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#chopin grave
spookysnooty · 1 year
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Me about a historical figure I've never met and never will meet and who doesn't have a grave to visit due to Circumstances TM: I miss him
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everyone shut up this is ACTUALLY what fans of different composers are like
Mahlerians are PROUD TO BE ABSOLUTELY INSUFFERABLE DRAMA QUEENS, THE LIKES OF WHICH EVEN THE WAGNER CULT COULD NEVER SO MUCH AS ASPIRE TO BE. WE ARE ONE WITH THE UNYIELDING EBB AND FLOW OF THE BOUNDLESS UNIVERSE, DAMN IT ALL!
Shostakovich fans are like Mahler fans except they actually understand what sarcasm is. We also all really like the Muppets for some reason. Most of us own cats and likely have at least one mental illness.
Liszt fans are either tweenagers who love anime or salty old pianists who know a disturbing amount about music theory. These two factions are constantly at war.
Copland fans are either very, very far right or very, very far left. Either way, neither side actually listens to all of Copland's repertoire.
Tchaikovsky fans are either Russian grandmas or LGBT orchestra kids on Tiktok. Either those or the one noob who heard there were cannons once.
Wagner fans. Yes, there are the cringey neo-Nazi Wagnerians, but anti-Nazi Wagnerians are a whole new level of chaotic good. They spend their time dreaming up the most disastrous, chaotic Ring productions possible, with the sole purpose of making Richard Wagner's entire family simultaneously spin in their graves. They take "death of the author" to a whole new level and constantly run on nothing but 100% pure spite. You want a Wagnerian who would beat up Wagner in a Denny's parking lot on your side.
Prokofiev fans will unironically say "ackshually...". That's it.
Dvorak fans are homeschool kids. They're either soul-crushingly innocent or devastatingly horny.
Sousa fans are just high school band directors who try to convince themselves they like Sousa to get through the semester.
Joplin fans constantly argue over whether Joplin's music should be played twice as quickly or twice as slowly than it's actually written. Also sick of hearing about Janis.
Chopin fans are exactly like Liszt fans, except there are 20% more "uwu softboi flowercrown" edits of Chopin than Liszt floating around on Instagram and Tumblr.
Holst fans will drag you into an alleyway and beat you up with their bare hands if you so much as mention The Planets.
Bernstein fans are either horny theatre kids or communists, but it's more likely they're both at once. They are very opinionated about recordings, and express their approval of the ones they like by gyrating excessively to them. If you put a Bernstein fan, a Mahler fan, and a Shostakovich fan in one room, they will either topple a national government or have a threesome.
Ravel fans are inherently Wes Anderson fans. You can be friends with one for years without knowing a single thing about their personality.
Schoenberg fans are like Mahlerians but with worse memes.
Brahms fans are... I have never met a Brahms fan. I'm sure they exist, but I'm pretty sure my own taste in music scares them off.
Paganini fans are almost always TwoSet kids, particularly the ones who try to convince people that "classical music isn't boring because it's basically metal." If you tell them Paganini played viola, they will spontaneously combust.
Rachmaninov fans are ultimately really chill, but are often socially awkward. If you ask a Rachmaninov fan "how are you?", they will most likely respond with "you too."
Schumann fans are Mahlerians on medication.
Stravinsky fans think they're chaotic and unhinged and listen to the most obscure underground shit, but in all actuality they just decided to enter their edgy phase after a lifetime of being sheltered and forced to listen to nothing but Handel by their parents. Possibly homeschooled.
Ysaye fans are like Paganini fans, except they're depressed graduate music students with permanent calluses on their fingers.
Debussy fans go to art school, decide they don't like art school, but have been doing art school too long to turn back, so they can't get out of art school. They may be high on weed at any given moment.
Satie fans are just possessed vessels of Erik Satie. Death cannot hinder Erik Satie. Erik Satie will return to this mortal plane. Search your feelings. You are already Erik Satie.
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garbage-empress · 2 years
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BREAKING: Ex Prime Minister of Japan Shinzo Abe Assassinated by Improvised Shotgun.
The former prime minister was shot in the chest while delivering a campaign speech Friday. Reportedly, Abe chastized the assassin for his poor aim, believing he had missed. To demonstrate his calmness at the situation, Abe then began to drink a glass of water, at which point several streams of water sprayed out of his chest like a leaky gardenhose. When Abe noticed the leaks, sources say he jumped over a meter in the air, his eyes became X's, and he slowly drifted down like a piece of paper into a grave with a headstone simply marked "RIP."
WATCH: Japan's Kazoo Players React to Shinzo Abe's Death by Playing Sped Up Version of Chopin's "Funeral March"
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poetsofmyheart · 9 months
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my tears ricochet
chapter one. masterlist.
