside this story did love him back. In that case, wasn’t it practically her duty to make sure this love story had a happy ending?

She giggled, raising the daisy to brush against her cheek. It wasn’t hard to see the way he followed it, both the hope and the wistfulness growing stronger in his eyes as she did so. “Well, thank you, my thin-legged archer. I wish you luck,” she paused and leaned forward, whispering into his ear so only he could hear, “with all my heart.”

May could hear the way her heart thundered in her chest at the overflowing wave of love that poured out of him at that statement. He didn’t say anything else, merely bowed and moved to join the others. But Lorna-chicken nudged her again. “I told you that young rogue of yours would let you know,” she whispered cheekily.

Young rogue of hers. Of hers. So May had been right, whoever’s story she was in, she was in love with the stork. The stork who was most likely not a stork if he had just ‘let her know’ that he was there. Which also meant he wasn’t supposed to be there. Mixed in with the innocent love were the first threads of fear. She wouldn’t have come into this experience at the exact point she was going to lose him was she?

Before she could worry too much, a crocodile approached, carrying a golden arrow on a small purple pillow. His request for the tournament to begin was granted by John-lion grandly (in a way that made him come across as a ridiculous play actor if she was honest, there was no innate nobility to it). And it began.

A group of elephants sounded the trumpet call that began the event, and all the archers lined up and began firing their arrows. May tried to pretend that she was watching them all equally, but she found her eyes drawn again and again to the stork. He was standing right night to the wolf sheriff, which meant she was watching when the sheriff shot. Her stomach clenched as she saw that he had landed inside the ring closest to the center. He was the closest shot by far.

But then, with a careless ease, the stork pulled out what looked like a homemade arrow, strung the bow, and shot it. May had no idea how he could aim so quickly, and she felt her heart sinking. Clearly, he was going to lose, and she would have to kiss the wolf. No matter what she wanted. But before that thought could finish crossing her mind, the homemade arrow struck dead center.

As quickly as her heart began to sink, it rose up again, and she started clapping in pure elation. Apparently the carelessness hadn’t been just a show. He really was that good. She was certain her rogue would win.

Next to her, she caught a glimpse of the prince sitting up straight and beginning to stroke his whiskers. “A perfect bull's-eye. - Well, well.” He sounded both suspicious and smug, and May found herself beginning to eye him once more. Was he really that pleased at the success of the strange stork? Over his own man? What else was going on?

The bear on his either side dressed in a ridiculous purple suit that was far too tight chuckled and leaned on the arm of the throne before saying, “Yeah. That's what you call pullin' it back and lettin' it go, P.J.”

There was something familiar about him as well, but she couldn’t place how. It was like some combination of Bill’s manner with Tino’s relaxed self confidence. But if he was sitting on the left hand side of the prince, that meant he had to be someone important. Didn’t it? For some reason, the feeling that he was like the members of the Underground crew pulling a con wouldn’t leave her. Either way, she didn’t plan to get involved, and so she let it go. His monocle looked stupid anyway.

In front of her, it looked like her rogue and the sheriff were talking while the sheriff was setting up his next shot. They were too far away for her to hear what they were saying, but she found herself smiling anyway. The stork was so lively and dramatic, leaning forward and kicking out his leg, before stumbling backwards in a parody of surprise. He slapped the wolf’s shoulder companionably, before pulling an arrow out of his quiver and shooting, all in the same smooth motion. This arrow was buried directly next to the first one, so close that it was hard to believe they occupied the same general space. The crowd started to cheer wildly, and Marian had to actively remind herself she couldn’t cheer with them. The wolf stared in shock at the skill.

Next to her, the prince called out a sarcastic ‘Bravo’ in response to the bear’s question. The feeling that this was a trap for someone began to grow, and May found herself twisting her fingers together in her lap. Couldn’t anyone else feel it? Didn’t they know?

After a few more shots, the crocodile captain approached the targets and plucked the arrows out. “Attention, everyone. The final contestants are - the Honorable Sheriff of Nottingham,” the entire crowd began to boo as his name was called out and he looked disgruntled. Clearly, May wasn’t the only one to dislike him. But the name she was waiting for followed close on its heels, “and the spindle-legged stork from Devonshire.”

The stork bowed easily, waving at the crowd before turning to wave at May. She was so relieved see him in the final two that she waved back enthusiastically, not particularly caring how it looked.

Of course, that couldn’t last long. Immediately, the prince turned to her and leered at her. “My dear, I suspect you favor the gangly youth, hmm?”

May stumbled slightly, not sure what information he was fishing for. But she had made her preference too clearly known to back out of it now. Thinking quickly, she replied, “Uh, why, yes, sire. Well, at least he amuses me.” She placed her hand at her mouth, giggling and trying to make herself seem a little air headed and easily pleased.

A moment later, the prince let out a dark chuckle. “Coincidently, my dear young lady, he amuses me too.”

Before she could respond, the captain called out for the target to be moved back 30 paces. May caught sight of the Sheriff approaching a vulture and seeming to give him instructions before the vulture jumped inside the target and raced back with it. As the Sheriff fired his own arrow, May could tell that he had shot it much too high trying to compensate for the distance. It looked like he was going to miss entirely!

But at the last moment, the vulture inside the target jumped into the arrow, and the arrow stuck in the center of the bullseye. May glared at the field, her hands curling into fists as she shook. How dare he? That was cheating! Did he think just because he was the sheriff he was above the laws of competition? Even from the distance, May could see the way he chuckled and patted his stomach. As if he was actually pleased with himself. As if he thought he genuinely deserved anything that came from winning. If it was at all possible for May to object to handing out her portion of the prize on the grounds that she had clearly witnessed cheating, she was going to. But the young stork still had to shoot first.

As he prepared to shoot again, the sheriff slipped his bow between the legs of the stork and tapped it forcefully. The stork’s arrow was shot high into the air, and May found herself folding her hands in prayer, wishing for a miracle. Any kind.

But the stork wouldn’t let himself be defeated that easily. Moving quickly, he pulled a second arrow out of his quiver and shot it up into the air so it knocked against the first one. The first arrow spun wildly for a moment before re-angling downward, directly at the waiting target. Where he split the sheriff’s arrow in twain.

The entire crowd erupted in cheers as the shattered pieces of the sheriff’s arrow collapsed to the ground. Filled with a sort of giddy glee, May reached over and pulled Lorna-chicken into a fierce hug, unable to stop herself from bouncing up and down. He’d won! Even with the sheriff trying to cheat him out of his rightful prize, he had still managed to win! Maybe it was a miracle, but it was one he’d earned all on his own.

She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him as she clutched the delicate little flower he’d given her. Vaguely she was aware of the group of soldiers marching behind him as he approached. But maybe that was the normal sort of escort. After all, they couldn’t take his win away from him. Not in front of the whole crowd.

