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#deposition of Christ
fangledeities · 1 month
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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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tygerland · 2 months
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Master of the Saint Bartholomew Altarpiece The Deposition. 1505. Oil on oak wood panel: 75 × 47 cm (29 × 18 in).
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Der Abstieg vom Kreuz 1772 von Giovanni Domenico Tiepolo 
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lionofchaeronea · 1 year
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Deposition of Christ, Bronzino, between 1540 and 1545
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nimoy · 1 year
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MARK YOUR CALENDARS NIMOYHEADS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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missanthropicprinciple · 10 months
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rossodimarte · 2 years
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fangledeities · 6 months
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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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cithaerons · 2 years
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wow i am really looking forward to having an income....... :|
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hauntedpearl · 1 year
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i now have a bank account with a recurring deposit
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looking at rental listings mostly just for the hell of it but also a little bit seriously and
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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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ukdamo · 23 days
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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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If I had a nickel for every time I found out third hand that a family member who I thought I was close to decided to elope, I would have two nickels. Which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened twice
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