#middle ages catholic religious art
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A high middle aged Catholic religious painting of St. Gertrude the Great. Artist unknown. I hope this holds you over until I can post regularly. I'm also reading the book " The Life and Revelations of St. Gertrude the Great.
#traditional catholicism#traditional catholic images#middle ages catholic religious art#middle ages catholism#traditional catholic saints images#traditional catholic saints#st. gertrude the great#traditional catholic saints writers#traditional catholic spiritual writers#traditional catholic spiritual books#the life and revelations of st. gertrude the great
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St. Cecilia by Pietro Lorenzetti, 1340s.
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The Worship of the Five Wounds in the Prayer Book of Cardinal Albrecht of Brandenburg
Simon Bening, ca. 1525–30,
Getty Museum, Ms. Ludwig IX 19, fol. 335v
The wounds of Christ, who clearly suffered a crucifixion can be seen on the disembodied limbs. A group of angels, people representing social classes (kings, clergy, aristocrats).
#art history#history#art#european art#medieval#medieval art#christian art#middle ages#dark ages#illuminated manuscript#medieval manuscripts#manuscript#crucifix#catholic art#religious art#death
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Unknown French sculptor, Lectern for Reading Scripture, c. 1475 - c. 1525, painted oak. From the permanent collection of the Medieval Sculpture Hall at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, New York.
This naturalistically carved eagle is perched atop an imposingly tall lectern used for Gospel readings in Christian churches. In traditional Medieval art, animals were incorporated into artwork designs to symbolize pertinent religious figures, themes, and ideas. The eagle shown here represents St. John the Evangelist, one of Jesus's twelve apostles and author of the fourth Gospel of the Bible.
IF YOU ENJOY THIS, CHECK OUT:
Related Artists: Tilman Riemenschneider, Claus Sluter, and the Master of Elsloo
#medieval#medieval art#15th century#16th century#gothic aesthetic#gothic art#religious art#catholic art#christian art#sculpture#sculptural#middle ages#medieval history#art history#history of art#european art#german art#art museum#art collection#art collections#met museum#metropolitan museum of art
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The Gate of Salvation [2/3]
[ young pope • Aemond x catholic • female ]
[ warnings: fingering, smut, sexual tension, angst, religious guilt, doubts related to faith, chauvinism ]
[ description: During the conclave, a new pope is elected, but to everyone's surprise, he does not intend to show himself to the crowds waiting for him. His ideas terrify the cardinals, and one of them convinces his niece, who is studying marketing, to talk to the new head of the Catholic Church in his presence. Main theme: sexual tension & holy touch. ]
A mini-series created as a thank you and celebration of my 2'500 followers. I initially plan that it will have about 3 chapters.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Aemond as a Pope Edit
Series Characters Moodboard
Aemond NSFW Alphabet
* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *
Next chapters: Masterlist
_____
After her meeting with the Pope, she had been writhing around all night, terrified and humiliated, unable to sleep. She couldn't forgive herself for her stupidity, for not seeing in time that it was obvious her uncle was trying to slip her over to the head of the Catholic Church like a snack he might be tempted to focus on.
The worst part was that he had hired her and she didn't know how she could take it back, defy the Pope himself, communicate that she was rejecting his proposal.
She got up before dawn, recognising that she would not get any rest anyway, and decided to take a warm shower. She thought while standing under the stream of hot water that she would try to distance herself, be professional and not give satisfaction to either her uncle or the Pope himself.
She hoped that when he finally decided to give any sort of interview the commotion around him would quiet down and she could quickly offer her resignation.
She sighed heavily, running her hand over her wet face, wondering how she was supposed to reconcile this madness with her classes at the University.
A car with the same driver as the day before arrived outside her townhouse again and took her straight to the Vatican; driving through its streets, she noticed that many people had pitched tents in and around St Peter's Square, waiting for any new information about their Pope.
She sighed quietly, resignedly thinking about how unnecessary his stubbornness actually was.
This time it was not her uncle waiting for her in the square, but a middle-aged priest who could have been her father, dressed in a plain black cassock. He smiled at her in a way that seemed genuine to her and she reciprocated the gesture when he indicated with a movement of his hand that she should move to follow him.
"The Pope is just having breakfast in the garden and he will receive you there." He said as they walked along the marble corridors filled with works of art; she looked at him surprised and sighed quietly, glancing out of the window, finding that it was indeed pleasant warm weather, the sky was cloudless.
They walked out one of the back exits to the cloisters into a small garden consisting of a maze formed of walls of shrubbery, which, however, easily led them to its centre, on which stood a large arbour styled in antique manner, with a dome and Corinthian-style columns.
She grinned with some kind of disbelief when she spotted his figure seated at an ornate small white table, his cassock also white, he held in his hands a newspaper he had just been looking through.
She thought with amusement that he was reading about himself.
Only when they got closer did she notice that other gazettes from different countries lay folded on the table top; the front pages of each asking who the new pope was, why he wasn't showing himself, why he was silent.
"Your Holiness." Said the priest standing next to her and nodded; the young pope, however, did not even bestow a single glance on them.
She pressed her lips together as she saw his thumb go to his mouth, he licked it and then used it to flip the page of the newspaper.
The priest who had brought her left them alone, as if he had already become accustomed to the lack of reaction and any culture on his part. She stared at him in silence for a moment, standing in front of him in the same dress as the day before, not having time to buy anything else.
"Holy Father." She said softly, wanting to get it over with, standing a few steps beside him.
He did not look at her, instead lifting his hand and extending it towards her, a signet ring of pure gold on his heart finger.
She looked at him for a moment in disbelief, then swallowed hard and walked towards him, grasping his warm hand in hers.
She leaned in, placing a quick, brief kiss on his ring and let him go immediately; he took his hand without even giving her a glance and went back to reading the newspaper.
She pressed her lips together feeling his intense, pleasant-smelling male perfume again.
"What do you think of what they write about me?" He asked, carelessly tossing the newspaper he had just read onto a pile of others, the discouragement on his face bordering on disgust, as if what he had read made him sick. "They are already reaching my family. Day and night they chat outside my mother's house."
She felt a tightness in her throat at his words and some kind of sympathy, because although he must have known what his decision entailed and what the consequences would be, some journalists crossed all possible boundaries, recognising no sanctity.
She shifted from foot to foot, looking at the French croissants that lay on one of the porcelain plates and a jar of strawberry jam, and reminded herself that she hadn't eaten breakfast. She grunted quietly, looking away, staring at the field flowers that grew around them – she spotted a gardener in the distance who was cutting the shrubs with his big steel shears.
"They won't stop until you give them something, Holy Father." She replied truthfully, hearing him snort under his breath.
"They will always want more." He replied dryly and she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye – he was staring at her sitting with his legs crossed.
She shuddered and looked at him in disbelief as he pushed the other chair in front of her with his foot clad in white elegant shoes, moving it away.
"Sit down, child. You are pale. Did you eat breakfast today?" He asked disapprovingly, like a parent expressing their discontent. She shook her head and he sighed heavily, indicating with his hand gesture to the seat next to him.
She thought that this certainly had nothing to do with behaving according to protocol, but decided that it probably didn't matter much to him. She sat down next to him, smelling the intense scent of his perfume again, adjusting her dress, remembering not to sit with her legs crossed.
"Eat." He said dispassionately; she wasn't going to argue, figuring that since she was being forced to be at his every beck and call now, she could get something in return.
Therefore, she reached for the croissant and jam, which immediately drew the attention of her stomach – she casted him a wordless surprised glance as she heard the sound of the lighter being lit and the hiss of the cigarette he held in his mouth.
He took a deep drag and spread out comfortably in his chair, looking at her thoughtfully, letting the smoke out through his nose. He smirked, as if something in her gaze amused him.
"My chancellery contacted your University. They were happy to hear that you will be doing a sort of…internship here. You don't have to worry about your exams or classes." He hummed as if he was talking about something trivial and uninteresting, an irrelevant piece of information he had to convey to her, and took another drag, the tip of his cigarette igniting red.
"− what − but −" She started, but decided it made no sense; whoever he was, this man had clearly already planned everything for himself and had no intention of changing anything, much less asking her opinion.
"I thought you'd be pleased. Your uncle arranges for you accommodation and studies, the Pope makes sure you pass your exams without your personal involvement. Isn't that beautiful?" He asked with a sneer, and she felt a tightening in her throat, a cold sweat on her back; she stared wide-eyed at the half-cut croissant on which she had just spread jam, but lost the urge to eat.
He knew everything about her and thought she and her uncle were the same.
She pressed her lips together and leaned back against the backrest, placing her hands on the armrests even though she shouldn't be doing so and crossed her legs. She saw his gaze drop involuntarily to her bare knees, his cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.
"My uncle wants you to take me to your bed, Holy Father." She said quietly, recognising that she didn't have the strength for this, for their games, their hookups, the secrets they obviously adored, of which the entire Vatican was made.
She blinked when he chuckled, his pointing finger hitting his cigarette so that the ash from it fell to the stone floor beneath him.
"Tell me something I don't know. Eat. We have a lot of work ahead of us." He muttered, taking one last drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke out through his nose, extinguishing the remnants of it on his plate.
"What do you want, Holy Father?" She asked lightly, taking a piece of croissant into her mouth. He threw her an amused look and raised an eyebrow.
She stared at him with her heart pounding fast, thinking in disbelief that he really was a few steps ahead of everyone else.
He was perfectly informed, and although his words and actions seemed chaotic, there was purpose in them.
She had the impression that he took satisfaction in teasing her, his gaze fixed on her lips, which she involuntarily licked.
"Many things. Above all, holy peace and quiet, but I am not afforded it. Get up, let's take a walk." He said matter-of-factly and rose abruptly, putting his hands behind him, moving ahead without looking at her towards the corridors made of tall, evenly trimmed bushes.
She quickly swallowed the piece she just had in her mouth and stood up, following him, levelling her step with his, sunshine and birdsong all around them.
