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theonceandfuturequeenoftarts · 13 days

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Prompt-ober 2023 – Mythology and chaste kiss

From the moment Harry first sees the block of marble, he knows what it’s meant to be. He gets it at a discount due to some flaws – not enough dark green striations to look intentional, too many to create a piece using only the pure white marble, a slight crack formed during transport from the quarry. None of them matter to Harry. Once he has it in place in his spartan studio, Harry works like a man possessed to bring his creation to life. His friends, well aware of how Harry gets when he’s sculpting, pop by to bring him food and drink and make him take breaks to sleep. He’s not sure what he’d do without them. Probably die from overwork and malnutrition. He’ll have to do something really nice for them once he’s finished his sculpture. It takes three months of solid, near round-the-clock work to chip the precious but unnecessary stone away from the form he can envision within. The time flies by. He knows he’s never seen the face he’s shaping before, but it seems so familiar to him. If he were to really think about it, he might be able to determine who he’d used as a reference for the chin or the nose or the lips. But looking at the features as they take form, he can’t imagine them any other way. He takes his time with the final polishing, ensuring the sheen and smoothness of the stone appears as perfect as he can make it. The sculpture’s skin almost glows – he’s gotten the translucent lustre just right. Harry stands back and takes in his finished work, removing his apron, pockets heavy with chisels, rasps and sanding paper, and dusting off his worn, ripped jeans. The figure is seated on an ornate throne, slouching the slightest bit and staring down its aquiline nose at some unseen supplicant. The face is beautiful, but there’s a cruelty to the arch of its brow and the twist of its full lips. Lush, wavy hair frames high cheekbones, leading down to a long neck and broad shoulders. The sculpture’s body is trim and firm, but the musculature isn’t overly defined. Seven dark green veins of varying sizes spiderweb across the figure’s torso and arms. Its feet are planted solidly on the plinth beneath it, arms loose but holding a sword across its lap – covered with carved, draping fabric for modesty, because Harry just couldn’t visualise the sculpture’s bits and, at a certain point, he'd felt decidedly perverted from his continued efforts to do so. He has always been told that his sculptures are full of vitality – that they look ready to step off their plinth and join the world of the living. But even he thinks he’s outdone himself this time. Harry decides to catch a few hours of sleep then give the sculpture one final go-over. Before he puts out the lights and leaves, he wanders over to stare at his creation, looking as an observer rather than the craftsman. He’d been so careful to touch the marble with his bare skin as little as possible, to prevent his skin oils from discolouring the stone. But, just this once, he allows himself to reach out and gently stroke the sculpture’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. Cold and smooth. When Hermione had last popped in to make sure he was eating enough, she’d looked at his sculpture, raised her eyebrows, then looked at Harry and asked if he’d finally carved himself a Galatea. Harry had huffed a laugh – people had been making those sorts of comments to him for years at this point – and asked Hermione about her work at the library. But now, as he rests his hand against the figure’s cheek, he wonders if she’d noticed something he hadn’t. He’ll miss this project more than any other, once it’s sent to the gallery that displays his work. He leans in closer and presses his lips, feather-light, against the figure’s lips, thinking maybe… But he’s no Pygmalion, and the sculpture remains marble beneath his touch. Laughing a little at his fanciful actions, Harry finishes closing up his studio for the day and goes to rest. ──⚝── Hours later, with dawn’s first light illuminating the airborne dust in the studio and no one around to see, a marble finger twitches.

Part two can be read here.

#tomarrymort #harry potter #sculptor!harry #tom riddle #harrygmalion and galatom #harry gets his chisel all over tom's inanimate business

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artparks-sculpture · 9 months

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A sculpture titled 'Spirit of Freedom (Dancing Nude Girl sculpture)' by sculptor Martin Hayward-Harris. In a medium of bronze and in an edition of 3/9.

#artist #sculpture #sculptor #art #fineart #Martin Hayward-Harris #Bronze #metal #limited edition

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rabbitcruiser · 4 months

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Harry Edward Stinson was born in Wayland, Iowa on January 3, 1898.

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aidendh · 7 months

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Miraculous Tikki AU

(Story part 2)

-:Kwamibuster:-

Tikki and Chat Noir still loose their Kwamis but they hide and regroup

They both meet up a Fu's and are each offered a Miraculous

Aiden considers the Fox but then he has an idea

"Is it possible to use the Mouse's Multiply on the Horse?"-AH

Fu then tells the two about Unification

Aiden uses the Mouse and Horse unified as Mulalki

Adrien picks the Bee and Aiden gets him to hold the Fox (for Trixx only)

Mulalki uses Multitude to hide in Trixx, then he gets captured by the Akuma

Jaune Bee, Adrien, uses Venom on Kwamibuster

Mulalki then uses Voyage to get the Kwamis out

Then Jaune Bee renounces Trixx and Unifys with Plagg, becoming Jaune Chat

Mulalki, after undoing Multitude, divides Mullo and Unifys with Tikki, Kalikki

Jaune Chat then uses Cataclysm on the Akumatized item and Kalikki purifys the Akuma

Aiden and Adrien meet back at Fu's and they both collapse on his floor in exhaustion, Aiden passes out

Post-Kwamibuster, Aiden gives Adrien the nickname Bea

-:Style Queen:-

After Adrien is glittered, Plagg goes to find Aiden who isn't at the show

Tikki plans to let Plagg use Cataclysm, but is discouraged by Fu

He chooses to get a Temp for the Bee instead

He still chooses Alya, but fails and drops the Miraculous

Tikki's Lucky Charm is still glue

He destracts Style Queen with a glue covered Yo-Yo while Plagg Cataclysms the force field around Adrien and brakes the Rose

