I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.
What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.
What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.
What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.
The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.
And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.
But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.
I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.
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Just saw a post about creating art and I want to share with y'all the project I've started.
I'm going to sew a life size, 1:1 ratio scale Enderman.
I've worked out all the calculations for the dimensions based off the information given by the the texture and data given by Minecraft.
He will be 290 cm (about 9'6") tall. His arms and legs are all 174 cm (about 5'8") long. The width of both arms and legs is 11.6 cm (about 4.57 inches).
I have all the calculations laid out as well as an estimation of the pattern layout. I'll reblog with the images as soon as I have my notebook handy.
It's going to be a very expensive and time consuming project but I'm really excited to do it :3
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Okay, okay. But when you get right down go it, Edmund is just one person. He's not the whole of humanity (or Narnia-anity, as the case may be) - he's just one guy who committed a crime and whose life is therefore forfeit. Aslan takes his place in a direct, one-to-one swap: guilty for innocent. In the process he atones for all sin, but Edmund's the one whose life is being directly saved. The executioner lets him go.
Guys. Edmund is Barabbas.
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if we are talking about the lost dream lover/daisy scenes from act 1 then we should talk about why those scenes were so good and why the loss of that storyline is so disappointing. because it's not just "oh those scenes looked better or whatever" it was a completely different character and storyline.
even though the companions pushed back way more and the whole narrative was telling you to resist the dream lover, it was somehow far more tempting. you were constantly tempted in dialogues to use your powers and if you did, you slowly started to lose yourself, the narrator said you could feel something slipping away, something you will never get back. You were giving yourself over to the fantasy, a mindflayer illusion
the game asked you during character creation "who do you dream of at night?" obviously meaning "what are you attracted to?" rather than just "you need a guardian. choose one." there is already a different implication there. I wonder how people interpret "guardian" if they don't know about the original dream lover. they might not even create someone they find tempting. a guardian sounds more like a mentor figure, rather than your ideal fantasy partner.
During early access the dream lover not only offered us power, they also showed us a tempting future where we are powerful and important and beloved and we are ruling the world. such universal temptations and desires. and we were resting on a peaceful field with the person of our dreams. it was peace in the dream world vs the real life struggle.
In the end it seemed obvious where this was leading... if you use the tadpole too much, you would have turned into a mindflayer. and whatever is left of your individuality and consciousness would have stayed in that fantasy world with your perfect fantasy partner. the mindflayer illusion forever trapped you. the song "Down by the River" was written about this fantasy dream lover. and what a banger and creative storyline this could have been. what a tragic ending! to just give up, lose yourself in the fantasy, the easy way out. choose this beautiful fantasy over the imperfect real world. and choose your perfect imaginary partner over the flawed real people, your companions. truly I mourn what an incredible storyline this could have been. It would have resonated with basically everyone.
and you would have been constantly tempted. to avoid this fate you would need to struggle constantly while the easy fantasy is dangling in front of your face with a zero difficulty ability check.
turning into a mindflayer wouldn't have been something you have the option to choose. and you can get cured no matter how much you indulged in the tadpole powers. lmao I kinda hate that there is no consequence for any of that now
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