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estherdedlock · 2 years

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I admit it: I still don’t know what “Dark Academia” is. I’ve been deep into this for almost a year and I’ve watched all the video essays about it and looked at all the moodboards and read all the quotes and I still could not give you a quick, “elevator pitch” summary of what it is.

Now, I think Dark Academia is pretty easy to define when you’re talking about clothes, movies, or decor. I could probably put together a Dark Academia moodboard in five minutes, any of us could. But when it comes to books...that’s where things get cloudy. It seems to me that Dark Academia reading can pretty much be anything that gives you those DA feelings, however you define them.

So with that said, here are a couple of books I’ve read recently that could be categorized as Dark Academia. Some spoilers ahead, too.

* * * * * *

The first is Olivie Blake’s "BookTok sensation,” The Atlas Six, which is generally touted as pure, unequivocal Dark Academia. If you like DA, you’ve got to read this book, or so people say.

I’ll admit I’m only halfway through it and I went and spoiled myself on Goodreads to find out if the second half was going to be better than the first. It doesn’t appear that it will be, but I think I might slog through it anyway.

The setting is the magical Alexandria Society, where, once every decade, six potential new initiates are brought together to compete for lifetime membership.

I’ve seen TA6 compared to The Secret History here and there but there is literally no similarity at all. To me, this is not even Dark Academia. One of the characters even says to the new recruits: “This is not a school, and I am not your teacher.” And he’s right! It’s really more of a Survivor-type competition, where only five of the six will make the cut. It happens to take place in a library-ish setting, but Blake doesn’t seem interested in creating a broody, academic atmosphere. Quite the opposite, actually. Just a few chapters in, there’s a long, Jason Bourne-style action sequence in which the initiates have to fight a black ops team of trained assassins from the CIA, MI6, and Chinese intelligence. I don’t think you could get less Dark Academia than that! (It’s also a scene that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, because several of these characters just shouldn’t have these kinds of combat skills, even with magic, but whatever).

Most of the rest of the book is scheming. At least, the first 170 pages or so have essentially been nothing but scheming, with the characters trying to suss out each other’s skills, strengths, and weaknesses to form alliances. There are a great many internal monologues and a lot of hinting about people’s powers...you know, a lot of If they knew what she really was, what she was capable of... That sort of thing. This gets pretty annoying after a while. Just frigging tell me already. Most of the characters are quite flat. My favorite so far is a bit player, an amoral grifter of a mermaid who can bubble up through the plumbing. But I suspect I’m not going to see much more of her.

The book does boast one of the worst sentences I’ve ever read:

“Libby’s brow remained annoyingly lost to the span of her forehead.”

What does this mean? I think the author is trying to say that Libby raised her eyebrows to express exaggerated disbelief, but I’m honestly not sure. I know this book was originally self-published, but I don’t think an editor touched it before the traditional publisher re-issued it this year. The author actually has a weird obsession with Libby’s forehead in general, specifically, her bangs (or “fringe” -- the book is full of Britishisms, even though the author is American). In fact, Libby’s bangs seem to be her primary personality trait. Anyway, that’s all I have to say about The Atlas Six.

* * * * * *

The next book is The Holy Innocents, by Gilbert Adair. This book has an odd backstory because Adair wrote two different versions of it. He published the first in 1988. In 2003, it was made into a movie starring Eva Green, The Dreamers (and yes, I discovered this movie via Dark Academia moodboards because I’m just that garbagey sort of a person). Then, Adair rewrote his own book to function as a novelization of the movie and published it as The Dreamers. The one I read was the 1988, pre-movie, original version.

About two-thirds of this book was a dark, broody, aesthetic trip. A 19-year-old Californian, Matthew, goes to France in 1968 to study film. There, he meets two passionate and pretentious movie buffs, the 17-year-old twins Guillaume and Danielle. He winds up living with them in the great gloom of the Parisian apartment owned by their father, an eccentric poet. The lodgings are so expansive that the kids have their own, isolated wing of it called le quartier des enfants. All sorts of things are going on in le quartier des enfants. So far, so Dark Academic!

The twins’ parents go out of town, leaving the enfants to their own devices. That’s when things get really freaky. Imagine this: If Richard Papen moved in with Charles and Camilla and they completely cut themselves off from the rest of the world up in that attic apartment. For a while they just sit around in front of a roaring fire, listening to old records and acting out their favorite bits of Greek tragedy. One thing leads to another and then...they all start fucking. I mean, they’re all fucking. A lot. It’s very filthy but also very atmospheric and aesthetic and dark, dark, dark.

The book gets even darker and more aesthetic when the erotic teenage trio decamps to Normandy for a stay in the decaying château owned by the twins’ clueless grandmother. This unfortunately didn’t last long enough. Upon their return to Paris, shit gets even weirder. I use the word “shit” deliberately. There is literal shit involved.

Adair invests a lot of energy in hinting, repeatedly, that these kids are going to keep descending into a hell of their own making until something truly terrible happens. What happens is that things get pretty gross. I began wondering if I was just reading some guy’s sex fantasies about polyamorous teenagers.

Then, in the last 20 pages or so, The Holy Innocents becomes a completely different book! The kids are roused from their surreal sex fugue by the student uprising of May 1968! They rush out into the streets to man the barricades Les Miz-style! It’s one of the biggest, whiplash what the fucks I’ve ever encountered in a book.

I understand that the movie (and I suppose, Adair’s novelization of the movie) diverged quite a lot from the original novel, and I can see why. This isn’t really a novel at all. It’s more like a lengthy short story with no real beginning, middle, or end. A series of atmospheric, erotic vignettes that seem to be leading to some great personal cataclysm. The last thing I expected was a sudden burst of 1960s youthquake activism.

So, Dark Academically speaking, I can recommend about the first two-thirds of The Holy Innocents, for the atmosphere, provided the sex doesn’t put you off. The last third, I’d say...proceed at your own risk. And maybe not on a full stomach.

Ugh, I apologize for the rambling length of this. I’m afraid I’m avoiding other things that I’m supposed to be doing.

#dark academia #the holy innocents #the atlas six #the secret history #olivie blake #gilbert adair #the dreamers 2003

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bluebirdslove · 3 years

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moodboard — “running through the garden, where nothing bothered us”.

#louis and harry #moodboard #i’ve been so obsessed with green so here’s my first moodboard #mine #larry moodboard #my edit #sweet creature #soulmates #hl #rose and dagger #twin flames #green moodboard #aesthetic #hlupdate #royal couple

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mypoisonedvine · 3 years

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A Beautiful Little Fool | dark!Sebastian Stan x reader (The Great Gatsby AU)

well, The Great Gatsby entered the public domain today, so I thought I’d besmirch it with some filthy dark smut. overall I did not put too much effort into relating my story to the plot or themes of the novel, just the setting and basic instigating actions, so don’t look too hard for an obvious allegory or familiar characters. this stunning moodboard (and, best of all, the incredible edits of seb as gatsby) was made by @nsfwsebbie who was also so kind as to beta for me and be my sounding board, thank you so much!!

summary: a reclusive millionaire throws extravagant parties in hopes that his lost love will attend and he can get one more chance to win her back. one can get used to getting whatever they desire, a little too comfortable with the idea that money can attain anything.

word count: 5.2k

warnings: smut (noncon/heavy dubcon), forced infidelity, a touch of breeding kink, period-accurate sexism (if anything it's a bit more toned down compared to 'period-accurate'), very slight yandere energy, obsession, one (1) slap

all my works are 18+, if you are under 18 please do not read

I was within and without; simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.

You could already hear the music and you were still a block away. “Sounds like quite the ball,” Walter observed, and you clung tighter onto his arm as you walked with him along the damp pavement. “Seems like the rumors might just be true about Stan parties.”

“All the rumors are true,” you informed him quickly, pulling your shawl up to protect your shoulders a bit better from the chilly evening breeze, “except for one.”

You took in a slow, deep breath as you observed the mansion from the outside; partygoers were mingling about in the yard and gardens, even though it was much too cold to be outside for very long, in your humble opinion. Walter opened the door for you, being polite that way, but you found yourself hesitating before you stepped in out of the dark and the cold into the overwhelming light and warmth of his mansion.

You thought maybe you could avoid him, at least for the first hour or so of the party, but it was like he had been waiting at the door just for you to arrive, twiddling his ring-adorned thumbs in that gaudy tuxedo of his.

“Darling!” Sebastian greeted with a beaming grin, outstretching his arms (a cane in one hand, and a drink in the other) to wrap you in an embrace. “You’re late!”

“Fashionably,” you defended with a nervous laugh, pulling back from the hug a little sooner than he seemed to want you to. You almost forgot Walter was standing right beside you, and an awkward beat made you suddenly remember they ought to be introduced. “Oh! Sebastian, I’m not sure you’ve met my fiancé, Walter Penner.”

“Pleasure,” Walter offered his hand for a handshake, smiling warmly. “Your home is stunning, I must say. You… really know how to throw a party.”

Sebastian just shrugged like it was nothing before returning the handshake, but his cheeks were a little pinker than they were before— maybe it was just the draft you’d let in when you and your date had entered the front door. “The pleasure’s all mine,” he assured, “I’ve been hearing so much about you from your lovely fiancée here, I’m excited to see if it’s all true.”

“Walter said the same thing about you, outside,” you admitted with a sheepish grin, and your date cast you a brief glare of embarrassment.

“She’s never been too good at keeping secrets,” Sebastian chuckled, “yours, mine, or hers.”

The negging comment made your cheeks warm a little, wondering if you should defend yourself, but Walter spoke instead. “You must be used to it by now, I hear the two of you have been close friends since you were children.”

Memories of summer flashed in your mind, of green soft grass between toes and secret hideaways in trees and warm sunshine casting the countryside in a golden glow. It seemed like that was all so far away now, the hilly landscape replaced with industry, the sun outshined by the electrical lights that seemed to cover nearly the entire mansion these days.

“Yes,” Sebastian agreed, tearing you from your train of imaginative thought and turning to address you, “you’ve known me since I was just a penniless dreamer with two good legs.”

You were a little surprised he was so comfortable admitting that he didn’t come from wealth. Maybe some people thought it was more inspiring that way, but others would say that it was impossible for him to truly shed his place in society as a poor sharecropper’s son.

But then again, they would say the same thing about you, and you’d become engaged to the wealthiest bachelor in Manhattan, as well as a man you were lucky enough to say you were truly in love with.

Sebastian let the two of you go and enjoy the party for a while, though you were sure you could feel his eyes on you all the while. Walter went and fetched the two of you some drinks, while you waited beside a small statuette that Sebastian must have collected some time, tilting your head as you observed it. He had an eye for art that you couldn’t relate to, although you at least understood why he might enjoy a bronze cast of a beautiful nude woman.

As some young women flocked in a group beside you, their conversation became impossible to ignore. “He’s single,” one of them announced, “and fabulously wealthy. The perfect man.”

“Yes,” another agreed, “but he’s so reserved.”

“I like that!” the first defended.

“I think you’d like anything about somebody who could afford to throw a party like this,” yet another accused with a smirk. A fit of giggles made it seem like the rest agreed with that sentiment.

“You’re all just jealous because he was looking at me,” she frowned defensively. “He’ll want a wife sometime, and I’ll be here waiting.”

You were almost compelled to butt in, but if you told them the truth they probably wouldn’t even believe you. Some papers had reported that the elusive Mr. Stan was disinterested in dating or engagement, but usually attributed it to eccentricity or promiscuousness. What they had not discovered was that he was still hung up on his childhood love, the girl next door who had captured his heart as a boy and never given it back— not for a lack of trying.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t considered it, in fact you had returned his affections many years ago when he left to fight in the Great War. It seemed that with you and Sebastian, it was always the right person at the wrong time; and maybe, deep down, you knew that Walter had been the wrong person at the right time, but your love for him was true if forced. He didn’t make you laugh like Sebastian could, but in the end it was best that the two of you stay friends and that he finally take up any of the lovely girls vying for his affection. Maybe some were only seeking his money… okay, maybe all of them were only seeking his money, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a girl worth his time in the bunch. An ambitious man like Sebastian wouldn’t have much trouble forging a real connection with someone like the woman standing beside you know, gossiping about how secretive and handsome he was.

When the chit-chat stopped, you looked up to see what had garnered their attention… only to find Sebastian standing right beside you. “I bought this in Sicily, thinking it was an original, but I learned recently that it’s a fake,” he informed you. You furrowed your brow in confusion until he pointed forward and you realized he was referring to the statue you’d been staring at.

“Oh! Right,” you mumbled.

“I still keep it on display because as of yet, nobody else can tell the difference,” he admitted. There he was lifting that façade again, letting his guests see a glimpse of the dirty truth he usually hid away.

“What’s inspiring this openness, Sebastian?” you asked him with a nervous giggle. “Are you high on something?”

“Just your presence,” he returned with a flirtatious grin, “and a bit of opium.”

You knew he was joking, although the ladies eavesdropping nearby didn’t seem so sure. “Yes, I think an opium addiction would suit you nicely,” you rolled your eyes, “to go with all this excessiveness you indulge yourself in.”

“I think I’ll just stick with the champagne for now,” he decided. “Have you had some yet? It’s exquisite.”

“Walter went to fetch me some,” you remembered, glancing out into the crowd to see if you’d find him there looking for you.

“Oh, perfect!”

You weren’t sure what was perfect about that.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you, in private, if I can,” he explained.

That idea didn’t sit right with you. Even just speaking to him now without your fiancé nearby was a bit scandalous, but at least there were plenty of people nearby to witness to the fact that nothing especially untoward had occurred. Being truly alone with him sounded much more dangerous. “You can,” you replied solemnly, “but I can’t say that you will.”

“Please,” he whispered, just a hint of his desperation becoming apparent. You nodded and he smiled back at you, guiding you across the foyer and up the stairs. He grabbed a drink from a waiter and handed it to you as you dutifully followed him upstairs, glancing down over the banister at the merriment before he led you into his room, the sounds of the party fading to near silence behind the door as he closed it behind you.

"Do you like the party, darling?" he asked as you swallowed a gulp of champagne which tingled at the back of your throat and did less to calm your nerves than you’d hoped.