He spends awhile trying the find the missing Miraculous after the battle, only to think it was taking back with Miraculous Cure

In Reflector Doll, Aiden still has his Miraculous and looks after Plagg and the Ring for Adrien

-:Chat Blanc/→/Sculptor:-

Instead of Chat Noir, Tikki would be Akumatized into Sculptor with the power to turn people and creatures into porcelain dolls

Sculptor just wants to fix everything by making it 'perfect' and peaceful like a Dollhouse

Bunnix has to get Adrien to borrow the Ladybug Miraculous

Adrien borrows it from Aiden, but gives him Plagg so he isn't lonely

Mister Bug first trys to reason with Sculptor, but ends up fighting when trying to find the item

Sculptor instinctively puppets his Alix as a blockade

After awhile, Mister Bug finds out they're Tikki/Aiden

During an unknown showdown against Hawkmoth, Hawkmoth doesn't know Chat Noir's identity, so he goes for Tikki after remembering his insecurity of being a burden

The Akuma sneaks up on him and into Tikki's Earrings

"TKKI!"-CN

Tikki would grunt whilst covering his ears

Hawkmoth says about helping him create a perfect world without heroes and villains, a world where everyone is safe

Tikki struggles for a bit, but falls to his knees as his will slips away into Akumitization

Hawkmoth and Chat Noir both try to convince him to help their side and 'do the right thing'

He struggles with both urges to do what 'feels right' as moral and influenced

He ends up getting over whelmed and clenches fists at his side which build up with white energy

He ends up yelling "SHUT UP!" and juts his hands out in each of their directions

It turns both Hawkmoth and Chat Noir into life sized Porcelain Dolls

After awhile, he accidentally bumps into Natalie, turning her into one as well

After a freak out and some bordem, he ends up realizing he can pose them

He decides to remove their Miraculouses to rid them of their duty

After processing Gabriel Agreste, he poses them all into a loving family in the house

He decides to give into his Akuma urge and proceeds to 'perfect' all of Paris into a peaceful landscape

He stashes away the Miracle Box, with the Black Cat and Butterfly inside, after turning Fu and Wayzz into Porcelain Dolls

He eventually finds Emilie and adds her to the Agreste family

It still causes the paradox, as Sculptor managed to get his Alix as well

After hearing Sculptor talk about wanting to prevent other Heroes and Villains by hiding the Miraculouses, Mister Bug realizes that he needs a Cataclysm to destroy the item, and heads off to find the stashed away Miracle Box

Mister Bug searches for the Miracle Box and after finding it, he is surprised to find the Butterfly Miraculous and uses it to relinquish Sculptor's Akuma

Mister Bug is then brought back to the present, resulting is a loop from finding out Hawkmoth's hideout

#aiden's aus #oc #miraculous ladybug #ml #ml tikki au #aiden harris #tikki #jaune bee #mulalki #jaune chat #ladybug miraculous #bee miraculous #black cat miraculous #mouse miraculous #horse miraculous #kalikki #sculptor #akuma

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neechees · 13 days

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Historical Indigenous Women & Figures [6]:

Queen Nanny: the leader of the 18th century Maroon community in Jamaica, she led multiple battles in guerrilla war against the British, which included freeing slaves, and raiding plantations, and then later founding the community Nanny Town. There are multiple accounts of Queen Nanny's origins, one claiming that she was of the Akan people from Ghana and escaped slavery before starting rebellions, and others that she was a free person and moved to the Blue Mountains with a community of Taino. Regardless, Queen Nanny solidified her influence among the Indigenous People of Jamaica, and is featured on a Jamaican bank note. Karimeh Abboud: Born in Bethlehem, Palestine, Karimeh Abboud became interested in photography in 1913 after recieving a camera for her 17th birthday from her Father. Her prestige in professional photography rapidly grew and became high demand, being described as one of the "first female photographers of the Arab World", and in 1924 she described herself as "the only National Photographer". Georgia Harris: Born to a family of traditional Catawba potters, Harris took up pottery herself, and is credited with preserving traditional Catawba pottery methods due to refusing to use more tourist friendly forms in her work, despite the traditional method being much more labour intensive. Harris spent the rest of her life preserving and passing on the traditional ways of pottery, and was a recipient of a 1997 National Heritage Fellowship awarded by the National Endowment for the Arts, which is the highest honor in the folk and traditional arts in the United States. Nozugum: known as a folk hero of the Uyghur people, Nozugum was a historical figure in 19th century Kashgar, who joined an uprising and killed her captor before running away. While she was eventually killed after escaping, her story remains a treasured one amongst the Uyghur. Pampenum: a Sachem of the Wangunk people in what is now called Pennsylvania, Pampenum gained ownership of her mother's land, who had previously intended to sell it to settlers. Not sharing the same plans as her mother, Pampenum attempted to keep these lands in Native control by using the colonial court system to her advantage, including forbidding her descendants from selling the land, and naming the wife of the Mohegan sachem Mahomet I as her heir. Despite that these lands were later sold, Pampenum's efforts did not go unnoticed. Christine Quintasket: also known as "Humishima", "Mourning Dove", Quintasket was a Sylix author who is credited as being one of the first female Native American authors to write a novel featuring a female protagonist. She used her Sylix name, Humishima, as a pen name, and was inspired to become an author after reading a racist portrayal of Native Americans, & wished to refute this derogatory portrayal. Later in life, she also became active in politics, and helped her tribe to gain money that was owed them. Rita Pitka Blumenstein: an Alaskan Yup'ik woman who's healing career started at four years old, as she was trained in traditional healing by her grandmother, and then later she became the first certified traditional doctor in Alaska and worked for the Alaska Native Tribal Health Consortium. She later passed on her knowledge to her own daughters. February 17th is known as Rita Pitka Blumenstein day in Alaska, and in 2009 she was one of 50 women inducted into the inaugural class of the Alaska Women's Hall of Fame Olivia Ward Bush-Banks: a mixed race woman of African American and Montaukett heritage, Banks was a well known author who was a regular contributor to the the first magazine that covered Black American culture, and wrote a column for a New York publication. She wrote of both Native American, and Black American topics and issues, and helped sculptor Richmond Barthé and writer Langston Hughes get their starts during the Harlem Renaissance. She is also credited with preserving Montaukett language and folklore due to her writing in her early career.