PAIRING: tasm!peter parker x fem!reader
WARNINGS: death, vomiting
WORD COUNT: 2,458
NOTES: i have so many ideas for this series i’m so excited. buuut idk how i feel about this chapter. hope u still enjoy tho lol
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“all these people think love’s for show, but i would die for you in secret.” - peace, taylor swift
now
it’s still cold in new york this time of year. when i cross the street, i listen to the sounds the bustling city makes. the sound of horns honking and bell chimes reach my ears. during my walk to the cemetery, my fingers begin to feel numb. my mouth creating little clouds of white with every breath i take.
i’m carrying a bouquet of flowers i purchased from the sweet woman who owns the flower shop across from my apartment complex. i hold onto the bouquet tightly. my hands shake from the cold as i readjust the scarf on my neck.
as i walk, i see a flash of red and blue fly by in my peripheral. it’s been a long time since i’ve learned to ignore those flashes.
when i finally reach the cemetery, i look for gwen’s grave and sit on the grass across from her tombstone. i place the flowers by her neatly.
her full name is etched on the tombstone beautifully, along with the words “loving daughter” and her birth and death year underneath it.
the sight make my stomach clench.
“hey, gwen.” i shiver. “i hope you’re doing okay wherever you are.” no matter how many times i visit, i’m always unsure how to start talking.
i’ve been visiting gwen every saturday since her funeral. luckily, i’m alone today. it’s not uncommon for someone to already be here visiting.
“i’m doing okay. i’ve been better.” i reach for a flower petal on the bouquet i picked out for her. it’s a bouquet of daisies. the colors ranging from white, pink, and yellow.
i play with the petal until it’s rips in between my fingers. the shreds falling on to the grass in front of me.
“i’ve been learning the piano piece you begged me to learn for you. i was thinking about playing it for my audition next month.” i continue.
piano is one of my favorite things in the world. it’s my only source of escape. it’s an escape i’ve been busying myself with especially after gwen’s passing.
after graduation last year, i had planned on going to nyu to study music and piano. when gwen died, i had put everything on halt. i decided not to go to nyu after all. i had even passed up on an audition for my dream school, julliard.
before gwen passed, she had begged me to learn a song for her. a song she had been specifically obsessed with. the song was fantasie by chopin. she used to say the song was eccentric, yet calming.
i doubted my piano abilities at the time and had pushed the piece aside until i knew i was really ready. if only i had listened to gwen, maybe she would’ve gotten to hear it herself.
after a few weeks of grieving and being in a terrible slump, having no motivation to play at all, i decided it was time.
i picked up the notes i had discarded in my closet and put them up on my sheet stand and i let my fingers move delicately on their own.
it was hard at first, having not played for weeks. but i eventually got going. my fingers moved deliciously over and against the keys. i got lost in the music. the soft sound of the piano muting the world around me.
it was the best distraction.
this past summer, i was sent a letter from julliard. i had managed to get an audition when i graduated high school. they heard about what happened and decided to give me another audition thats set to take place next month.
“i wish you were here to hear it. i know how much you wanted to hear me play it.” my eyes begin to water. i hug my coat and scarf tighter to myself.
“julliard is giving me another chance and i’m going to play in honor of you.” a few tears fall down my cheeks.
i’m ripping another petal from the bouquet when i hear a voice come from behind me.
“y/n?”
i could recognize that voice anywhere. the voice of a stranger who had once been a friend.
i feel embarrassment arise in my chest. my cheeks blossoming into a shade of crimson, having been caught talking to a slab of stone.
i wipe the tears from my eyes and slowly turn around. my eyes meet the pair of soft, brown ones that belong to peter parker.
“peter?” my voice comes out almost like a whisper. if it weren’t for his heightened senses, he might’ve just barely missed it.
i haven’t seen peter since the night he came to my apartment to tell me the news about gwen.
that was over two years ago.
there never really was a reason as to why we never spoke again. maybe it’s because we really only ever hung out because of gwen, or when he needed to be patched up after a patrol.
not saying he wasn’t my friend. of course he was. but he’d only stick around because of gwen.
it stung.
after gwen’s death, the news about spider-man disappearing had come out. nobody had seen their neighborhood friendly spider-man for weeks. the crime rate in new york had gone up significantly and still, there was no sign of spider-man.
until once he did come back, he had become more violent. the spider-man we once knew had changed.
before the incident at the tower, spider-man wasn’t very known for having killed many people. not until after.
instead of leaving thieves webbed up to the wall like he used to, he would kill them. beat them to death with his bare hands. police no longer found webbed up bad guys. instead, they found dead bodies. no more leaving cute little notes or webbing up mouths shut. that was over.
eventually, spider-man had become the city’s number one enemy. the people of new york no longer felt safe around the masked vigilante. they now felt terror.
i couldn’t blame peter for using spider-man as an outlet. but it also hurt me to see him hurting. not just himself, but also others.
even after everything, i still didn’t have the courage to reach out to him.
because once upon a time, i was in love with peter parker.
i met peter in my sophomore year of high school. i’d see him skateboard from class to class. he’d photograph students for the school yearbook and he was a science nerd. a smart one at that.
so naturally, i had a crush on him. an innocent one at the time. it’s was a normal school girl crush.
i’d see him around but we never really spoke or even exchanged a glance towards each other.
not until gwen.