"Yes," you nodded, "your parties are always… lavish."

"It's all for you," he informed you with a gentle smile. "All this: the music, the fireworks, the champagne—" he motioned to the glass in your hand— "it's all for you."

"For… me?"

He stepped closer with a chuckle, that light little chuckle that you’d grown to understand meant ‘oh, you silly little thing.’ “Of course. Who else? I love you, darling, I’ve loved you all my life— you know that.”

“And I’m engaged to Walter,” you reminded him. “You know that, too.”

His smile faded slightly, and you saw him trying to shake that anger that was always waiting just below the surface. “Yes, I know that. I’m not stupid—”

"You must be if you think this is going to work, that I’ll leave him for you because… because what? You threw me a party?”

“I threw you a thousand parties. Every single one, it was all a show— all the dancing and the small talk, I don’t need it. It could just be the two of us, for all I care.”

“I could hardly imagine we’d finish all the booze…”

“Don’t joke with me. Do I look like I’m joking?”

“You’re funny either way; you hardly speak with me, you hardly know me, and you think you love me.”

You gasped as he stepped forward, grabbing your wrist tightly. A sharp sound made you understand that your champagne flute had fallen to the floor and shattered, but you didn’t see it because you couldn’t look away from his icy blue eyes piercing through you as they burned with rage. “I love you. I’ve never loved anyone or anything like I love you. And you’re gonna love me, too.”

Protests died in your throat as the air was knocked from your lungs when he pushed you back into the wall. He forced his lips over yours, holding the back of your neck so you couldn’t turn your face away. Your free hand beat at his chest before it, too, was pinned by the wrist while he sighed and moaned against you, pushing his tongue between your lips. A swift kick to the shin deterred him more effectively, knocking him back just enough to let you run for the door. Your fingertips just barely brushed against the cold metal of the doorknob before he grabbed you at the waist and pulled you back. “Help!” you screamed hoarsely.

“Nobody’s gonna hear you,” he laughed, pressing his chest against your back, his breath hot on your neck. “The party’s too loud.”

He spun you around quickly, leaning in for another kiss. “Walter!” you yelped, purely out of instinct, but he stopped you with a hand clamped over your mouth.

“How dare you say his name,” he hissed. “How dare you bring him into my house?”

You couldn’t answer with his strong fingers holding your mouth shut, but you could mumble indistinctly as you began to cry.

“Has he fucked you? Hm?” he interrogated coldly. Afraid of giving no answer at all, you hesitated before shaking your head. Sebastian smiled a little bit as he let his hand slip down from your face, his expression softening.

“He’s… he’s a real gentleman,” you explained weakly.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Sebastian chuckled incredulously. “Never thought you’d want someone so… traditional.”

“He treats me right,” you continued.

“That can’t be true, if he hasn’t taken you properly,” he smirked. “God, you don’t even know how good you can feel, do you? Poor girl. I have half a mind to throw you over that bed and show you right now.”

“N-no, Seba, please, you wouldn’t,” you stammered anxiously, watching his eyes drift from your own down to your lips, and your neck, and your chest. You knew the plunging neckline was a bad idea.

“You haven’t called me that since we were children. I miss that, when you still cared for me.”

“I’ve always cared for you, it’s you that pushed me away,” you reminded him. “But it’s okay, we’ll be close again, like we used to. We’ll be friends. Just… just let me go, we should go back outside… your guests are expecting you.”

“What was that game we used to play back then?” he wondered aloud, ignoring your suggestion entirely. “It was your favorite.”

“Ch-checkers?”

He grinned, more devilish than before. “No… it was ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’”

You looked away, wincing at his mocking laughter as he held you a little tighter; the back of your dress was rather low, meaning that his rough hand was stroking your exposed back which made the hairs at the nape of your neck stand up.

“Do you still remember how to play?” he purred as he spun you back and tossed you onto the bed. You tried to sit up but he was already on you, reaching under your dress to grab at your pantyhose.

“W-wait,” you whimpered, but he had already found your undergarments and begun to pull them down your thighs.

“These legs,” he growled, “god, I can’t get enough of ‘em. You know what you do to me, sweetheart?”

He answered his own question rather quickly as he grabbed your hips and pulled you closer to where he was kneeling on the bed— pressing the back of your thigh against the hard shape tenting his trousers. You grimaced and looked back up at the ceiling, but he grabbed your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, pulling your face back down to look at where he was hovering over you.

“No, no, darling, don’t look away,” he cooed, “I want you to see this.”

He lifted your leg as he turned his head to the side, never breaking from your gaze as he started to kiss your skin, moving up your calves and dipping lower to reach your inner thigh. You weren’t entirely sure what he was doing, but you felt it sending shivers up your body as he moved closer and closer to somewhere he was very much not supposed to be. “Seba,” you whimpered, not sure what you were pleading with him for but hoping it would get through to him anyways.

He just smiled wider, letting his teeth nip the delicate skin just beneath your hips. You yelped a bit before biting down on your lip to keep quiet; you knew that if someone walked in now, you wouldn’t be able to say that he’d forced himself on you… not when you were lying back and letting him do this to you.

Just when you thought his mouth couldn’t get any closer to the part of you that was suddenly throbbing of its own accord, he pulled back and pushed up your dress even more, growling at the sight of you spread wide for him. “What a gorgeous pussy, darling.” It didn’t seem like a sign of approval though, when he brought his hand down against it with a harsh smack, forcing you to cry out and throw your head back. It hurt, at first, but then it felt so oddly good and you couldn’t explain why. When he did it again, the pain and the pleasure were even more intense than the last time, making your legs quiver a bit. “Oh, you like that,” he realized proudly. “You’re getting so wet already.”

He hit you again, and again, until you were sobbing and begging for him to stop— not just because he was hurting you, but because you knew if he didn’t stop, you would reach your peak and that could not happen under any circumstances. You couldn’t like this. If you came, he would be able to tell so easily; he was literally staring right between your legs, there was nowhere to hide from him.

“Fuck, I can’t wait any longer,” he groaned, “I need to get a taste of you.”

You, being foolish and innocent in these regards, thought he was going to kiss you again. In a way, he did; he grabbed your thighs tightly as he leaned down and latched his mouth onto your aching, swollen sex, moaning loudly as he explored you with his tongue. Your eyes shot wide open, your hands reaching down to push him away only to falter halfway through and dig into his hair instead. Between his lips, his tongue, and his teeth, it was like you couldn’t keep track of all the ways he was touching you. Each moan from him vibrated right through you, until you were moaning even louder. It was shameful, and your heart ached to know you were betraying Walter like this, but you were lost completely in the throes of pleasure that Sebastian was giving you.

Forcing your eyes shut only made the feeling more intense as your hands tightened into fists, gathering the satin-y through beneath you in your clammy palms. But opening your eyes and looking back at him wasn’t much help either, with the way he was staring back at you so intensely. You’d never seen his eyes so dark before, not in all the years you’d known him, and it made your skin crawl.

He stopped briefly to catch his breath, his prideful smile glistening with your arousal; it was awfully lewd, and you hated how attractive he looked all disheveled and hungry like this.

“You really ought to be spoiled,” he decided, his voice deeper and rougher around the edges. “It’s a waste if nobody’s making you come like this every day, getting a taste of this sweet little cunt.”

That word made you wince, and you realized you were more offended by what he was saying than what he was doing, oddly enough.

He got back to it with more vigor than before, pushing his tongue into you as you bit down on your lip to keep from screaming. How could something so wrong feel so thoroughly right, so perfect? You hated him just as much as you loved him in that moment, and you wanted him to stop just as much as you wanted him to keep going. The tricky thing was that you didn’t get to decide if you loved or hated him, or he stopped or continued. Your body and mind were his playthings, pliable to whatever he wanted to take from you.

Apparently, he wanted to take more from you; when he had pushed you to your peak against your wishes, and done so much more easily than you would’ve liked to admit, he sat back and tossed away his jacket, freeing him to shirk his suspenders and unbutton his trousers.

“N-no, Seba, you can’t—” you whimpered mindlessly, attempting to crawl back away from him on the bed.

“You’ll let me devour you until you come, but don’t want me to get mine, too?” he grinned. “Greedy little girl.”

He grabbed you and pulled you back down into him, gripping the neckline of your dress and tearing it down the front in a few quick rips. You fought back but it was laughably useless, your strength nothing against his.

“I hate when you wear things like this— things he bought you,” he explained with a snarl. “These pearls, too, he got you these, right?”

There wasn’t even time to answer before he grabbed the string and snapped it, sending the pearls flying everywhere and rolling across the floor. You felt more naked without them than you did without the dress. Still, you felt especially naked when he pressed his hips forward and his length slid through your folds. “No,” you sighed, “no— stop, it’s not funny anymore.”

“Funny?” he grimaced. You yelped when he grabbed your jaw tightly, forcing you to look back up at him with wide, watery eyes. “I love you. You hear me? I love you.”

“I know,” you sighed shakily.

“Say it back,” he demanded. “Say you love me, too.”

“I can’t,” you shuddered, crying when he released your jaw to slap you harshly across the face.

“I’m sorry that I had to do that,” he sighed. “I don’t think it’s right for a man to strike a woman, even if it’s with an open hand, but you need to get some sense into you. I know you love me, darling. You just need to say it.”

That false impression of mercy faded quickly when you only responded with silence.

“Say it!” he yelled, dripping with rage.

“I love you!” you finally cried, and he made swift work of reaching down to push his cock right up against your entrance, driving forward with brutal force. Your back arched and your head fell back, your hands gripping at his half-buttoned shirt— some kind of silent plea that he slow down a bit, perhaps. It didn’t seem to work, each thrust deeper and faster than the last already. The only sounds now were his quickening breaths right beside your ear, his skin slapping against yours, and your weak little cries that you choked out each time he pushed himself all the way into you.

It stung and burned inside you, just like your eyes stung with fresh tears and your chest burned with some incomprehensible storm of emotions. You wouldn’t call anything about this a relief, and yet there was something cathartic about it as well.

“He’s not gonna want you once he knows what I’ve done to you,” he whispered in your ear, tickling your leg as he pulled it to wrap around his waist. “Once he knows I’ve taken your innocence, made you mine.”

You whimpered as sobs made your chest convulse, but said nothing; you knew he was right.

“He’s not gonna want you once I’ve knocked you up. Nobody will… but me.”

You started to struggle underneath him, pushing at his shoulders helplessly. “No, you can’t— you have to stop.”

“You’ll make such a beautiful bride, darling, especially if you’re already showing,” he grinned, bringing his hand to rest just below your bellybutton— just over your womb. “I’ve dreamed all my life that you’d carry my child,” he admitted wistfully.

Crying did more to egg him on than anything, it seemed, as you barely managed to speak enough to plead with him not to finish inside you. Maybe you were naïve, but not so much that you didn't know how easily you could become pregnant if he didn't pull out, or how quickly your engagement would be broken off and your reputation ruined if that happened.

He ignored your denial and moved faster, running his hands all over your body with a few brief detours to grope your breasts and pinch the hardened nipples.

As his lips attached to your neck, you felt his teeth sink into your skin as he sucked just by your pulse. “Don’t,” you whimpered, “you’ll leave a mark.”

“Good,” he mumbled, breaking away from his work at your neck to teasingly nibble on your ear. “It’s no trouble to me if everyone knows what I’ve done to you. I want them to know. Don’t you think they saw us come into my room? Maybe if you moan loud enough they’ll get to hear you coming for me.”

It should’ve made you try even harder to stay quiet— and it did, it just didn’t work at all, and soon your moans were echoing around the room as he smiled down at you. “Close again, already? You’re so sweet for me,” he praised, somehow angling his hips just right to hit the most sensitive places inside you, your walls rippling and convulsing around him.

“You have t-to stop,” you breathed, holding the waves of pleasure back with everything you had.

“I can’t,” he groaned, “you feel too good. It’s okay, darling, just let go…”

He continued with a string of whispered praises, but you couldn’t hear it anymore as your body began to erupt in jolts of pleasure, your arms and legs shaking uncontrollably where they were wrapped around his neck and hips, respectively.

“Keep going,” he encouraged gently, “you sound so beautiful when you come, darling.”

But the sensation threatened to consume you, burned you from the inside out until you couldn’t take anymore. It was overwhelming to the point that you lost all control over your words, needing this to end more than you needed to preserve any dignity you had left. “Please,” you sighed, “please come, Sebastian…”

He laughed a bit, kissing your ear again. “Sweet girl, I knew you’d come around. Want it inside, darling?”

You shook your head, he laughed again.

“Yes you do,” he sing-songed condescendingly, “you want to have my baby, don’t you? Wanna leave that awful man and be with me, like you should?”

He must’ve known there was only one way to get you to agree to that.

“Remember, darling,” he whispered, “it won’t end until you say yes.”

“Yes,” you choked out, “I want to be with you, Seba, I want your baby— just please come and get off of me.”

He grinned and fucked you faster, the slapping of skin so loud now that surely anyone in the hall would hear it. His own moans were quiet but desperate, breathless as he started to pump and flex inside you, his warmth coating your insides as he groaned your name weakly. He laid on top of you, motionless, for quite some time until finally sitting up and pulling out; unfortunately, you were too weak to do much with that freedom, just laying there and staring up at the ceiling as numbness chilled your extremities and fogged your mind.

“You just stay here and catch your breath,” he instructed gently as he gave you one last kiss before sitting up, readjusting his trousers and suspenders before finding his jacket on the floor to put back on. He circled the bed to look out his window into the gardens, seeming much too relaxed and satisfied with himself.

“W-Walter,” you remembered suddenly. “He’ll be looking for me.”

“Hm, doesn’t seem like it,” Sebastian frowned, “I can see him now, having quite the conversation with a fine young woman.”

“What?” you shivered, sitting up to look at him as he stared down into the yard.

“I’m looking right at him, darling. I figured you knew about his… reputation…”

You did, but you never really believed it; the papers lied about Sebastian all the time, so surely rumors about your fiancé could be just as unfounded.