part [1], [2], [3], [4], [5] Transphobes & any other bigots need not reblog and are not welcome on my posts.

#native american #indigenous #women #historyedit #history #ndnedit #historicaledit #gifedit #justin's edits

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sowoyp · 5 months

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paraluman (muse)

this piece is for drarryfest on twt!! 🫶

prompt: df086

harry is a sculptor in ancient greece, plagued with dreams of a blond man. he spends day and night creating sculptures of marble depicting the man of his dreams and prays fervently to lady aphrodite for the ability to see the man in real life, as he has fallen in love with him through his dreams. one day, he is so overcome with wonder for his own creation that he kisses it tenderly, and underneath his lips the statue comes to life.

#art #hpdm #drarry #drarry fanart #draco malfoy #harry potter #hp fanart #hp art #digital art #pygmalion and galatea #drarry fest

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ltwilliammowett · 2 months

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It is Ship's cat sunday and here is a pic of stowaway Perce Blackborow on Shackleton's Endurance with Mrs. Chippy, the ship's cat, before 1915

More about Chippy below

The tabby domestic cat had been brought on board by Harry McNish, the ship's carpenter known as "Chippy", and was given her name before it was discovered that she was a male. Mrs Chippy is described as a handsome, affectionate and good-natured cat. He proved to be a good catcher of mice and rats and was a favourite among the crew. The men were amused by the way Mrs Chippy seemed to enjoy strutting across the roofs of the kennels, always just out of reach of the rampaging dogs. What's more, the cat's climbing skills, even in the roughest seas, earned him respect. At the beginning of the voyage, on 13 September 1914, Mrs Chippy jumped through a porthole and fell into the sea. The officer on watch, Huberht Hudson (1886-1942), turned the ship around and had the cat brought back on board with the fishing net of biologist Robert Clark (1882-1950).

When the Endurance, which had already been trapped by pack ice in January 1915, could no longer withstand the pressure and sank at the end of October, Shackleton ordered all animals of no concrete use - three puppies, the sled dog Sirius, who could not be harnessed like the others, and Mrs Chippy - to be shot. In his book South, he later quoted his diary, saying that under the new circumstances they could not have afforded to feed "weaklings". The captain of the Endurance, Frank Worsley, defended Shackleton's decision in 1931 by pointing out that the cat would have been eaten by the dogs without the protection of the ship. In the case of Mrs Chippy and the puppies, it fell to Second Officer Thomas Crean to carry out the sentence.

Harry McNish never forgave the expedition leader. His resentment led to growing tensions between the two men, which one day culminated in an attempt by McNish to openly disobey orders. Although as a carpenter he undoubtedly played an important part in the successful rescue of the entire crew of the Endurance, he was one of the few who were not honoured with the Polar Medal for "disloyalty". He died in Wellington, New Zealand, in 1930 and was given a pauper's burial in the Karori Cemetery there. It was not until 1959 that the New Zealand Antarctic Society donated a gravestone to the veteran. In 2004, the society commissioned sculptor Chris Elliott to create a life-size bronze sculpture of Mrs Chippy, which has adorned McNish's grave ever since.

#naval history #ship's cat #mrs. chippy #endurance #ernest shackleton #early 20th century #age of steam

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purplekiwis · 1 year

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You've got a new professor, and an obsession with his hands...

Genre: Sculptor!Harry | Professor!Harry x Student!Y/N

Warnings: +18 (smut... but not yet)

Wordcount: 3.7k

A/N: i'm not the best at photomontages so please don't roast me, I tried 😅

THIS IS A MULTI-PART SERIES. YOU CAN CHECK THE SERIES MASTERPOST : HERE AND PART 2 HERE

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Hands.

His were artful,

Perhaps even an art form in and of themselves: smooth, veiny, with steady joints and capable and patient fingertips.

The hands of a craftsman - suitable for creating planets, galaxies, and even entire universes if they so desired. Both harsh and gentle, they tore, kneaded, and poked… only to stroke softly in the end.

The hands of a lover,

Those were my ceramics professor’s hands.

I bit the hidden part of my lip as I watched them move with conviction. Across the slickness, bare and sticky as they pried deeper and deeper, widening as they went and doing as they pleased.

I felt the urge to push my thighs together as I seemingly always did whenever my professor came closer, but I couldn’t because of the potter's wheel blocking my way - the one where he was fixing the crooked clay pot I had tried to make. “Next time, try using a little less water, okay? Your clay has gotten too soft… that’s why you're having trouble getting it even.”