"We're being watched. It's harder for them to eavesdrop on me as I walk." He said coolly; she turned behind her and saw the gardener she noticed before, who was apparently just pretending to water the flowers around the arbour.
She looked at him in horror, realising that he must have been spied on all the time.
That they all wanted to know what he was going to do, surely he must have kept them in an iron grip since no picture of him had leaked to the press yet.
"What's going to make the atmosphere calm down and the journalists back off?" He asked discouraged, and she sighed quietly, looking up at the cloudless sky.
"Your private invitation."
She was surprised that her idea that he would hold a press conference where he would be invisible and only his voice could be heard appealed to him. He felt that, in fact, his faithful should hear his words and what he has to share with them, and this did not require his image to be revealed at all.
He decided to receive the TV and newspaper envoys in the Sistine Chapel, recognising that this was some kind of milestone moment that required a special place, a black veil was placed in front of his papal throne.
Although on the one hand it looked comical, on the other it added a sort of solemnity and impression of holiness, something tangible and yet inaccessible.
The cardinals and his office workers had prepared a script for him, which he tore in front of her eyes before the speech itself, handing her the shreds that remained of the pages, staring blankly at the black fabric in front of him. She took it from him, not knowing what else she could do; he demanded she be by his side in case someone asked an uncomfortable question.
Her heart was pounding like mad, she could feel the cold sweat on her back and wondered if he felt a similar anxiety.
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and although his face was stony, he seemed even paler to her than usual, his large hands on which she could clearly see the outline of his veins clenched on his armrests – he sat comfortably on his throne with his legs crossed.
"Holy Father, why don't you want to show your face to your faithful? Is this some new kind of Vatican policy, a way of getting the whole world's attention?" They heard the question echoed by the first journalist on the other side of the curtain; she saw him press his lips together and swallow loudly before his cold, matter-of-fact, dispassionate voice began to spread around them.
"My face is not useful to my faithful for anything. They need my action. My causality. They need my intervention in matters of urgency, in the problems of paedophilia in the church, in the embezzlement and misuse of church assets, in the restoration of law and order, in the opening up of the church to young people who feel forgotten and unwanted. My face, my history, my personal views will distract them from all these things."
He said without stammering. She looked at him in disbelief, realising that he couldn't have prepared this answer beforehand.
He was saying straight from his heart what he was thinking and there was something touching about it.
Somehow she understood what he meant.
"What about the pilgrimages, what about the Sunday masses celebrated by the Pope?" Asked another journalist. She heard him sigh heavily, noticed that his hand trembled as he raised it to his face, tightening his fingers on the base of his nose.
"The Pope is not alone, he has his cardinals who can assist him in his missions around the world. As for the masses, I will attend them as a guest, but I will not be visible. The Pope is not unique. The Pope is chosen as first among equals. As Pope, I still remain a cardinal, one of the apostles. I am not Christ. I am not God."
She looked at him in pain, breathing unevenly through slightly parted lips, remembering what she had told him a few days earlier.
They need a guide, not another invisible God.
She couldn't believe that after what she had heard she had begun to feel sympathy for him – his answers seemed thoughtful and sensible, and she wondered if she had just seen his true nature, or if he was as perfect a manipulator as any of the cardinals.
She wondered how he had convinced them.
How he became Pope.
When it was all over he left without a word; the journalists were led away, and she prayed that it would help, that public opinion would calm down a little.
She watched all the news editions that evening with bated breath – the whole world quoted his statements and his decision, to her relief, most of the experts spoke warmly of him. The newspaper headlines also left her under no illusions.
The Pope has spoken. He doesn't want to show his face, only his actions.
The Pope who chooses the fight against paedophilia over the glamour of glory.
The Pope without a face − a new beginning.
The end of splendour − the Pope retreats to work like any of us.
The end of the church as we know it. The Pope at last again the voice of the weakest.
The next day she arrived in the Vatican with a stack of newspapers, eager to show him the result of their work, hoping it would satisfy him and allow her to return to normality.
"The Pope is exercising, but he said he would receive you." Said the priest, who was called Father Lenz, and who was apparently his private secretary, always waiting for her to lead her wherever he just happened to be.
"He's exercising?" She asked with amusement, and he just raised his eyebrows, himself clearly not knowing what he thought about it.
He opened the door for her and she stepped into a large room, with a beautiful baroque vaulted ceiling and hundreds of paintings on one side, rows of tall windows on the other, illuminating an exercise machine consisting of a small bench with a mattress on which he placed his back as he pulled on the railing at the end of which the weights hung, his legs braced on either side of the machine for balance.
He was dressed in white tracksuits.
She stared at the sight in disbelief, waiting for him to notice her; it only happened after a while when he took a break and sat down, reaching for a bottle of water standing on the old wooden floor. She lifted up a bundle of newspapers and he nodded, running his fingers through his hair, trying to calm his breathing after his exertion.
She walked over to him and handed him the magazines she held in her hand; she felt a pleasant throbbing between her thighs feeling the smell of his sweat mixed with the scent of his perfume, his lips slightly swollen and pink from the blood that pulsed faster through his body.
He flipped through the front pages of the papers one by one and sighed quietly; she thought with surprise that there was a sort of expression of relief painted on his face, as if what was happening frightened him somewhere deep inside and filled him with anxiety.
He put them down at last, looking ahead, grabbing the white towel that hung over the railing at the other end of the machine.
"I prayed to God after I was elected. I prayed that he would show me the way, and although he usually answered me in some way, that evening he was silent. It was a silence full of rejection, as if the heavens did not agree with the decision of the conclave. How was I to go out to the crowds in such a situation, to convince them that Our Father in the heavens was sending me to them?"
He asked, rising with a quiet creak from the metal bench, surprising her completely with his words; because of his clothes and the way he spoke she had cognitive dissonance and had to remind herself that he was the Pope and not just a young man close to her age.
His confession touched her in some way – she was able to imagine his despair on the evening he was elected as people chanted his name, but it was the voice of God that he wanted to hear.
He stood a few steps away from her, drinking the contents of his small water bottle to the end, and stared ahead, as if he had returned with his mind to that time, as if he needed to get it out of himself.
"That's why I asked my faithful to pray from me. And what did they do? They despaired. They despaired that they could not see my face, that they could not touch me, tear me apart, dissect my private life and my past. I have never felt so lonely." He said with a regret from which she felt a squeeze in her throat and lowered her gaze, not knowing what to say, reminding herself with shame that she had thought the same thing about him as all those people.
"Perhaps it was also the will of the heavens. In the end, when the time comes everyone will face God alone. Maybe it was his words: don't follow the crowd, don't conform, that's not why I sent you." She said softly, but immediately regretted her words, recognising that she had no right to interpret anyone's spiritual experiences, much less those of the Head of the Church.
She heard him snort with amusement; he pulled a lighter and cigarettes from his pocket and for a moment she thought he would want to smoke in this beautiful baroque chamber, however, he moved ahead towards a small door other than the one she had entered through.
"Come." He hummed, so she moved after him, knowing that it was pointless to resist.
For the rest, the more she got to know him, the more she liked him.
They passed through a narrow corridor and began to climb up a stone staircase that spiraled around a large pillar – it seemed to her that they were in some older part of this great complex. They reached a small wooden door, and when he opened it they emerged onto the roof of one of the buildings located to the right of St Peter's Square.
The view in front of her struck her –the sun was rising over the Vatican, lazily leaning out from above the church standing in the centre of the square like a nimbus, the air around them pleasantly cool and crisp.
She watched as he moved ahead and walked closer to the stone wall, firing up his lighter and leaning forward with a cigarette in his mouth – there was something so obscene about the sight that she smiled involuntarily.
He looked at her over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow, taking a drag, then slid his cigarette out of his mouth with a motion of his hand and let the smoke out silently through his nose, shaking the ash to the ground with a flick of his finger.
"It has been reported to me that journalists are slowly making their way into my past. Don't worry, I don't think it's your fault. I knew it would happen, but I thought I had more time." He murmured lowly seeing her surprised, horrified face, suddenly as if tired and discouraged, taking another drag with a quiet hiss of fire.
She thought looking at his silhouette illuminated by the first rays of the sun, that he looked like a saint.
"I want you to hear it from me. Will you listen to what I have to say?" He asked calmly and she nodded, feeling her heart pounding fast, looking at him with her lips slightly parted, terrified of what he wanted to tell her.
"My mother I told you about is a nun. She adopted me a few years after I was placed in a convent orphanage." He said calmly, looking away, staring at the crowds of people walking around St Peter's Square.
"They took me from the woman who gave birth to me because she liked to inject various stimulants into her veins. She was asleep when one of her men decided he didn't like the way I looked at him, that I was complaining about being hungry. He decided that he would gouge my eyes out, but he only succeeded with one, my screaming would wake even the dead."
He muttered, not looking at her but somewhere in the distance, letting out a puff of smoke with a deep breath; she looked at him with her eyebrows arched in pain feeling the squeeze in her throat, her cheeks red with emotion.
She wanted to say something but was afraid to interrupt him, she knew that what he was telling her was of the utmost importance and she wondered if anyone else knew about all this, if he had confided in anyone.
"Sister Alicent after I was brought in wouldn't let me call her my mother. So I called every woman I saw that, cooks, cleaners, teachers. She adopted me in the end, unable to look at it anymore. She got a dispensation from the Pope." He said lowly, throwing the cigarette butt on the ground, crushing it with his completely white Adidas.
"Some trashy, cheap magazines are already writing about the fact that I am the son of a nun and the Pope, others with mockery recognise that I am certainly her immaculate conception. That they mock me doesn't bother me, but it fills me with sadness that journalists stand outside her house all day. She can't even go out shopping or gardening. I guess you think the only way out of this situation would be an interview where I would tell my story?"
He asked disapprovingly, looking at her finally; she was shocked and horrified that he was asking her opinion on such an important matter. She shook her head helplessly, shrugging her shoulders.