that same year, gwen met peter.
it was obvious peter was into her. and gwen was into him.
eventually, the three of us started hanging out together. gwen and peter got together and i had officially introduced myself to peter. he was sweet and caring and everything you’d ever want in a guy.
gwen was lucky.
but the more i got to know peter, the more i fell for him.
the first time i patched peter up and he had come to my place instead of gwen’s, i fully believed something happened between the two. maybe she was mad at him, or they’d broken up.
i hated that i had felt some sort of relief at the time.
the guilt gutted me from the inside out. i felt like i was betraying my best friend, stabbing her in the back.
i wanted gwen to be happy, and if peter made her happy, i had to accept he would never be mine. that he’d always be hers. and she’d always be his.
for for the rest of high school, i had to pretend to be happy around them. push my feelings aside so the feelings of others wouldn’t get hurt. i got hurt to make sure gwen was happy.
and in the end, she still ended up getting hurt.
after the night of gwen’s death. the night peter came to me over anyone else, the feelings i tried so hard to push aside came fluttering back. almost like they had never went away.
because they didn’t.
right now, as i look at peter, i can’t help but remember gwen.
see gwen.
he’s all i have left of her.
i can’t ruin it.
i stand up and dust off the dirt on my jeans. i look up at peter, who’s looking at me intently. while he stands there, i scan his outfit for a brief second. he looks the same. the same brown eyes and messy hair. his hair has grown a lot since graduation. he’s wearing a navy blue jacket and a pair of converse. typical peter parker stuff.
“wow.” he says, huffing out a soft laugh. “it’s been a while.”
“yeah.”
peter kicks a few small rocks on the ground, debris flying up. the rocks fall back on to the ground with a thud.
i’ve been trying to avoid this interaction for as long as i can remember. since the second he left my apartment that night.
i don’t know what to say, and neither does he.
“i was swinging by when i saw you walk in here. i thought i’d be nice to talk to you.”
nice?
yeah, right.
“look, peter.” i sigh. “i think it’s better if we don’t… y’know. do this.”
peter frowns. “do what?“
i gesture between us. “this. whatever this is. you don’t have to pretend to want to be my friend. gwen is gone. she won’t torment you if you don’t.” i begin to walk away, but a strong arm keeps me still.
“i’m not pretending.”
it’s quiet for a few moments before a look of realization washes over his face.
“you blame me, don’t you?”
i look down at my shoes.
of course i don’t blame peter.
i’ve never blamed peter for gwen’s death. although, if i’m being completely honest, i was angry at him for a while.
i know it wasn’t his fault. he wanted to save her. he tried to save her.
but that was back then. i was grieving. grief messes you up in ways nobody can describe.
but the only way to keep the feelings i have for him at bay, i have to act like i do.
pretend, pretend, pretend.
i’ve been doing it for long enough. i can handle a little while longer.
he shakes his head, a sign that i’ve hurt him.
“you could’ve told me.” i say, keeping up the facade. this act where i blame peter for the death of my best friend.
peter looks at me again. the sadness in his expression turning confused, but sour. “told you what?”
“that you were taking her out there. to the tower. i could’ve stopped her.”
his expression now becomes angry. “seriously? you think i took her out there on purpose?”
“then why didn’t you at least tell me she was out there? we both knew gwen. she was the most stubborn person on this fucking earth.”
the past tense seems to hit peter hard. “and what? let you die out there as well? there was no way out. if harry was after her, he would’ve been after you too.”
“harry?”
it’s been two whole years since my best friend died and i have yet to find out who murdered her. it was never revealed to the public. not even me. not even her family.
but it was revealed that the person who murdered gwen had apparently been caught.
apparently.
“harry osborn.”
i shake my head. “who the hell is harry osborn?”
“he was my best friend.”
a terrible realization dawns on me. not only did peter lose his girlfriend, but he also lost his best friend that night.
“your best friend killed gwen?”
i hadn’t expected to find this out today. i hadn’t expected to ever find out who killed gwen.
when peter doesn’t answer, my stomach twists and i begin to feel sick. faster than i can process, i run over to a tree and throw up behind it. my breakfast from this morning spilling all over the ground.
a hand coming from behind me pulls my hair away from my face, holding it in a messy ponytail. once i’m finished, i slump against the tree and hold my stomach. breathing in and out.
“are you okay?” peter asks softly. no matter how angry or upset peter might be at someone, he will always make sure they’re okay. no matter on their darkest days or his, he will always be there. it’s one of the things on my ever growing list of things i love about peter parker.
“i just wanna go home.” i avoid his gaze. “please.” tears well in my eyes, but i shake them away before he could see.
“i’ll walk you.”
the walk home is quiet. crickets chirp in the distance and the honking of car horns has gone down for the night. when we finally get close to my apartment, peter simply says, “he was never caught.”
“what?” i stop dead in my tracks and slowly turn to him. the sickness from earlier returns to my body and i use everything in me to hold it in.