“So less water than this time, but more than last time?” My struggle to get it right made me feel a little embarrassed, but I wanted him to know that I was listening and trying my best. He nodded in response to my question. “Okay, um- I'll try to do it correctly next time. Thanks for resurrecting my project and making it right again.”

My professor smiled warmly at me, noticing I was becoming discouraged by making so many mistakes. “No worries, I’m happy to help.” I watched him as he stood up, washed his hands in my water bowl and dried them on the rag he kept in his pottery apron. “Don't be afraid to muck around with what I've made. You're supposed to take it apart and rebuild it.”

“If I touch it, I'll ruin it and you'll need to come back for assistance again.”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he shook his head. “I don't want you worrying about that. That’s why I’m here, to fix up your messes.” He sat on the stool next to me again for a moment, and when he spoke, he kept his voice low. “I want you to take it less seriously. Have fun with it — work it ‘til your wreck it. Don’t beat yourself up about it. That’s common blunder for someone who’s starting. We’ve all been there.”

“Thanks,” I smiled a little more assuredly. “I'll try to keep that in mind.”

He smiled back as he stood up from the stool. “No problem, just ask if you need anything.”

While I wasn’t sure how I got into the habit of fantasizing about my professor's hands, I did know how I ended up in his class.

I was a Product Design student.

Frankly, only because I didn’t have the grades to enroll in Interior Design like I’d always aspired to. Product Design was the second-best option that would still give me a chance of breaking into the field if I chose my classes wisely.

In order to achieve that goal, I had been planning to take a class on inclusive design this year. However, as I was about to submit my application, my computer crashed, forcing me to reenter all of my information again. Because of this, by the time I made it back to the page, most of the students had already chosen, leaving only statistical literacy and ceramics as open options.

None of those options had even the slightest appeal to me, which naturally made me incredibly frustrated at the time but, at least the choice was clear between them. Anything with the word statistics in it sounded absolutely dreadful and combining it with the word literacy somehow made it sound even worse… so I chose ceramics, despite the fact that I had never tried my hand at it.

That was why I was now behind all of my classmates, which didn't make me feel great, even though no one had made me feel inferior about my lack of skill yet… not even our professor. He was very sweet and attentive, without always being on top of me, which I appreciated. He gave me the freedom to try things on my own, but as soon as he noticed my eyes searching for him, he'd come over to check things out and lend a helping hand.

This wasn't always a positive thing because sometimes the only reason I was looking was because I couldn’t take my eyes off him. It wasn't just his hands that I kept staring at; I found him captivating in all aspects.

His hair was cool. I liked how he kept it in a messy bun and tucked flyaways behind his ears when they landed on his face. He dressed really cute too, I thought — creative yet casual, and the stubble he occasionally sported when he neglected to shave was sexy as hell.

I wasn’t fully aware of his age, but he couldn't have been much older than me when he had finished his Ph.D. in Fine Arts the previous year. In the rumor mill, he had been invited to teach shortly after earning his degree due to his extraordinary talent for clay sculpting, that had made him stand out at our university ever since he started studying there.

He hadn't shown much of his personal work outside of what he did during his school years, but I had heard through the grapevine that erotic themes were his specialty. Another thing I had heard was that because he made art under a pseudonym that he kept as a secret from most people, his work was very difficult to find online.

That bothered me a little because I was interested and wanted to see it, especially after learning that pleasure was the subject he enjoyed exploring the most. Among my classmates, I knew some made jokes about him being a pervert who had only wanted to come teach to score with the female students. My gut told me that wasn't the case, and I was miffed by those people who couldn’t comprehend that someone could find sex fascinating enough to want to depict it in most of their art without being sleazy. Fortunately, I wasn't one of them. I found sex to be an intriguing topic as well… I enjoyed having it, looking at it, and having thoughtful conversations about it.

“Professor,” I called as we finished class. I was still sat by my wheel, while everyone was cleaning and washing up. Being completely honest, I wanted to leave as well… but I made myself stay so I could make my pot look more presentable. “If you're leaving, could you please leave the room key with me? I was planning to stay a little longer.”

He seemed surprised that I wanted to stay.

I noticed his gaze fall on the collapsing walls of my pot as he handed me the key, but he was merciful enough not to comment. “Feel free to stay as long as you like. I'm taking a coffee break, but I'll be back as well.”

Finding that my professor was coming back made the prospect of staying more enticing. I wasn't expecting a lot of interaction with him, though… I didn't want to be a bother, so I would avoid requesting his assistance. It was already embarrassing enough to ask for it in class, even if he kept assuring me it was perfectly okay to do so…

Professor Harry returned to the classroom after about 10 minutes, seeming happy to find me still there. As he walked inside, he cracked a lighthearted joke about how surprised he was that I hadn't destroyed anything yet. I snorted a laugh and said that I was surprised too.

I observed him carefully as he re-tied his apron around his waist. It seemed like everything the man did attracted me. The way his triceps flexed with movement, the contours of his back, the ease with which his fingers tied the knot. None of these things escaped my attention.

“Would it be okay if I turned on some music?” Due to my dry mouth, it took me longer than it should have to answer his question. “I'm not a big fan of working in silence, but it’s okay if you are…”

“Oh, please, go ahead.” I was finally able to react, but my voice came out weird. “I don't particularly enjoy working in silence either...”