“I need to go,” you decided as you jumped up off the bed, trying to cover yourself with your torn dress.

“Sweetheart,” Sebastian cooed sympathetically as he looked back at you, “where are you gonna go dressed like that? Or, should I say, not dressed like that? I know my parties can get a little wild, but we try not to have any nudity.”

You hated that he was right; you were trapped here, until you found some way to dress yourself. And frankly, leaving his room dressed in different clothes than when you came in was nearly as bad as leaving his room naked.

“I’ll get you something to wear, just give me a moment, alright?” he offered, stopping to give you a peck on the forehead before slipping out of the door and back into the party.

He took a deep breath when he shut the door behind him, closing his eyes briefly to stabilize himself before putting on a smile and rejoining his guests. A lot of people tried to stop him on his way, congratulated him on the party or asking him mundane questions, but he shrugged them all off as he continued his search for Walter Penner. He found him looking rather lost somewhere by the west wing of the house, a drink in each hand.

“Two at a time, I like your style,” Sebastian boomed as he patted Walter on the back affectionately. “The drinks, I mean. I don’t believe everything I read in the papers.”

“Good,” Walter chuckled, “because it isn’t true— about girls or drinks. The second glass is for my lovely fiancée— you haven’t seen her, have you?”

“Oh, I believe I have,” Sebastian put on a face like he was thinking about where he’d last seen her. “She was just leaving.”

“Leaving?!” Walter pshawed.

“Yes, she said she’d forgotten something she had to do and scurried out the door. I tried to stop her, but you know how she is when she gets her mind on something.”

“Hm,” Walter frowned. “I suppose I’m meant to go looking for her.”

“Take a coat, it’s cold out there,” Sebastian offered. “And if you see her, do tell her I give her my best.”

“Always,” Walter nodded, setting his drinks down and merging back into the crowd as he navigated out of the party. Sebastian hummed a little tune to himself as he made his way back to his room; he could hardly wait to see you again already, tell you all about how your unfaithful betrothed had run off with one of his more promiscuous friends, but he had to be careful not to run too fast on his bad leg. He figured you wouldn’t believe it, truly, but you’d give in to the story anyways if it was reason enough to justify your affair with him. You had a talent for accepting whatever reality served your purposes best, and he was happy to give you whatever you wanted. He figured you’d want an extravagant wedding, too; that would be easy enough.

Ascending the stairs and resting his hand on the knob to open his door, he braced himself to see you there and finally know you were his— and only his, forever. All he’d ever wanted, just on the other side of a door. If a poor boy can become a millionaire in spite of everything, and he can finally get his girl in spite of a pesky engagement, then maybe anything’s possible. It was you that had told him since he was a boy that dreams were just dreams and couldn’t come true; such a fool you were, a beautiful little fool— the best thing a girl can be, and now that you were his girl, he intended to cherish your foolishness rather than attempt to educate you. Because truthfully, you were a smart girl, and only a fool for him.

#sebastian stan x reader #dark!sebastian stan x reader #dark!sebastian stan #dark!sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan dark fic

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comehomeducklings · 3 years

Text

Past [Part 2] (Obsession)

A/N: Some chapters will be named with either “Past,” “Present,” or “Future,” then their numbered part coming right after it. This is to confuse you less when flashbacks or anything happens. As you have probably noticed, it says “Past” for Part 2. This is going back near when Tom and her just met. Thank you for reading! <3

Tom Riddle's Moodboard

Main Character's Moodboard

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

1940 - 3rd year

“Potions is not that bad, I swear. You just have to be good at measuring.”

At the table, my friends and I are discussing our classes this year. Potions being one of my favorite topics. Devyn absolutely loathes that certain class. We have to drag her there to make sure she doesn’t skip. Poor girl tries her best to not mess up but the cauldron always ends up blowing up. I even watched her do every step once, never missing a beat. The potion still ended up failing, even though she did everything correctly. She gave up after a while, who wouldn’t. I help her do extra assignments for extra credit to keep her grade up. She also studies with me to make sure she can memorize everything and pass her tests. Amelia is pretty good at the class, she’s luckily paired with Devyn most of the time. Carrying the potion to success, with a little bit of my secret help. It’s not cheating, it’s using your resources.

I’m resources.

“Potions is not that bad,” Devyn mocks me. “If it weren’t for you two I would have gone insane in that stupid class.”

Amelia just laughs at her while eating her hash browns on the plate. She reaches her hand out to take some more eggs.

“You were able to do it before. Not the way you were supposed to, but it worked,” Amelia says.

“Exactly, just start doing it your way at this point. I don’t think Slughorn will care how it’s done, just how it comes out.”

Devyn nods her head and points at me with a fork. Her mouth full of food so she settles for that response. My plate doesn’t have much other than some bacon and fruit. I’m not usually a breakfast eater. I get my appetite at lunch and dinner time. It’s just too early for a bunch of food smells, the smells make me kind of nauseous. I’ll eat though, enough to hold me off till lunch.

The chatter in the lunchroom rises by the minute. Everyone refilling themselves before their busy day. All energy levels rising while everyone wakes up from their groggy morning mood. While my friends finish eating we continue to talk about our classes and share the schedules for this year. Most classes we had were the same except for our electives. I tried taking as many electives as possible. My family back home never really did magic. I actually came a year and a half late since my family wanted me to have a normal school experience. I learned to do everything without the use of magic, the only thing my mom taught me was the floo network, creatures, and plants. I would often accompany her to Diagon Alley when she shops. I got an Owl for my 10th birthday. A cat would have been amazing if I wasn’t allergic to it. My owl is a brown and white-furred barn owl. Don’t ask me why I named it Bartholomew. I was ten okay, give me a break. Speaking of the floo network, my mom had to chase me through it quite often because I kept teleporting everywhere. I once ran into the Ministry of Magic’s building and got lost. They had to take me home to my parents. Their faces told me everything I needed to know about the punishment waiting for me.

Halfway through the second year is when I came to Hogwarts, a second letter coming that year asking my parents to let me learn more there. So when they finally let me attend, everything was pretty new to me. My mother was the magic one in the family. Her grandmother, my great-grandmother, before her had the magic gene. Going to school was the same experience as going from a muggle-borns perspective. The difference is, I knew more about its existence. I would look at yearbooks my mom had from when she went here. She earned a lot of titles, all the achievements being recorded down. I always wondered why she never wanted me to come here. Did something happen to me, to her? I’m guessing she just wanted a normal life with dad. He has always supported her through everything. A love, a bond like that is hard to come by. He would also learn about magic right next to me. At least, the stuff my mom allowed to let us know.

That’s why I want to learn as much as I can, of what’s available. Why learn math in the muggle world when I could be learning divination. Spells of all types, potions for everything of inconvenience. My chores could be completed with just a flick of my wand. I’ve lately been learning wandless magic, on my own. Albus has helped by providing me with material to study that type of magic. The only thing I’ve managed so far is a spark coming from the tips of my fingertips. Sparking hope that I could actually, maybe, achieve that level. Now I won't get my hopes up, but that can lead me to a certain advantage in dueling. That being one of my weakest skills. Always panicking, saying any spells that pop up in my mind, and making random movements coming from my wand. Often confusing who I’m up against, although they recover from that confusion fairly quickly.

Riddle, met him once. One too many if you would ask me. I dissuade ever wanting to speak to him. Arrogance and pride flow through his tongue like second nature. I do take pride in succeeding above him in 3 classes. He is 2 classes above me but, that’s not the point. I do admit, he’s attractive. Only a little though, how else would he charm his way through the professors and students.

“Alright, I’m ready to go. You guys done?”

“Yeah,” I say. Devyn and I start leaving our seats and heading towards the huge doors.

Amelia hurried from her seat, a few steps behind since she took some fruit with her to eat on the way. More and more students also started making their way towards the first period. Not wanting to be blamed for the loss of house points. This system causes so many fights, everyone’s competitive side getting the best of their common sense. I would be lying if I said it didn’t get the best of me before. Amelia being her usual bubbly self skips backward while chatting with us. Before we could warn her to stop, she pushes someone ahead of her. Both falling down, hitting the floor. She spins her head extremely quickly, her hair sticking in her mouth from the force of the wind.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” she explains. Quickly trying to digest her situation. I make my way towards her and pull her up. I fix her robe and dust off any dirt on the cloth from the floor.

“Clearly idiot, can you not use those bug eyes of yours to see?”

Devyn and I make eye contact. We understand that there are witnesses here, and one of them is bound to snitch on us if we fight. A huge scene would probably make Amelia feel even more embarrassed as well. Instead, I guided Amelia by her back. We continue on to class while I comfort her. Devyn is staying back to “talk” to the guy. Lestrange is in for it now, any poor soul would be when in the fiery path of her anger.

Devyn’s loud yells could still be slightly heard when entering the potions classroom. First class of the year, and day. On Slughorn’s table, I can see a vial with the wideye potion contained inside. I set Devyn’s textbook on her station, turning to the page that contains information on the potion. Hoping to save her confusion and time.

“Welcome, welcome! Nice to see some old faces, and new ones,” he says with the biggest grin on his face. “Today we’ll be learning about the Wideye potion. Can anyone tell me what this potion does?”

I quickly raise my hand, rather eager. I did some reading about a lot of potions during the summer. Trying to get a headstart on my studies. This potion being one of them. Only 3 students raised their hand, one of them being me. The other, well, Riddle.

“Yes, go ahead and answer,” the professor looks my way.

I smile, “The wideye potion prevents the person consuming the liquid the ability to fall asleep. Which is often used in the medical field to wake someone from a sleep caused by a blunt force or drug.”

“Precisely! 10 points.”

I look back rather smugly at Riddle, rather happy I got chosen instead of him. I know, he could have easily answered that too. I’ll let myself bask in the small achievement for now. 30 minutes of class is just spent writing down notes, preparing us for the potion we will make. Note-taking is my favorite, especially the little doodles I get to make. We use a feather instead of the regular pen. I found it rather amusing and liked the certain feeling of writing with it. The dipping noise that the point of the feather makes when hitting the liquid ink is a very profound sound. No real writer’s bump forming on my fingers.

“That’s enough writing, I need you all to prepare your cauldron, gather the materials you need, and start your potion. If done correctly, tomorrow when we add the finishing touches and check on it the potion should be a blue/green color,” Slughorn comments. “You have 10 minutes to study your notes, then the rest of the class to make your potion. No looking back at your notes after those ten minutes.”

After scanning my notes, I stand up and walk towards the ingredients on the shelves. If I remember correctly my potion requires snake fangs, standard ingredient, and wolfsbane. I gather all that in my hand and set it down near my cauldron. Before I start, I take a moment. I’m missing something, I’m sure there was another ingredient.

Wolfsbane, check.

Snake fangs, six of them.

I have the measures of Standard ingredient.

There’s one more, I try to look around the room. Then I remember that we get an automatic failing grade if caught cheating. There’s no way I’ll let my grade drop like that. Over something so small and inconvenient too. Making my way to the shelves, I scan over the ingredients over and over again. Trying to see if any of the names pop out to me.

No.

Definitely not.

That’s an ingredient?

I don’t even want to know how that one was obtained.

This one, of course it’s this one. I even remember putting a star next to the name in my notebook. Dried Billwig stings, I believe six of them were needed. All that time wasted. Hurrying to my seat I get to work. The time goes by quickly, all that could be heard was the sizzling and whooshing of our potions. I almost knocked down my vials a couple of times. Someone actually did, their time spent on cleaning the glass off the floor. After heating the first three ingredients, I crush them together in the mortar. Then stir clockwise from what I recall, three times specifically. Finally, I wave my wand over then leave it to brew.

Just in time from the looks of it. I glance at Devyn to see how it went for her, and she looks pretty proud of herself. I take that as a blessing that it didn’t blow up this time of round. I’m guessing she took our advice and did it her own way.

A student raises his hand, “May we leave?”

“Oh yes yes, go ahead. No assignments for the first day, only the potion you made in class.”

Before I leave the classroom I examine Riddle’s station. He already left the room. His potion looks similar to how mine turned out, his workspace thoroughly cleaned. Everything used properly placed back to where it should be. Perfectly spotless, not a single speck of dust in sight. All done without magic too, surprising for someone born into the wizarding world. When I mentioned that I met him once, it wasn’t much of anything. The only way I know how he really acts is through other people. Much admire his intelligence and strong will. Others are jealous of the potential he holds for the future.

Girls are already trying to slip love potions into his drinks. I would feel bad if he wasn’t so rude to them. Only just before touching the disrespectful line. He almost drank one of their attempts before. Wouldn’t want to imagine how that turned out. Tom riddle, in love. That man probably doesn’t know the feeling of happiness, let alone love. I feel bad for his future girlfriend, she’s going to have to deal with a handful of baggage.

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

“How much do you want to bet Nott will demolish him?” A Gryffindor girl to my left whispers.

Nott, part of Riddle’s group from what I’ve seen. They all eat lunch together and talk to one another so it’s a reasonable guess. Very talented duellist, one of the bests here.

“I hate to admit it, but he’ll definitely win this. I’ll still have hope for the other guy though,” I whisper back trying not to sound mean.

Nott and the other Slytherin boy are up right now. It’s a courtesy for the audience to stay quiet until someone casts the first attack or defense. From then on all you will hear is shouting of encouragement and the opposite. Nott’s eyes are focused, zoning in on the opponent before him. His wand is steady, mouth slightly parted to breathe through better. Whole-body alert and tense waiting for something. From what I'm getting, I believe he’s waiting for the Slytherin boy to go first. Nott casts spells quickly and thinks them through decently. Sometimes you're not able to create a counter-spell quick enough to defend yourself against him.

Riddle’s group and himself are near the corner of the platform. All seemingly analyzing every breath he inhales and exhales. I finally hear the whoosh of a wand and a whiz of light fly past the platform. The glow from the spell lighting our faces for a millisecond. Nott quickly counters that spell and moves to cast his own. Magic flies across the platform, all of our eyes going back and forth like a ping-pong match. The Slytherin boy starts breaking a sweat. He’s only been able to get a couple of offensive spells in there, most of his plays spent throwing off Nott’s. If he doesn’t turn the battle soon, the outcome will become very clear.

