#flower.txt

[devilmaytrans]

hi! am remaking with a new url ;;; um if u wanna follow it like this post and ill follow u probably!!!!

#flower.txt #its not rlly bc of anything other than i think i follow too many ppl and its not good for me

[flowerfluid]

When I think about political art, I think about Guernica, Spain. I still remember studying Picasso's Guernica in school.

Our art teacher-- kind of a demon woman, but for this one unit and this one unit alone, I respected her-- showed us Guernica. We turned to the relevant pages in our hardcover art history books, and we studied the image ourselves, and we read. It's been too long already for me to remember if we took turns reading aloud, or simply followed along while she did; but I remember something about the screaming horse's tongue. I remember it was described as a dagger, or dagger-like. It struck me immediately, though I'm not entirely sure why.

I was supposed to be reading more, learning about the Spanish Civil War and how it was the true beginning of WWII, about how Guernica was seen as a cultural symbol for all of Basque and attacked for supposedly being a bastion of the resistance, about the role Hitler and Nazi Germany played in the Spanish Civil War and about how Picasso unveiled the painting directly in front of the people responsible. About how many times it has been censored and covered up and attempted to be buried, and about how it instead became the world's most famous piece of anti-war art.

(Did you know a tapestry of it exists in the UN headquarters? In 2003, it was covered up as to be invisible in the background of press conferences regarding the Iraq war. If it hadn't been, the screaming, contorted figures of Guernica would have been behind the faces of the men arguing in favour of war on Iraq.)

Instead, enraptured, I pored over this miniature version of a mural named for a town I had never heard of. The horse with its dagger tongue, the ceiling lamp surveying like an eye. Those are the parts I remember most clearly. I remember feeling stunned, and a little ashamed; I had, previously, in my teenage rebellion against the popular and the mainstream (and against my teacher), written Picasso off as a pretentious hack. While his art usually doesn't personally speak to me much, I regret holding this opinion, and it shattered the minute I saw Guernica. The more I looked at it, the more disturbed I became.

Then we were told to close the books and look up at the projector display. We did, and were greeted by the grainy, sepia footage of tanks rolling through Tiananmen Square.

We were silent. We were usually a very talkative class; in that moment, you could have heard a pin drop. We watched him calmly walk in front of the tank. We watched the tank approach until it could've touched him; we watched it slow to a stop. I think I remember hearing someone exhale.

I don't quite recall all my teacher said on it; aside from a general historical context, all I remember is that any discussion or expression of the massacre-- particularly artistic-- was strictly prohibited in China. Her decision to show it to us, immediately after we'd just processed Guernica, is something I genuinely respect to this day.

We studied a few Chinese artists-- all of whom were activists, many of whom were performance artists. We turned our attention between Guernica and Tiananmen, between Pablo Picasso and Ai Weiwei. The similarities were striking. They were haunting.

This unit struck the deepest chord with me. Poring over Picasso's Guernica and reading about his grief and desperation to finish the painting (it took 35 days); watching a man stand in front of a tank and reading about the artists who risked their lives express their pain; as nothing else in my life has, these things hammered into the importance of artistic expression. The rawest and most honest of art comes from sheer, desperate passion; and usually, activism. Art about your world pours itself out of you with unimaginable urgency, a burning feeling that cannot possibly be ignored. Stifling, or even just putting off the need to express and create feels like suffocating.

(It's indescribable. Though I've just tried, even what I've said doesn't fully encompass the wave of emotion that is needing so desperately to do something about what you're seeing and feeling and thinking you feel like you'll explode.)

So we studied Guernica, and we each chose a piece of it to replicate as a cardboard sculpture. Despite having it as an elective, I was not an overly skilled artist, and though the horse is what caught me, I chose something simpler; the detached, ghostly head, hair trailing behind it, a look of confusion and horror on its face. She (my sculpture, I decided, would be a woman) would hang suspended inside a cardboard box, at once emerging and trapped. I remember my classmate silently drawing, with surgical perfection, the warped tears of the wailing mother's face.