My professor smiled, then walked over to his desk and sat down at his laptop. “Have you got any special requests?”

I pretended to contemplate for a moment, but I didn't want to be the one picking the music. I wanted him to choose because I was nervous about accidentally having him listen to something he didn't like… and I was also curious about his musical tastes. “Not really, no. I'm not picky. I like most music.” That part was true, but he seemed skeptical. “Just pretend I'm not here and play whatever music you normally listen to.”

The look on his face was still skeptical, but he agreed. “Okay, I will. Just let me know if you don't like it so I can switch to something you like best.”

He put on Woodkid's Warm Core album and looked at me to see if I was keen on the choice. “This is cool. I like it.” It was the kind of alternative music I anticipated he would listen to, being an artist and all, and it made me happy because I also liked it.

“Alright, good. If at any point you decide that you no longer like it, feel free to request a change.” I was getting a little hot over how much he was focusing on making sure I liked his music. I’d always had this conviction that one of the ways to tell if a guy is good in bed is to look for signs that he is considerate and eager to please – and already, my professor was scoring points in that department. I glanced at him, and I believe he noticed because he asked, “Is there anything you need help with, or should I just let you do your thing and keep to myself?”

“Um…” I stammered, returning my attention to the horrible looking pot I was working on. I had been right the first time. I shouldn't have touched it after he fixed it for me. “I'm holding up for now. Thanks, professor.”

He smiled at me. “You can leave out the “professor” when we're outside of class. That term is still settling in for me… it's a bit off-putting to be addressed that way when I was also a student here just a year ago - especially when I can't be that much older than you, right?”

I joined him in his smile. “Yeah, I get what you mean. I suppose it's not weird for me because I don't remember seeing you at school last year. How old are you, though, just out of curiosity?”

“I’m 27, you?”

“Wow, you’re really old...” He wasn’t, really… especially since I had assumed he would be in his thirties, given that he was a professor and all. I snorted when he side-eyed me from across the room, where he’d been tidying up and organizing the equipment the students had left behind. “I was just kidding. I'm 22, so...”

His brows furrowed slightly in response to my reveal. “So you're a little older than the rest of the class. Makes sense, you seem a bit more grown-up in comparison to them.” I took that as a compliment because, while my classmates weren't much younger than me – they had to be around 19 – some still acted like teenagers in many ways. “Also, since you mentioned not seeing me at school last year… that’s because I went abroad for a few months to study, and then I had to wrap up my thesis, so I didn't come very often.”

“Oh, that's cool. Where did you go?”

“Norway, to Oslo more specifically. It's a city I think everyone should visit if they ever get the chance to. I had a wonderful time there.” He turned his head away from what he was doing to look at me. “Have you ever thought about going abroad for school?”

“I've thought about it, but I don’t know. It doesn't really call to me right now, to be honest... maybe next year.” I was really interested in hearing more about Harry's experience in Norway, so I shifted the focus of the conversation back to that. “What was the best part of it for you?”

I could tell he was excited to talk about it, as evidenced by the sparkle in his eye. “A difficult question, that. I loved the landscapes and food there, as well as the people. Oslo’s a beautiful city, and it has an amazing art scene that's definitely worth exploring.” He paused for a moment, laughed, and then spoke again, “But I guess I should say that meeting Astrid, my girlfriend, was probably the best part.”

“Wow, that's... something.” Something I'd rather he didn't have, I thought to myself despite my amenable expression. “Has she traveled all the way here with you?”

“Oh no, she stayed in Oslo. We've been doing long-distance and stuff… it isn't always easy, but we make it work.” I could tell by the look on his face that he had somewhat regretted sharing that with me. “Anyway, you should give the studying abroad thing some more thought... you seem like someone who would enjoy that kind of thing. You give off a good vibe.”

“Ha, thanks... so do you. I really like your style.”

I saw his cheeks flush at my compliment. “I don’t put a lot of thought into my clothes, to be honest. Most of the time, I just throw on whatever.”

“Well, it works, so...” Seeing me shrug, he smiled, but said nothing further. I figured the conversation was over and got back to my work. Harry did the same thing; except he was no longer cleaning up and was instead using his laptop. Even though I stayed another hour, he didn't leave until I did, which made me feel bad because it made me wonder if he had stayed on purpose to be there in case I needed anything. “Do you usually stay here until this late?” I inquired as he closed the classroom door.

“Um… it depends, sometimes I do, but if you weren't here I would’ve probably left earlier.”

His confession caused a small contraction in my heart. I now regretted staying for so long, especially since I had spent some of that time merely acting as though I was working. “Oh, I'm so sorry. You didn’t have to do that. I would have been fine by myself. I just wanted to practice.”

“Oh no, don't get me wrong. I stayed longer because I wanted to. I live alone, so… I am by myself a lot. It was nice to have company for a change.”

“Ah, I see...” That was something I hadn’t considered before, but it made sense. Most of Harry’s university friends were probably no longer around, or if they were, perhaps he'd lost touch with them after going away for so many months. That had happened to me with my high school friends, so I knew how it felt. “I was actually planning on doing this more frequently to see if I could improve my pottery skills, so… you're welcome to keep me company if that's something you'd like to do.”

He acknowledged my invitation with a courteous smile. “Ah, thanks. I appreciate that.” When he didn't respond right away, I assumed he wasn't interested, which made me feel stupid for having suggested it. Why would he want to spend time with a student five years his junior? He was probably cringing at the thought. That was what I was assuming, until he started speaking again after a pause. “I reckon as long as you really don't mind me being around, that could be something that works for me.”