It is a little less exciting since we only know a handful of spells. So whatever you know from your own studies you use in these duels. When we move up the years the class will become more serious and dangerous. Right now it’s just to teach us how to counter and cast quickly. The proper etiquette and movement. You use spells that you know, they aren’t supposed to harm someone. Either stun them, make them fly back, or disarm. Most of those spells require a little of a higher level, most of us not even knowing of its existence yet. So what’s mostly cast between competitors is a basic spell to exert force. That force should be aimed for the legs, or the wand to disarm that way. The way someone can win here is to make their knees or hands touch the floor, or disarm their wand. As I mentioned, it will get more intense as time goes by. We're only just starting 3rd year right now, a lot more charms will be learned later on.

I shake my head to get rid of any lingering thoughts. My attention goes right back to the duel taking place in front of me. Nott quickly aims a spell at the knees and manages to bring the other boy to his knees.

“Mr. Nott wins this duel! Please step off the platform, we will evaluate your performance.”

During the practice duels today, you watch it, think of ways to help the person improve, and point out things they might have done wrong. At the end, the professor picks people raising their hands to allow them to give their feedback. Participating is part of the grade you get in here. I personally prefer giving feedback then dueling. I’m not the best at casting, I do give out good defense spells though. That should mean something, I hope.

“Let’s start with Nott, does anyone have feedback for him?”

A couple of people spread apart raised their hands. One by one they all ask questions and give feedback. They mention his feet and posture when he stands. Arms fully stretched out where it would have been more flexible to bend it slightly. When he casts he shouldn’t be walking backward. They shortly switch to the other boy’s questions and feedback. The way he never gave himself the opening to cast an offensive spell often. He would move around his area a lot. Almost slipping off the stage during one of those movements. Tom and his group privately discussed with one another. They’re probably giving Nott their own feedback and suggestions privately.

“Now, Riddle I want you to come up and…,” he scans the room for another student. After some time he points his finger at me. “You.”

I could have had a smooth sailing class. I was so close to not having to go up there. My hands start sweating a bit, my anxiety jumbling my thoughts together. Riddle’s already up there and soon to be on his side of the platform. Taking his wand out and wandering his fingers over the design. I gulp, a big toad stuck in my throat. I wipe my hands on my robe and start up the stairs. Riddle seems as unbothered as ever. We bow, turn, then walk ten paces back. During this time I try predicting who will cast first. I don’t know him very well, I’ve also never seen him duel.

I take my dueling stance and wait for the signal to start. Hoping, praying, that I don’t embarrass myself. Slipping up is not allowed, not when going against him.

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

Taglist:

@empath-bunny

#tom riddle x oc #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle x reader #lord voldemort #death eaters #voldemort #horcrux #hogwarts #harry potter #wizard #post wizarding war #enemies to allies #enemies to lovers #angst #oc #poc #Oc is any race #moldy voldy

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daisymakesstuff · 5 years

Text

Future Queens- ...Obsessive

Summary: Riley questions just how crazy this all is.

Also on AO3 | Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Pairing: Lia(F!Liam) x MC

Series Rating: T

Word Count: 2451

Warnings: series warning for homophobia

Disclaimer: This is a TRR rewrite of Liam’s “route”, but with a F/F pairing. I’ve added more description, filled holes, and made a few adjustments but I just want to be clear that a lot of this text is from the book itself and I’m not claiming to have written it.

Note: I’m pretty excited about this chapter because I feel like we’re finally to the point where I get to actually re-write things instead of just setting the same scene with a slightly altered cast. Also, other people do cool moodboards and stuff before their chapters, so I thought I would try my hand at fake screenshots! Hopefully, you think they’re fun too.

Tagged: @sibella-plays-choices @client-327

After packing her bags and leaving her New York apartment behind, Riley finds herself on a plane with Maxwell and Drake. For a while, she’s quiet, trying to get a grip on everything that has happened in the last hour. The incredibly plush seats in the private jet are comfortable, but they don’t help with her culture shock. The only flights she has been on until now involve long lines and cramped coach seating.

The flight is long, though. About an hour and a half in she has her thoughts together enough to ask some questions.

“Maxwell?” He has his headphones in, bopping along to the music, so it takes multiple tries to get his attention. “Maxwell!”

“Huh? — yeah?” He pushes off his headphones haphazardly and whirls around to look at her like he’s expecting some sort of emergency until he catches the look on her face.

“Do you really think I have a shot at marrying Lia?”

“I wouldn’t be flying you all the way to Cordonia if I didn’t!” Maxwell answers enthusiastically.

“So you think I have a shot of winning a competition for her future husband?” They touched on this outside of the bar, but not to her satisfaction. The consoles above their seats chime, and the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign comes on above Riley’s chair. The pilot’s smooth voice comes over the speakers to advise they have hit some turbulence. Backing out of this now wouldn’t exactly be easy. She buckles herself in for the ride.

“Well, I am taking a bit of risk, but technically,” Maxwell repeats. “Technically, all the jargon about this stuff says ‘spouse’. I even double-checked last night! And gay marriage was legalized in Cordonia years ago, so the rest of court will probably be too scared to say anything about it outright.” Riley knows as well as any other LGBT person that ‘not outright’ doesn’t mean ‘not at all’.

“So… your plan is to use ‘straight’ fear to keep me in the competition?”

“Basically, yeah.” Riley snorts with laughter. This is a very serious, real thing that is happening, and by no means should anything Maxwell has said put her at ease — but it does. “Now, can I go back to my song? This my jam!”

———

“Say ‘goodbye’ to New York and ‘hello’ to Cordonia!” Maxwell announces, several hours later.

“I can’t believe this is actually happening!” Her earlier apprehension has since given way to excitement.

“Believe it. We’ll be landing soon, ready or not. And if you’re not ready, the men at court are going to eat you alive,” Drake deadpans.

“Yeesh, don’t scare her, Drake. You okay, Riley?” Maxwell asks.

“Honestly, THEY should be afraid of ME!” Riley’s overselling it again. ‘Fake it till you make it’, right?

Drake seems pleased with that response. “…Heh. Cocky. You might actually survive.”

“I don’t get why you’re being so grim about this,” Riley says. This is her life being turned upside down, not his.

“Look, no offense, but I’ve seen people like you come and go. It never ends well. Not for you, not for Liam, not for the royal family.”

“Riley’s not some crown-chaser,” Maxwell snaps.

“Drake… I’m different than them. Lia being a princess doesn’t matter at all to me.”

“That’s exactly the kind of naïve thinking that’s going to land you in trouble here,” Drake retorts.

Just then, the pilot announces the plane’s descent. “Hey, look! You can see Cordonia out the window! Riley, you won’t want to miss this!”

Just like that, the conversation shuts down. Riley eagerly looks out the plane window, nose touching the glass. The Cordonian countryside hugs the seaside at its edges. It is a country built around its castle, white buildings with red-orange roofs radiate outward from its center intermingled with green trees.

“That’s Cordonia? It’s like something out of a fairy tale! The sparkling ocean, the swaying trees—”

“If you burst into song, I’m jumping out of this plane.” Drake stops her mid-romantic rambling.

“I’m just saying it's beautiful.”

“It is, isn’t it? Are you ready?” Maxwell asks.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

——

One car ride later, Riley steps out onto the grounds of “the Royal Palace. Welcome to your home for the next few months, Riley.” Ever the excellent tour guide, Maxwell gestures appropriately.

“This is where I’m staying? I didn’t realize I’d be living in the palace!”

“Most of the nobility live here while the social season is underway… including all the gentlemen vying for Liam’s hand.”

“Yeah, living under one roof just makes it easier to attend the rose ceremony later,” Drake deadpans. Maxwell rolls his eyes. “This is my cue to take off. See you around… if you’re lucky.”

Riley follows Maxwell into the palace, where she climbs the grand staircase, permanently decked in red carpet.

“So what’s the deal with Drake?” Riley asks. “Why is he so jaded?”

“Oh, don’t mind him. Drake’s never really… fit in.”

“Not used to courtly life?”

“Definitely not. He’s a commoner. He’s… always been an outsider here. Even if he is Liam’s best friend…” At the top of the stairs, Maxwell turns down a corridor. “Your room’s here in the west wing. In case you need anything from me or my brother, our rooms are just a couple doors away.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Yeah, an older brother. His official title is Duke Bertrand Beaumont. As the eldest son, he’s the heir and I’m the spare. You’ll see him tonight. He’ll be excited to meet you. This is it… Here’s your room!” They step into a lavish guest room with full-length paintings, gilded ceilings, and a bed of fluffy pillows.

“Wow…” is the only thing Riley can think to say.

“As a royal guest, you’re spared no luxury…”

“So nothing’s stopping me from jumping on the bed?”

“Only your dignity.”

“Perfect.” Riley runs and jumps onto the bed, sighing happily as she sinks into the mattress. “Ahh… This is so much better than memory foam.”

“I’ll let you settle in before your big debut tonight… I’m sorry, I keep forgetting that you’re not used to this. The first event of the social season is tonight… The Masquerade. Not everyone dresses in costume, but you can be sure that the gentlemen competing for Lia’s attention will be pulling out all the stops. I’m guessing it’s too much to ask if you’ve got a costume or fancy ballgown in there…”

“I packed a dress.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure, so I’ve made an appointment for you at the palace boutique. Maybe you’ll find something you like better there! Remember. Tonight is very important. It’s your chance to make a first impression on all the influential people at court and to stand apart from everyone else!”

A few minutes later, Riley steps into the palace’s boutique only to bump into a half-naked man holding a dress shirt. “Oh!” he gasps.

“Eep! Sorry! I didn’t realize someone was already here…” At least he’s wearing pants.

“No problem. To be honest, I didn’t have an appointment,” the man admits. “I’m Hans, I suppose you’re also here for the Masquerade tonight. Since you’re here and not already dressed, I must assume that you are like me…searching desperately for something to wear.”

“More or less.”

“The seamstress seems to be running late, but I can show you around. This boutique has the most exquisite gowns.” He pauses and looks down at his bare chest, as if realizing for the first time. “Let me just put my shirt on…”

Hans pulls on the shirt he was holding and buttons it with ease. He struggles with his necktie, though unable to get the knot right.

“Need a hand?” Riley asks.

“That would be amazing.” Riley straightens out his tie, and Hans picks up a matching mask and settles it on his face before turning to her, grinning.

“Thank you. Not many people here are like you…”

“Helpful?”

“Nice.” Hans turns to admire himself in the grand full-length mirror at the front of the boutique. “Ah, this outfit is perfect!” He does a slow spin to show it off. “Now, what about you? One must have a mask for the Masquerade! Have you seen the angel costume? You’d look amazing in white. Or there’s also a red one, if you’re feeling more… devilish.”

“I’ll take a look…” Riley doesn’t have a lot in savings (or checking) like most people her age. Not having to buy her plane ticket here helps, at least. And she is a guest in the royal palace, so food and lodging are free, too. Everyone here is royalty, though. She needs to make a good impression, even if her wallet is already crying at the idea of having to buy multiple expensive gowns.

Riley plays it safe—if purchasing white clothing is ever ‘safe’— by choosing the angel costume. The dress is a floor-length with a slit up the thigh and a low, plunging neckline. A silver filigree mask with a fuzzy white halo acts as the main part of the costume.

“Heavenly!” Hans declares, pleased enough that Riley doesn’t feel the need to second-guess her decision.

��—

That evening, Maxwell meets Riley at the bottom of the main staircase.

“Nice outfit. You look great,” Maxwell says.

“Thanks.” I hope so. This costs more than my prom dress. He guides her to the doors of the grand ballroom.

“One other thing I should mention. As soon as you enter, you’ll tell the herald your name and title so that you can be announced…”

“What is my title?” Riley asks.

“You don’t really have one, but since my family is sponsoring you, then you could technically be considered a ‘lady’. Or we could go with your hometown. I guess I should’ve asked before. What’s your last name?”

“Riley Singh.”

“Well, it’s not as classic a name as Catherine Elizabeth Middleton, but it’ll do…”

The doors to the grand ballroom are thrown open, and Riley makes her entrance. The herald announces Maxwell, and then turns to you.

“Please announce me as Riley Lee of New York.” The herald announces her and she walks into the ballroom. She can feel people watching as she comes in, heads swiveling to examine the new novelty. The swell of attention is short-lived though, people going back to their conversations, or simply averting their eyes to be polite.

“I’ve got to talk to Bertrand for a sec. You’ll be okay on your own, right? Just mingle.”

“Mingle… right… I can do that.” Probably. Looking out across the ballroom, Riley sees Drake standing alone…and on the other side, Hans and a group of finely dressed gentlemen. She approaches Drake first, and he nods and gives her a stiff bow.

“Good evening, my lady,” he says, for once without a hint of sarcasm.

“So you do have manners.” Riley grins. Drake’s jaw drops, recognizing her voice.

“… Riley? Is that you?”

“Yeah. You didn’t recognize me?”

“I… I was caught off-guard. You clean up well.” She is even more pleased with herself when he still sounds astonished.

“Drake… was that actually a compliment?” Riley teases.

“Uh, no!” His attempt to cover it up falls flat, but he continues anyway. “Looking the part doesn’t mean you’re going to be welcome here, you know.”

“Well, you’re as charming as ever.” She frowns.

“Hah. Compared to most of the nobles here, I’m your best friend.”

“Drake, everyone here’s been perfectly nice.” Not that she has spoken with many of them yet, but Hans was nice.

“Sure, to your face. You don’t want to know what they’re probably saying about you behind your back.”

“How can you say that? Aren’t the nobles your friends too?”

“I’m friends with Princess Lia. I’m not here for the rest of them.”

“What about Maxwell? He’s the one sponsoring me,” Riley retorts. Drake’s expression shifts from the usual apathy into anger. She’s pushed a button.

“Look, you don’t know him like I do. You don’t know any of them like I do.” Then he schools himself back to a neutral expression, though his voice is crisper than usual when he continues. “Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I could use another glass of champagne… Good luck, Riley.”