“it was never true. they never caught harry. it was only said he was because they didn’t want the city to panic.”
anger floods my body. “why didn’t you tell me?” i huff out a bitter laugh before continuing. “actually, why didn’t you tell me anything? i’m one of the only two people on this planet who knows about your secret identity. well, technically now i’m the only person who knows about your identity.”
my voice is loud in the quiet night, but by the end, it slips into a whisper. “i was her best friend.” i get in his face as i say this. by now, tears are spilling down my cheeks so quickly i hadn’t even rendered i was crying. “don’t you think i have a right to know?”
peter turns away. “i didn’t want you to get hurt.”
“oh great plan, dumbass. i totally don’t seem hurt right now!” i say sarcastically. when my crying slows down, i turn to him and look him straight in the eyes. it almost scares me how close we are.
“were you ever going to tell me?”
peter is silent again.
“great.” i mumble. “goodnight, peter.” i turn on my heel and start walking up to my apartment. not glancing back even for a second.
as i’m walking up to the entrance of my apartment, i hear peter say, “i promise i’ll tell you everything.”
i don’t respond.
instead, i let the door slam shut.
*
next chapter
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perplexingly · 2 years
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After Chopin died in 1849, whether as a tribute or coincidentally, Liszt spent some time writing music in Chopin-esque genres, such as etudes and ballades, transcribed Chopin’s Polish songs on piano (”Six Chants Polonais”), and even wrote polonaises (”Polonaise mélancolique”), mazurkas (”mazurka brillante”) and of course nocturnes.
See, the nocturnes are very interesting, because it’s the genre Chopin popularized and became the most well known for. Liszt published a set of three nocturnes known as “Liebestraüme” in 1850, a year after Chopin’s death. They were originally conceived as lieder - songs with lyrics based on poems. I’d very much like to quote some fragments of these poems for you, as a little trivia.
The first nocturne is based on “Hohe Liebe” (“Exalted Love”) by Ludwig Uhland. (Full text)
Drunk, rest ye all in the arms of romance, Yon fruits of life do thee beckon and call; Though on me was cast but a single glance, Far richer still am I than all.
The second is based on “Seliger Tod” (“Blessed Death”) by Ludwig Uhman
I was dead from love's bliss; I lay buried in her arms; I was wakened by her kisses; I saw heaven in her eyes
And the last one is based on “O lieb, so lang du lieben kannst” (“Love as long as you can!”) by Ferdinand Freiligrath. Full text can be read on Wikipedia. It’s certainly the most interesting of the three as it seems to mirror Liszt and Chopin’s situation.
O love as long as love you can, O love as long as love you may, The time will come, the time will come When you will stand at the grave and mourn! Be sure that your heart burns, And holds and keeps love As long as another heart beats warmly With its love for you And if someone bares his soul to you Love him back as best you can Give his every hour joy, Let him pass none in sorrow!
Later on this poem talks about forgiveness, which in a way seems fitting knowing that Chopin and Liszt’s friendship subsided in the 1840s, though of course it might have been coincidental and the reasons for turning these particular poems into nocturnes only Liszt will ever know.
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Chopin's grave in the Père Lachaise Cemetery of Paris
French vintage postcard
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gasparodasalo · 1 year
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Frédéric Chopin (1810-49) - Piano Sonata No. 2 in b-flat minor, Op. 35, I. Grave - Doppio movimento. Performed by Janusz Olejniczak, 1849 Érard piano.
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deepsteaksnine · 5 days
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Rest in Peace Maurizio Pollini (January 5th 1942-March 23rd 2024)
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Born in Milan, Italy, it became apparent early on that Pollini was a gifted pianist. At 18 years old, he won the International Chopin Piano Competition in Warsaw, judged by, among others, Arthur Rubinstein. It is said that Rubinstein remarked, “That boy can play the piano better than any of us.”
Although most well known for his renditions of Chopin and modern composers such as Prokofiev, Pollini was also a left wing political activist. He publicly praised leftist revolutionaries, was vocally anti fascist, particularly with its resurgence during the Italian Years of Lead, and considered himself on the left, even if he questioned how some Italian leftists operated in the country. At one concert, while reading a declaration signed by himself and other Italian musicians against the US bombing of Hanoi, the audience became so agitated that he couldn’t finish the statement and the police arrived, shutting down the venue.
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vera-gemini · 9 months
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Piano Man
I have to finish my Paul/Kemmerich fanfiction, but here is a short text that I wrote while listening to Billy Joel’s song. I will publish it on AO3 later, I think. 
Basically, we’re in 1923, Albert Kropp is playing piano every Saturday night and he feels sad. 