"You cannot allow them to make your mother a hostage, Holy Father. You must show strength. Call press conferences where you talk about what decisions you make, but don't answer questions about your family. In the Vatican, you are Pius XIII, not Aemond Targaryen. When they see that they cannot blackmail you, they will let go. In my opinion, you both have to bear it." She said what she thought, thinking in the back of her mind that journalists would always want more and the matter would only get worse.
He looked at her silently as if analysing her words and sighed finally, kicking a stone that lay under his feet with his shoe.
"Have you ever kissed?" He asked lightly and she looked at him with shock written all over her face, feeling her heart pounding like crazy, her cheeks burning with heat.
She couldn't believe such a question had come out of his mouth.
"You don't have to answer. I'm just curious. I've never kissed anyone." He replied after a moment, seeing her embarrassed reaction, as if he wanted to clarify and elaborate that his interest was purely scientific and theoretical.
She swallowed loudly, pressing her lips together, thinking that he had told her about himself, about the most private aspects of his life, and decided that nothing bad would happen if she answered him.
"Once, in high school." She muttered, stroking her arm in a gesture of uncertainty and embarrassment, looking away. She heard him hum under his breath, intrigued.
"Did it feel good?" He asked softly, standing a few steps away from her with his hands tucked into his snow-white tracksuit bottoms, cocking his head.
She looked up at him in disbelief, breathing erratically, clasping her hands tighter, involuntarily her gaze escaped to his full, glistening lips.
"It was a very moist, soft and warm sensation." She muttered feeling a tightness in her throat, her gaze fleeing from his eyes to his lips, unable to stop herself from imagining how wonderful it would be to feel how they tasted.
"Hm." He murmured, looking away thoughtfully.
They stood like that for a moment in silence – she could feel the wordless tension around them, as if electricity flowed through the air with their every word and movement.
"Did you confess this deed?"
She blinked and felt her heart stop. She shook her head, looking at him with slightly parted lips.
"Pardon?" She asked in disbelief, feeling discomfort in her lower abdomen and a cold sweat on her back, not believing that he was suggesting such a thing.
"Failure to maintain chastity before marriage is a sin." He replied indifferently; she pressed her lips together, feeling tears of shame and humiliation under her eyelids, her eyebrows arched in pain.
"So I am a sinner, Holy Father." She said coldly, and turned away, leaving without any pleasantries or even a simple goodbye.
She burst out sobbing as she ran down the narrow stairs.
It was only a kiss.
She just wanted to see what it was like.
In fact, she felt bad afterwards, but not because she thought it was a sin, but because she was not in love with this boy.
She asked Father Lenz for any of the drivers to take her home; seeing her face red from tears he asked what had happened, but she did not answer him.
She opened up to him, spoke about an intimate part of her life, and he could only judge her, make her another Eve, a fallen woman.
It was only a kiss.
She returned to her flat filled with regret and disappointment – she angrily pulled off her long dress she had bought and chosen specially to be able to present herself as expected, to keep herself humble, but for what?
She decided that she would never appear there again.
There was no kind of real contract between the two of them, she had only signed documents regarding her collaboration with the Pope's secretaries and a confidentiality clause.
She changed into her pyjamas, undid her hair, took the box of leftover cakes from the cupboard and lay in bed, browsing social media platforms on her phone, trying not to think about what had happened.
She tilted her head back and groaned in frustration when she saw that her uncle had started to call her. She muted her phone and flipped the screen down, sighing.
She lay back on her bedding, staring blankly at the window, and thought with pain that the man who should be giving her the strength to be a better person had made her doubt herself, made her feel sinful and dirty.
She started to think that maybe she should go to confession after all, that maybe he was right, that she was only making excuses for herself without wanting to admit that she was wrong, but she felt even worse at that thought and just burst out crying.
Exhausted by sobbing and remorse, she finally fell asleep, seeing only through her closed eyelids that the phone display lying next to her glowed again and again.
She shuddered, rising quickly to sit up in complete darkness when she heard someone's loud knock on her door; she looked around with a pounding heart, not knowing where she was, whether it was evening or morning.
She glanced at her phone and saw that she had slept for several long hours and the sun had set, on her screen 20 missed calls from her uncle and a plethora of text messages that she didn't have the energy to read.
She sighed heavily and got up, walking reluctantly to the door, knowing her uncle would now make a litany for her; she turned on the night light on the way so she wouldn't trip over anything and she turned the lock, opening it.
"Oh God."
She muttered, seeing the figure of the young Pope in front of her, still in the same white tracksuit and sneakers.
He had his hood up over his head.
He pulled the white earphones out of his ears with a soft flick of his hand – she could hear the heavy metal music playing from them.
"Will you let me in?" He asked indifferently; she looked at him in disbelief, thinking he was risking a lot by going outside just to see her.
She sighed quietly and stepped back, allowing him to go inside. She leaned out wanting to check if anyone had seen him and closed the door quickly.
She glanced at him over her shoulder and saw that he had turned off the music on his player and put it back in his pocket.
They stood for a moment in silence, his gaze focused on her naked thighs; she swallowed loudly with shame at the thought that she was standing before the Head of the Catholic Church in nothing but pyjamas consisting of cream shorts and a shirt buttoned up the front, under which she didn't even have a bra.
She turned her head, running her trembling hand over her face, her heart pounding like mad.
"I made a mistake." She heard his voice full of regret. "I wanted your uncle to pass it on to you, but you didn't answer."
"I didn't and don't feel like talking to anyone, Holy Father." She muttered, feeling a tightening in her chest, fiddling restlessly with the cross hanging on her neck.
She heard him swallow loudly and look to the side, pulling the hood off his head.
"I made you doubt in yourself. In your purity and your value in the eyes of God." He said lowly, and she felt tears gathering in the corners of her eyes for the umpteenth time that day. She closed her eyelids and tilted her head back, trying to control herself, not letting them flow out.
She did not reply.
"My words arise from my depravity, which I fight unsuccessfully. From my vanity and jealousy. I would rather have you locked up in a convent. You could then be by my side and no one would ever touch you again. You could be mine." He said softly, thoughtfully, looking at some point on the floor, as if he had drifted off completely in his musings – she felt her lips part in disbelief, her brow arching in pain.
I would rather have you locked up in a convent.
You could be mine.
What was she to reply to such a shocking confession?
She shuddered when he finally turned his attention to her, the gaze of his healthy eye sharp and piercing, while his artificial one was empty, white, lifeless.
"Though never before have my members reacted to the sight and thought of a woman, when I see you, I long to touch you, to taste you, to smell you. I have become addicted to your scent and try to recall it after evening prayer before I fall asleep." He spoke calmly, as if it was not an emotionally driven statement but something thought out, something that had been going on in his head for a very long time.
She felt with fear how her body reacted to his words with a greedy throbbing between her thighs and a moisture from which the material of her underwear was getting wet, her nipples hardened, more clearly visible from under her shirt.
She froze when she saw his gaze flee to her breasts, seeing exactly what she feared, his full lips parted slightly; she could hear his breathing clearly, fingers of his hands rubbing against each other in an anxious, nervous gesture.
"What do you feel now?" He whispered and she drew in the air loudly, feeling a tightness in her throat. She licked her lips dry from stress, taking a step backwards, hitting her back against the wall, feeling that she had nowhere to run. She helplessly clenched her thighs together, wanting to stop what was happening, seeing that his pupil widened at the sight.
"I'm wet." She confessed in shame, recognising that there was no point in pretending that there was something innocent in what was happening – her body was twitching with desire, begging for his touch and relief, her heart pounding like mad.
She heard him draw in a loud breath at her words while looking straight into her eyes, she saw fire in them, heavenly or hellish.
"Does it feel good?" He asked softly, gazing shamelessly at the spot between her thighs – she felt a wonderful heat in her lower abdomen and a tickling inside her, her walls were clenching around nothing at his question.
She thought helplessly that she had never felt anything like this before in her life.
"Yes." She whispered in a trembling voice, feeling her whole body quiver and pulsate, feeling desire in her fingertips, in her lips and down there, deep, deep inside her.
She shuddered as he approached her with a slow step and lifted her terrified gaze to him. His lips were parted in an anxious, hitched breath, in his eyes heat and darkness from which she felt a squeeze in her throat and between her thighs.
He stood over her, for a moment just looking at her – his trembling hands finally raised, reaching for the buttons of her shirt. They looked at each other with some kind of pain and suffering from which she felt a sting in her heart as a coldness enveloped her naked skin.
It seemed to her that it lasted an eternity – he took his time, his gaze fixed on the line of her bare body as he unbuttoned her shirt fully; he didn't expose her breasts, he just looked at her.
She gasped when he lifted his hand and ran his fingertips slowly over her sternum down to her stomach – she closed her eyes and sighed quietly, feeling her lips pulsate with desire, swollen and thirsty.
"− so soft − so warm −" He whispered; her quivering palm rose and touched his fingers, his hand larger and more massive than hers, she could feel the outline of his veins clearly under her skin.
She pressed his hand to her heart, heard him draw in the air hard as he felt it beat beneath his fingertips.
He looked at her, remaining still, as if frozen, knowing that one word from him, one expression of hesitation and they would be left with only shame, only regret, only disappointment.
She felt the tears under her eyelids, which involuntarily one by one ran down her face; he noticed it and shook his head, his breathing shaky, uneven, despairing.
"− you're so pure −" He whispered, nuzzling the tip of his nose into her cheek as if seeking refuge. She clenched her eyelids in shock at how intimate and desired this closeness was, his scent filled her entire lungs, his warm breath enveloped her cheek.
"− looking at you I feel terror because I regret − I regret that I will never feel you − that I will never give you what I want −" He muttered in a trembling voice; she felt his warm tears running down her skin.
They both gasped when his shaking hand tentatively began to slide lower and sobbed in pleasure as his fingers slipped hesitantly under the material of her shorts, deep between her thighs.