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Over the course of a couple of weeks, it became a habit for me and Harry to spend time together after class. Most times, more than once a week. The days when I didn’t have class until late, I would wander to the atelier after his class and spend the next few hours there. It was really easy to get along despite our slight age difference.

I didn't know Harry well enough to say that we had a lot in common, but we just clicked really well. Having a conversation with him was easy, and his presence was warm and reassuring.

We would sometimes work separately, but Harry had taken it upon himself to teach me the things I had been falling behind on. He taught me how to use a kiln to fire and glaze pottery, as well as a bunch of different building and decorating techniques. I liked the last one most because he got to sit next to me and help me paint and texturize. I was really proud of a mug we had made together. Harry had commented that the wavy handle I had made for it looked like the tail of a fish when we put it in, so we went on to decorate the rest of the mug to fit that concept.

“You’re a good painter…” He complimented me as I painted the fish’s fins. I wrinkled my nose at him. Painting had always been a fun activity for me, but I had never considered myself good at it. Harry, on the other hand, was a true artist, thanks to his Fine Arts training and skillful hands…

I looked at the fin I'd drawn and noticed that it was unmistakably more unsightly than the one on the picture I was taking inspiration from. Harry couldn't possibly believe I was talented as a painter. He was just trying to say something nice.

“What? I'm serious…” He assured me, appearing a little surprised by my doubtful demeanor. “And you have a great eye for color too.”

“Hmm, I find that last one is a little more believable; I'll take it.” I said before returning to straightening out my wonkiest brush strokes. I'd spent enough time designing pretty rooms in Intericad Lite to feel reasonably confident on my ability to mix and match colors so, accepting that compliment wasn't too difficult. Besides that isn’t really a talent, is it? It's something a lot of people have.

“Hey,” Harry’s voice drew my attention back to him. “I meant both of the things I said. I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t.”

The seriousness I was met with when I looked into Harry's eyes made me feel emotional and flustered at the same time. “Thanks,” I smiled a little before looking down at my mug. “I think I haven't gotten a compliment on my painting skills since I was a little kid…”

“You used to get compliments on it when you were little?”

“Sometimes, yeah… mainly from teachers because I always colored inside the lines.”

“I think it's really unfortunate that we stop getting compliments as we get older… I can't really complain because I've been lucky to grow up in a supportive environment, but I know that after a certain point in most people’s lives criticism becomes the norm, while praise for rightdoing is never given.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” I grabbed another brush and continued to color my mug because the topic we were discussing was now making me feel like I might actually start crying if I didn't keep my emotions under control, and I didn’t want Harry to see that. “My parents were never particularly supportive of me or my interests, so I haven’t felt much of a difference as I grew older… I think that’s why I find it a bit difficult to accept people’s compliments nowadays, though. I tend to doubt myself and others a lot.”

“I’m not gonna lie, I had a hunch that was the case with you.” Harry’s statement surprised me a bit. I knew professors could usually read their students well, but I wasn't aware of how see-through I was. “When we first started class, I was a little nervous because I could tell that you were lost at times and could use some help, but I wasn't sure of how to approach you. I was afraid that if I made it known that I could tell you were struggling, you would withdraw even further. I didn’t want that. I wanted you to feel comfortable and know that I wouldn't judge you.”

“You never made me feel uncomfortable… I just felt embarrassed to ask for help because everyone in your class comes from an arts background and knows more than me. I didn't want you to think I was dumb or that I was wasting your time with questions that I should have known the answers to.”

“You could never waste my time. I like teaching you a lot… you always listen and all the questions you ask are perfectly normal.” He gave me a reassuring smile and I felt my insecurities melt away with the rest of my body. “And on top of that, it's easier for me to teach you since you are a blank slate, as opposed to some of the art students who come with stubborn vices they won't get rid of. Experience isn’t always an advantage.”

“You're a really good professor, Harry.” I said truthfully. “I'm really glad I ended up in your class, even if it wasn’t my first choice.”

“It wasn't your first choice?” His face pretended to be shocked, but I knew he wasn't. Given that I had told him about my goal to pursue a career in Interior Design, I knew he had to have known by that point that there was no reason for me to be in his class other than by chance. “Okay, now I'm offended, and no amount of ego-puffing will help you remedy that…”

I shook my head and smiled at his antics as I dipped my brush back into the paint palette. “Not even if I admit you're really cool to talk to and have great musical taste?”

Following my brush dip, Harry dipped his as well. “Give me a little more detail on that and I might re-consider.”

•·················•·················•

I hope you guys liked this first part 💜

PART 2

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allwaswell16 · 10 months

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A fic rec of One Direction fics that involve racing of any kind as requested in this ask. If you enjoy the fics, please leave kudos and comments for the writers! You can find my other fic recs here. Happy reading!

—Louis/Harry—

🏁 pray for some sweet simplicity by delsicle / @eeveelou

(E, 237k, motorcycle racing) an AU where motorcycle racing is the biggest sport in a heavily divided world, Louis is trying to take control of his own destiny, and Harry is in for more than he bargained for.

🏁 Something In The Distance (So Close You Can Almost Taste It) by magicalou

(T, 180k, F1) Louis is a Formula 1 driver for Scuderia Ferrari and Harry is a painter and sculptor, one of the most beloved from our time, and Louis's biggest pain in the ass.