On Saturday’s night, a motley crew invades the seedy bar where I play the piano. My part-time job, as I call it, pays well - for seven hours a week, I get all the booze that I want. If I’m feeling generous, I “buy” a round of drinks for everyone.  A young man sits beside me. The battle of Passchendaele claimed his left eye ; the right one, dark blue, follows every movement of my hands. He always drinks a glass of the cheapest, strongest liquor he can find. His left hand is also missing, and small scars cover a side of his face. I don’t know if he ever saw that I had a prosthetic leg. Maybe that’s why he always comes… Along with a few prostitutes, he’s part of the regulars. Some middle-aged men attempt to mix with the crowd, but their elegant costumes clash with the other’s outfits. They ask me to play joyful songs, and I obey. No Liszt, Mozart, or Chopin here ; only drinking songs. Sometimes, a man recognizes me : “We were in the Second Company together, comrade. Don’t you remember me ?” I nod and shake his hand.  As the night goes on, people gather around me and my old black piano. Regularly, a fight erupts in the room, but I never pay attention to it - now I’m used to that . The fellow with the single blue eye never leaves before the bar closes. I don’t mind his presence, especially when he’s alone with me, at two in the morning. This is when I close my eyes. Suddenly, eight men appear ; their faces gleam in the dim, reddish light. The oldest is forty years old, thin, with a blond mustache and piercing blue eyes. Our dear old Kat. He left his wife and his children to be with us, what an honor ! A young man, whose delicate beauty I have always admired, sits next to me. Franz Kemmerich is a good piano player too, even better than me. His shyness prevents him from taking my place, but maybe we will try a duet one night… His lover, Paul Bäumer, holds his hand, his bright eyes beaming with quiet joy. He is my best friend. Another fellow, a sardonic smile on his face, sits on a bar stool. Müller always has a book in his hand, because he appears smarter with it - or that’s what he says. The plump one, Behm, smiles at me before sitting next to Müller. How does he always look so youthful ? We seem older than our ages, with our wrinkled foreheads and our bent shoulders. The three others are accompanied. Leer, the dandy of the group, brings a different woman each week. I wonder where he finds them in our small town : I suspect a majority of them are already married. Then Haie Westhus, his freckled, kind face leaning towards his plump little fiancée. He was so proud to present her to us… The last one is slightly withdrawn from us, but he seems content to see us all there. Detering never leaves his wife’s side ; sometimes, they bring me a good piece of cheese or delicious cherries.  Haie waltzes clumsily with his fiancée, Paul begs Franz to do the same, and Leer is too occupied with his new romantic conquest to dance. The others are quietly watching me. I love them all.  They stay with me until the owner taps on my shoulder and says : “Albert, we’re closing. It’s time to go.” Then they turn into mist, and I’m alone with him and the strange young man. He’s asleep on his chair, his light brown hair hiding his scarred face from us. When he wakes up, he simply says to me “I… I like it when you play late at night.”  I smile at him. My friends have all returned to their nameless graves, and I feel even lonelier than before. 
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naotelier · 11 months
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「Composers Rkgk/Scribble Log #1 」
by Rozelnao (Nao)
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Context
So ..lately I’ve been drawing a lots of Composers artwork(more like rkgk/scribble ,I haven’t draw any full fledge illustration of composers ever since that Chopin ‘s Birthday art. But I plan to do one soon) ,which I mostly post on my twt account.
Today I scrolled through all of what I did so far and came up with an idea of making a compilation/log (as they often called this kind of stuff on pixiv) of these art on my Tumblr account in order to keep it active 🥲
Okay enough of my rambling, please enjoy ^^
//There will be a lot’s of robert schumann drawing since I just read his biography and that makes me want to draw him a lots
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Romantic Composers gang in Songkran Festival
Idk what makes me want to draw these guys celebrating my National Festival , but anyway it was fun to draw
Robert being cheery because he’s in his “Florestan(Extrovert)” mode
Mendy come along with Robert as a good friend he is.
Liszt being himself , got surrounded by the girls due to his popularity
Chopin supposedly being dragged to the festival by Liszt. He wants to go home so bad lol
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Robert Schumann ft. Nuigurumi Meme
My friend requested me to draw it..
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Don’t fight the Schumanns
Drawing based on that one “Which composers you should fight”post on this site.
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Robert Schumann💐
Draw this after I finished his Biography
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Franz Liszt w/ Oshi no ko eyes’s pattern
I have watched an anime called “Oshi no Ko” and I love the “Star” pattern in the Main character’s eyes so much. So I tried draw it (without much success….) with Liszt because who could have fit with the theme of “Superstar” or even the symbolism of shining “Talented” and “Brilliance” more than him ,right?
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Liszt Scribbled on Music sheet
I can’t help drawing something on it lol
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Everyone’s beloved Sad boi
Fredéric “Sad Boi” Chopin
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Schumann has obtained “A Mysterious Steel Pen!”
Based on an account in his biography where Schumann found a steel pen being placed on Beethoven’s grave in Vienna , so he took it and even uses it with some of his works.
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And That’s all for the first log ^^
I hope you enjoyed 👍
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chopinbabe · 11 months
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Visited Choppy in 2019 in Paris & Warsaw!!❤️🌹
1. Choppy’s grave in Paris🪦💐 🇫🇷
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I bought him some roses🌹 Hope he liked em😘❤️
2. The Chopin Musuem in Warsaw! 🏢😳🇵🇱
His beautiful left hand🤲🏻
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His portrait 😘 How is he so fine?😍
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His piano! 🎹 I..er…really wanna touch it🤭
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His handkerchief 🥵
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I bought his little bust and his hand cast!!!😍❤️
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3. Chopin’s heart in the Holy Cross Church! 🫀💒🇵🇱
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4. Chopin Monument in the Łazienki Park🗽
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I miss you everyday❤️‍🔥🥹
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petitmimosa · 5 months
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Sending you some virtual hugs. I feel you.