So, Riley leaves him to it. She walks over to where Hans is standing with the rest of the gentlemen. Her presence as the only gown in a sea of suits draws attention back to her. She thinks she hears her name whispered a couple of times.

“Hello again. I’m glad to see you made it!” Hans greets her with a smile.

“Thanks.”

“So, this is the Masquerade! What do you think of it?”

“The Masquerade is wonderful!” Everything is gorgeous, grand, and glistening. It’s the real-life version of the fantasy her high school prom wanted to live up to.

“I can tell you’re going to enjoy yourself here!” Hans says. “To be honest, it’s very refreshing to be around someone so excited.”

“Fancy galas are just second nature to you?”

“When you’ve gone to as many as I have, they can lose their charm… unless, of course, you find the right companions!”

“Ahem! Pardon me, but I absolutely must steal her away,” A gentleman in a purple, feathered mask cuts in. He takes Riley’s arm and pulls her off.

“Hey!” Riley protests.

“Forgive me for being forward, but I’ve never seen you here before. I always notice when the heralds announce a new name. I make it a point to know all the ladies at court. I’m Sir Oliver Vanderwall Nevrakis, Duke of Lythikos. Riley Singh of New York… Now is that the Singh family from Manhattan… or Brooklyn?”

“I’m my own family, thank you.”

“Well, seeing as you’re the new girl at court, let me give you some advice. When you’re presented to the King, you should kiss his shoe when you curtsy to him.”

“Really?” That sounds fake.

“It’s Cordonian custom to show deep respect and reverence for the monarchy. You’re so lucky that I was here to warn you! Otherwise, you’d look completely ridiculous.”

“Thanks…” she says, half-heartedly. Just then, Maxwell rushes back to her side.

“Princess Lia is here! Ready to see her again?” he asks. Riley looks across the crowded ballroom and there she is… Riley’s stomach does a little flip. Lia looks just the same, and yet somehow infinitely more powerful dressed in a stunning ball gown and giving a professional smile to the entire room.

“Do you think she’ll be glad to see me?” In hindsight, flying across the country and joining a competition full of men for her hand in marriage after knowing her for one night might seem… obsessive.

“Only one way to find out… go talk to her.”

#playchoices #the royal romance #trr fanfic #choices fanfic #choices wlw #my fanfic #lia x mc #future queens

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cloudytreefolk · 5 years

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Giving Instructions

I chose to make an illustration on the category “getting to my house”. Ironically I got a bit lost with this exercise, it was the first project somewhat similar to the representative illustrations of the last course section, so I was a little overwhelmed trying to apply advice from my tutor feedback along with deciphering the instructions. I have a slightly different way of interpreting language than others since I’m on the autistic and adhd spectrum so one of the key challenges of a distance learning course is making sure I’m reading the instructions properly and staying focused on the brief instead of getting kind of carried away in other directions that I might find more immediately rewarding. So because I can find it hard to follow instructions, a task about giving instructions with as few words as possible was tricky! Balancing informative and aesthetic interests was challenging too, since if I was looking for directions I’d find the clearest map possible. Similarly as someone who plays musical instruments, it’s easiest to learn music from sheet music...and making a cup of tea is such a basic thing I don’t know why you’d need instructions for it. These were my initial personal reactions at least. Just now writing this I’m thinking, ok, so who would the audience be for tea-making instructions? And actually they could be useful to a lot of people - people learning to make tea, or people who benefit from visual reminders for everyday executive functioning tasks. Or for a specific tea recipe, like a London Fog or chai or fruit iced tea. Or if the tea-making steps were presented in a really striking graphic design it might work as a print to hang up in the kitchen for people who are really into tea? With hindsight and these factors in mind I think with “Getting to my house” I chose the most complicated and challenging category for me personally, and there’s probably a good lesson to learn here about starting my Learning Log posts off right at the start of the project so I can work through some of these things as I go instead of after.

Initial artist research, style inspiration

Johnny Hannah’s Darktown - suggested by my tutor, a fictional town formed of memories and inspirations and obsessions. I thought maybe I could be inspired to represent my home town in a similar way, bring in some of this magic realism and let my inspirations and experiences colour my depiction of my way home. Looking at his art style, together with Tim Smart’s, another artist suggestion from my tutor, served as a reminder that illustration can be bold and anarchic and expressive and that interesting mixture of aesthetic “flaws” and technical prowess. I particular loved the wonky perpestive and atmosphere of these pieces by Tim Smart, they feel so atmospheric and dramatic from his use of lighting, coupled with bold colour and scribbly textures. I also was really enjoying Jeffrey Alan Love’s use of strong shape/silhouette and texture. These three artists inspired me to try a way more messy and expressive illustration style in this exercise.

Style exploration/mark-making

Mini studies from Carson Ellis’ “Home”, some from details of Darktown book (A)

Determining steps (B)- after some brainstorming notes I drew a map of the village to get my bearings a bit. Some very big and scrawly paper sheets trying to work it out. Eventually I went very very literal and took photographs along the whole route home to refer back to in the hope I could figure out which shots would be most key in giving someone else directions.

More markmaking and style experiments kind of following on from my Carson Ellis and Johnny Hannah studies (C) none of these really appealed to me, at this stage I was just playing with mediums and seeing what stuck.

James Gurney Light and Colour house watercolour painting (D)

After my more cartoony experiments I tried painting a house on my route home with watercolours in a more realism-inspired technique, and I found this really rewarding. I’m really attracted to super bold zingy colours but this can get in the way of creating the kind of moodier atmospheres I’d like, so I’ve been reading James Gurney’s “Colour and Light” and watching his gouache process videos to learn how he creates these gorgeous heightened, almost magic realism paintings. As I was painting this house I tried to begin to apply what I’ve learned from him regarding how atmospheric light affects colour saturation and temperature, and how your eyes can trick you as to what colours you’re actually looking at.

Specifically with my green and white house painting, I found I actually needed a cold blue gray for the longer wall, with a little bit of purple added to warm it up just as it comes to meet the side of the house lit by the sun. For this wall I used a warmer creamy sand tone wash.

James Gurney on the benefit of “gross” colours - “More paintings suffer from the “fruit salad disease” of too much pure colour rather than from murky mud....the cure is good value organisation...a well-placed gray makes pure colour sing.”

Final inspiration moodboard for drawing my route steps - Johnny Hannah kind of folk-punk roughness, Andrew Wyeth-inspired dirty smudgy winter textures and restricted colour palette, bringing in a bit of gothic dark folktale inspiration from the art style of the animated show Over the Garden Wall, which combined a painterly grisaille style rendering with large swathes of block fill shadow for the background art. This had the dual benefit for the background artists of restricting the amount of painterly detail and looking really really cool and spooky.

I did some more style experiments following the ideas above, from this moodboard (E) I also had an idea inspired by Johnny Hannah of using quotes/song lyrics/poem extracts. I could use these to tell a story along the route, I like the scrawly handwriting writing with a brush pen makes (F).

Really rough route thumbnails (G)

Drawings from my route photo steps - plastic wallet

Digital work below - layout experiments/format

Development ideas

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dippedanddripped · 4 years

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Marc Jacobs and Ava Nirui met because of a sweatshirt. The hoodie – a plain pull-over with ‘Mark Jacobes’ in a childlike scrawl across the front, saw Nirui cross the line from viral fashion bootlegger (known as @avanope) to bonafide collaborator, and resulted in her being offered a full-time role at the brand.

For Jacobs, hiring Nirui was, as everything else in his world, the result of pure instinct. So far, it’s more than paid off – collaborations under her direction have included the likes of Cactus Plant Flea Market and Stay Rats (which even saw the elusive Frank Ocean model). At their heart, such partnerships are current expressions of the things that the brand has stood for since its earliest days in 80s New York: community, inclusivity, creativity, self-expression – and being a little bit of an outsider. “It’s been so amazing to have the keys to do all of that,” Nirui acknowledges, referencing the trust that exists between them. “Marc is like a mentor to me.”

ADVERTISING

Now, Jacobs and Nirui are ready to unveil their latest project: Heaven.

What is Heaven? It’s a series of clothes, from baby tees to sweater vests, combat trousers to hoodies. But it’s also a double-headed Teddy bear (originally held by a naked Katie Grand in the pages of a 1994 copy of Dazed). It’s young musicians like Dazed 100 star Beabadoobee and the green-haired Vegyn. It’s your teenage bedroom. It’s Gregg Araki, whose apocalyptic typography features on t-shirts. It’s legendary Japanese street style mag FRUiTS, whose founder Shoichi Aoki has shot the lookbook. And it’s so, so much more than that.

With a jaw-dropping list of collaborators who have contributed their talents to the project – from curating books, to making art, or shooting films – it’s a reflection of Marc Jacobs’ obsession with pop culture heroes, creative weirdos, and a new generation of icons. And it’s proof that the feeling is more than mutual. (The resulting projects will be revealed over the coming weeks on a newly-created Instagram page, @heavn.)

Heaven will not replace any current lines, but join the existing planets in the Marc Jacobs solar system – like The Marc Jacobs and the (as for now, unscheduled) runway shows. “There is space for a younger audience; there is space for a runway show; there is space for an online shopper,” Jacobs affirms. “So, it’s not about saying: ’Oh, that’s dead’ or jumping on a bandwagon, it’s just going back to our roots and saying we allow space for things to happen. And Heaven is one of those things that is happening now.”

Below, Jacobs and Nirui talk Heaven, creativity, and why New York will never die – despite what you may have heard.

Ava Nirui: Marc, where did the name Heaven come from? What does the name Heaven mean to you?

Marc Jacobs: It goes way back. There’s a group of people who are all my friends and almost like my chosen family – Anna Sui, Steven Meisel, Louie Chaban. We always used to use the word ‘heaven’ to describe something we loved. If something was perfect or if someone looked amazing, you’d be like, she’s heaven. They’re heaven. It’s heaven. Heaven was it. It’s done, perfect. Heaven, I love it.

When you were conceiving the collection there was a Dazed image of Katie Grand holding a two-headed teddy bear on the moodboard – why was that particularly inspirational?

Ava Nirui: Obviously, Katie is someone who is so linked with Marc’s history and one of Marc’s muses. We felt that the double-headed teddy bear was something that really symbolised Marc Jacobs in the way that it’s classic but demented, the two heads being the duality, the two genders and everything in between. We just thought it was a really playful thing that fit into the Marc Jacobs world really seamlessly.

Marc Jacobs: When Ava showed me this symbol of the two-headed bear, it just organically started to feel like a very natural and urgent thing to do and say. My big contribution (was) to say, ‘Ava, I love it. Go for it.’

Ava Nirui: Also, all of these collaborators and community members that I brought to Marc for Heaven – it’s funny to me because Marc’s world, and the people who are contained within Marc’s world, like the Sofias and the Courtneys, Harmony, Marilyn Manson and all of those people, are people I’m drawn to and obsessed with.

A lot of them are kind of outsiders, rebellious in their own ways.

Ava Nirui: The way Marc works and has always worked, has been anti-establishment and very rebellious and very subversive. I think that this project was just such a natural, organic progression (from that). Marc also being so incredibly trusting, allowed for it to be what it is now – which is so many collaborations with friends and people who are relevant to his brand, to his label and people who really authentically slot into this world.

Marc Jacobs: I think that’s really the only way for something to have soul, to not study it, not calculate it and I loved that from Ava’s first sweatshirt that she did, there is that kind of guerilla attitude. It’s instinctive: I had an idea, I went out and did it. I do have complete trust in Ava and if I didn’t I’d be trying to micromanage and that goes completely against anything with soul. I’m very much someone who believes in collaboration in the true sense of the word. I know that that’s what it takes for something to have authenticity and credibility, to allow different people their voice and their vision. I act in some way as a director or an editor or just as a collaborator.

“The way Marc works and has always worked, has been anti-establishment and very rebellious and very subversive. I think that this project was just such a natural, organic progression” – Ava Nirui

Why was Gregg Araki’s work something that felt relevant to bring into the collection?

Marc Jacobs: Ava brought the idea to collaborate with Gregg Araki to me and I sprung to life because he has always been one of my favourite filmmakers. When I brought Stephen Sprouse to Paris to collaborate with me on the Vuitton show we did together, Stephen and I both had this huge crush on (actor) James Duval. (Stephen) would come over to my apartment in Paris and we would watch and rewatch The Doom Generation and all of the Araki films and that was just something we bonded over and something we loved. So when Ava presented this idea of Gregg Araki, it almost made me feel like, Why haven’t I done this before? I’ve always been a fan and his work has always been so inspirational to me.

Ava Nirui: I just knew Marc would love Gregg Araki, even though it was not something he had explicitly said to me before. The collaboration was conceived before the quarantine but some of those title cards that we used (on the clothing) are so relevant to now. ‘The alienation generation’, and it feeling so rebellious and angsty. I just feel like it’s kind of perfect for the time.

Marc Jacobs Heaven lookbook13

When I watched Euphoria, I was like, this is just Gregg Araki with an HBO budget.

Marc Jacobs: Definitely. There are definitely ties. Sometimes there are just people who are so sensitive and have this instinctive connection to storytelling. I felt the connection we had to these Araki films was like, here is someone who is telling a story in a way that we understand. You just related so primitively to the content and the visual, the angst, the sexuality and everything about it.

Ava Nirui: Obviously I think everyone knows some of the most iconic fashion collaborations came from Marc and you’ve also always been so supportive of up and coming people, designers and artists. So Marc, why do you think it’s so important to be so trusting in supporting these up and coming talents?

Marc Jacobs: I think I’m just a genuine fan, I went into fashion because I loved it. One of the things I didn’t love about fashion before I got started was this idea of an ivory tower designer, a designer who takes credit for everything. It’s funny, I was with Kanye last week and he said to me people in music play music for other fellow musicians and artists when they do work they share with other artists to get their input and feedback. One of the places where that’s not the case is in fashion.

Fashion is so about ownership about something and I find that so many designers put so much energy into trying to protect and own an idea and it’s just beyond me. That’s a system I’ve never understood, I’ve always felt like creativity and being artistic is a community. I think it’s the only reason why with all the frustrations and difficulties of being in business and being a designer for so long, that I feel like I still want to do this job because I still feel there are so many interesting and great stories out there.