They were panting and quivering with desire, her trembling hands clenched on his arms as his fingertips pushed the material of her underwear aside with a shy gesture full of shame, she heard his low, helpless groan as he felt how wet she was.
"− God, help me −" He mumbled in a broken voice full of guilt – she tried but was unable to stop the moans of pleasure that left her mouth with each tentative movement of his fingers that brushed her swollen, throbbing womanhood, her body was so tense she felt she was on the edge.
"− please −" She whimpered pleadingly, placing her hand on his with a gesture full of desperation, wanting to feel him harder, deeper.
She tilted her head back as she finally felt him the way she wanted to, his fingertips digging into her fleshy, hot, moist folds with intense, circular strokes – she could feel his hot, ragged breath on her skin, his face pressed against her cheek, her hands clenched in a helpless gesture on the material of his sweatshirt.
Tears of despair and delight streamed down their faces, tired of pretending and fleeing, shivers ran down her spine every time the tips of his fingers teased again that tender bud from which her sobriety of mind was taken away; it seemed to her that their bodies were moving on their own, something hard and throbbing under his trousers rubbing against her thigh with desperate strokes.
"− forgive me − say you forgive me −" He mumbled pleadingly in a breaking voice.
She felt him trembling all over just like her, unable to stop now, knowing there was no way back, her face wet with her and his tears.
She reached her palm into his hair and combed through it with her fingers, letting out her breath with a loud sob, moving involuntarily to the rhythm of his hand as it pressed harder and harder against her fleshy skin with the lewd click of her moisture.
"− I forgive you − I forgive you and ask for forgiveness −" She gasped as she felt something approaching, moaning louder and louder.
She thought that despite the fact that he was touching her in this forbidden, sinful place, some incomprehensible kind of intimacy and innocence was added to what was happening by the fact that he hadn't exposed her naked body, that he hadn't wanted to possess her, only to experience something with her and in her presence.
"− good God, you're leaking − so sticky − I'll lick it off my fingers −" He whispered with a kind of awe, as if he were talking about something sacred and mysterious.
She felt that his words had done something to her – she cried out loudly, parting her lips in disbelief when suddenly a wave of warm pleasure surged through her body like a lightning bolt.
She felt wonderful tickling in her lips, in the tips of her fingers, in her breasts, in her chest, her inside's clenching greedily around nothing, her moisture trickled down onto his hand, she heard his low, surprised groan.
Her body suddenly became numb; she would have fallen if he hadn't put his arm around her in time, his hand ran over her cheek heated from the exertion.
"− you look like Bernini's Saint Teresa − so beautiful −" He mumbled in a trembling voice, panting hard along with her, looking at her dreamily. She sighed sweetly, laying her head on his chest, letting him embrace her tightly.
She could feel his manhood throbbing under the damp material of his sweatpants.
He came.
She stayed in his embrace not daring to look at him, not daring to think about what they had done, wanting to push back the moment when they would feel remorse, pain and regret, sinking only into this wonderful relief.
You look like Bernini's Saint Teresa.
A sculpture in which a holy woman curves in ecstasy after an angel pierces her with an arrow of Divine Love.
God's Delight.
______
Aemond Taglist:
(bold means I couldn't tag you)
@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @rwdkarla @echos-muses
#aemond fic#aemond fanfiction#aemond targaryen#aemond x oc#hotd aemond#ewan mitchell#ewan mitchell fanfic#modern aemond angst#dark modern aemond#modern aemond smut#modern aemond#prince aemond#prince aemond targaryen#aemond#aemond one eye#aemond targaryen x oc#aemond kinslayer#aemond targaryen smut#aemond smut#hotd smut#ewan mitchell smut#aemond angst#aemond targaryen angst#hotd angst#ewan mitchell angst#aemond fanfic#hotd fanfiction#hotd fanfic#hotd fic#ewan mitchell fandom
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What are some of your other favourite medieval misconceptions? Everyone only ever wore shades of brown?
Other "favorite" medieval misconceptions, "favorite" here having the meaning of "cause my eye to start twitching uncontrollably and a red haze to descend" include:
Everyone in the Middle Ages was always dirty, miserable, and sad
Peasants worked all the time and were constantly on the verge of starving to death (bonus points if "all medieval people were peasants")
Everything was violent, bloody, and "barbaric"
People could expect to get gruesomely dismembered at all times and for any reason
Politics was exactly like Game of Thrones/Game of Thrones is an Accurate Representation of the Medieval World/pretty much anything whatsoever citing Game of Thrones as historical text
Everyone in medieval Europe was white, straight, cisgender, and Christian
Disabled people were ignored/destroyed/"put into asylums" (because the medieval era is exactly like Victorian England!) and/or had no recognition in their community and/or were just left to die
Queer people did not exist/were always persecuted/had no opportunities or framework to live/identify like "modern" people
"Medieval history" only refers to Europe and/or Europeans
Pretty much anything to do with the Vikings, whether in far right/white supremacy or Oooh The Vikings Were So Liberal
The all-powerful Catholic church completely controlled everyone's minds and everyone blindly obeyed them in all things until suddenly, one day the Renaissance happened! Yay!
The Renaissance suddenly gave women rights!
The Enlightenment suddenly gave women rights!
[Fill in the blank] suddenly gave women rights!
Evil historians are hiding the real truth of [insert marginalized group here] from you
The only thing medieval people cared about was religion and they were all religious zealots
Conversely: people were always desperately trying to break free from the church but they were constantly stopped from doing so because the church was, again, all-powerful
Women were silent, illiterate, uneducated, oppressed, and only ever expected to serve their husband/have endless babies/keep the house clean (which somehow coexists in their minds with "everything was dirty all the time")
Women always died in childbirth
Women did not have jobs, education, or any recognition in society
Women could never be rulers, warriors, or any other "male" job
Women could constantly expect to be raped and this was a normal and natural part of medieval society (bonus points if invoked to defend some modern "medieval" media as "historically accurate")
Women were constantly viewed as witches in the premodern era
Anything a woman did that was "unusual" would get her accused (and often killed) for witchcraft
There were no cosmetics, beauty standards, personal hygiene, etc., so people never combed their hair, dressed nicely, used makeup, washed, etc etc
Medieval people/society had no use for artists/art, literature, books, classics, or other high culture, because that was all instantly forgotten when Rome fell and nobody found it again until the Renaissance
Medieval people all died when they were thirty
Medieval people never traveled more than 10 miles from home
Medieval people never questioned their society/their place in the world/anything else; they just accepted their lot in life without complaint
Things have been a perfect straight line of progress ever since and modernity is "better"
Do I have some things to get off my chest here?
Maybe
You can't prove it
Shh
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“The ideas of Saint John of Damascus and his supporters later permitted us the luxury of the beautiful Madonnas of Raphael, the Pietà of Michelangelo, and countless other works of passion and genius, not to mention the great cathedral façades (which often depicted Christ, the apostles, and the saints) of the High Middle Ages. This favorable view of representational religious art cannot simply be taken for granted as something natural and inevitable; Islam, after all, has never abandoned its insistence on aniconic (non-image) art. Rehabilitating the iconoclast heresy in the sixteenth century, Protestants went on a rampage of smashing statues, altarpieces, stained-glass windows, and other great treasures of Western art. John Calvin, arguably the most significant Protestant thinker of all, favored visually barren settings for his worship services, and even prohibited the use of musical instruments. Nothing could have been further removed from the Catholic Church's respect for the natural world, inspired by the Incarnation, and its belief that human beings, composed of body (matter) and soul, can be aided in their ascent to God with the aid of material things.”
- Thomas E. Woods Jr., Ph.D., “Art, Architecture, and the Church,” How the Catholic Church Built Western Civilization
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Survivor’s Guilt
based on some MESSED UP (i loved it) art i saw on here (like this and THIS that made me cry)
WC: 895
CW: death, suicidal thoughts, religious imagery (i HC law as a former catholic because of the nuns on Flevance idk)
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Trafalgar D. Water Law learned very early on that everything and everyone he loved would eventually be ripped away from him, washed away like footprints in the sand by high tide.
He was born to live this checkered life, cursed by the middle initial forced upon him at birth. He had no choice, no say in the matter. They say the Clan of D were meant to bring the Dawn, to usher in a new age, but all Law wanted to bring about was some peace and quiet. Just for a single moment.
But that was apparently too much to ask for.
Law craved nothing more than the everlasting promise of death as he tripped over the still bodies of his friends and family, corpses piling up with every step he took, but he was urged on by a will not of his own. He had to keep going. He must keep going.
He trudged along reluctantly, day after day. Life wasn’t so cruel as to only deal him bad hands- no, they had the audacity to give him hope every once in a while. A light at the end of the tunnel before that tunnel caved in too.
Being saved by Cora-san, meeting Shachi, Penguin and Bepo on Swallow Island, forming the Heart Pirates, his tentative friendshi- alliance with Straw Hat and his crew. All these moments deluded him into believing that maybe, just maybe, he could dare to dream of a better life. A happy life, even.
Law didn’t have any lofty ambitions such as becoming King of the Pirates like his Worst Generation rivals, contrary to what others believed about him. What could a place called ‘Laughtale’ offer a man like him anyways? Up until recently, he lived for the singular purpose of fulfilling his savior’s wishes, but he couldn’t even do that right. For as many messes as he had to clean up for others, Law could argue he left behind more.
Left behind. The one thing he could count on being.
The hands that touched him all faded into a distant memory, specters that haunted him whenever he closed his eyes at night. They called out to him like a siren’s song, caressing his face as they asked why he wasn’t strong enough to save them. It was no wonder Law gave up on sleeping a long time ago.
He closed his eyes now, begging to the higher powers he no longer believed in to please, please, finally grant him this one mercy. Salty sea water flooded his lungs as his body lost all its’ capabilities, any energy he had left after facing Blackbeard sucked dry as he was dragged deeper below the surface. This was all his fault. Law should have known better than to have hope for the future, to have deluded himself into thinking things were finally going according to plan.