The prince handed her the little purple pillow with the golden arrow on it so she could present it along with the kiss to the winner. Her winner. Her rogue. It was hard to listen to the pompous prince speak when she found herself waiting so impatiently, but the only real clue to that was in her eyes. She couldn’t tear them away from the stork as he approached, but he didn’t seem able to either. Watching each other, love so strong it felt like some intangible vibrating steel cord, she waited impatiently for the prince to finish speaking so she could kiss him. Danny. Her rogue.

“Archer, I commend you, and because of... your superior skill, you shall get what is coming to you.” There was a strange pause after that before the prince continued, “Our royal congratulations.”

For the first time, the stork pulled his eyes away and refocused on the royal. Immediately, he grabbed hold of the prince’s hand and began to shake it vigorously, until his whole arm and then his entire torso was shaking to a certain extent. May had to bite her lip to stop herself from giggling at the undignified sight. A rogue he certainly was. “Oh, thank you kindly, Your Highness. Meetin' you face-to-face, Your High and Mighty, is a real treat.”

With a look of disgust, the prince forced the stork’s hands off, saying, “Release the royal fingers.” Taking a moment to readjust his crown, he grabbed hold of the sword. He pasted his false smile back on as he tapped the archer’s shoulders with the flat of the blade. “And now I name you the winner.” He paused once more, his grin working its way to a full smirk as he slid the sword down the opening in the archer’s coat. “Or, more appropriately, the loser!” With that, he sliced through the fabric.

In place of the charming stork was a handsome fox. He wore a green jerkin and a yellow cap with a jaunty red feather on it that didn’t match the sudden flash of fear on his face. His perch upon the stilts that had given him so much height was suddenly precarious as everyone gasped at the sudden shocking reveal.

The prince’s “Seize him,” was slow and smug, as if he had all the time in the world to arrest this man. The six massive guards immediately jumped him, hiding him from view. Periodically, May could see one of his arms flail out as he tried to punch his attackers, but it was no use. There were too many of him, they were too tall, and he was just one.

In the end, he was left standing there, bound solidly in ropes from his neck to his waist, leaving his hands ticking out straight to either side. Somehow they had gotten an iron collar around him, and there were more roped tied to that as the guards stood pointing their spears firmly in his direction. He should have looked afraid. He should have looked terrified out of his mind. But all May could see in his face was a bone deep fury.

But that didn’t stop her uncle – or rather, the prince – from containing his terrible glee at what he said next. “I sentence you to sudden, instant and even immediate death!”

Marian had been right. It was a trap. A trap to catch this talented brilliant man who stared at her with Danny’s love in his eyes. Was that why the prize was a kiss from her? Because they knew of his feelings and wanted to draw him out? Was he about to die, and it was all her fault?

Maybe it was the strangeness of the last half hour of her life. Maybe it was a reaction to the weight she had been carrying for so long. But her emotions, normally so controlled, came spilling out and she felt the first tear slip down her furred cheek. “Oh, no! Oh! Please. Please, sire. I beg of you to spare his life. Please have mercy.” She knelt on the ground in front of him, hoping in some sort of desperate way that for once, love would be enough to save someone. Let her save this man. Please. More tears followed the first until she pressed her hands to her mouth to try and control the sobs.

The prince pulled his hand away in disgust at the contact before chuckling in pure amusement. “My dear emotional lady, why should I?”

May looked into the eyes of the bound fox, and that made it so easy to say what came next. “Because I love him Your Highness.”

“Love him?” She heard the shock in his town, but she couldn’t care enough to tell if it sounded the slightest bit genuine. “And does this prisoner return your love?”

May could feel her heart pounding as she stared into Danny’s – the fox’s – eyes. Was she wrong? Abruptly she felt unsure. Maybe it had been a mistake, confessing the way she’d felt in front of such an overwhelmingly large audience. It was obvious these two hadn’t spoken in some time, and that he was in some kind of trouble. Maybe she’d misread the signals, hoping for something that wasn’t there, just because she needed it to be. It felt like the moment stretched out for eternity as she waited for him to respond.

But he looked directly into her eyes as he said, “Marian, my darling, I love you more than life itself.”

May felt herself beginning to smile as her heart pounded harder. Although for an entirely different reason. He loved her. No one could pretend that sort of love, not under pressure, not with that calm certainty that came from an acceptance of something so much bigger than you. He loved her! He loved her and it was the one thing she’d wanted most to ever hear him say. For a moment, the rest of the world faded away and she lost herself entirely in the warm love in his eyes.

But that couldn’t last. The voice of the prince broke into her thoughts, and she tore her eyes away.

“Ah, young love. Your pleas have not fallen upon a heart of stone.” He paused, and May stared up at him. Was that all it would take? Would he be freed? Were they safe after all? “But traitors to the Crown must die!”

“Traitor to the Crown? That crown belongs to King Richard. - Long live King Richard!” The fox’s voice rang out with righteous anger, and a moment later, the entire crowd had taken up the call.

Immediately, the prince jumped up on the throne, screaming and stamping his feet. He reminded her of her uncle in the middle of one of his temper tantrums. Except her uncle had never wielded this much power, and she found herself staring at him in utter dread. “Enough! I am king! King! King! Ah! Off with his head!”

As soon as he spoke, one of his guards began the slow drumbeat. May had never heard it in person before, but that didn’t stop it from being immediately recognizable. It was the drumbeat of death.

A huge rhino with a black hood over his head started to approach steadily, carrying an axe. May stared at him, and found herself becoming cold and numb. It hadn’t worked. She couldn’t save him. Whether or not this was truly her Danny, the emotions had become so mixed together that she couldn’t’ help reacting as if he was. And no matter what, this fox loved whoever she was supposed to be. Loved her with the kind of deep and abiding love that had to be returned, because how could it not be? But it didn’t matter. Love wasn’t enough. He was going to die in front of her eyes, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Curling into the comforting presence at her side, she shook her head and buried her eyes, hardly aware of the sobbing protestations on her lips. She wasn’t at home. She had no wand to stun, no broom to fly away on, not so much as a weapon to try and defend them with. The one thing she’d had was her voice and her own emotions. Was she surprised that she had failed?

But suddenly, the prince’s voice rang out again. This time, it sounded shaky and awkward, but May didn’t are. The words were so much more important. “Stop! Executioner, stop! Hold your axe! Sheriff, release my buddy -- I mean, release the prisoner!”

The Sheriff stared at him in disbelief. “Untie the prisoner?”

Somehow, Lorna had ended up on top of some raised part of the dais, putting her higher up than anyone else on the entire field. “You heard what he said, bushel britches.”

Later, May would be amused at the statement and how much it sounded exactly like her friend back home. But right now she found herself staring at the prince, hoping against all hope that he wouldn’t change his mind again and her lover would be freed.

“Sheriff, I make the rules, and since I am the head man-- Let him go, for heaven's sakes! Let him go!”

May found herself staring between Danny and the prince. But apparently it wasn’t a trick. The guards stepped back and the ropes were loosened. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Yay Robin Hood!” while Lorna shouted behind her about love conquering all. But none of that mattered to her anymore. May raced out onto the field, reaching forward to take his hands. He was safe. It would be all right. He was safe.