🏁 The Finish Line (Is A Good Place For Us To Start) by LoadedGunn

(E, 121k, F1) The first thing Louis does is take him under his wing. From there it’s nine months of slow-burning romance, the past catching up to them, turning into the human puppy pile that is OT5 and a lot of feelings until, of course, reaching the finish line.

🏁 run away home by @hattalove

(E, 106k, horse racing) louis is a successful jockey down on his luck, struggling to get his life back on track after an injury. harry has a horse, a house fit for a prince, and a broken heart.

🏁 Counterbalance by YesIsAWorld / @louandhazaf

(E, 44k, motorcycle racing) Harry Styles loves two things: teaching ballet and racing motorcycles. Those two worlds collide when his greatest rival on the track, Louis “Tommo” Tomlinson brings his tiny siblings to Harry’s class.

🏁 My Saddle's Waiting by @realitybetterthanfiction

(E, 28k, street racing) When Harry finds himself in charge of Ford's installation at the Chicago Auto Show, there's already a lot on the line. Little does he know that a seemingly harmless bet on the fastest pony car might just up the stakes even more.

🏁 Ten Second Car by orphan_account

(E, 14k, street racing) AU in which Harry goes undercover to catch illegal street racers robbing rigs and instead falls in love with the bad guys brother. Based off of The Fast & The Furious (2001)

🏁 You Made A Slow Disaster Out Of Me by lzcatalina / @harryandlouisarehappilystrong

(E, 13k, street racing) Louis was the king of illegal street racing who rarely lost, Harry was the newcomer who beat him in the first race and nearly ran him over.

🏁 kings of the castle by orphan_account

(M, 4k, horse racing) harry is the son of architects who bet on horse races and louis is the prettiest jockey he might've ever seen in all his betting years.

—Rare Pairs—

🏁 Slow Me Down by @justonebreathx

(E, 55k, Niall/Harry) the one where Harry is a NASCAR driver down on his luck until he meets Niall and suddenly everything in his life is right again.

🏁 Trip And Fall On Me by @fluffypiecake

(M, 38k, Zayn/Harry) You don't do what you're told. Bend and break, bend and break.

🏁 (dressed in black) from head to toe by soundingawkward

(G, 3k, Louis/Nick Grimshaw) nick hates the mud and the cold and all things about this stupid dirt bike rally, except for one muddy, grotty, dirt bike riding boy.

#ficrec #trackinghappily #trackinghome #tracksintheam #1dficvillage #1dsource

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icarus-suraki · 8 months

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No, you know what? While I'm all fired up about modern art and outsider art, let me introduce you to the works of James Hampton.

Pictured above is his monumental Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations' Millennium General Assembly.

With scant education and no formal art education, James Hampton made these pieces out of his intense religious fervor and his own desire to create:

In 1950, Hampton rented a garage on 7th street in northwest Washington [DC]. Over the next 14 years, Hampton built a complex work of religious art inside the garage with various scavenged materials such as aluminum and gold foil, old furniture, pieces of cardboard, light bulbs, jelly jars, shards of mirror and desk blotters held together with tacks, glue, pins and tape. The complete work consists of 180 objects, many of them inscribed with quotes from the Book of Revelation. The centerpiece of the exhibit is a throne, seven feet tall, built on the foundation of an old maroon-cushioned armchair with the words "Fear Not" at its crest. The throne is flanked by dozens of altars, crowns, lecterns, tablets and winged pulpits. Wall plaques on the left bear the name of apostles and those on the right list various biblical patriarchs and prophets such as Abraham and Ezekiel. The text The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations' Millennium General Assembly was written on the objects in Hampton's handwriting.

He constructed all his pieces from materials he found or scavenged himself, "such as aluminum and gold foil, old furniture, pieces of cardboard, light bulbs, jelly jars, shards of mirror and desk blotters held together with tacks, glue, pins and tape."

It's not clear if Hampton himself regarded himself as an artist, a visionary, a prophet, or none of the above. His work, however, is regarded as art in the same way that Michelangelo's Pieta is regarded as art: art of a religious subject or concept.

He also "kept a 108-page loose-leaf notebook titled St James: The Book of the 7 Dispensation. Most of the text was written in an unknown script that remains undeciphered. ... Some of the text was accompanied by notes in English in Hampton's handwriting. In the notebook, Hampton referred to himself as St. James with the title 'Director, Special Projects for the State of Eternity' and ended each page with the word 'Revelation'."

The art was not discovered until after Hampton's death in 1964, when the owner of the garage, Meyer Wertlieb, came to find out why the rent had not been paid. He knew that Hampton had been building something in the garage. When he opened the door, he found a room filled with the artwork. Hampton had kept his project secret from most of his friends and family. His relatives first heard about it when his sister came to claim his body. When Hampton's sister refused to take the artwork, the landlord placed an advertisement in local newspapers. Ed Kelly, a sculptor, answered the advertisement and was so astounded by the exhibit, he contacted art collector Alice Denney. Denney brought art dealers Leo Castelli and Ivan Karp, and artist Robert Rauschenberg, to see the exhibit in the garage. Harry Lowe, the assistant director of the Smithsonian Art Museum, told the Washington Post that walking into the garage "was like opening Tut's tomb."

His work is now on display at the Smithsonian American Art Museum.

#james hampton #outsider art

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theonceandfuturequeenoftarts · 13 days

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Prompt-ober 2023 – Breathplay, deep kissing, transformation

Read part one of Harrygmalion and Galatom here~

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Harry’s back in his studio bright and early the next day, eager to examine his sculpture with fresh eyes. If it’s as close to finished as he thinks it is, he’ll make the call to Luna today or tomorrow about getting an exhibition set up. He’s loath to part from this particular piece, but he can’t really afford to be precious about displaying and selling his work.