Much of Guernica is metaphorical. To analyse it piece by piece, section by section is one thing; but to understand it you only need look at it as one image, one agonising cacophony of grief and chaos. Mangled shapes and illogical bodies, warped faces and overlapping lines. Guernica is a piece you feel more than visually understand. It is not meant to be seen coherently. It is not meant to be intellectually dissected. You see it, the twisted limbs and frantic linework, and you understand. To look closely is to see the heartbreaking, individual suffering, devoid of metaphor; the gored horse, the broken sword, the dismembered soldier; the wailing mother, holding her murdered child, who to this day I feel like I can hear. To look altogether is to see an atrocity.

I researched more about Guernica and Tiananmen myself. About the artistic protests that swept through China in the wake of the massacre, and the persecutions that followed. About the experimental bombs and incalculable death toll, because too many bodies were blown apart. About the waves of students peacefully standing in front of tanks and being gunned down. About the Nazi official seeing Guernica and asking, Did you do this? , and Picasso's simple reply of No, you did.

To say I love Guernica isn't accurate. How can anyone love something so violent? But it was the first piece of art that truly and deeply disturbed me, and therefore truly and deeply resonated with me. It holds a place in my heart quite unlike anything else I've experienced. Every part of it made me want to look away, shove it in the back of my psyche, forget what I'd seen. To a degree, I did; it was only recently I was reminded of the piece, in seeing Guernica's indescribably powerful, public display in support of Gaza, Palestine (audio warning). It brought everything flooding back, including that I wanted, in retrospect, to hate that painting. I wanted to hate it for the sheer volume and severity of everything it made me feel. I could not possibly bring myself to.

Today, Guernica and Tiananmen Square are forever linked in my memory. Regardless of my teacher's intentions, I cannot help thinking of one without the other. It makes me think of censorship, of how similarly the two events were received in the art world; and now, in 2023, it calls notice to how similar both are to the ongoing attempted genocide of Palestine and horrific assault on Gaza. I was already a self-described anarchist punk, and staunchly anti-war, but Guernica and the Tiananmen footage still managed to radicalise me in a way not much else has.

On my main blog, in the tags of the video I linked earlier, I said this: "Guernica and its history gives me much hope for Gaza, odd as that may sound. Guernica survived and restored her heart; so too will Gaza."

My point, overall, is this; to every artist right now, who feels like they aren't doing "enough": keep creating. Fuel that burning fire in your chest, and keep your chin up. Your work and your activism matters. You are raising awareness, you are forcing this into the public eye, and you are documenting what is already being suppressed and censored and lied about. You are changing the world and restoring the narrative, one piece at a time. The importance of what you do cannot be overstated. We are part of a terrifying future history, and your work is instrumental in maintaining the truth of it.

Don't lose hope.

Free Palestine.

#flower.txt #free palestine #free gaza #guernica #picasso #tiananmen #long post

[deer-in-headlights-stare]

holy shit its my tumblr 2 yr anniversary today

#flower.txt

[rosescarves]

#polls #flower.txt

[aromantic-dana-cardinal]

thinking about her (<- evie o'neill) again (<- never stopped thinking about her)

#flower.txt #the fandom is basically dead on here #but i need to express how much i love her okay #she takes up at least half my brain at any given moment #the diviners

[skulltula]

starting to feel like teaching isn't for me bc i just can't be the like. tough person who doesn't care if a "bad" kid cries like i don't really want to be that person...

#flower.txt

[autumn-kitten]

thinking about kh2 when Sora finally sees Riku and HIS TEARS and "Riku's here" and AAA I'm emotional that scene gets me every time

#soriku #kh2 #im emotional about these boys #flower.txt #was that my talking tag? who knows #still planning on making a new blog soon #just dont have the energy rn

[woohoolalo]

"blogs like this one” those r our shared mutuals, tumblr

#FHFXGFHSH #flower.txt #non sims

[deer-in-headlights-stare]

i haven't watched studio ghibli ever really so i wanna see some of the ' classics ' (or at least the ones ive heard a lot about)

#flower.txt #polls #set for 1 day bc this is happening on thursday hopefully

[deer-in-headlights-stare]

decorate my tree?