Gently, Robin held her hands, “I owe my life to you, my darling.”

But that was much too far away. She needed more than that. Stepping into him, she wrapped him tightly in her arms and sighed as she felt his come around her in return. “I couldn't have lived without you, Robin.”

For a moment, everything was perfect. And then that moment ended.

Suddenly, the prince’s voice rang out behind her, “Kill him! Don't stand there! Kill him!”

May clutched Robin Hood, as if by standing there she could save him one more time as the guards began to rush at them both. For a moment he held her, before he pushed her behind him, standing between any sort of danger and her. Just then, the bear raced around the corner and tossed Robin a sword. She’d been right on him being part of the con apparently. Robin immediately began to fend off the guards’ with fencing almost as skilled as his archery. For a moment, she could feel a flash of pride through her overwhelming fear for him. But that didn’t change the fact that she was essentially defenseless and alone.

Behind her, May caught sight of Prince John raising the sword he had used to expose Robin earlier. Calling out a desperate warning, she stared around at the empty dais, trying to find something she could use to stop him. But before she could, Robin spun around and skillfully disarmed the prince, grinning menacingly at his weaponless adversary.

He immediately panicked. “Don't hurt me! No, no! Don't hurt me! Help! Help! Kill him!” Racing off the back of the dais, he was quickly out of sight and Robin turned back to the attacking guards.

Somewhere in there, Lorna had picked up the golden arrow that was supposed to be Robin’s prize. “Run for it, lassie! This is no place for a lady!”

May didn’t wait any longer than that. Without a weapon, she was a liability in this fight to anyone who cared about her. All she could do was get out of it as quickly as possible. Picking up her skirts, she began to run for the edge of the forest she could see. She didn’t know why, but something in her told her that was the safest place to be.

But she’d barely made it more than a few steps before a group of weasely looking guards started chasing after her with spears. Lorna was busy battling the wolf and she couldn’t see any sign of the bear that was apparently on her side. Which left only one person she knew she could call on. “Help! Robin, help!”

Out of nowhere, May felt an arm catch hold round her waist and then she was swinging through the air up to the top of one of the tents that had been set up for the day. Smiling with relief, she looked over into the grinning face of Robin who held her shockingly easily as they landed. The display of strength had her stomach fluttering, and she had to remind herself that they were currently running for their lives.

He took hold of her hand. “Marian, my love, will you marry me?” He casually cut the head off a spear and kicked over another one as he stared into her eyes.

Whether or not this was fantasy or reality anymore, May didn’t care. “Oh, darling, I thought you'd never ask me.” A moment later, the tent ripped under them and they tumbled into the oversized wooden throne. “But you could have chosen a more romantic setting,” she couldn’t help teasing.

“And for our honeymoon, London.”

“Yes!” “Normandy! Sunny Spain!”

“Yes! Why not?”

As he spoke, he shoved the throne onto the group that had been chasing them with the same careless ease he had fired the arrows earlier. He was a complete show off, and somehow that only made him more appealing. He escorted her down the steps as if they didn’t have a care in the world, and then they were off running again, this time, hand in hand.

They had made it almost halfway across the field when the crocodile captain caught up to them by the pie stand. Robin turned and began to fence back with him. May looked around for something useful, but the only thing were the pies. And with how quickly they were moving, there was no way for her to aim and hit the captain without potentially hitting Robin as well. A pie was a little bit more awkward than a quaffle after all, and a swordfight was a lot higher stakes than a game.

Over his shoulder, he tossed out, “We'll have six children.”

For a heartbeat, May was baffled that this was where his mind went. But if planning for a future she might not ever see got him through this fight, she would do whatever it took. “Six? Oh, a dozen at least.”

Just then, one of the cultures who had been hiding popped up and shot his crossbow at Robin. He ducked down just in time, so the arrow slammed straight into the shield of the captain before ricocheting back at its owner. This time, May was able to pick up one of the pies and aim directly for the vulture’s face. “Take that!”

Robin seized the moment of distraction from the captain to grab May’s hand, and they began racing towards the forest again, every second getting them closer to safety.

All she could think as they ran was that she was loved. She was loved, and more than that, her love had been able to save the one person she wanted most to save. It hadn’t mattered that she’d had nothing to offer but her heart and her voice, in this one moment, it had been enough. Admitting to the love had been a risk. Acting on it was a bigger one. But as they raced into the edge of the forest, she –

stepped onto the stage in front of the waiting audience and her classmates. As she looked out over the crowd, she caught sight of the people waiting there. Despite the ache in her heart, she smiled.

They had all come. Bunter, Lorna, Mrs. McKendrick, Blake, Stacy, Nora, Iris, and Jessica. The only one missing was her father’s valet Leon, and he must be home taking care of her father. Even her assistant from Firebolt Ella and her receptionist Gina had come.

Maybe they weren’t family in a traditional sense. Technically all of them were her employees in some way or another. But she had loved them enough to fight for them. To sacrifice for them. And because of that, they were here when she’d had no one else who could be.

May didn’t know why she felt like crying, where the tear came from, but it slowly began to trickle down her cheek.

She’d had an idea for what spell she was going to do. But now she knew that wasn’t right. This was.

Touching her wand to the tear, she collected it, and with a flick of her wrist, sent it spinning outward. As she did so, it multiplied steadily until there were dozens of drops, hundreds. She had no idea how many, but it didn’t matter. It would be enough.

With another flick of her wrist, all of the slowly falling droplets were turned into pink rose petals, swirling through the air. She heard a gasp from someone in the audience, but she only smiled. She wasn’t finished yet.

Closing her eyes, she took a dep breath. With precision, she imagined exactly what she wanted to have happen. She’d never done something like this before, but did it matter? She could see it so clearly in her mind’s eye, she somehow knew it would come out the way she wanted it to. With a slow graceful movement of her wand, she started to direct each petal into the place she wanted it. In front of her, facing the audience, the petals slowly formed the words she had envisioned in her mind. They were backwards to her, but that didn’t matter in the slightest. She knew exactly what they said.

If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me.

It was a line from one of her favorite poems by W.H. Auden, and for some reason it had always spoken to her. She couldn’t say why, but now, it felt more appropriate than ever.

May let the words hover in the air for a moment, giving everyone a chance to read them. Then, with a final flick of her wand, the petals shot out towards the audience.

With as careless as a move as that seemed, they should have all fallen straight down on the edge of the stage, finishing the trick in a forgettable manner. Instead, one petal flew down to land in the lap of everyone there. Every student, every teacher, every family member who had come to support their loved ones. All of them received a petal. A petal that had been formed from a part of the tear May shed in love.

Only three petals remained near her, and as she put out her hand, she was able to catch hold of them. Slowly, she smiled. There were only three people she loved who hadn’t been able to attend the ceremony today. Apparently her spell had known that. Her father and Leon she would see tomorrow when she arrived back home. But the last one, well. She would see him tonight.