Obviously things like the Louis Vuitton Murakami collaboration are being discovered by a whole new generation – what’s it like to see people discover these things for the first time?

Marc Jacobs: I think it’s wonderful. It’s interesting because, and I’m saying this because we’re talking about Murakami, Virgil sent me DM saying: ‘You’ve set the stage for this’. I don’t need credit but I just think it’s really nice that some people recognise it. What’s funny is that there is a whole younger generation that doesn’t know anything about me and they don’t know anything about these collaborations and where they came from and that’s okay. I’m not fighting for ownership of these ideas. I love that they meant something so substantial that people relook at them. That’s the greatest reward to me. I’m going to totally screw up this quote but Chanel used to say, ‘He who insists on his own creativity has no memory.’ It’s not important to insist you were the one who invented something or created it because let’s face it – everything comes from somewhere.

What you were just saying about ideas of ownership Marc, Ava that reminds me of the bootleg work you were doing originally on Instagram. Do you feel like you have a similar mentality there?

Ava Nirui: I think the biggest similarity between the bootleg stuff and the way Marc works is truly doing your own thing and being satisfied with your own work. Also, not really caring about the repercussions. Something Marc was giving me advice on was ways to navigate working for a corporation and how you can get away with being rebellious. Marc actually had really amazing words there...

Marc Jacobs: Karl Lagerfeld once said – and again, I’ll probably misquote this – you need to disrespect something to move forward. When I collaborated with Stephen Sprouse, one of my challenges was to make the monogram fresh again. I felt the only way we could do that was by disrespecting it and defacing it, very much like Duchamp did with the Mona Lisa when he painted the moustache. I think that’s something that you can’t check with people on, you just have to do it and let the chips fall if they may. Apologise afterwards if necessary or just accept responsibility for it afterwards. I think that’s how you make something genuine. For a good, healthy amount of disrespect, there has to be admiration.

I remember when I was doing certain things at Vuitton and I was getting my hands slapped by the president of Vuitton or by the head of communications, Mr Arnault would be like ’Look, you’re not here for a popularity contest. I hired you to make a difference. I hired you to make young people look at this brand differently. So you may not win friends along the way but that’s what you’re here to do.’

In fashion, that line between creative freedom and keeping certain people happy is hard to strike. How do you manage it?

Marc Jacobs: My experience is at the end of the day if you want to sleep well you have to trust your instincts and your gut. You can’t please everyone. I think there’s always a balance though, every action has a reaction. How important is the integrity of your idea and where can you conform or compromise, so that your idea can be heard? This is something everybody in life has to straddle. We all have to balance what allows us to be creative and get our voice out there with the integrity of our voice. How we navigate that is part of what happens when you want to share what your work is with others. If you want it to be out there, you can’t bite the hand that feeds you but you also can’t be so respectful that you get nowhere and say nothing.

“If you want your work to be out there, you can’t bite the hand that feeds you but you also can’t be so respectful that you get nowhere and say nothing” – Marc Jacobs

The pandemic obviously made a lot of people reconsider their relationship to New York. Some people have been proclaiming that the city is dead...

Marc Jacobs: New York is not dead and New York is never going to die. The city will grow from what it’s gone through and people who are artistic within the city will thrive in a different way. Creativity is essential. If there was no art, no fashion, no music, no poetry, what would everyone be doing in quarantine? They’d be Zooming each other naked and they would have no documentaries or movies to discuss. Art is essential, it’s just the way it is. We need water, we need food, we need shelter. Everything else is superfluous but we wouldn’t want to live a life without art. I think it was Nietzsche who said we have art so we don’t die of reality. I think it’s kind of true, creativity of all forms is essential and New York in all forms is one of the most creative and vital places in the world.

Ava Nirui: I just feel like the people who are always here are still here. I think New York, like everywhere else, will recover. I think that creative talent is certainly still here and I feel like I’m discovering people every single day who live in New York, who are incredible.

Marc Jacobs: I think also when we speak about New York in this sense, it’s not about New York City as a geographical zone, it’s about a concept. Why do young people dream about coming to New York from other places? I think New York represents a spirit that will never die. It’s a place of dreams, it’s a place that you look towards as a place to be free. If you’ve come from these other places which aren’t as accepting and you can’t belong. No one comes to New York to fit in, they come to belong. It’s like an embracing entity, there is space for anything and anyone here. With the drive, ambition, creativity and imagination, anyone can be a presence. That idea and that essence will never die.

#ava nirui #marc jacobs #heaven #fashion blog

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spamzineglasgow · 4 years

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(HOT TAKE) Notes on a Conditional Form by The 1975, part 1

In the first instalment of a two part dialogic HOT TAKE of The 1975′s latest album, Notes on a Conditional Form (Dirty Hit, 2020), Maria Sledmere writes to musician and critic Scott Morrison with meditations on the controversial motormouth and prince of sincerity that is Matty Healy, the poetics of wrongness, millennial digression and what it means to play and compose from the middle.

Dear Scott,

> So we have agreed to write something on The 1975’s fourth studio album, Notes on a Conditional Form (Dirty Hit/Polydor). I have been traipsing around the various necropoli of Glasgow on my state-sanctioned walks this week, listening to the long meandering 80-minute world of it, disentangling my headphones from the overgrown ferns, caught between the living and dead. Can you have a long world, a sprawling fantasia, when ‘the world’ feels increasingly shortened, small, boiled down to its ‘essentials’? Let’s go around the world in 80 minutes, the band seem to say, take this short-circuit to the infinite with me. I like that; I don’t even need a boat, just a half-arsed WiFi connection and a will to download. I’m really excited to be talking with you, writing you both about this; it’s an honour to connect our thoughts. I want writing right now to feel a bit like listening, so I write this listening. When my friend Katy slid into my DMs on a Monday morning with ‘omg the 1975 album starts with greta?????????’ and then ‘what on earth is the genre of this album ?!’ I just knew it had to happen, this writing-listening, because I was equally alarmed and charmed by the cognitive dissonance of that fall from Greta’s soft, yet urgent call to rebel (‘The 1975’), into ‘People’ with its parodic refrain of post-punk hedonism that would eat Fat White Family on a Dadaesque meal-deal platter ‘WELL, GIRLS, FOOD, GEAR [...] Yeah, woo, yeah, that’s right’. Scott, you and I went to see The 1975 play at the Hydro on the 1st of March, my last gig before lockdown. I’d been up all night drinking straight gin and doing cartwheels and crying on my friend’s carpet, and the sleeplessness made everything all the more lush and intense. Those slogans, the theatrical backdrops, the dancers, the lights, the travellator! Everything so EXTRA, what a JOURNEY. And well, it would be rude of me not to invite you to contribute to this conversation, as a thank you for the ticket but also because of your fortunate (and probably unusual) positioning as both a classically trained musician (with a fine-tuned listening ear) and fervent fan of the band (readers, Scott messaged me with pictures of pre-ordered vinyl to prove it).

> It seems impossible to begin this dialogue without first addressing the FRAUGHT and oft~problematic question of Matty Healy, the band’s frontman, variously described as ‘the enfant terrible of pop-rock’ and ‘outspoken avatar’ (Sam Sodomsky, Pitchfork), ‘enigmatic deity’ (Douglas Greenwood for i-D), ‘a charismatic thirty-one-year-old’ and ‘scrawny’, rock star ‘archetype’, not to mention ‘avatar of modern authenticity, wit, and flamboyance’ (Carrie Battan, The New Yorker). ‘Divisive motormouth or voice of a generation?’ asks Dorian Lynskey with (fair enough) somewhat tired provocation in The Guardian, as if you could have one without the other, these days. ‘There are’, writes Dan Stubbs for The NME, ‘as many Matty Healys here as there are musical styles’. So far, so postmodern, so elliptical, so everything/yeah/woo/whatever/that’s right. Come to think of it, it makes sense for The 1975 to draft in Greta Thunberg to read her climate speech over the opening eponymous track. Both Matty and Greta, for divergent yet somehow intersecting reasons, suffer the troublesome, universalising label of voice of a generation. Why not join forces to exploit this label, to put out a message? I’ve always thought of pop music as a kind of potential broadcast, a hypnotic, smooth space for desire’s traversal and recalibration. More on that later, maybe. What do you think?

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> You can imagine Matty leaping out of a cryptic, post-internet Cocteau novelette (if not then straight onto James Cordon’s studio desk), emoji streaming from his fingertips like the lightning that Justine wields in Lars von Trier’s film Melancholia (2011); but the terrifying candour of the enfant terrible is also his propensity to wax lyrical on another (bear with my clickhole) YouTube interview about his thoughts on Situationism and the Snapchat generation. It feels relevant to mention cinema right now, if only in passing, because this album is full of cinematic moments: strings and swells worthy of Weyes Blood’s latest paean to the movies, but also a Disneyfication of sentiment clotted and packed between house tracks, ballads and rarefied indie hits. Nobody does the interlude quite like The 1975. Maybe more on that later, also.

> Where do I start though, how to really write about this, how to attain something like necessary distance in the space of a writing-listening? Matty Healy, I suppose, like SPAM’s celebrated authorial mascot, Tom McCarthy, poses the same problem of response: how to write about an artist whose own critical commentary is like an eloquent, overzealous and self-devouring, carnivorous vine of opinion?

> Now, let’s not turn this into a discussion about who wears pinstripes better (we can leave that to readers - these are total Notes from the Watercooler levels of quiche). There seems to be this obsession with pinning (excuse the pun) Matty down to a flat surface of multiples: a moodboard, avatar, placeholder for automatic cancellation. He’s the soft cork you wanna prod your anxieties through and call it identity, you wanna provoke into saying something bizarrely, painfully true about life ‘as it is now’. Healy himself quips self-referentially, ‘a millennial that babyboomers like’. I don’t really know where to start really, not even on Matty; my brain is all over the place and I can’t find a critical place to settle. I’m lost in the fog and the stripes, some stars also; I haven’t even washed my hair for a week. Funnily enough, in 2018 for SPAM’s #7 Prom Date issue I wrote a poem called ‘Just Messing Around’ where the speaker mentions ‘pinning my eye to the right side / of matt healy’s hair all shaved / & serene’ and you don’t really know if it’s the eye that’s shaved or the hair, but both I guess offer different kinds of vision. Every time I google the man, IRL Matty I mean, I am offered a candied proliferation of alluring headlines: ‘The 1975’s Matty Healy opens up on his beef with Imagine Dragons’, ‘The 1975’s Matty Healy savagely destroys Maroon 5 over plagiarism claims’. Perhaps the whole point is to define (or slay?) by negation. Hey, I’ll write another poem. The opening sentence comes from Matty’s recent Guardian interview.

Superstar

I’m not an avocado, not everyone thinks I’m amazing. That’s why they call me the avocado, baby was a song released by Los Campesinos! in 2013, same year as the 1975’s debut. In the am I have been wanting to listen and Andy puts up a meme like ‘The 1975 names their albums stuff like “A Treatise on Epistemological Suffering” and then spends 2 hours singing about how hard it is to be 26’ and I reply being 26 IS epistemological suffering (isn’t that the affirmative dismissal contained in the title, ‘Yeah I Know’) I mean only yesterday I had to ask myself if it’s true you can wish on 11:11 or take zinc to improve your immune system or use an expired provisional license to buy alcohol like why are they even still asking I thought indie had died after that excruciating Hadouken! song called ‘Superstar’ which was all like You don’t like my scene / You don’t like my song / Well, if you Somewhere I’ve done something wrong it seems a delirious, 3-minute scold of the retro infinitude of scarf-wearing cunts with haircuts, and yeah sure kids dressed as emos rapping to rave is not the end of the world, per se, similarly I had to ask myself is there a life in academia is there a wage here or there, like the Talking Heads song And you may ask yourself, well How did I get here? Good thing I turn 27 next month Timothy Morton often uses the refrain, this is not my beautiful house this is not my beautiful wife to refer to those moments you find yourself caught in the irony loop and that’s dark ecology the closer you are the stranger it feels like slice me in half I’ll fall out with more questions you can plant in the soil like a stone or stoner, just one more drag of does it offend you, yeah? will I live and die in a band Matty sings the sweet green meat of my much-too-old -and-such-youthful experience of adding healthy fat to conference dialogue, like ‘Avocado, Baby’ was released on a record called No Blues I believe a large automobile is hurtling towards me now in negative space and the driver is crooning Elvis and reciting my funding conditions and everything feels like there aren’t not still people who believe the new culture of content is a space ‘over there’ and you can still have earnest power ballads about love if you want them =/ to cancel (too many tabs don’t make a tableau but in the future facebook has a paywall) and fame is a drag the pressure we put on the atmosphere, like somewhere you’re alive and still amazing asking wtf I’m reading this novel by Roberto Bolaño set partly in 1975 before we had internet it seems poets got laid a lot that year in Mexico City before I was born to pick up video calls with a spliff in one hand in the splendid, essential heat like a difficult knife in my side you can put me on toast, grind the pepper over me gently and say fucking hell this has taken forever.

> I guess I want or wanted to begin with this question of difficulty that rises when responding to Notes on a Conditional Form. How do you approach an album whose delayed release places it in a position of considerable hype, an album whose world tour and promotion is again delayed by global pandemic, an album shrouded in the ever-shifting controversy of Matty’s persona, an album whose length and sonic variety risks collapse into litanies of zany superlative and necrophilic attempts to revive musical category as vaguely relevant here? As beautiful as it is to catalogue the offbeat Pinegrove vibes of ‘Roadkill’, the shoegaze croons of ‘Then Because She Goes’ and the pop-punk, chord-bright euphoria of ‘Me & You Together Song’, I could keep going and going with this. I could just list and just list this. The album is a generous offering: a tribute to the album as form in an age where attention tapers away on high-streaming playlists set to conditioned, circadian moods curated by the likes of Spotify or Apple Music. The album is a Borgesian plenitude of multiple pathways, multiple timelines, infinite feed, choose your own adventure; a hypertext of cultural reference almost worthy of Manic Street Preachers at their Richey Edwards era of paranoid, intellectual peak; a metamodernist feat of oscillation between irony and sincerity, an extended tract, a drunk millennial ramble, a journey that loops from house party to club basement to the streams of sexuality repressed and expressed encounter...and yet. It is both more and less than these things. In trying to capture Notes on a Conditional Form with some pithy, journalist’s statement, I’m doing it all wrong.