Damn that man in the Straw Hat for giving him something to believe in back in Wano. He should have known better. There was no God; that’s why the nuns of White Town were all dead.
In the depths of the murky water, faces began to appear behind his eyelids. The other school children, begging him to come with them to safety. His parents, love shining in their eyes as they reached out their hands. Lami, looking up at him with so much trust and adoration. Cora-san and his stupid, crooked smile.
‘Wait for me, I’m coming.’ Law thought as his body sunk lower and lower beneath the waves. He could finally go home, after all this time.
As the abyss called out to him, so did another voice.
“Captain! Captain, please! You can’t die!” It wailed.
Law was suddenly pulled back above the water, dragged by the collar of his shirt to safety. He wrenched his eyes shut even harder, refusing to open them and accept reality. He had been ready to rescind the borrowed time he’d been living on since Flevance if it meant never having to deal with the loss of his loved ones again. He coughed once, twice, expelling the foreign liquid from his body as a large paw pounded on his back repeatedly.
“Bepo.” Law groaned out miserably, recognizing the Mink’s cries anywhere.
“Bepo, we have to go back.” He pleaded pathetically, his desperation apparent. Law didn't have to open his eyes to know that they were the only ones here, wherever ‘here’ was. There was no use pretending to be strong anymore, for he no longer had a crew to be strong for.
“I’m not going back! Trust them, Captain!” The Polar Bear Mink refused Law’s orders outright.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his crew, it was that he didn’t trust the world. History was repeating itself as it always did.
Law threw himself backwards onto the sandy beach they’d washed up on, shrugging off Bepo’s attempts at comfort with more force than necessary. It was only a matter of time before he was dead too.
He should’ve known better than to let anyone in, to think for a second he could walk through life anything less than alone. He should have known better than to hope that this time, surely, he could be happy.
Once again, Trafalgar D. Water Law was alive while everyone around him faded into dust. After all, the weak don’t get to choose how they die, do they?
#a writes#trafalgar law#trafalgar d water law#bepo#heart pirates#i’m so sad#one piece fanfic#one piece fan fiction#the heart pirates are ALIVE#not coping#not clickbait#one piece#spoilers for ep 1093#op 1093
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M*A*S*H OC TIME
I love being a silly nerd! Literally just a self-insert
I literally just thought to myself "What if I was in the compound? What if I was a silly little bean along with the rest of them?"
NAME: Marieanne "Mutt" Wolfe
Age: 28
Gender: AFAB, presents otherwise, depending on the day. Pronouns are anything- she'll respond to she/her but secretly loves being referred to as male (ooooh lore)
Height: 5'4
Weight: 200
Physically Characteristics: Caucasian with a dark complexion, her dad was half-Latino. Dark brown shoulder length hair and light brown eyes, closer to amber. She has wide hips and a smaller chest. (Can't wait to get art of them aghhhhh)
She's from Georgia, her accent shows as much- not long and drawn out though, she refers to it as "hick." Was raised in the middle of nowhere- the closest small town was 30 minutes away, so her family mostly made their living off their farm. She's used to having close to nothing, so certain things about the compound- the ass tasting food, the terrible sleeping arrangements- she's used to, and takes in stride. This also causes her to have quite a positive outlook, as she's mostly a very positive person- much to a few others' contempt.
Hobbies: Back home, she was quite different from her family- she loved to read and study, especially anatomy, botany and fauna as well. She also enjoys studying different religions and cultures- she always dreamed of travelling the world. She loves to sketch the makeup of different flowers and animals in her journals she keeps- although her family rebuke it as a waste of time. They were taught that work was their only livelihood.
She enjoys studying and music quite a bit- her grandmother immigrated from France- and brought over her taste for classical- especially Satie and Debussy. She distinctly remembers listening to them while her mother baked bread in the kitchen.
Because of her upbringing- she always strived to be better. On trips to Savannah as a child she would watch the high-class ladies walking down the street, and wanted to be like them. At age twelve she made it her meaning in life to graduate high school, make it to college and become something greater.
She achieved that dream; sort of. She graduated high school with a high GPA, much to her fathers' disdain. He threatened her life, and her mother was angry at her for even thinking of leaving the farm to go to a University. She applied- behind her parents' backs... and left them after her father threatened to beat her.
She graduated from Duke University- with a specialty in Neurosurgery, a minor in Religion. She achieved her dream- but lost her family at the same time...
She still carries parts from home with her. She loves nature, loves to bake and still likes to study botany in her free time. Oh, and she carries a stuffed yellow rabbit given to her by her grandmother.
She considers herself to be very religious. Her family raised her Southern Baptist- but she found the tradition there a bit unsettling. After studying several different religions, even dabbling in Paganism, she was drawn back to Catholicism- at first, strictly out of admiration for the aesthetics of it. She considers herself to have Catholic beliefs, although she's not confirmed, and even wears a rosary on her belt. She's still studying and making up her mind about her religion.
FRIENDS AT THE 4077
Radar O' Reilly- Radar is one of her best friends at the 4077- they first bonded on their shared backgrounds of growing up on a farm. As they get to know each other, they even share their love of stuffed animals- as she brought a stuffed rabbit from home. She enjoys helping him with his animals and worm farm too.
Father Mulcahy- He is probably her best friend there. Coming in, she dropped her rosary and Mulcahy retrieved it for her. She goes to his services every Sunday- and they even started a Bible Study together. He helps her a lot in her study of religion and offers to help her with her complicated past and religious trauma. They love analyzing Bible stories and theology, she especially loves quizzing him about the Catholic church and the Saints. They also have Biblical inside jokes they like to confuse other people with.
Margaret Houlihan- They are just complete girls together. Marieanne respects Margaret as if she were another surgeon and they hit it off right away. They enjoy sitting in each others tents, gossiping, and making terrible cocktails out of whatever they can find.
Charles Winchester- These two are definitely frenemies to begin with- He especially made fun of her for her upbringing, and she makes fun of his, name calling and all. She genuinely hates him at first… After some time together though, he becomes pleasantly surprised at her neurological expertise and her love of classical music. He becomes very intruiged by her, and her with him- She always wanted desperately the lifestyle that he gets to live- and he is surprised by her own interest in him, and how some "redneck swill" could EVER be interested in the same things. They become very unlikely friends, drinking tea and listening to Mozart sometimes. And of COURSE giving Hawk and BJ a hard time.
5. L. Rizzo- They get along, both from the deep south. They mostly enjoy making fun of all the "damn yanks" at the compound. He flirts with her offhandedly at first, but once she sets him straight with a swift backhand, they get along. Like siblings, she always makes fun of him for falling asleep and not knowing what the hell he's doing, usually visiting him at the garages to wake him up with a stupid prank.
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Random saints by Sittow or Catherine of Aragon's parents?
Read further if you wish to know what my theory is.
I first found this photo with mention it is by Sittow and at first I thought it is another portrait of Catherine. But quickly I realised this woman looks older and the features are not exactly the same.
The nose is much narrower. And I started to wonder...we know that Sittow painted at least one portrait of Queen Isabella I of Castile.
And she had such nose. I could exclude possibility some of Catherine's sisters looked like this too, but women in that family tended to be very young-looking for really long.
So the age of sitter already is suggesting that it could be based upon Isabella towards end of her life. And it is also odd for depiction of Virgin Mary to depict woman who is not young...it is point in Isabella's favour.
While many claim Sittow painted Isabella in 1485, he was only born in 1468/1469 and didn't even become indipended master until at least 1488. He is first recorded working in Toledo in 1492. So he'd always be only able to depict Isabella over age of 40. And tbh, if this is her..then she looks great for somebody over 40!
But where is this image? It took me while to track down.
It's detail from wings of theThe Passion Altarpiece (Tallinn), its middle part is from c.1515-1520(with some 17th century additions) by different artist.
But I am not so sure how accurate is the dating of the outer wings by Sittow(1518-1525) which are in very different style, and might have originally belong to different altar middle.
If it is indeed 1518-1525 dating, then imo they are posthumous depictions based upon earlier sketches done from life. Sittow reusing those old sketches, using them as inspiration for his later work.
Link to photos only. Left pannel: https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/the-passion-altarpiece-outer-wing-with-the-virgin-mary-and-apostle-james-the-greater-paintings-of-the-outer-side-of-the-wings-by-michel-sittow-and-his-workshop/BwFnRG1v6gRqmQ
Right pannel: https://arthive.com/artists/75951~Michel_Sittow/works/526786~Saint_Adrian_and_Saint_Anthony
As to where they are located?
-Niguliste Museum(housed in former St. Nicholas' Church), which is part of Art Museum of Estonia(which combines collections from 3 other buildings+ this church). Hence in Tallin, Estonia but be aware there is over 3 km distance in between the church and other buildings.
But if anybody could go there and get us some pictures it'd be great (if it is allowed). Currently Niguliste Museum has exhibition about Sittow:
But back to the pannels. The left one depicts Madonna(Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus) and St. James the Great(apostle and patron saint of Spain:
And please note that Tudor rose is combination of red and white rose and not always it was depicted as inner rose white, outer red. Sometimes they were halfed, with inner rose sometiems also switched.
Of course it could be some foreign coat of arms or later alteration.
Right pannel:
Here the coat of arms looks much newer and is probably altered(and if pomegranate turned out to be beneath it, I'd just die...)
The right pannel is depicting two male saints. On right is St Anthony the Great...was father of monasticism(of monastic life)...thus very important saint in christianity...
and on left St. Adrian of Nicomedia(2nd most popular military saint after St. George), and imo that's probably King Ferdinand II of Aragon:
It's not great likeness(brows not arched enough, looks bit slimmer, alla of nose not as defined), but overall it's enough of resemblence to not be able to exclude the possibility.
But if this is indeed done years after Sittow was in Spain...and he is reusing his old sketches of catholic monarchs to create this new religious scene(perhaps initially intended for them too, but never made into finished work before), then it is also possible that sketch done in pencil has partially rubbed off...and thus the differences in face of this male.