After all, did it really matter if what she felt was only on her side? She had no idea what the future would bring and what changes would come with it. She couldn’t predict how anyone would feel about her as time went on. All she could control was her own feelings, and her own responses to it. After all, didn’t she still love her parents, despite death and disappearances tearing them apart? Life was brief. But when it was gone, love would go on and on.

With a smile and a graceful wave, May descended the steps and headed back towards her seat. She didn’t acknowledge the applause, or the excited muttering as people examined the delicate little petals that had fallen so precisely. She had done enough.

It was enough.

#self #fhwcgrad #ok fair warning this is long as fuck #but i had fun writing it anyway

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tristanlovesthequeen · 3 years

Text

Something Smart

Tristan Arcelona

Claire Daigle

Minding the Canon HTCA-502-01

11/30/16

Artist as Purveyor of the Contemporary Landscape

The first time I saw a representation of Salvador Dali's “The Persistence of Memory” was in a cartoon on Nickelodeon called “Tiny Toons.” I forget the exact scene but somehow this image stayed with me and has pervaded popular culture since its inception. Dali first came up with the idea during a after a dinner party with his wife, Gala and some artist friends. After dinner the group decided to go to the cinema and Dali decided to hang back. He sat at the head of the table observing a loaf of Camembert cheese and pondering the super soft texture of it. He sat down and began to work at the painting. It was almost complete upon the return of his wife. Upon seeing it she proclaimed that it was a sight impossible to be unseen.

The simplicity of the initial concept of soft cheese was then taken to the next step through Dali's hyper paranoiac conceptualism and then taken even further by art critics, theorists, and historians who believed it had to do with Einstein's theory of relativity. Later on in Dali's career he began to paint about this topic, with the advent of nuclear physics and string theory, molecular structures and DNA mapping. This is an instance of artist creating a brand, and the symbiotic relationship between the supply chain and the demand creating new technologies, hybridized paintings, and advancement in concept. Dali drifted between faith systems his entire life, finding sources of inspiration and exploring them, sharing his findings and experiments through the medium of art. What started as landscape and portraiture evolved into impressionism then cubism and then his most famous surrealist stage. This period explored the concept of dream reality and meaning of dream symbols which directly connected him to the theories of Sigmund Freud. When criticized by fellow surrealists as purely a commercial painter, he denounced surrealism, needing only his wife Gala. He lived a life in the spotlight through wars, moving from Europe to New York and back again. He progressed the ideas explored in surrealism to scientific theorems and in the tail end of his career he became more of a faith based painter.

Sometimes the mythology of a painting's creation is more interesting than the painting itself. It's reputation precedes it and therefore it achieves high levels of fame. One such painting is “Dance at the Moulin de la Galette” by Renoir. The Moulin de la Galette was a popular dance hall/ bar/ restaurant for the impressionists to meet in Montmarte Paris, France during the late 1800's. Pierre Auguste Renoir had a studio nearby. Legend has it that everyday he would carry the canvas with a friend down to the Moulin de la Galette and set up his easel.

Renoir leased a studio at 12 Rue Cortot, in April 1875. It came furnished and had two floors, where he lived with his brother. He made several studies at the Moulin de la Galette. Renoir's civil servant friend Georges Riviere writes how friends helped carry the canvas back and forth “We would carry this canvas every day from the rue cortot to the moulin, because the painting was executed entirely on the spot. This was not without difficulties, when the wind blew and the big canvas threatened to fly away like a kite over the Butte.” (pg. 64)

Renoir used his friends and acquaintances from all walks of life as models. He had a favorite female sitter, whose name was Jeanne and was sixteen who refused the main role in the painting but appears later in life as the main character in “The Swing.” Instead, her sister Estelle models the pink and blue ribbon dress.

Renoir went through a period in his life where he and his fellow impressionist compatriots were penniless. Renoir combated this period in his life by writing letters to friends asking for money, also by staying with fellow artists such as Monet. It seemed the impressionist vision was fading with the salon show actually losing money and his artist group parting ways. His main gallerist Durand-ruel closed his London location and it seemed that all was lost. Famished, Renoir started painting portraits and with a stroke of luck and genius, he was able to make the acquaintance of one of Duret's friends Deudon, who was a wealthy lawyer and owner of a clothing store Old England. Duedon comissioned him to paint a mural in his estate, a portrait of Madame Duedon and five of his finished pieces.

This granted Renoir passage to build upon what he had been pursuing with his portrait studies to create the symphony of motion and light that we know as Bal du Moulin de la Galette. After exhibiting, he was able to land several published reviews as was the style at the time. However, instead of advancing his process and concept, the reviews were mostly negative, 2/6 were favorable.

Most of Renoir's paintings are figurative, all signifying spacial pictoral depth. Some are landscape. Now they seem highly unoriginal, the best part about them being the color and motion of brushstroke. His model choice changed slightly over the years, yet remained mostly young white women, beginning with light red hair and progressing to black. He undeniably had a type, at his worst remained a blank, doll-like expression. Even in the Bal du Moulin de la Galette, his most populated painting, it looks as though the main female model repeats over and over as though she were dancing with her clones. However, he combats this with the dappled shadows from the overhanging branches, the representation of the contemporary styles of the time, and the bright and sunny disposition of all the participants of the scene. One cannot help but feel nostalgic for a period that would not have existed if the Impressionists had not imagined and created it.

Advance time about a hundred years or more and we find Bruce la Bruce's movie Super 8 1/2. This movie is a mockumentary based on a queer fetishistic porn producer's life and work. Things have changed since the 90's, with the advancement of the internet interrupting basically every aspect of our lives. Porn is everywhere. This movie is reminiscent of John Waters' tongue in cheek reality. The stars are not perfect right wing citizens, they are “underground” and rife with problems, and we see how very real they are. The main character takes after Andy Warhol, he has taken to alcoholism and lives in a dingy room with aluminum colored space blankets on the walls. He is always in a state of heartbreak and his relationships with his costars are argumentative and violent.

Googie is an adventurous porn producer who finds her subjects in mysterious ways. She finds a lesbian couple hooking up in a graveyard and casts them as her new stars. A confessional interview shows them talking about their threesomes with strangers and hatred for hetero cis men. They like to “fuck them, and fuck with their minds.” Wednesday and Friday describe going into clubs with a pair of scissors and cutting off straight men's ponytails. They aren't serious strippers, they are quirky and take their sexuality and dancing with a slight humorous bend.

The stars are full of themselves and obsessed with fame. Their egos cause them to blow up in violent outbursts at each other and exploit each other. The difference between Bruce la Bruce's porn and every other run of the mill porn filmed in New York or the valley, is that these stars have been given credit for being avant garde art stars. One such plot is Bruce driving an old Jaguar down a a desolate country road and hitting a hitchhiker. He gets out of the car to check on the man who he has hit and ends up getting a blowjob when he regains consciousness. The movie concludes with the stranger throwing up on the side of the road and Bruce hopping back in the car and driving away.