#flower.txt #＼(^-^)／

[deer-in-headlights-stare]

teehee:3

#flower.txt #giggling to myself in bed rn #ITS SO FUNNY #(picture found on pinterest - not mine)

[deer-in-headlights-stare]

url change !!

sapphos-scientist >>> deer-in-headlights-stare

#flower.txt

[aromantic-dana-cardinal]

annabel lee is like what if was a woman was silly. but then the murders

#flower.txt #annabel lee whitlock #annabel lee nevermore #attempted murder so far but still

[deer-in-headlights-stare]

wip introduction; ZOMBIE WIP

GENRE; dystopian, science fiction, a little bit of horror.

STATUS; first draft!

THEMES; grief, identity, what is too going too far for your work/what is the limit to playing god, revenge, unlearning cycles of abuse, friendship.

AESTHETIC; crumbling buildings, overgrown infrastructure, rotting from the inside out. abandoned train stations and dilapidated malls, flickering overhead lights illuminating bathroom wall grafifi - the only sign anyone were ever there at all.

**********

PLOT; a city separated from the rest of the world, protected from the things that lurk beyond its walls. Monstrous, deadly, blooming things. Four strangers looking to escape - or just on the wrong train, stumble on the secrets their city tried so hard to bury. All with different agendas and forced to travel together through an apocalyptic landscape, they weave through the web of lies that got them here, and the secrets they have yet to uncover.

MAIN CHARACTERS;

Elizabeth, goes by Liz. She/her. 19 years old. Grieving and looking for closure after her mother's death, she decides to leave the city that may have killed her mother - and might be coming after her next- for a while. Thrust into a role as the group's leader, she must decide how to protect the rest of the group. Biracial, aromantic, perpetually tired, book collector, has a QPP.

Rayneli, goes by Cricket. She/moth. 17 years old. The daughter of a very powerful (and power-hungry) man, she is expected to not only take his place when she is older, but gain more influence and fame. Moth accidently leaves the city and is biding time until moths father will surely save moth. Biracial, autistic, loves entomology and astronomy.

Rune. They/she. 17 years old. After spending most of their life learning from and living with the elite of their scientific city, they leave suddenly and (try to) disappear from those they had once admired. While looking for further escape from her guilt and grief,  she and the rest  of the group find something that shifts her grief into anger, to revenge. Nonbinary, can build anything from scraps, has never slept in their life, has SPD.

Asa. He/him. 15 years old. Searching for his missing sister and desperate to bring her home, he takes a risk and leaves the city to find her again. He is swept into a bigger plot and must decide where his loyalities truly lie. Disabled, cane/crutches user, aromantic, likes music and baking.

*********

Image ID: A college of nine small, square images against a dark green background. The center image is white with the text, "Not yet corpses. Still we rot". From the top left the image are: a flooded escalator, a train track surrounded by trees, a brightly-lit bridge surrounded by vines, a pale hand laying in muddy water, a dilapidated train track covered in moss, a rainy road lined in trees, an Ferris wheel overgrown with vines, and a phone booth in the dark, with bushes and trees nearby. End ID.

#flower.txt #[zombie wip] #liz #cricket #rune #asa #<- character and wip tags! #writeblr #writblr #wip intro #wip introduction

[devilmaytrans]

hi sorry for remaking Again but this is devilmaytrans. rb so i can find my mutuals.

#flower.txt #pls pray i dont get f.lagged again :/

[devilmaytrans]

WHAT DO U MEAN HIS NAME ISNT TRIGUN

#flower.txt #ANYWAY. HE STILL HAS A NEAT NAME BUT I THINK BEING CALLED 'TRIGUN' IS COOLER............