I read your post about Yuzu and his fans and I have that feeling for a long time. I really love Yuzu's skating but the constant downputting of other skaters is annoying as hell. Also constantly bringing up old stuff when Yuzu competed and hold it against skaters in current judging is completely nonsense. Now is now. I hate the victim card ppl play for Yuzu all the time even when he's not affected by any kind of scoring nonsense anymore.
I actually haven't seen the current debates, but I have seen enough and been attacked enough over the years to have an idea. I stopped following a lot of accounts a few years ago - before Beijing even - which lead me to missing information about Yuzu but it made me more at peace myself. I just follow those Fanyus who don't engage in hatred towards other skaters.
I know Yuzu is not at fault for his fans behavior and I feel very sad that their behavior tainted my love for Yuzu. 😭
Answer this as you like as private answer or not or also not answer it at all. I don't mind just here to tell you that you should do whatever feels best for you.
Hiii!
Thank you very much for taking the time to message me.
It's pretty much always the same, how dare they mention quad revolution without saying Yuzu was the one who launched it? (when even Yuzu himself in 2015 said he was inspired by Boyang bringing the 4lz to be stronger...). How dare they give a skater 9 in PCS when Yuzu had more artistry? .....What does that even mean?
It's the constant need to bring a skater down and compare them to Yuzu that I can't take anymore. It's even doing Yuzu a disservice because Fanyus don't have the greatest reputation out there and they're just digging and digging their already very deep grave.
I actually enjoyed Angers, scores aside because that'll never improve, and you can't even be happy for skaters without being reminded that YUZU DID IT WAY BETTER. What's the point? They believe ISU will erase his legacy by dictating what commentators say when they're actually the ones tarnishing it by bringing so much anger and pettiness into the mix.
They even went after Mark Henretty who's the most dedicated one we've had EVER because they weren't happy with a small thing he said last season.
So yeah, I'm at a point where I'd rather not know what Yuzu is doing (even here on Tumblr because it'll remind me that fstwi exists) than have to deal with their bitterness. The man is HAPPY, this need to avenge him is mute. They're on a crusade against the void and I wonder sometimes whether they'll it go at some point or will just continue because not getting what they want out of it will simply make their anger stronger.
"I feel very sad that their behavior tainted my love for Yuzu. 😭" this hit very hard because I'm fighting it like crazy, have been for the past year actually. When before it was anxious anticipation and nerves but joy, now I'm just dragging my feet.
And I think just maybe, having solid Yuzu material once a year doesn't help either, whether it's the fans trying to sty positive in this sea of negativity, or even them because they don't hve much to turn to. Don't get me wrong, GIFT and RE_PRAY are incredible and time consuming but once you've watched it 30 times then what? You go back to Chopin and Seimei and H&L... and you compare the skaters still active to these performances. The wheel never stops turning.
I'm rambling, sorryyy.
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nastywizard · 11 months
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Speaking of Alkan, I'd like to share the visit I had to his grave last summer.
La cimetiere Montmartre is, as you might expect, a glamorous final resting place. It houses some of the most fascinating who's-who of Parisian art history, including the eerie, copper plated face of Zola, the gaudy tomb of Dumas, and the pouting statue of Nijinsky as the eponymous Petrushka. Curiously, it also houses the pianist and composer Charles Valentin Alkan.
Alkan remains a favourite of mine for a number of reasons, having written some of the most interesting and challenging piano music out there, and for being an esoteric and eclectic character during his lifetime. Like Chopin, Alkan wrote music predominantly for the piano, expanding its capabilities by utilizing orchestral and chamber forms for the solo instrument. As a Jewish composer in late nineteenth-century France, Alkan wasn't afforded the luck that many of his gentile counterparts were handed, and he died in relative obscurity.
I knew he was buried in Montmartre, but it's a big place. When I arrived early in the morning, it was already getting close to 30 degrees, and the muggy smog blanketing the city made it even more difficult to make out some of the headstones.
I found all the hits quickly thanks to a map posted by the centre of the grounds, and as excited as I was to see the saxophone-shaped epitaph of Adolphe Sax, I was itching to find Alkan.
The security guard, in a great blow to her pride, did not know where he was buried. She suggested I look around the clusters of artists, especially in the Jewish quarter of the cemetery, but could not give me a definitive answer. I kept searching, unsure what I was looking for, and went row by row for about an hour in search for Alkan.
By the time I found his grave, the smog had cleared. So here he is, hours later, under a plain tombstone. A few stones were placed on the foot of his grave, and it seems that someone has been by to maintain the shallow lettering etched into its surface. It was easy to miss, but I think that made the search all the more rewarding.