I think that if this was done while in Spain, such big differences are not very likely to occur. Not that pencil could not rub off, but I think Sittow would have noticed and cared about getting absolutely righ(to please his patrons) and thus would have corrected it.
Ehm, this kitty is supposed to be a lion:
But you must be wondering, if Isabella indeed had this most vivid golden hair colour I always go on and on about, why does she have red hair here?
Several options to pick from: Pigments going wrong, Isabella's hair possibly turning to more reddish hues towards end of her life, or simply discoloured pinkish varnish which was very oddly applied...and on baby's skin you can see where somebody applied only one layer and where they went with brush for 2nd time.
If entire pannel has this varnish on, then it'd affect the hair, turning it more red. Why would such varnish not be removed? Sometimes money is tight and museums have multiple paintings to care for and those paintings in fairly good condition have to wait longer.
And sometimes it is not possible to remove discoloured varnish without harming the painting beneath.
Also worth of nothing is that Virgin Mary's dress is typically not teal, but vividly blue, the very best most expensive most vivid blue pigments were very often reserved for depicting the Virgin Mary:
Sometimes due to budget cost cheaper substitues were used, and those tend to fade.
Hence imo the colours originally might have been intended to be more like this(yes, I photoshopped it):
(I didn't change damn thing about male figure, just brightened it. But tbh I played with the woman's dress, skin and hair for while.)
I mean if it looked like this now, fans of catholic monarchs would probably be all over it already.
But people overlook these dark slightly pinkish images located all the way in Estonia, even though it is atributed to Sittow himself!
(I don't mean people in Estonia, I mean people who search for Isabella's lost portrait by Sittow and stubbornly stuck to their favourite which is not even by Sittow!)
I honestly thought that people searching for lost portrait of Isabella by Sittow would have by now checked all his work, to see if perhaps she is there somewhere! Just doesn't look teen or young adult.
So I want you to be aware, if you're on quest of finding Isabella by Sittow's in that portrait with emerald necklace that this is imo the face you're looking for :
Possibly with hair bit more golden and skin more fair:
And it doesn't matter she doesn't look 20! She is still very beautiful.
Hence imo, these are Catherine of Aragon's parents, depicted in disguise of saints:
But I think they were likely painted years after Sittow left Spain, and his old sketches of them have been reused to create these pannels. I hope the experts will one day look more into this possibility.
I hope you've enjoyed this, and tell me what you think. Am I onto something or am I chasing shadows?
#historical portraits#isabella of castile#ferdinand of aragon#Isabella I of Castile#Ferdinand II of Aragon#sittow
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A medieval Catholic religious art image from the book of Apocalypse. Artist unknown.
#traditional catholicism#traditional catholic images#middle ages catholic religious art#the catholic bible#traditional catholic prophecies#the new testament#the book of apocalypse
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unicorns are kind of horrifying
The Unicorn Tapestries, also known as the Hunt of the Unicorn, created around 1495-1505, and is made out of wool warp, wool, silk, silver, and gilt wefts, the tapestries are currently on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
If you didn't know, unicorns were kind of messed up at first.
In the Medieval Ages there was an incredible amount of lore surrounding the unicorn. There are different possibilities as to how the idea of this creature came to be about, but in whatever case, the legend was obviously lasting.
I'd like to detail some of the research I had been doing on the Medieval lore of this creature.*
The image above comes from a specific set of tapestries that detail a hunt of a unicorn. Every detail of these tapestries is honestly beautiful and often symbolic.
To summarize the key point of the legend, the unicorn was a very temperamental creature, and know one could go near it. In some tapestry scene the unicorn is shown to impale its attackers on its horn, so it was not exactly a defenseless creature.
Here is where the legend gets...annoying. The only person who could tame this creature was a young virgin girl. Obviously this is gross, and some Medieval writers and artists took this idea in really gross directions**, but I would like to attempt to understand the reasoning behind this aspect of the lore.
For one, the Middle Ages in Western Europe was where a lot of the traditional Catholic beliefs and traditions were really fostered, so naturally it affected the art made. In many cases, it is believed the unicorn was a symbol of Christ so this piece could have been an allegory for the life and death of Christ.
Then, the Virgin Mary was a highly worshiped holy figure, so the symbol of "the virgin" was respected. Having this idea of a virgin in the story likely had some secular motivations that meant to encourage this idea of purity in women, but it is also likely that the inclusion of the virgin figure was meant to amplify the importance of this creature.
Remember, people believed unicorn were real, and anything people could make into a religious symbol, they did. If an artist was trying to express that the unicorn was a holy symbol for Christ, they had to include other visual clues like "the virgin".
For me, this is one of those things that I found really interesting, and wanted to think further about. I am curious as to how you could interpret the ideals of this legend and artwork. The history of this creature is vast and strange, it is fascinating to see how it involved with pop culture today knowing the disturbing origins.
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*In this case I am referring to the Middle Ages rather generally, but I am more specifically focusing on the Western European lore. There are similar legends that come from East Asia, however, as well.
**I really do not want to detail some of the more disturbing/graphic aspects of this legend, but the article The Unicorn: Creature of Love by Teresa Noelle Roberts addresses some of history and more gory details rather tamely if you really wanna look into it.
#art history#folklore#unicorn#medieval#medieval ages#medieval art#art theory#ramblings#academia#history#middle ages#western Europe
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Could you please say more about Judas and Jesus being shown *giving birth* in medieval art??? This is blowing my mind in the best way
This has been rotting in my inbox for so long, my deepest apologies, Thank you for giving me a proper excuse to talk about this.
Also, not a scholar so don't take this as gospel. (lol)
TW: suicide, crucifixion, birth, gore?
First, a little bit of history about C-sections during the 15th century. They were only performed if the mother was dead and the child was still believed to be alive, a last resort. The Jewish people at the time did not view it positively, as it was deemed not natural. However, Christians saw the survival of a C-section as a miracle of sorts. Also, there were rising tensions between the Catholic Church and Everyone Else because of a fear of religious corruption. In this, C-sections became politicized, christians born from C-sections were considered miracles, however they viewed C-sections from jewish people to be of the devil. So, thus we have our Judas and Jesus in the eyes of the church.
Jesus & the Church & Motherhood.
Medieval Christians became obsessed with Jesus' side wound, trying to figure out a meaning. Early female medieval writers saw a connection between his wound and it being described as 'spilling blood and water'. Which also continued into his maternity, as Jesus gave birth to the church:
His side wound became so significant, that it was being drawn separately from him, vertically. A vulva. This image was put in prayer books to meditate on, drawn on pregnancy girdles to ensure a healthy birth. Almost worshiping the wound separately from Jesus because it held a different significance.
Birth from Jesus depicts a version of rebirth as well as a tribute to motherhood and its attributed sacrifices. It's becoming anew, filled with the holy spirit or whatever. Cleansed of your sins. Definitely viewed in a heroic, or miracle-like, manner to call back.
Jesus' birthing also serves to have him surpass gender, becoming something holy by not adhering to normal gender roles. Congratulated for exploring gender, and this would continue with later saints.
Judas & the Antichrist.
So, some attribute this depiction of his death to a combination of Judas' mentioned hanging and a bursting of bowels (Matthew 27:5 and Acts 1:18).
However, as previously mentioned due to the tensions at the time, C-sections were not held in high favor among the Jewish at the time. Early christians also knew this, knowing it’s shameful and being relatively antisemitic, we now have Judas getting a C-section. I think it would add to his death for medieval artists since he was supposed to be the Biggest Bad. Usually, I assume they’re trying to shame him in death with the many depictions of combining his ‘deaths’ and in general trying to make him look like the worst person ever. Very much spitting on the grave. Although, in this painting, I'm not sure who the devil is pulling out? It is either Judas' soul or the antichrist. Either way, very much impure.
The End.
So yeah, Judas and Jesus are back at it diametrically opposing each other because one is inherently evil and the other good. To me, it's so fun to watch them run around and be political puppets and propaganda. I think it's the dedication that gets me, they were so committed to having This Guy be good or evil they made them both pregnant.
...
Citations & in case you want to read more:
Jesus had a vagina according to medieval Christian mysticism, by Spencer McDaniel.
Trans and Genderqueer Subjects in Medieval Hagiography, specifically the essays of Sophie Sexon.
Judas The Most Hated Name in History, by Peter Stanford.
Cesarean Section and Religious Hierarchies in Fifteenth-Century
Europe, by Isobel Mouat.
(I haven't read this one but it's mentioned a couple times in a few articles so I'm including it anyway VVV)
Jesus as Mother: Studies in the Spirituality of the High Middle Ages, by Walker Bynum.
In closing, if there’s anything i’ve messed up on or someone would like to add to this niche thing, I’d be more than delighted to hear it. ^^!!
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I love my Nonna dearly but I also just got my first real "here's how you should find a man" advice so truly 2023 IS my Charlotte Lucas year
To be fair, I'll give them credit, this is one of the first times my family has pulled this shit on me. I suppose my "I'm too busy focusing on school" excuse that I used through all 8 years of undergrad and grad school doesn't really work now that I've been working full-time for a year. And she also didn't bring it up in front of everyone or out of the blue, it came up because we had been discussing how insane my motherhas been about babies lately and my Nonna said "oh it's BC she's waiting for grandkids"
And like??? Just because my mother got married and had kids by my age (which may have been the right decision for her, this isn't judging even if I think her life went to shit bc of it) doesn't mean it's the right decision for ME
In fact, it is the ABSOLUTE WRONG decision for me. Theres a whole long list of reasons why I'm not getting married + or having children, including but not limited to: the trauma of my parents marriage and my childhood, my own ongoing health stuff, the whole religious queer anxiety guilt complex I've got going, the fact that if I were to get pregnant the resulting mental health crisis and dysphoria would undoubtedly make me *** y'know not soemthing that is frequently a source of nightmares for me or anything, my inability to take care of myself let alone CHILDREN, and the anxiety of raising children religious when I don't even know wtf is going on with me, CHILDREN??? IN THIS ECONOMY????