And there it sits, looking glorious in the morning sunshine and exactly as he’d imagined it when he first brought that marble block in here. He’ll really have to think of a name or title for it soon. Something regal to match that haughty look.

As he gets closer, he sees something that brings him up short. There’s something off about the lips.

“Shite,” he curses. If giving into a bit of whimsy last night left a stain after he’d been so, so careful for months to prevent exactly that, he’s going to be extremely cross with himself.

He gets out a soft cloth to see if the damage can be wiped off. Stepping up on the plinth, he leans over the figure and rests a hand on the throne to keep his balance. But, upon closer examination, the lips don’t look like discoloured marble. They look human.

Impossibly strong stone arms wrap around him, holding him pinned against the sculpture. He shouts in surprise and confusion – what…? Looking down, Harry sees the figure’s white, stone eyes staring back at him in flinty amusement. He freezes in shock – jesus, he hadn’t ever thought the statue would actually come to life – until he’s pulled down to the sculpture’s eye level. His struggling doesn’t have much (well, any) effect on the cold, hard stone, even after one of its arms releases him to raise a hand to Harry’s jaw and draw him into a kiss.

…What in the fairytale nonsense– Did he actually kiss his sculpture to life last night??

The lips pressed to his grow gradually warmer and softer, slowly parting to deepen the kiss. Harry feels a too-smooth tongue trace along his bottom lip, encouraging him to open to his mouth. With a light moan, he does. If he’s lost his mind, might as well enjoy it.

The kisses are slow and thorough and drugging. He’s having trouble catching his breath and his head is spinning. When one of the sculpture’s hands tangles in his hair and holds his head in place while its mouth seals over Harry’s, he realises the sculpture is stealing the air from his lungs. He pushes and smacks frantically at solid shoulders, but there is no pliancy in that grip and black spots start to cloud his vision.

The other heavy marble hand grabs hold of Harry’s right wrist, forcing his arm against the edge of the stone sword. He didn’t think he’d made the blade all that sharp, but it slices into his forearm easily. Blood wells up around it and begins to drip down the blade and his arm, pooling against the hilt and the sculpture’s hand, and spilling off onto its lap. The blood sinks into the stone flesh wherever it lands, turning the translucent-white marble surface to milk-pale skin.

When the hands release him, he steps back too quickly, tripping over the plinth and his feet and landing hard on the studio’s floor. Harry stares uncomprehendingly at the figure in front of him as he heaves air into his oxygen-starved lungs.

Everything looks as he carved it to look – brows, hair, lips, nose, firm body, long arms and legs – but now the skin is inarguably living, with a network of veins and arteries just visible beneath its pale surface. The thick, wavy hair is a faceted dark brown, the lips a light pink, and the eyes are a dark reddish-brown and shine with intelligence.

The seven dark green striations remain, however – the only thing to mark the figure as inhuman.

If he weren’t so on edge and possibly bleeding out, he’d pat himself on the back for creating the vision of perfection before him.

Glancing quickly down at his arm, he notes that the wound, while still bleeding and several inches in length, is fairly shallow. He’ll likely need stitches, but it didn’t cut into the muscle tissue and probably won’t affect his ability to work. If he survives his suddenly animate (and amorous?) sculpture, that is.

He may still be in shock.

When the figure continues to sit and stare at him, Harry clears his throat. “Erm…”

Great start.

The figure (which he really needs to name) tilts its head to the side as a sharp, lopsided grin pulls at its (his?) lips. “Hello, Harry.”

“Uh… Hi,” Harry replies warily. The sculpture knows his name. Is that normal?

(He internally slaps his forehead. None of this is normal. Maybe he fell and hit his head on the plinth last night and his imagination is going buckwild in the moments before his brain bleeds out.)

The figure stands, notably still holding the kind-of-bloody marble sword, and steps off the plinth towards him. The modesty sheet he’d carved for the statue’s lap slides off and he gets quite the eyeful. Damn. That is an unfairly pretty dick.

The sculpture-guy gives him an amused look. “My eyes are up here.”

He just got called out for perving on his statue by his statue. He’s had that nightmare before, and now he can officially say that it’s a humiliating experience in reality, too.

“Er, sorry,” he says, eyes firmly fixed above the waistline. “Uh, could you maybe put the sword down?”

The figure looks down at its hand, as though it hadn’t realised it was holding anything, before glancing calculatingly back at Harry. “I will not. I am all too aware of how troublesome you can be.”

“Wh– I– troublesome??” Harry sputters, standing up and pointing an accusatory finger. “You’re the one who just turned months of hard work into something I can’t sell anywhere other than the black market!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the figure dismisses disdainfully. “Fate has once again brought us together. It would never allow you to sell me like chattel, nor would I let you part us. Especially not so soon after our reunion.”

Fate? Reunion? What on earth…?

(Wasn't the face familiar even though he knows he's never seen it before? Hadn't he known what to carve with a level of certainty and exactitude he'd never felt before?)

“Who are you?” Harry asks wonderingly.

“I am Lord Voldemort,” the sculpture-turned-man announces imperiously. “And you, Harry Potter, are mine.”

#tomarrymort #harry potter #tom riddle #voldemort #sculptor!harry #harrygmalion and galatom #cw: blood

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