A movie directed by Googie and starring Wednesday and Friday, the two lesbian “sisters,” pictures them holding a man up with a WWII army beretta, lubing up his rear and shoving the covered pistol in his behind. They finish him off by stripping him bare in the brush, powdering him and equipping him with a diaper.

The movie is a black comedy. Visually it is devoid of colour. Needless to say, it is weighty in its stark portrayal of a scene that is hardly ever represented in the main stream without being over glorified. It is an industry, much like the meat industry, that remains invisible in its process, yet is pervasive throughout history, since the dawn of photography. It has it's parallels in the art scene, with painters and photographers alike representing models who may or may not have participated in porn shoots. The credit goes to the artist usually, with the model being a conduit to his concept, and it is impossible to see how much the subject actually contributed to the process and final image.

Eventually we see Bruce's participation in the industry drowning him in sorrow. He stumbles around the courtyard of an insane asylum in black doc martens, white pants, and a white straight jacket. He has been exploited to no end, what was supposed to save his career, the interviews and collaborations, actually detrimented from it. His friend describes him as losing touch with reality, blurring the line between his movies and his waking life. We see him shellshocked on camera dropping a line of infinite wisdom and rebuking it, attempting to cover his tracks, rephrasing it as if it can be edited out of the space time continuum.

The film is filmed in low-fi black and white with almost no budget. Needless to say, it is an art film. It documents a sub culture that concerns itself with a subversive beauty, that the mainstream is dangerous. It takes hard work no matter what you do, whoever said being a pornstar is easy? We see the image of a young black man on a benchpress, the director condemning him for not being able to get it up, that he has had “Three fluffers already.” That the price of fame might be the price of your mental well being, that the more one departs from mainstream society the more danger one welcomes into their personality. That somehow being beautiful and volatile gives you control over others, it creates a desire in them to do your will. However, it is only tolerable for a short period of time. Misery loves company but it also attracts a certain type of self aware genius. We are only comfortable with our avarice in the midst of a reflection, and when that reflection starts to change we are disgusted and need to move on. We accept that life is hard and must accept the most gruesome of challenges because our ability to tolerate and moderate these events bring us a sense of personal satisfaction, the sense of grit to survive. The fear always lies with our insecurities. When will this life bring me under? How much is too much? In this industry, pain and substance abuse go hand in hand. In theory, the dampening of the limbic system allows us to surpass the constant onslaught of painful memories. What is actually happening is quite the opposite. How one chooses to combat these issues or feelings depends on a personality type or a type of abuse someone has endured in the past, whether it was mental, physical or sexual. Occasionally people attempt to welcome back this type of abuse into their lives, they put themselves in situations that repeat or glorify an abusive situation and it becomes a cycle without rebirth leading to their ultimate destruction and downfall. Given the right willpower, resources, and technique one can break this cycle. Life is not without pitfalls and setbacks, but only if we take them that way. This can lead us further into space or further equip us to deal with life has to offer us.

Ultimately society was not built to do us any favors. The kind of free sexual rebellion that this movie introduces is somewhat refreshing somewhat stale. It shows us that this behavior might not land us in prison, but might lead us to a sort of mental exile where we feel alien to the world. The world has offered us an escape from mainstream only to find that we are caught in another mainstream. Crimes against humanity are rampant wherever we go and it is not until we accept them as part of our culture that we find any release.

Tony smith created the steel sculpture “Die” in 1968 with the intention of representing the “square root” of six. It is literally six by six feet, metaphorically representing death by being six feet deep and a six foot box. It is brooding in its intentionality, also seems to be a means to an end goal of traveling to New York. The NGA describes the piece as “embracing the heroic and humanistic attitudes associated with abstract expressionist art of the 1950's,” however I would describe the movement as one filled mostly with a sense of white male machismo. How could he have not noticed the gigantic black cube in the middle of Jerusalem called the Kaaba which houses the holy book of the Q'uuraan? Millions of people flock to the religious site each year to pay homage to the prophet Muhammad. Arguably, this is an even larger homage to organized religion and the prowess of another man of a separate ethnicity. Both cubes are homages to death, one is immensely popular and other remains a mirror of a small dying culture, we shall presume the reader knows which one is which.

Sometimes art is less conceptual as a metaphor for what is already present in life, and turns into a science project that invigorates the future of materiality, which is what all visual art media is based. Traditional materials are often decided by trends in the economy, sudden turns of fate determine which path is chosen and which materials will become the new norm. What replaced the steam engine with the gasoline powered motorcar and what replaced paper made from trees instead of hemp, was usually a rich investor that decided it was easier to pollute than to create something that is sustainable and equally as useful. What we have now is a bunch of overworked, underpaid employees that are just as polluted in their minds as the environments lakes and rivers.

Iris van Herpen is a designer that falls into a new genre of material futures. Material futures deals with finding a category of unsustainable or overused materiality, whether it be, organs, meat that we eat, or clothes that we wear. She creates new fabrics that are produced using 3d scans and furthermore printed and stitched by hand and machine to create designs reminiscent of HR Giger meets fairy princess, Hufflepuff meets Slitheryn in Harry Potter fan lore. She is conducting science with the touch of a skilled wizard, producing new leather from cow cells and lightweight fabrics lighter than silk. This technology continues to progress around the world. Her theory is not that we should be creating new wearable technologies that are stylistically unsound, meant to connect us to the outside world without bringing anything new to the physical realm. Her textures and textiles connote that we can represent how we feel and what we have experienced through a suit that we wear. 3D printing is becoming more accessible, to the point that people could do it “if they could only find the time.” If Iris van Herpen ever becomes mainstream we might not find the time to leave the house in the morning, staring at our reflections, robing and disrobing again until we can find the right form to describe our ever changing mood.

As it so happens, Iris van Herpen interned for Alexander McQueen, a famous English fashion designer who has died but his name still rings on. Before his death in 2010, he put together a show called VOSS, in which models were to reenact the mentality of being in an inpatient unit. Models shaped like gazelles stumble around in high heels looking posh and sleek with some sort of headdress that looks as though they have strapped pantyhose to their heads. Kate moss fumbles at the walls, which, are double sided mirrors, the audience can see in but none of the models on the runway can see out. The models, while nice to look at, sporting some amazing designs by McQueen, are perhaps not the most interesting part of the show. The climax comes, as the large rectangular rhombus in the center of the room comes crashing open, glass shatter and butterflies spread everywhere, fluttering about in the light. The main character, unclear whether she is the protagonist/ antagonist, reclines nude inside the cube, sporting a gas mask with concord wings a precursor to a character in Mad Max Fury Road.

It just so happens that this model is Michelle Olley, a London based writer and magazine editor who specializes in culture. She was a key figure in queer and fetish culture in the 80's and 90's and has since hopped around from job to job and now works as content manager for Turner Broadcasting's Adult Swim. On her blog, she describes the experience of being involved in the project. The all around stress she was under and the real life torture she felt being kept in the box.