Ofc I can't exactly say any of this to my Nonna who, while incredibly sweet and loving and Good, is also like. Not at all exposed to these concepts and would probably freak out if I was like hello yes I am a big fat queer and I rlly hate the concept of gender and societal ideas of womanhood :) it also doesn't help that rlly the only single, middle aged woman my Nonna knows is this lady who works at the church who is DEFINITELY a badly closeted lesbian but also she's super fuckin mean and condescending and no one likes her BC she's a bitch, on top of the whole being a badly closeted lesbian in a conservative heteronormative religious environment
Like even IF I were to get licitly Catholic married to a man. You wanna find one for me??? My Nonna was like "go to church more to find a man" HELLO??? WHERE??I GO TO MASS EVERY WEEK?? Every religious man I know irl is a radtrad women can't wear pants type or is a manchild. Even if I COULD find a normal man, he'd have to get real cool about some stuff real quick. In that forever dilemma of too leftist queer for the religious and too religious for the leftist queers. (Obvs your partner doesn't have to be your duplicate but I'm like. Generally being on the same page. The same BALLPARK. is probably conducive to having a healthy relationship, y'know?)
Besides a significant part of my having 0 social life is because I am living in my parents basement which is in a shitty not-a-suburb of mostly immigrant families with youngish kids or super old folks from when the neighborhood was built, so it's poor and run down but also super fuckin far from anything To Do, so it's the WORST of both worlds of urban sprawl. And I have no car. And I already spend 2.5 hrs a day commuting for work. And I'm chronically tired. And joining a fencing club or taking art class or whatever costs MONEY y'know the thing I'm trying to SAVE by living in this hell place???? She literally said in the same convo "live here as long as possible to save money" like??? YOU CANT HAVE UR CAKE AND EAT IT TOO as long as I'm living here I'm NOT going out and meeting ppl BC there is literally Nowhere To Go. Big box stores like Walmart? Yet another strip mall? The highway??? THIS IS SOULLESS HELL of neither nature NOR accessible city amenities
And anyway, I would rather be in a long term marriage for tax benefits relationship anyway. Not platonic, not romantic, but a secret third thing (jk but also serious). Like. Mutual devotion that blurs the lines and transcends labels. It could be completely chaste. It could not be. It's not a dealbreaker really. It's about trust and devotion and companionship and love. But also I'm insane and I KNOW how insane and obsessive I sound, and society prioritizes nuclear family relationships and not the weird ass shit I crave, and I feel too much too fast and would ruin any relationship I had even if I WERE to somehow find someone who prioritizes those things too
So like. It's fine. Most days (not all ofc, but I'm trying) I'm okay with this and being on my own and learning to cultivate my own peace and Goodness and I know who I am and what I believe and what I trust to be Good and I'm working toward that and I'm not sacrificing it for anything. But also. Can you give a bitch a break. Please. I'm so fkin tired
#franposting#my bday isnt even til JUNE#im going to bitch anyway#im genuinely really upset but part of that is bc my headache has come back#and its worse than ever#i might cry but my head already hurts too much#i got really good news at work and only the men in my family made a big deal#the women were just. meh. and ofc none of them have careers so why should ot be important to me?#as the only granddaughter ofc :))))#i am going. to crawl into bed. hair washed. lavender candle on.#do a lil meal planning. and then read or maybe just sleep.#tmrws goals after church are gym and grocery shopping before dnd#have to make my body hurt so much i cant think again#ofc bro 1 has claimed the car. so maybe i cant go#god. gos. i fuckin need to get out of here#but i literally cannot afford even studio apt rent in the city#and moving to one of the boroughs doesnt gwt me any closer to anything esp without a car#literally. just like. fuckin kill me#or find me a decently paid not soul killing job in a smaller city or even a town#where i could have a garden#or a porch swing. sit in. the sunlight
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Rreehehehe♥️🩸
As my header says my name(s) are Carl, Moth and Ghost. I’m a black, queer 24 year old artist. (My art tag is #moth art) and Im working on a podcast called Trashcan Apocalypse Beatdown where I interview and talk to artists and creatives alike so look out for that! This blog is all over the place lol blame it on my silliness 🥲. I mostly reblog aesthetic posts and memes and sometimes will dabble in fandom stuff if I have a hyperfixation. Right now it’s AMC’s Interview With The Vampire, One Piece and Psychonauts. If you’re into any of those don’t be afraid to hmu! I’m also a MADD (maladaptive daydreamer) and I want to spread more awareness around that and pure OCD so never be afraid to have a conversation with me about those things.
🧿The aesthetics that I’m into are:🧿
🫀Robotics
🩸Nostalgiacore
🫀Poolcore
🩸Cleancore
🫀Vampire
*Both the Victorian types and the goth rave types. Vampire The Masquerade Bloodlines anyone?
🩸Punk
*I know that punk is more then an aesthetic and it actually helped me navigate my gender identity and expression but it is also aesthetically pleasing to me so it’s on the list. Don’t worry I’m not a poser 💀
🫀Goth/Whimsigothic
🩸Superflat Pop
*if you don’t know what that is think Jet Set Radio
🫀Darkest & Theatre Academia
🩸Horror
🫀Dark Paradise
🩸Urban Core
*I grew up in what most people would call “the ghetto” and urban core definitely has its problems when it comes to aestheticizing low income areas usually populated by poc. To me the aesthetic reminds me of home so that’s why I like it ❤️
🫀Naturecore
🩸Fungalcore
🫀Cathedrals, Churches, Catholicism
*Im not religious. I’m actually in the middle of recovering from religious trauma and I find that treating christian and catholic imagery more as an aesthetic is really liberating.
With that out of the way time for the..
❌No Bueno List❌:
If you’re a TERF, radfem, gender critical blog, or you’re lgbtqia-phobic I’m breaking your arms.
If you’re a MAP blog I’m just straight up killing you.
If you’re below the age of 18 please don’t follow this blog. I post and reblog explicit stuff sometimes.
🧠
Anyways…enjoy your stay~
#a dubious little creature getting up to mischief#moth pics#lgbtq+#trans#queer community#queer fashion#queer#🏳️⚧️🏳️🌈
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what religious inspiration did you use for each character? and are they currently religious in the series?
(i notice you reblog a lot of imagery)
<333
hiii <3 omg there must be a religious zealot on the loose, just saw an ask like this!! but i love the question as religion, in a way, is like the centerpiece of this work. at least for half the characters.
side-note, one of the biggest things to me about these characters was fitting them into the pre-existing historical context, so it’s why i’ll make a lot of historical references here and in the text. it’s important to me that these characters feel like they existed in the time period i designed them to, and not like i was just dropping them there and saying: stick! i’m also really interested in religion for an atheist, so…i was carefully to put my energy and extensive research into fleshing these out!! this got so long…
so i’ll start easiest — kit knows no god and owes no god, he’s atheist & religion doesn’t play a role in his personal philosophy in the slightest. he is, however, a gay man in the 1980s/90s, meaning other people will project their religion onto him.
but it’s not something he pays mind to. (or any extra mind to, as—for example—lex would). he faces the world with two middle fingers, but it’s ignorant to think he wouldn’t be affected by half of society opposing how he loves. he was kicked out of his parents house at 18 for his sexuality, and it definitely was based on religion, but they were also reaganites, so that says enough. he was also already on his way out; kid with a calling for punk wasn’t gonna last in a “just say no!” household. [also, as an italian-irish man, his family was catholic, and regan did win half the catholic vote (majority of those being white, thus…)]. anyway, no religion.
inez’s parents are both puerto rican immigrants, where 75-85% percent of the population is roman catholic. thus, she was raised catholic, and her family still is catholic — she, however, does not adhere and never really has. she has no sort of catholic trauma or anything [no more than the average catholic]. (though, i think she does tend toward the moral black-and-whiteness of somebody raised devoutly religious.)
it was something she lost interest in early on and not necessarily something her parents forced on her. one thing about inez — you aren’t going to tell her how to think. her parents knew that, her parents love her to death but openly acknowledge her as an odd one out, so they didn’t put their energy into that anymore than they did anything else. it led to a fair bit of distance, but so did inez pursuing art, and that definitely caused a larger rift than inez no longer attending mass after the age of like 15-16. i do know she’s confirmed, but it was more of a going through the motions thing versus some big coming-of-age, world-ending moment that it was for valerie. thus, no religion materializes in her imagery/vibe because she doesn’t revere a god.
she is still spiritual, however. honestly, if anybody were to get into things like astrology, crystals, tarot — anything like that — it would be her. she doesn’t, but some might assume so because she has very 90s whimsigoth feel. she’s not even extremely spiritual though, she just thinks there is an afterlife and a higher power (somebody watching over), but she doesn’t know what. agnosticism therefore might be an interesting concept for her. she does treasure things like meditation, and nature, and kindness, but not even because she’ll “go somewhere bad if she doesn’t” but because she finds it personally beneficial to her life and her own happiness.
steven: jewish! he’s jewish and he’s proud of it. this being more from an ethnic standpoint — he’s an ethiopian jew — because he’s not super strict otherwise/religiously. i think he definitely kept kosher growing up (his family still does), and he tries his best to in his adult life, but he’s not 100% perfect all the time. this is solely because of his life’s context — being a starving artist and then a traveling artist for most of his young-adult life, he would sometimes take what he could get. he still, however, avoids pig meat and stuff from the hindquarters of an animal (not that he’s getting many expensive steaks early in his career), and he washes his fruits and veggies throughly (inez shoved these down his throat) — not only for the kosher aspect of it, but because not washing your fruits/veggies is gross.
he also wears a silver star of david always and celebrates hanukah and observes other jewish holidays, if only casually. he might spend time with his family during these times. inez made sure to set up a menorah on the window sill beside the christmas tree. i really like to think post-series, into domesticity, it’s a lot easier for him to abide by the rules and customs of his religion, but i do think he struggles with a bit of the faith-based aspect of it as a gay man. still, he’s proud of his heritage and religion.