> Sidenote: I recently listened to Rachel Zucker give a 2016 lecture on ‘The Poetics of Wrongness’ as part of the Bagley Wright Lecture Series. She makes a case for wrongness in poetry and critique, rejects the poem of pithy essence, the short, pretty and to the point lyric whose meaning is easily digested in a greetings card, or A Level exam paper, say. ‘Instead of the Fabergé egg of the short lyric, I prefer the aesthetics of intractability and exhausted exhaustedness’, the mistakes, lags or aporia made along the way in one of these long and winding poems. Notes on a Conditional Form is full of what some might deem mistakes, digression, exhaustion; but it is also peppered with the gloss of almost perfect pop ‘hits’ such as ‘Me & You Together Song’ and ‘If You’re Too Shy (Let Me Know)’. A wrong poem should be, ‘ashamed and irreverent’, which feels like a decent description of The 1975’s general orientation towards artistic conception. There is cringe and incongruity, there is by all intents and purposes ‘too much of it’, whatever we mean by ‘it’. And yet, that is its beautiful poetics of wrongness, the sound of wrongness, which ‘prefers the stairs’ to the easy elevator pitch (as Zucker puts it), that ‘prefers a half-finishing crumbling stairwell to nowhere’. I like to think about this 1975 album as a kind of exhausting Escherian scene of shifting, crumbling stairwells, shuffling and reassembling against the glistering backdrop of the internet’s inverse void, where everything, literally everything is translated to a starry excess of 1s and 0s, our collective binary data, the white hot, unreadable howl of our noise. What do you think Scott, would Matty find this image agreeable? Does that matter?

> Pushing dear Matty aside, say what you like, let’s start (again) with the title: Notes on a Conditional Form. Following 2018’s A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships, it’s fair to position these records as gestures towards philosophical statements ‘of the times’. Important to recognise the resistance to total or dominating knowledge built into the titles: these are not complete tracts or theses, but rather ‘a brief inquiry’ and ‘notes’. It’s obviously the ancient yet *hip* thing to do in capital-P Philosophy, to put out your statement on aesthetics and ethics, and I think The 1975 are playing with that tradition and its failure. You can imagine if his attention span were different, Matty Healy would’ve already written a PhD thesis on this stuff and published it as drunken bulletins on LiveJournal in 2007. As it stands, we have the smorgasbord sprawl of this eclectic record to get through in this cursèd year of 2020 — it’s not like we have much of anything better to do right now, when everything feels so futile, beyond reason and even the greatest human endeavour. Haha, woo, Yeah :’(((.

> Let’s stay in that conditional space between crying and laughter. Conditional form is interesting as a term, often used in grammar to refer to the ‘unreal past’ because it uses a past tense but does not actually refer to something that literally happened in the past: If I had texted him back, we would probably have gone to the gig that night. There’s something about the conditional as the ur-condition of the internet, the proliferating possibilities it offers and the hauntological strains of what could have been had we chosen x option over y, z, a, b, c, infinity...As millennials, we often make decisions by hedging, always caught in the conditional state of what it is to be. Hovering in the emotional shortcuts provided by dumb yellow icons, the poetics of abstraction. A verb form’s dalliance with uncertain reverb; and so we live our conditional lives.

> To push this further, we can say the internet is, as ever, Matty Healy’s natural habitat. In a recent podcast interview with Conor Oberst for The Face, Healy tells his favourite emo-country hero that ‘my natural environment by the time I started The 1975 was the fucking internet’. So how does that ecosystem play into the music? In a damning review for The Line of Best Fit, Claire Biddles concludes:

The 1975’s first three albums are ideal and distinct worlds to inhabit, each individually cohesive but situated in specific contexts — the anticipation of the small town, profundity in the face of vacuous fame, and the horror and isolation of late capitalism. Perhaps because of its broken genesis, Notes has no such common context, and ends up feeling flat, directionless and inessential, where its forebears felt vital, worthy of devoting a life to. For a band with proven dexterity in deftly capturing the nuances and quick changes of contemporary conversation, it is disheartening to witness them with nearly nothing of note to say.

That description — ‘flat, directionless and inessential’ — is kind of how I experience the internet right now, in the paradox of Web 2.0 becoming utterly essential, somehow, to how I live my life, how I love, how I am with friends. The internet as my ecosystem, my utility, my complete environment, my Imaginary — beyond the mere utility of a WiFi connection. Broken genesis might well describe the childhoods of those of us who grew up online, whose platforms collapsed around them, whose adolescent data was lost in the great ~accidental annihilation of the MySpace servers, whose identities were always already fractured, performed, anonymised or exquisitely personalised, deferred into only the (im)possible keystroke of utterance and trace, the fort-da play of MSN sign-ins. ‘My life is defined by a desire to be outward followed by a fear of being seen’, Matty says in a new short film for Apple Music, released in tandem with the album. The internet requires this chiaroscuro destiny: not to burn always with Baudelaire’s hard and gem-like flame (O to be an IRL flaneur beyond times of lockdown) but to endlessly flicker between the bright green light of presence and the shade of what once was called afk, away from keyboard. To live and burn in the gap between extroversion and introversion, to live in this conditional state of tendency. To express with emoji, send pics, is to both reveal and withhold something else, essential.

> I like albums to feel like worlds; I appreciate Biddles’ evocation of the cohesion experienced in the first three 1975 records. But perhaps it is a kind of violence to assume a world must have cohesion to exist. What is even meant by ‘common context’? What pressure are we putting on a singer, a band, a cultural moment to produce something familiar and harmonious, and to whom, at what scale? What does it mean to be the biggest band in the world...for a bit? How does that work when everything is dissonance, transience, noise, interference; both this and not-this; when life itself is lived as the flat traversal of a millioning existential terrains that seem to collapse into this nowness in which I feel myself sliding forever? Can anyone weigh-in on what it means to make music, art or writing that’s ‘worthy of devoting a life to’, because the gravity and force of that condition for good art, good pop, seduces me so.

> Maybe the point is to always be in the middle, to never quite start to write about The 1975, to find yourself always already writing about this album because this album was always already writing about your life. I have said nobody does the interlude quite like The 1975, but I was being coy, because the hottest twentieth-century philosophical double act, Deleuze and Guattari (haters gonna hate), do the interlude rather nicely. The point of a rhizome being ‘no beginning or end [...] always in the middle, between things, interbeing, intermezzo’ as they write in A Thousand Plateaus (1980). I see the musical interlude of a pop record, the instrumental moment without lyric, as a kind of middling gesture that places the listener in that conditional state of presence and absence, a hinge between songs, times and narrative moments. Maybe my favourite moment in A Thousand Plateaus is the statement: ‘RHIZOMATICS = POP ANALYSIS, even if the people have other things to do besides read it, even if the blocks of academic culture or pseudoscien-tificity in it are still too painful or ponderous’. Painful or ponderous might be a fair critique levelled at the enfant terrible vibes of Matty’s lyrics and generic pick’n’mix, but isn’t this tactic a kind of swerving punch at the categorical violence that keeps people out of academia, that keeps academic discourse so often stale in the first place? Unlike most journal articles, let’s face it, pop reaches ‘“the people”’. Perhaps Notes on a Conditional Form is the rhizomatic sprawl of the myriad we need as an alternative to institutional hierarchy, ring-fencing and the language games of academia. Surely the title is a reference to the very ‘pseudoscient-tificity’ D&G mention? I’m gonna quote Richard Scott’s blurb to Colin Herd’s 2019 poetry collection, You Name It here (not least because the indie publishers, Dostoyevsky Wannabe, come straight out of Manchester, home to The 1975, and because Herd’s poetic spirit is pure pop generosity with a platter of theory on the side), because I want to say similar things of this album: ‘Colin Herd’s poems are masterpieces of variousness. They are talismans against Macho demons. They are snatches of theory operating under lavish spills of language’. The good thing about Herd’s poetry and Matty Healy’s lyrics is that the impulse towards romantic or florid expression is always tapered by an interest in the mundane and everyday. Healy is always singing about pissing or buying clothes online or, as on ‘The Birthday Party’, singing about ‘a place I’ve been going’ that seems to consist of the lonely, infinite regress of conversations about seeing friends and watching someone drink kombucha while buying, in the convenient life of rhyme, Ed Ruscha prints.

Ed Ruscher, Cold Beer, Beautiful Girls (2009)

> So what kind of listening does this rhizomatic sprawl demand — does it expand beyond the banal or find a holding space there, a heaven of affect chilled to late-modernity’s crisp perfection? ‘The End (Music For Cars)’ is a luxurious, Hollywood ‘soaring’ moment, all strings and swells, fucking woodwind, and comes as the third track on the album, where normally you’d place it as some kind of penultimate climax, the album’s landscape pan-out or big swelling screen kiss in three-dimensional rotation. The band’s ‘Music For Cars’ era comprises their two most recent records, and you have to take it as a nod to Brian Eno’s 1978 ambient classic Ambient 1: Music for Airports (Matty recently interviewed Eno again for The Face, cool). The thing about cars is you drive around in them, you follow rules but also whims and desires, convictions; you choose to join others or you pursue the selfish acceleration (‘People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles’ goes the laconic teenage refrain in Bret Easton Ellis’ 1985 debut novel Less Than Zero). You only listen to music half-attentively; you don’t listen close enough to trade in souls. Are we being invited to experience this album as an ambient disruption of figure and ground, presence and absence, here and there, space and place, intimacy and despondency? Driving feels increasingly ‘directionless and inessential’ when the scale effects and obscenities of the anthropocene, of covid and other late-capitalist crises loom in our vision, when the sign systems we used to navigate our lives by seem to shimmer out of focus, or pixelate and deteriorate through endless memetic replication... You can’t help feel like Biddles review kind of misses the point.

Sylvano Bussoti, Five Pieces for Piano for David Tudor (1959)

> What point would that be though, in a world of rhizomatic overlap and intersecting, middling lines, a direction without seeming end? I love the approximation at work when Biddles writes, ‘with nearly nothing of note to say’, because that seems to be a possibility condition for writing in the age of the internet. To write in a way that is almost less than zero and loop back upon some kind of infinity, yet keep it in 2-step. I think back to Rachel Zucker’s image of the half-finished crumbling stairwell, and feel an amiable sense of approval towards this band who always work between the registers of diary, confession, advertising, provocative sloganeering and faux-didactics, never quite settling in to specifically tell you this particular story. It’s all mess, and it’s awful and delicious, I’m sorry. ‘Nothing Revealed / Everything Denied’ is the title of track 13 on the album: that movement between nothing and everything feels like the absolutist, absurdist conditions of ‘truth’ possibility in the Trumpocene/age of so-called ‘post-truth’. ‘Life feels like a lie, I need something to be true’, Healy sings with strained conviction in the song’s opening. But what is at stake in this truth? ‘I never fucked in a car, I was lying’, goes the line, referring back to the dramatic in medias res opening to ‘Love It If We Made It’, notable banger from A Brief Inquiry…: ‘We’re fucking in a car, shooting heroin / Saying controversial things just for the hell of it’. If lying is a pun on telling a mistruth or laying back, practically sexless in a passive state, there’s a deliberate play on apathy, agency and distortion here. It’s something Matty seems snagged on. On ‘I Like America & America Likes Me’ he collapses aesthetic superficiality, capital’s lyric abstraction (‘Oh, what’s a fiver?’) and generalised crisis into this (un)conscious desire for shutdown, expressed in fragmentary bullets of needing-to-know-and-not-know: ‘Is that designer? Is that on fire? Am I a liar? Oh, will this help me lay down?’ And then that impassioned refrain, processed through vocal distortion as if to enact the difficulty in clarity as overcome somehow by the sheer making of noise: ‘Belief and saying something / And saying something / And saying something’. It’s the endless, driving recursion of our lives online, online.

> Back to ‘The End (Music for Cars)’ which really is the middle of the beginning. It’s weird to listen to songs about driving and lying down in the middle of lockdown, drowning in the bloat of social media, on top of our ongoing climate emergency (yeah, remember that, it’s still happening), where high-carbon travel feels like an exhausted, almost impossible concept. A musician complaining about travelling is an age-old subject for a song, but this feels just as much about living in the in-between times of the internet (remember the sweet naivety of the information superhighway) as much as the great Road, for which Kerouac longed as much as Springsteen, Dylan, or Lana Del Rey. Is Matty Healy homesick though? ‘Get somewhere, change my mind, eh / Get somewhere but don’t find it / I don’t find what I’m looking for’. It’s all ‘(out there)’ as the parenthetical refrain goes, but maybe ‘out there’, outside, is the maddening supplement, as Derrida would say, to our lives online, thus revealing their mutual, entwined dependency. Imagine the M6 but tangled up crazily, zanily, like one of those Sylvano Bussoti scores. It’s not like you’re trying to get home, get back, exactly. It’s not like you can just click back on your browser and erase that trace of the touch that enacts it. That’s the weird-ass sensation of being an ecological being: ‘Wherever you go, there you are’, writes Tim Morton in Being Ecological (2018). We’re all pretty alien, even to ourselves.

> If life feels like a lie, as Matty sings, does it matter anymore whether it is or not? Or, to pose the question differently, how do we feel into, attune to something like ‘truth’, a shared reality or feeling? ‘Out there’ is only a state of ellipsis [...] a vine extended, something for the listener, user, consumer and/or human to cling to — or be strangled by. In the aforementioned Apple Music video, Matty takes away the canvas and presents the frame beneath, in a gesture that is comically overwrought with Duchampian pretention around the state and context of the artwork itself. ‘Sometimes I think what is the point of...it’s not my atheism coming out, it’s just my being human coming out’, he muses. The phrase ‘coming out’, with its connotations of closeting, shame and cocoon-like emergence is intriguing here. In a dehumanising, post-internet world of neoliberalism and its attendant microfascisms, its commodification of all kinds of art, its easythink translation of poetry-to-advertising, what would it mean to come out as human after, or better still, in the middle of all this? It’s significant that he trails off after ‘the point of…’, for surely the point itself (of the art?) would be to find yourself here, there, right in the middle of it all. And then in ‘Nothing Revealed / Everything Denied’, it’s like Matty is calling us back from that epistemological and ontological boiling point of knowing and being, like in singing we could go along, we could feel present and ‘true’ again, even with friction and difference. We gotta take hold, cool ourselves down from the rhetoric and into warm emotion, the smell of paint, erotic vibration of bass, in a manner of speaking.