“If it weren’t for yoga I’d be in absolute agony by now. I can’t move much because moving breaks wings; my lower leg is dead after about twenty minutes on the chair. I’ve got at least an hour and a half alone in here, and that’s if the show starts on time, which of course they never, ever do. After about another fifteen minutes my right shoulder, which is leaning on a cushion, starts to ache. I’m clutching onto Stephen’s best scalpel—which I need to slash open the butterfly net that contains 250 live moths and butterflies. I’m holding the net in my other hand trying to keep it still so I don’t disturb them. The radio earpieces are throbbing—they’ve been hurting since they wrapped the bandages round them. It’s not too bad in the mask. I can breathe OK. The temperature is awful, though. They need to keep it cold in there so that the moths will remain still/placid. Cold air is being piped in, as when the lights go on at showtime, it’s going to get really hot. The cold air is giving me goose bumps and making the glue/moth parts all around my body really itchy. My head’s hot, my body’s freezing. Time to test whether they really are listening at all times. I ask Anna to turn off the air con and they agree to give it a rest for ten minutes. I have no idea how long it took to shut it off or low long it was off for, but it wasn’t enough. Before I know it, the pipes are blowing again—sending another flurry of broken wings and antennas off me and I’m shivering. Anna tells me they’re running about twenty minutes late (it was about an hour to the official start by this point). By this stage I have no idea how long I’ve been in there, or how long I have left. Time has ceased to be quantifiable. I’m too focused on not thinking about my discomfort, not getting emotional, saying warm and not thinking about the fact I was busting for a pee. I just wanted desperately to get it over with. Sometime later Anna calls to say it would be another fifteen minutes on top of the twenty (“We’re waiting for Gwyneth, who’s stuck in traffic”). Bring. It. On. Before getting in the box, I’d seen all the names on the chairs through the two-way mirrored glass. Paltrow was at my feet, next to Nick and Charlotte Knight; my backside was right to Isabella Blow, Grace Jones, Sharlene from Texas and Ronnie and Jo Wood. Could they tell I was hatching a radio mic? I’d also spotted Tracy Chapman, Tracey Emin and Jake Chapman’s names on the chairs. My early comment about “doing it for art” was coming true in an unexpected fashion...

No, it’s the art thing again. I want people to know what I just went through wasn’t a breeze and I did it for art. Yes, art. Because I believe it’s worth going through that much palaver if it creates a strong image that conveys an important idea. And I believe that the idea that we are trapped by our “civilized,” socially approved identities is massively important. It causes women so much suffering. Fear of aging, fear of not being thin enough. Fear of not having the right clothes. Fear of our animal natures that we carry in our DNA—fish, bird, lizard, insect, mammal. We’ve never had it more techno, we’ve never needed it more human. We humans living now still cannot turn ourselves into perfect beings, no matter how long we spend at the gym, beauty parlour, shops, etc.”

Sometimes it takes a whole orchestra of behind the scenes folks to get a project realized. Sometimes it is only a handful of people who receive the credit for a massive undertaking such as this. Why is Tracy Chapman still relevant? Because she is involved with the culture. And when all is said and done, however equally distributed the pain and strife of the work that was completed, we still live in a world where Benjamin Franklin is accredited with the discovery of electricity. Perhaps McQueen would have not felt so weighed down by the responsibility of stardom if the attention received for such a project was distributed with more equity. Michelle Olley still learned a valuable lesson in body image from the experience of participating in the project, so it seems that process can be the most important part of creation.

Haruki Murakami writes in his novel Kafka on the Shore, “That’s why I like to listen to Schubert while I’m driving. Like I said, it’s because all the performances are imperfect. A dense, artistic kind of imperfection stimulates your consciousness, keeps you alert. If I listen to some utterly perfect performance of an utterly perfect piece while I’m driving, I might want to close my eyes and die right then and there. But listening to the D major, I can feel the limits of what humans are capable of—that a certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect. And personally, I find that encouraging.”

Contemporary art seems to operate solely upon this concept, that there are continuous builds based upon the notion that everything here is imperfect. Competition is based on this nodule that human kind has something to prove, that there is somehow something better to be strived for. Competition within contemporary art pushes boundaries of what is conceptual, accepted, what element of art history the piece is derived from, and what new materials can be used. Since there is no purpose in striving for perfection, it eliminates the competition within the art world. What is left is abstract free flowing ideas. Competition in the art world, it seems only exists within the art market. Survival of the fittest is based on who has the latest advancement in technology “who has the biggest guns” and who can obtain the largest chunk of the economy. Eventually people try to compensate by dumping the largest amount of money into a particular project, here size of the object, materiality, location, and finish come into play. What is left can be impactful, just because of the immense capabilities of one particular artist.

The Japanese synth composer Yuzo Koshiro, who is famous for his video game scores during the 90's describes this concept when being called the king of FM synthesis. “It’s an honour for me. Though there are a lot of people who use the FM synth well. As I said before, in terms of game music... Trying to use an FM synth with MIDI had so many restrictions. I don’t think people could use the chip to its full potential exactly as they wanted. Since I made my own editor and driver, I could control everything about the chip down to the fine details. So I think that’s why I was able produce that level of sound. I definitely don’t think I’m great at making quality tones though. Being able to control every little thing freely was one of the main reasons I received that kind of praise.” Koshiro was able to fine tune his process by using his own tools, which he developed, using his own ideal of how he saw the future. Still, he believes the final product was not the embodiment of perfection. He finds that the more one plays through a video game with the music that he has composed, the more the melodies grow on us.

“Is it the quiet shore of contemplation that I set aside for myself, as I lay bare, under the cunning, orderly surface of civilizations, the nurturing horror that they attend to pushing aside by purifying, systematizing, and thinking; the horror that they seize on in order to build themselves up and function? I rather conceive it as a work of disappointment, of frustration and hollowing—probably the only counterweight to abjection. While everything else –its archaeology and its exhaustion—is only literature: The sublime point at which the abject collapses in a burst of beauty that overwhelms us—and that cancels our existence” Kristeva.

Kristeva's “Powers of Horror” is a long, drawn out study on the abject. How she was able to complete such a tour de force is beyond us, which is probably why it seems so intelligent. She was able to sustain concentration on the most unbearable subjects, and most art students, given the the task of completing the entire transcript, are unable to do so. If there is one positive concept to be derived from this reading, it is that the abject is necessary in small doses, in order to achieve the opposite. What disrupts and disgusts us can make us believe that there is an opposite. That notion is described in the quote as the sublime.

If we look at the hollowness of space as terrifying, then we see why people decide to huddle together within city walls. We condense only to realize that this too, can be perceived as abject, and in the instance, we decide to disperse. In this way, the feeling of abjection can flip flop, all at once describing the fickle nature of the human personality, and the lightness of being alive.

