Elsie Hewitt
Descent from the Cross, panel from the former altarpiece of the chancel of Viseu Cathedral, circa 1501-1505. Vasco Fernandes, also called Grão Vasco (Portugese, 1475-1542).
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MARK YOUR CALENDARS NIMOYHEADS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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Monica Bellucci
Figure from unknown Deposition of Christ sculpture grouping, probably late 18th or early 19th century.
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wow i am really looking forward to having an income....... :|
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looking at rental listings mostly just for the hell of it but also a little bit seriously and
okay so am i crazy or are they listing estimated rent costs per month in the description? and if so am i being unreasonable to be pissed off at that bullshit?
because the listed price is an incredibly good deal for me (with potential roommate and job) but the price for December is literally almost double that and way overpriced especially with the market going the way it is. or is that like a security deposit thing.
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The Deposition
B H Fairchild
Dust storm, we thought, a brown swarm
plugging the lungs, or a locust-cloud,
but this was a collapse, a slow sinking
to deeper brown, and deeper still, like the sky
seen from inside a well as we are lowered down,
and the air twisting and tearing at itself.
But it was done. And the body hung there
like a butchered thing, naked and alone
in a sudden hush among the ravaged air.
The ankles first—slender, blood-caked,
pale in the sullen dark, legs broken
below the knees, blue bruises smouldering
to black. And the spikes. We tugged iron
from human flesh that dangled like limbs
not fully hacked from trees, nudged
the cross beam from side to side until
the sign that mocked him broke loose.
It took all three of us. We shouldered the body
to the ground, yanked nails from wrists
more delicate, it seemed, than a young girl’s
but now swollen, gnarled, black as burnt twigs.
The body, so heavy for such a small man,
was a knot of muscle, a batch of cuts
and scratches from the scourging, and down
the right side a clotted line of blood,
the sour posca clogging his ragged beard,
the eyes exploded to a stare that shot
through all of us and still speaks in my dreams:
I know who you are.
So, we began to wash
the body, wrenching the arms, now stiff
and twisted, to his sides, unbending
the ruined legs and sponging off the dirt
of the city, sweat, urine, shit—all the body
gives—from the body, laying it out straight
on a sheet of linen rank with perfumes
so that we could cradle it, haul it
to the tomb. The wind shouted.
The foul air thickened. I reached over
to close the eyes. I know who you are.
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