> What if the mode of inquiry were not to investigate but rather to follow the lines of flight, to riff on this world where narrative arcs and chains are replaced by the multiple possibilities of hallucinatory experience, what Deleuze and Guattari call ‘a continuous, self-vibrating region of intensities whose development avoids any orientation toward a culmination point or external end’? To just desire and trace it. This, Scott, is where you come in (and I finally shut up to listen). There is so much more to write about this album, echo for echo, and I feel like I’ve only begun the tracing which was already beginning: I want to know your thoughts on The 1975 and America, on gender and genre, on bodies and football and friendship, on political engagement, those house beats, on the beautiful, sultry appearance of Phoebe (fucking) Bridgers, on sincerity, on the question of ‘What Should I Say’...It’s been playing on my mind that I will never say what I want to, or should, or would say of this album, but this perhaps is what I would otherwise have said. I give you my notes in conditional form.

Read part 2 of our review in Scott Morrison’s response here.

Notes on a Conditional Form is out now and available to order.

Text: Maria Sledmere

Published: 23/6/20

#review #reviews #music reviews #album review #The 1975 #Matty Healy #Maria Sledmere #music criticism #Scott Morrison

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cazzylimerence · 7 years

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He is here! He has arrived! His name is Thomas (Tom or Tommy for short) and he is an almost-life-sized velociraptor plush.

Story: so I moved recently and got super depressed and anxious and then decided to make one of the biggest impulse buys of my life. I’m glad I did.

Thomas here was custom made for me by the wonderfully talented amazing artist Smittensknuffels. Look her up, she has her own etsy shop and she’s absolutely phenomenal. She does all kinds of custom-order big stuffed animals, alive, extinct, fantasy or other. And she was super friendly and accommodating when it came to making sure I was happy with Thomas. And it only took her a few weeks to make him, too – the detail and care that went into him is just incredible! I really can’t thank her enough! (Here’s the original design I sent requesting a simplified version of design number 3, and a moodboard I made of the first pictures she sent to me for review when she was finished building – Thomas had black eyes at this stage, but even unfinished he looked amazing!)

So yeah. Ever since I was a little Jurassic-Park-obsessed kid I wanted my very own raptor friend – and now I finally have one! If my house burnt down and I could only run in and save one item this feathery fellow would be it!

I’ll probably write more about him later, as he’s a big OC in my writing that I’ve recently been trying to resurrect/reinvent. But for now …

Thomas the raptor is finally home! ❤️❤️❤️

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girlgainsbourger · 6 years

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Hold on fast to living

New to this (again). I’ve been apprehensive to start a new outlet because my writing and creative skills are slowly diminishing (with age) and my life is pretty mediocre these days. Plus there’s this whole “starting anew/ clean slate” feeling that’s terrifying because my obsessive-compulsive mind is too afraid to miss out the smallest detail so I’d rather not document anything esp on my journal since I fear committing mistakes the most and that prevents me from doing anything. Marc Johns once shared that he makes his own journals (as in he binds them himself) so he doesn’t feel regretful of whatever he had written and Emma Watson said someone told her that there’s nothing more intimidating than a blank canvas, which is true. Sometimes that’s what makes me give up writing and/or doing things altogether. On the other hand, not being able to chronicle my thoughts, inspirations, discoveries and misadventures makes me sad. I don’t remember any of the mundane things I laughed at during the Christmas season which was one of the best moments of my life. I’m starting to forget what happened when I threw my boyfriend (I call him Johnny online) his very first prom. I don’t have a list of songs that changed my life in 2016 so I don’t know where to send my thank you notes to. Now (well not exactly now, it has become a recurring thought) I realized that I’m writing for myself, so writing bad entries is ok and shouldn’t feel like homework. That it’s far more important that I remember certain periods, feelings or strange magic (as I, my sister and our homie, Tavi like to call it) rather than worrying whether I sound fancy or intellectual (something I won’t ever be anyway cos I’m always grammatically incorrect). That I should keep writing despite the normality of my life because that's the only way I'll get better at writing, plus whoelse is going to log all the times I rewatch Roswell? That I should stop writing as if I’m writing for an audience and just be completely honest with myself because this is my space. That it’s ok to allow myself to write bad, cringey poetry because I can see myself develop from it and at least I have something to look back on and laugh at in the future. I realized that if I didn’t write, or try to, I wouldn’t be able to encapsulate important adulting moments, silly conversations, filmy feelings, sartorial choices, bathroom epiphanies, etc. I realized that in order for me to let of of the perpetual fear/ anxiety of creating/ writing something, I should just describe things as I see them. Less is more and just being sincere and honest about the things I write about often leads to a product of inspiring and inspired writing.

There are so many things I regret not being able to write about because I was either too lazy or too “in the moment and now it’s too late to write about it cos time has passed”. So here’s a list of some 2016-2017 things I can write from memory:

- Sitting on the curb outside 7/11 with my sister Hanna after an outdoor movie (it was Matilda), listening to Crowded House’s Don’t Dream It’s Over on loudspeaker

- The electric feel of meeting Johnny for the first time after months of unbearable yearning, like the by way of the green line bus scene on the Royal Tenenbaums. How gawky it was. How unadulterated it was. Thinking about it today, from this gradual mediocrity, still makes me cry.

- Watching Gainsbourg: vie heroïque again after the last time (2011?) and regaining my fondness for Klimt, Baudelaire and Aznavour, knowing the difference between Rimbaud and Molière and how the scene with Yolanda Moreau, underrated French actress btw, made me emotional. I paused the film, listened to Fréhel for a while, and tears started rolling down like end credits. The world, c’est si bon.

- Reading Toast on the bus ride home one night and The Hottest State in a local cafe, looking up from time to time in hopes that someone would find me as interesting as Sarah. But there’s always no one there.

- I remember getting on a bus cos I was leaving for school in a town 7 hours away from my home. My dad just got off after helping me get settled and I started crying. A few seconds later, he climbed back up cos I left my hat and he sees me a wreck so he sat beside me for a few minutes, sharing a sad-comfortable silence.

- Discussing ideas and the future with my cousin Lowil over mac n cheese. I told him I just want to make art for a living but I seem to have forgotten how. That when I try to make something, it’s always crap and since I feel like I have a good critical eye and can easily tell good from bad, I figured my feelings about my own work must be true. He then replied that it’s just overwhelming feelings of self-doubt and that I just have to keep practicing and eventually the persistence will pay off.

- Breakfast with my family in our garden, feeling like a scene from Vicky Christina Barcelona or Tortilla Soup or that life pondering conversation lunch scene from Before Midnight. Everything was fresh like a citrus fruit.

- My friendship with Aida leveled up when we started opening up to each other about our depression and finding peace in each other’s consolation

- Virtually watched the Gilmore Girls reboot with Aida and I remembered most of it was disappointment (what was up with that 20-minute musical scene that felt like 14 hours) and the next day, we watched the last episode, Fall, and Reflecting Light started playing and it’s as if Aida’s hand reached out of the screen, grabbing mine and things were better for a while. This is our life, and if everything else crumbles, at least we have this.

- Crying at a club whilst I was dancing with Rosie on her last night in the country because I don’t want this but I’ll miss her

- Dancing to Neil Young’s Harvest Moon with Carlo was bewitching. A lilting reminder that despite the persistent mediocrity, “I’m still in love with you, I wanna see you dance again.”

- My excitement on September and watching Practical Magic almost every day, to welcome October, made me feel immortal

- Going to Hongkong with my sister, Hanna, and all I can remember is catching our breath, sitting in an alley with our egg tarts in Central and laughing at our ludicrous travel decisions

- Sitting in history class and my instructor started to sound like the grownups in Charlie Brown, a lump in my throat and on the verge of crying because I know and I was certain that school isn’t for me and continues to be the bane of my existence

- A wave of depression so intense it made me sit on the floor of my balcony at 3am listening to Crash Into Me

- Throwing a bachelorette (party of four) for my sister, Inky. Her best friend posed as her stripper because we’re too much of a wimp to get a real stripper and I’ve never seen her laugh so much before. We went out for drinks after and had an intense and honest conversation despite the godawful ambiance and waited for our guy friends to pick us up. All I remember about it now was the tumble and tangle of limbs but it was one of the best moments of my 2017

- Growing closer to my sisters. I don’t know how, I don’t know when BUT HERE WE ARE

- Listening to the entire Dreamin' Wild album by Donnie & Joe Emerson on vinyl. Johnny bought it for me as a Christmas present and I know he saved up for it for a while

- Welcoming 2017 with a studio 70s roller disco party and I can never write about this because it was everything

- The first week of January, Johnny so openly talked to me about how much he hates his work and that he doesn’t know what to do and we just sat on the bed and I played Billy Joel’s James and we started bawling like babies. A week after that, he finally left his job

- Right now, listening to Paul Simon sing American Tune, muting the people around me, eating the last of my cake. I realize we’re nearing towards the end of February and I’m still not beginning

I promise to try to update this more, whether if it's a bad movie review, the usual list of things or just a moodboard of inspiration. But I'd forgive myself if I didn't.

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girl-gainsbourg · 6 years

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Hold on fast to living

New to this (again). I’ve been apprehensive to start a new outlet because my writing and creative skills are slowly diminishing (with age) and my life is pretty mediocre these days. Plus there’s this whole “starting anew/clean slate” feeling that’s terrifying because my obsessive-compulsive mind is too afraid to miss out the smallest detail so I’d rather not document anything esp on my journal since I fear committing mistakes the most and that prevents me from doing anything. Marc Johns once shared that he makes his own journals (as in he binds them himself) so he doesn’t feel regretful of whatever he had written and Emma Watson said someone told her that there’s nothing more intimidating than a blank canvas, which is true. Sometimes that’s what makes me give up writing and/or doing things altogether. On the other hand, not being able to chronicle my thoughts, inspirations, discoveries and misadventures makes me sadder. I don’t remember any of the silly things I laughed at during the Christmas season which was one of the best moments of my life; I’m starting to forget what happened when I threw my boyfriend (I call him Johnny online) his very first prom; I don’t have a list of songs that changed my life in 2016 so I don’t know where to send my thank you notes to. Now (well not exactly now but it has become a recurring thought) I realized that I’m writing for myself, so writing bad entries is ok and shouldn’t feel like homework. That it’s far more important that I remember certain periods, feelings or strange magic (as I, my sister and our homie, Tavi like to call it) rather than worrying whether I sound fancy or intellectual (something I won’t ever be anyway cos I’m always grammatically incorrect). That I should keep writing despite the normality of my life because that's the only way I'll get better at it, plus whoelse is going to log all the times I rewatch Roswell? That I should stop writing as if I’m writing for an audience and just be completely honest with myself because this is my space (not yours, Bethany). That it’s ok to allow myself to write bad, cringey poetry because I can see myself develop from it and at least I have something to look back on and laugh at in the future. I realized that if I didn’t write, or try to, I wouldn’t be able to encapsulate important adulting moments, silly conversations, filmy feelings, sartorial choices, bathroom epiphanies, etc. I realized that in order for me to let go of the perpetual fear/ anxiety of creating/ writing something, I should just describe things as I see them. Less is more and just being sincere and honest about the things I write about often leads to a product of inspiring and inspired writing.

- Sitting on the curb outside 7/11 with my sister Hanna after an outdoor movie (it was Matilda), listening to Crowded House’s Don’t Dream It’s Over on loudspeaker

- My friendship with Aida leveled up when we started opening up to each other about our depression and finding peace in each other’s consolation

- Crying at a club whilst I was dancing with Rosie on her last night in the country because I don’t want this but I’ll miss her

- Dancing to Neil Young’s Harvest Moon with Carlo was bewitching. A lilting reminder that despite the persistent mediocrity, “I’m still in love with you, I wanna see you dance again.”

- My excitement on September and watching Practical Magic almost every day, to welcome October, made me feel immortal

- Going to Hongkong with my sister, Hanna, and all I can remember is catching our breath, sitting in an alley with our egg tarts in Central and laughing at our ludicrous travel decisions

- A wave of depression so intense it made me sit on the floor of my balcony at 3am listening to Crash Into Me

- Throwing a bachelorette (party of four) for my sister, Inky. Her best friend posed as her stripper because we’re too much of a wimp to get a real one and I’ve never seen her laugh as much as she did before. We went out for drinks after and had an intense and honest conversation despite the godawful ambiance and waited for our friends to pick us up. All I remember about it now was the tumble and tangle of limbs but it was one of the best moments of my 2017 tbfh

- Growing closer to my sisters. I don’t know how, I don’t know when BUT HERE WE ARE

- Listening to the entire Dreamin' Wild album by Donnie & Joe Emerson on vinyl. Johnny bought it for me as a Christmas present and I know he saved up for it for a while and that makes my mouth quiver

- Welcoming 2017 with a studio 70s roller disco party and I can never write about this because it was everything

- The first week of January, Johnny so openly talked to me about how much he hates his work and that he doesn’t know what to do with his life anymore and we just sat on the bed sharing an understanding and I played Billy Joel’s James and we started bawling like babies. A week after that, he finally left his job

- When I watched this conversation between RuPaul and Oprah that literally changed my life. It’s like they sat down and recorded a self-help audiobook

- Right now, listening to Paul Simon sing American Tune, muting the people around me, eating the last of my cake. I realize we’re nearing towards the end of February and I’m still not beginning

I promise to try to update this more, whether if it's a bad movie review, the usual list or just a moodboard of inspiration. But I'd forgive myself if I didn't.

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