“Women artists are more inward-looking, more delicate and nuanced in their treatment of their medium, it may be asserted. But which of the women artists cited above is more inward-turning then Redon, more subtle and nuanced in the handling of pigment than Corot? Is Fragonard more or less feminine than Mme. Vigee-Lebrun? Or is it not more a question of the whole Rococo style of eighteenth-century France being "feminine," if judged in terms of a binary scale of "masculinity" versus "femininity"? Certainly, if daintiness, delicacy, and preciousness are to be counted as earmarks of a feminine style, there is nothing fragile about Rosa Bonheur's Horse Fair, nor dainty and introverted about Helen Frankenthaler's giant canvases. If women have turned to scenes of domestic life, or of children. so did Jan Steen, Chardin, and the Impressionists-- Renoir and Monet as well as Morisot and Cassatt. In any case, the mere choice of a certain realm of subject matter, or the restriction to certain subjects, is not to be equated with a style, much less with some sort of quintessentially feminine style.”

Traditionally, throughout history, most of the credit of winning has been given to men. Credit is sometimes equated to fame, such as Alexander McQueen's stylistic designs and art shows, where there are numerous participants. However, what equates fame? How do we quantify how well known something is? If something that lives in our hearts is more important than fame, how is it that we measure? Many ideas presented in the art history canon have been proposed by women first. We see this in the example of Carolee Schneemann's “Meat Joy” and also “Up to and Including Her Limits.” Matthew Barney used the same ideas in his piece “Drawing Restraint” several years later and arguably received more credit. He is also referencing his “personal mythology,” which might include pieces that Schneemann has produced. Meat Joy creates a scene where the body is abjectly presented as a vessel of meat, flesh we consume is also the flesh we destroy, and the theme of abject flesh is now popularized in contemporaries like Jenny Saville. Where once upon a time it was popular to idealize the human form, it is now popular to debunk the myth of a perfect form and present the new ideal as a medley of body types and human characteristics, not ignoring the ever presence of the abundance of flesh, and bodily fluids. In terms of art, the gender of the object is attributed to whomever created it, no matter how rugged or polished the piece may be. The independence of women artists does not suggest that they did not particularly belong to a certain school or class of artists, it just means that they were not recognized for being there. Since the presence of art history is also based upon the presence of critics and historians, the relationships between these individuals and the people they chose to represent is important too. The interpersonal relationships amongst individuals in the art world also influence who receives a review. Ana Mendietta is mostly recognized for her relationship with Carl Andre, as Lucian Freud is mostly recognized because he is grandson to Sigmund Freud. Not to say either is necessarily without talent, which is quite the opposite, however people are recognized mostly from their upbringing and what circles they revolve in.

Which leaves me believing something is missing within the art world and the world at large. We all experience the sense of the void, which is a mirror of the total amount of dark matter in the universe. There is something amiss, and we are not quite sure what it is. The Fifth Element addresses this concept, with the notion that there is a missing element that will save the universe. With designs by Jean Giraud Moebius and Jean Paul Gaultier, this french cult classic is one of the most visually stunning movies to date.

The plot revolves around the main character Korben Dallas and his relationship with the embodiment of the fifth element, Leeloo. She is a fanboy's dream, a young model actress that does not speak English, is the visage of perfection but does not have any visual or cultural preference of her own to speak of, nor any knowledge of who she is or what humans are. Besides this general monotony, she contains an element that is activated by a particular piece of knowledge. What Korben Dallas teaches her, is the concept of love. This is the final unifying element in the universe, the one that clarifies the dream, and brings light to an otherwise dark place. No matter what your belief system is, if you are a human, animal, sentient being, this rings true. What is the essence of life, what is the point of materiality if there is no feeling there?

With my own work, I feel a sense of displacement usually rather than belonging. A jumble of ideas are mashed together usually to bring a solution to some sort of negativity, in order to see the light shine through. Many artists use their art as a way to connect on a broader spectrum, in this way I am no different. I find that personally I connect best at a small scale, one or two people rather than a huge group. Limiting options of who to talk to can create a stronger bond, as if limiting one's palate, in order to know what is truly motivating one's soul.

With what I create, I tend to maximize my reference points. I create a mashup of things I have experienced, usually told in the form of a fable created through symbolism of images derived from 90's pop culture. Perhaps this is me bringing to the forefront the notion of keeping my childhood alive, by subliming memories of contemporary life. Art can be about breaking free of limits, so my process constantly changes to remove myself from an XY axis and a grid, to constantly build and destroy, to remove anger, hate, and turn it into love.

This semester I have learned a few things about the art world and art school in specific. There are a few key tropes that reoccur and navigating them is mostly about the language used to describe them. For example, using the word umwelt for someone's personal bubble; using the term post humanism when someone really means Sci-fi; structuralism for patterns that repeat; anthropocene for the current affect of global warming. Part of the interchangeability of words to describe these things has to do with the malleability of the ideas themselves. As we saw with Salvador Dali's study of string theory, different personal views conjure up different worlds. The study of these worlds leads us on our own personal journeys. We envelop these concepts and let the future unfold, perhaps we use art as the mechanism to advance human kind. I always thought of art as some kind of pseudo-science, now I can say that these things are interchangeable, art can be science, theory, personal reflection, fortune telling, and the economy. The mythology that leads us here today can change time.

Works Cited

Barbara Ehrlich White, Renoir His Life Art and Letters. 1984. Harry N. Abrams, Inc. New York

NGA.gov for tony smith's die

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/04/08/t-magazine/iris-van-herpen-designer-interview.html?_r=0

http://blog.metmuseum.org/alexandermcqueen/michelle-olley-voss-diary/

http://daily.redbullmusicacademy.com/2014/09/yuzo-koshiro-interview

The fifth element

#Tristan Chase Arcelona

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indigogoinggone-blog · 6 years

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Mennonite and Mexico

Checking my prejudice

It had been three days since I stuck out my thumb and tied my bike to the backseat of this Mexican man’s car. We are in hot pursuit of the greatest taco in the Yucatan as we hurtle ever closer to the Belizean border that will signify our parting of ways. Presently we are in the armpit of some great God. It smells pugnant, moist and like heavy immovable air - though this is not a necessarily a bad smell. The God showers regularly and eats well it would seem, which figures given its divine status and probable access to green smoothies, but smell aside it is the stifling heat that is the dominating sensation inside the vehicle. I turn to my new friend. “Mucho calor, putaaaaaa.” He wears a necklace of sweat beads as he declines to verbally answer, instead making a rapid right turn.

He tells me that he remembers seeing a beach marked here on the map, and sure enough, a parking space emerges in our line of vision, flanked by vendors of every description. Particularly pleasing to me was the peddling of mango in all its forms. Do you want it dried? Fresh and sliced? Diced? Whole? With chilli? Frozen? On a kebab? As a juice? Ohhhh sweet fruit, oh sweet, sweet package of sugar and joy, my mouth salivates and hands exchange pesos for you eagerly. There is a childish and excitable fevor gripping both my partner and I. We have mango juices dripping perversely from chin to chest, eyes alight with a sugar rush, and tyranny of the humidity forgotten. Car parked, we join the throng that is descending upon the gracious shores of the Carribean.