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nanshe-of-nina · 5 months
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Halloween playlists:
[Playlist]
45 Grave — Evil
45 Grave — Partytime
Emilie Autumn — Dead Is the New Alive
Balzac — Inside My Eyes
The Birthday Massacre — Happy Birthday
The Birthday Massacre — Horror Show
Birthday Party — Release the Bats
The Brides — The Strange Passing of John Coal
The Brides — Whore Money
Bloody Hammers — Witch of Endor
Coven — The White Witch of Rose Hall
Creature Feature — The Greatest Show Unearthed
Creature Feature — Here Be Witches
The Cramps — Goo-Goo Muck
The Cramps — Surfin' Dead
Don Hinson & The Rigamorticians — Riboflavin-Flavored, Non-Carbonated, Polyunsaturated Blood
Einstürzende Neubauten — Ein Stuhl in der Hölle
HorrorPops — Where They Wander
HorrorPops — Walk Like a Zombie
Hamburger Brothers — Omar the Vampire
Inkubus Sukkubus — Belladonna & Aconite
Inkubus Sukkubus — Corn King
Inkubus Sukkubus — Song to Pan
Inkubus Sukkubus — Wytches
The Irish Rovers — The Banshee’s Cry
Jack Off Jill — Cinnamon Spider
Jack Off Jill — Witch Hunt
Killing Miranda — Burn Sinister
Mandragora Scream — Dark Lantern
Ministry — Everyday is Halloween
The Misfits — Die, Die My Darling
Mister Monster — I’ll Watch Them Die
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds — The Curse of Millhaven
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds — Red Right Hand
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds — Up Jumped the Devil
Richard O’Brien — Science Fiction Double Feature
The Ramones — Pet Sematary
Rasputina — Gingerbread Coffin
Shonen Knife — Devil House
Siouxsie and the Banshees — Spellbound
Skycycle — The Ghost Is Here
Skycycle — It’s Terror Time Again
Sopor Aeternus and the Ensemble of Shadows — The Inexperienced Spiral Traveler II
ThouShaltNot — The Haunted Phonograph
The Tiger Lilies — Start a Fire
Jill Tracy — Evil Night Together
Jill Tracy — The Fine Art of Poisoning
Traditional — Down in the Willow Garden
Traditional — Pretty Polly
Traditional — Twa Corbies
Traditional — The Lyke-Wake Dirge
Type O Negative — Black No. 1
Type O Negative — Wolf Moon
Vermilion Lies — Circus Apocalypse
Xmal Deutschland — Incubus Succubus II
Zombina and the Skeletones — Come On
Zombina and the Skeletones — Hey Weirdos
Zombina and the Skeletones — Island of Zombina
Zombina and the Skeletones — New Orleans Incident
Zombina and the Skeletones — You’d Scream If I Knew I Did Last Halloween
Instrumental: [Playlist]
Johann Sebastian Bach — Toccata and Fugue in D Minor
Béla Bartók — Music for Percussion, Strings and Celesta: III. Adagio
Hector Berlioz — Dream of a Witches’ Sabbath from “Symphonie fantastique”
Johannes Brahms — Hungarian Dance No. 5
Fryderyk Chopin — Piano Sonata No. 2 III: Marche funèbre: Lento
Coil — Main Title (unreleased Hellraiser Theme)
Philip Glass — Candyman theme
Gustav Holst — Neptune, the Mystic from “The Planets”
Gustav Holst — Saturn, Bringer of Old Age from “The Planets”
Gygory Ligeti — Requiem
In Slaughter Natives — Beauty and Bleeding
Franz Liszt — Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2
Franz Liszt — Totentanz
Lustmord and Robert Rich — Hidden Refuge
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart — Dies irae from “Requiem in D Minor”
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart — Lacrimosa from “Requiem in D Minor”
Midnight Syndicate — Born of the Night
Midnight Syndicate — Carousel Ride
Modest Mussorgsky — Night on Bald Mountain
Nox Arcana — Calliope
Nox Arcana — The Doll House
Nox Arcana — Haunted Carousel
Nox Arcana — Hall of the Witch Queen
Nox Arcana — Once Upon a Nightmare
Nox Arcana — Shock Treatment
Nox Arcana — Temple of the Black Pharaoh
Nox Arcana — The Witching Hour
Sergei Vasilyevich Rachmaninoff — Isle of the Dead
Camille Saint-Saëns — Danse Macabre
Michael Shields — Ginger Snaps Opening Theme
Igor Fyodorovich Stravinsky — Part I: The Adoration of the Earth from “The Rite of Spring”
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky — Swan Lake - 19 No. 10 Scène (moderato)
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crisaore · 1 year
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Il capriccio di Alice