again, atheist. like kit, he really has no interest in religion, but he does take up more of a philosophical approach to life than kit does. when he’s miserable, we see a little bit of nihilism and misanthropy peek into the way he views the world. but he acknowledges no spirits or gods or really any presence of a higher power (or an afterlife beyond the ones that most people just casually reference in conversation — i.e. saying/thinking your dead mother is watching over you even if you don’t actually believe in heaven, just because it’s a comforting thought.
his father is white, basic protestant (but died in vietnam when dean was like two so nobody cares), but his mother is syrian. she speaks arabic and did bring this cultural influence into dean’s life—but she was also not muslim (was raised so) so much as she was spiritual. by the time she got to america (one of the things lex and dean bond over were their immigrant mothers), she was much more interested in the wide-open topic of “religious freedom” and just experimenting and learning about all of the faiths the country had to offer. evangelism, islam, judaism, hinduism, buddhism, catholicism, pentecostalism, all the isms, you name it — every branch. dean cites that his mother would “change her religion every week” because she liked to sit in on different services and hear the messages, visit booths at craft fairs, talk to strangers, etc, because she was just fascinated by humankind and their tendency toward higher power more so than she was finding one for herself.
the day dean and lex met, she was sitting in on a service of lex’s father’s. lex came out of the church afterward, saw dean sitting in the lawn (because he never really tagged along), and recognized him from school so he approached him, and…history from that point onward. it was this respect for religion without the ownership of religion’s oppressive tendencies that lex sooo loved about dean’s mother. she was a very comforting mother figure to him. dean’s mother also had him when she was 16, and right about the counterculture/summer of love time, so she just very much had a open mind to everything + faced everything with love. she was very supportive of dean when she learned he was in love with lex.
but, anyway! dean shucked all of that the moment she died. very much said to himself that none of her religions could save her so he therefore had no interest in pursuing them himself.
born and bred in the backwoods of indiana before moving to detroit, lex was raised in an iron-fist evangelist household. the fourth great awakening had a grip on the foster family and took up every aspect of his life. still does, in a way. his father was a reverend at a local matchbox chapel in indiana before they moved for…reasons, and then became involved in something a little more consolidated/concrete in the city, but he’s a preacher’s son through and through. and it’s funny that his father married a russian woman, because he is the stock character for what you think of when you think red scare/mccarthyism/nixon-era silent majority/bible-banging archie bunker/jesus freak, but that’s another topic of conversation (his father’s tendency toward pursuing what he opposes so he can subjugate it).
thus, not only was lex raised in a household that breathed the fear of god into everything (including all forms of media (even the comics lex loved as a child) and therefore lived a very oppressive, very unhappy, very dreary (some might say totalitarian like the conditions his mother escaped after fleeing russia post missile crisis) childhood, he was also raised in an abusive household. so there was the mental hell of borderline fundamentalist christianity and also the physical abuse of his father (and the neglect of his mother when it mattered). it was a miserable childhood until he made a friend in dean at age 14.
thus, realistically, one can imagine the effect this has a on a person, and lex found himself unable to let it go. he is still religious and will always, but in his own way. in his very specific, very cherry-picked, very very personal way. he rejects common christian principles of homophobia, bible-based racism (just racism in general, but you know what i mean), anti-choice politics, strict creationism in schools, and the subjugation of women. he’s very violently left-leaning politically, is very out-spoken about it, and it’s quite obvious in the way he carries himself that he has a very progressive state of mind despite what he was instilled with. he also could not care less about other people and their religion, meaning — he’s not one to impose. valerie, naturally—while catholicism falls under christianity—arrives into his life with common religious trauma but a few different beliefs because protestantism =/= catholicism. there are differences far beyond the imagery and far beyond what they’ll ever see eye to eye on, solely because they were force-fed different things.
still, he struggles. he acknowledges there is a god, but he feels betrayed, he feels at times abandoned, and he feels always watched regardless. he has a very strict moral code as seen in somebody religious (albeit one skewed) and he struggles with things like honesty, right/wrong, and just a sense of balance in general. if he’s not holy and justified, he’s immoral and evil. this is just the consequnece—plain and simple—of being hated not only by your father for seventeen years of your life before being ultimately kicked out for failing to fulfill the standards of a golden son he never will be, but being told — in conjunction — that god hates you too. there’s a constant war between: yes, i know god hates me and well, i hate god too, and the subsequent desire to please god that comes from the first and the subsequent guilt of blasphemy in the second.
he won’t ever let go of this, but he will find god on his own terms by the series’ end and will settle his soul in a way that doesn’t tear him to shreds to do it. it’s all he wants/it’s all he prays for — to have god in peace. because of that, religion absolutely permeates his vibe. he’s tattooed up and down the stretch with reminders, he wears his cross, it’s major fodder for his art, because there is nothing that makes him hurt like religion, but there’s also nothing (besides LOVE!) that makes him feel to such a degree, and he’d rather put it on track than he would keep it in his head.
and it’s very special to me for him to be able to do this, likely coming from a family with crazy evangelicals, and it’s really rewarding and fitting for his character to come to a healing place within his religion and to be accept that he doesn’t need to live like his father did because all he needs to do, really, is love his neighbor and accept the presence of jesus as his savior. (sounds so religious, but it’s simple). his religion is his problem and he never makes it anything else.
okay, i’ve arguably put the most thought into her. just because her story has been carefully tailored by me for like three and a half years now. i walked on to the scene with the desire to make a catholic character because i watched supernatural just like any other middle school girl, but it was never just about vibes and rosaries, i had a genuine interest and i have no real attachment to catholicism—so it was just a passion project to learn enough to write about a character who deals with it so in-depth.
so, yes, she’s catholic, but she fluctuates more so than any other character on whether or not she adheres to it. she wasn’t strictly raised this way either. not at first. it was a loose presence in her home until she was 13. after which her father left her, and her mother went off the deep end. she took the catholicism they already had and had her own sort of “reawakening.” valerie tells lex that her mom went crazy after her dad left, and when he asks what she means by that, she simply answers that she found god. (however, in truth, she rediscovered god). so valerie went from a very carefree, happy childhood, to an oppressive and incredibly impoverished religious household after losing her father’s mild intervention and financial assistance.
everybody knows at this point that she lived in a trailer, but she’s also the victim of a hoarding mother who notoriously quit jobs that paid in pursuit of “church service jobs” where most of her money went back to the church and the community. valerie resents her for this, saying it was lovely that they children at the drive had new coats, but that she was going without dinner at home because her mother did not routinely buy food. valerie’s aversion toward contamination comes not only from the filthy environment she was raised in, but also the fact that most of her food was not fresh (and, if it was, would spoil quickly) and was boxed/canned food and at risk of bugs/mice/or botulism. she would skip meals frequently because of this and owes her survival to free handouts at her high school — a difficult feat when she was always on display while dating danny, her quarterback football star boyfriend, who was notably wealth(ier.)
anywayyyy, so beyond the financial aspect that caused valerie to resent the solace her mother found in god and prayer, there was also the principles of the religion itself that were hard for her. her mother basically engrained in her that she was going to need a husband if she ever wanted to escape the life she’d been given (the life her mother was always making worse). she had the “sit still, look pretty” upbringing, and it made an abusive romantic relationship very difficult to leave because she was essentially told her entire teenagehood that it was the only way she was getting out of financial hell. it made being a woman difficult, essentially. she’s objectified and victimized throughout her formative years and she’s essentially told men will have their way with her and that they’re allowed to. it takes a lot of unlearning and it causes her a lot of fear, but it’s what makes her relationship with lex very important to her, because he preserves her autonomy and never encroaches on it (even when he hypocritically, strongly insists against using hard drugs lol).
but she makes it to seattle and is in state where she hasn’t really fought her religious trauma yet. lex’s is a constant battle; valerie, on the other hand, has mastered the art of repression. the last time she attended mass was the sunday before she left and she never looks back, she keeps her rosary in a drawer, she doesn’t pray (at least not until i give her reason to), and…yeah. that cross necklace is really the only mark of a “religious” girl, but she labels wearing it irony. and then the series persists, her life and her experiences muddle, and she’s forced to confront what she hasn’t and/or what she’s written off. she hasn’t actually answered any of the questions on whether or not she believes in god, and if the problem was god or the way god was thrust upon her (aka: would she be open to a higher power if it wasn’t diluted by backwards modern christian thought?). she gets to combat her catholic guilt and the sort of shame and guilt that follow her in her pursuit of hedonistic pleasure, which is aplenty in the life she lives, and she gets to cope with the ramifications she imposes on herself when hardship falls upon her — who she blames for issues out of control (herself, her mother, her father, god?).
needless to say, then, she will struggle much more than lex in terms of closing out those big open-ended questions in the sense that she doesn’t. it’s an ambitious task to untangle somebody’s religious crisis, and an unrealistic pursuit to believe she can do it in 4-5 years to perfectly fit the series after a decade and a half of hell. she might always be wondering whether there actually is a god, but she won’t fear the unknown. it may comfort her enough for lex to say that there’s no way he’s getting into heaven if she won’t, therefore at least they’ll be in hell together, which—if they’re together, then it isn’t hell. but she’ll make great strides in terms unlearning the principles of shame, guilt, male objectification, male entitlement, and the forced repression/servitude of women in religious spheres, which is more than enough of a start. she leads a lot freer of a life by time she reaches seattle and she’s practically unburdened (despite her wondering) by the series’ end.
thus — lots of imagery for her, because her religious crisis & it’s ups and down are a major part of her character’s personal journey & always have been. always will be.
thanks for asking!
#❀ — valerie evans.#♱ — lex volkov.#☼ — inez garcía.#☽ — dean walker blue.#✮ — steven turner.#⊛ — kit donovan.#☘︎ — q&a.#✉︎ — confessions.
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