And here is when something happens that has been stuck in the machinery of my reflection, trying to churn out an understanding for the last two weeks. It begins with a young boy holding up a bag of apples to me. “Quiero?” He asks. In immediate essence he isn’t profoundly different from the dozens of other vendors littering the path to the beach. I decline his offer for the apples, and begin to walk ahead when something - I don’t exactly know what - forces me to stare at him a little longer. It’s his eyes that I notice first. Trauma. A hand squeezes my maternal heart and instinct, gently at first and then with a paralysing gusto. Having seen traumatised children before, and having been close to trauma and it’s side effects for many of my recent years, a strange sense for its manifestations has developed. I can’t look away. His little eyes are flickering from me to my partner to the ground, with that tragic vagueness indicative of a childhood robbed. His tiny frame flinches as I reach above his head for my hat, as if he were reacting to a pulled punch. I’m so consumed by the mother within me that I hadn’t noticed the more obvious oddities to his appearance.

His eyes are blue, skin freckled and pale and tiny frame sporting dusty look overalls. Cowboy hat and turned up shoes, he looks as though he been pulled from the set of a bad B grade movie, probably starring Reagan in his hey day. But he was speaking Spanish? My friend catches my eye in shared confusion. We watch as the little boy picks his way through the crowds, stopping to tempt others with his apples. None of the locals seem put off by his strange appearance and I conclude it must be me who is the strange one then. I watch the kid find his way back to a group of similarly dressed kin. A whole group of what looks like conservative Amish meets Mormon meets traditional farmers named McDonald. Six people in total, peddling apples and carrots and bracelets like the Mayan and a Mexican vendors around them, and all dressed in either overalls, cowboy hat and turned up shoes (male) or thick, oppressive, dirt length dresses with a bonnet and ribboned hat (female). All pale, blue eyed, freckled and tall amongst a population of dark eyed and sun tanned small peoples.

The mother in me recoils at the sight of who appears to be the patriarch. He has cruel lips and eyes almost totally enveloped by his eyebrows. I don’t understand the literal translations of his words, but his tone is terrifying. In what I can only describe as an act of self preservation, I grasp the hand of my friend and walk only a pace away from running all the way to the beach. I ask him if he knows why there would be gringos in farm clothes like that, but he’s from the Baja. He’s got no idea. I can’t help think how fucking weird they seem. These predjudiced thoughts begin to take over, fuelled by my instinct that something wasn’t right. Or is it vice versa? Did I fill their narrative with violence simply because they were different and i didn’t understand their presence?

On my ride south to the border, I see a group dressed so similarly that there’s no mistake they share some common set of beliefs. This time the group is on horseback, drawing carts of furniture. While they certainly look a little different to the other people here, I don’t have a sick and alarming feeling in my stomach when I look at them.

Again, crossing the border into Guatemala I see one more family dressed in these overalls and cowboy hats that cover their blue eyes. Who are they? Where did they come from? My sense of fear has entirely disappeared and is replaced by blatant curiosity. Some deep seeded biological part of me recognises them as people who look similar to me in base appearance, and wants to connect with them. Understand why those who look like me dress differently. What is their story?

And in some ironic symbolism of the modern age, I am walking through Flores - after deciding that I will live here for a month or two - and outside the alter of Burger King I see a tribe of Mayan vendors and a tribe of these same pale farmer-esque peoples. Finally I’m in a position to quench my curiousity. I approach them with my hands behind my back in what I hope is the most non threatening and approachable body language possible. In broken Spanish I ask where they are from and what their names are. Their accents are much thicker than other Guatemalans and I struggle to associate meaning with a lot of what they are saying. I pick up on Mennonite, El Ramate, family, God and a few other key words. Eventually I smile a little awkwardly and bid them farewell. In an act of human connection, one of the ladies emerges from behind who appears to be her husband and breaks off half of her Burger and extends it to me. I eat fast food for the first time in five years and ponder the absolute absurdity that is this situation. Traditionally dressed Mayans and who I now understand to be Mennonites eat a product of the American consumerist culture that is both intentionally and unintentionally swallowing their cultures alive. And they share this product with me, who is also somewhat a product of consumerist culture. Strange strange strange. Gringo meets Mayans in colourful skirts meets other white skinned farmers who nonetheless speak a dialect the gringo does not understand.

Still these moments mulled over in my mind. I went searching for Mennonites on the inter webs and found their long history in the Americas. They were a new sight to me and my friend from the Baja because they migrated down the Carribean coast, settling in enclaves that still loosely exist today. From my understanding - and perhaps you could enlighten me if you know anything about them - they came from Europe during the settling of the Americas like many persecuted réglions groups. They have a story similar to many minority groups with themes of isolationism, cultural celebration, technological rejections and persecution. I experienced a major twinge of guilt upon recognising my own prejudices and perceptions. My composite image of an average person right now was so far removed from their image that immediately upon seeing them in Mexico for the first time, i immediately passed judgement. I felt threatened and perceived them as hostile, when perhaps they were not. However, I didn’t perceive future groups of their people as hostile, only curiosities. I think perhaps there is an instinctual understanding of who constitutes a threat, and who appears traumatised. But I’m still unsure. I’m unsure if my construction of them as Other influenced the way I saw their dynamics. I am aware that I am human and that I have these biases and tendencies to misconstrue the Other. In the same breath, I felt the traumitised state of a child and minorities have their share of abuse and abusers as any group of people do.

I guess my point of this whole rant is my awakening to how pervasive our perceptions of Other are in shaping our understanding of people. All it took was one conversation to break down the barrier between them and I; suddenly they were not an oddity but a part of the environment and landscape as anyone else. I no longer had residual fear or suspicion when I saw a group of them, simply because I spoke to them and took an interest in their history of movement. However my initial contact was influenced by the look of trauma I am uncomfortably familiar with. People are never entirely good or bad; there is no way to paint one group with one brush stroke; there is only fluidity, life, suffering and joy all in one. I think also my expectation that farm clothes and horse and cart riding entails cult like behaviour and therefore abuse needed to be challenged. Cults certainly entail a predisposition to abuse, but farm clothes, a rejection of technology in the favour of God and a tight knit cultural community do no entail a cult. And here ends my untangling of such a small series of encounters.

You know me, I can’t let the little things go. I have to understand, have to connect the dots. So I felt like sharing that one instance of dot collecting and drift into deep thought, though I have countless, day in and day out. It’s a powerful thing to travel. To move and migrate. To live in various places across Earth. Oh yes I forgot to mention, I live in Flores Guatemala now. Work at a bar and have wonderful neighbours. I will be here about a month before I hitch hike again. In any case, having homes, friends, experiences and a sense of movement has eroded any lingering belief in the story of the nation. We are people on a planet. Diverse peoples and often strange environments, but still just people on a planet. More similar than we are different. Mmmmm I have hooked into my meditative practises more regularly recently, and the sense of clarity is much appreciated.

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