La delicata mano di Alice spostò il pesante tendaggio che celava la finestra. La luce artificiale dei palazzi irradiò la sua esile figura avvolta da un dolcevita nero e dei fuseaux del medesimo colore, brillando sui sottili capelli raccolti con uno chignon. Gli occhi della donna sovrastavano la città, percorrevano le strade notturne i cui bagliori lampeggiavano riflessi nel nevischio, fino a fermarsi sulla ruota panoramica che regalava agli avventori una vista incantevole dei viali alberati brulicanti di gente. Sorseggiava un bicchiere di vino rosso che ne ammorbidiva e ovattava i pensieri. Lo sguardo non aveva indugiato a caso sul luna park. Raggiunta l’attrazione principale, si era ancorato come un’asse di legno intrappolata da un morsetto da falegname e non si era più schiodato. Tre anni prima, dopo un giro su quella giostra iniziò il calvario dal quale ancora non si era ripresa. Scese dalla pedana e senza alcuna avvisaglia svenne, nell’incredulità generale. Gli accertamenti che ne seguirono evidenziarono il contagio di un batterio molto aggressivo che ne fiaccò il fisico e la voglia di sorridere. Passò dall'essere una ballerina in tour nei migliori teatri del paese, al fare solo tappe negli ospedali debitamente bardata di mascherina. Fu in quel contesto, in una sala d’aspetto, che incontrò Buck, un uomo che aveva perso la vista in seguito a un grave incidente. «Capriccio n. 5 di Paganini. È raro sentirla come suoneria, dev’essere un’intenditrice» disse l’uomo dopo aver udito Alice terminare una telefonata. Lei sorrise. «Già, così come è raro che qualcuno la usi per attaccare bottone. Piacere, Alice. Lei?» «Buck. Mi perdoni se le sono sembrato indiscreto» ribatté imbarazzato. «Niente affatto. Sa, la musica mi estrania dal mondo, fa sbiadire i problemi e colora con tinte vivide solo ciò che ho di bello nella vita. Chopin, Paganini, Vivaldi mi fanno sognare. È bello poterne parlare a un altro amante del genere». Buck annuiva coinvolto: «Sono d’accordissimo con i suoi pensieri! La musica è quel balsamo che lenisce i malumori e li sostituisce con candore e serenità». Dopo quel primo scambio di battute, i due intavolarono un discorso condito di ricordi e melodie. Scoprirono che Alice aveva danzato in un teatro in cui Buck si era esibito e questo piccolo particolare costituì un punto di svolta. Prima dell’incidente, Buck aveva potuto ammirare quella donna e ne aveva ancora l’immagine impressa negli occhi. La grazia e la passione che emanava con le sue movenze l’avevano incantato. Lui però si sentiva solo un violinista qualunque di un’orchestra qualunque, mentre lei era un astro in ascesa, così non ebbe il coraggio di presentarsi. C’era molto di cui discorrere, così a quell’incontro fugace ne seguirono altri e contribuirono a creare armonia. Buck rispolverò il violino per allietare la sua musa e le promise che le avrebbe composto un pezzo per renderla immortale. Doveva essere una sinfonia su cui poteva sognarla danzare con l’abito viola, con cui la ricordava. Inizialmente Alice si comportò da mamma chioccia, prodiga di protezione per il suo pulcino, ma Buck le fece comprendere di aver bisogno solo che lei si sciogliesse come avrebbe fatto con chiunque altro. Questo permise loro di gustare ogni secondo insieme e la donna tirò fuori quella forza che giaceva sopita in lei. I fiocchi di neve cominciavano a cadere più numerosi. Alice guadagnò il divano continuando a sorseggiare vino. Ciondolava la testa a ritmo del 𝑪𝒂𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒄𝒊𝒐 𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒖𝒐𝒓𝒊 𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒂; l’ascoltava in loop. Buck ci era riuscito. Si percepiva l'amore per la musica, delizia per l’immaginaria danza di un’ex ballerina; il romanticismo dei dettagli evidente dal titolo, unione dei particolari dei loro primi due incontri; la malinconia di un uomo che stava morendo. Buck se n’era andato da un paio di mesi. In realtà gli ospedali li frequentava per una patologia che adagio adagio lo consumò. L’animo di Alice accusò il colpo e, come le sue gambe, non fu più in grado di sostenere il peso delle sofferenze. La donna finì per galleggiare sospesa, trafitta e allo stesso tempo cullata dalle note del violino. Annebbiata, posò il vino e si addormentò sul sofà affondando tra le lacrime e i rimpianti di ciò di cui, ancora una volta, la vita l’aveva privata.
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boom it's posted
A wife of noble character who can find? She is worth far more than rubies. Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value. ~ Proverbs 31:10-11
Edna Pontellier intended to never go back. She made her bed, dug her grave, and she's prepared to lie in it. She doesn't want to go back to the life she'd been living. She doesn't want to return to her family. She's bored of them, sick of them.
It's a cruel irony that she winds up on the beach.
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AKA: Chopin's ending for Edna's character is kind of funny. This totally could have happened. Not even gonna lie to you.
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tagging people who interacted with the original post and it sucks if you didn't want to be tagged you get this in your notifs anyway <3: @i-dont-know-nor-care-go-away @aroace-dadwinstan @everenvacker @icedoverdestiny @the-abandoned-schoolbus @k-cruz-writes @slutforfiction
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