#my work's even been aestheticized to show it

[autisticandroids]

been listening to you're wrong about and like. okay @barren-and-trivial-words said once that on hannibal, serial killing is fundamentally considered a type of artistic pursuit. and they were right, obviously they were right. that's the basic structure almost, of the series. my favorite example is the eye sculpture serial killer where hannibal is literally like. we are situated in his gaze and he is evaluating the sculpture on artistic merit. but overall hannibal is a tv show about aestheticism and the inherent amorality of aestheticism - it is of course immoral to kill, but it is also often beautiful to kill, and shouldn't beauty outweigh morals sometimes?

and the thing is, media is... a good place to make this point. obviously because making a point is going to be in media, but the nature of hannibal as a tv show for consumption means that aesthetics will always trump morals. because the people on the show aren't real, but the beauty is, beauty does by default outweigh morals.

so hannibal kind of becomes this fascinating metatextual text on the nature of stories, or, you know, it can be read that way. because it is in the nature of all stories for beauty to outweigh morals.

but it's also a comment on the nature of serial killers as a concept. i want to link the two episodes of you're wrong about that got me thinking about this - both of these episodes are about the symbiotic relationships serial killers have with media. with fiction but even more especially with news and non-fiction. serial killers sell papers, and in fact the figure of the serial killer is kind of invented to sell papers - in one of these episodes, sarah marshall reads off a letter sent to a london paper "from" jack the ripper that was probably actually forged by a journalist to heat up the news cycle. it's very cinematic, it reads as absolutely cliche to the modern ear and maybe to the victorian one as well, but i'm sure it made the paper that printed it a lot of money.

and one of the things that i already kind of knew but was reinforced in these episodes is that most of the common knowledge that the public has about "serial killers" both in general and in specific cases is just... wrong. and that's for a lot of reasons. some of it is definitely because it's convenient for the police to have access to the figure of the mastermind serial killer for all sorts of reasons, especially to cover their own incompetence or to just pawn off unsolved cases. but also it's because the media needs sensation to sell papers, and so lurid stories of superhuman killers are just a lot tastier than some guy who murdered three women for obvious, petty reasons and also molested his stepdaughters. the public demands uniqueness, spectacle, extremity. it's not enough to bleed if you want to lead, stories have to bleed spectacularly. so the modern concept of the serial killer was built almost entirely on the back of newspapers, true crime paperbacks, and silence-of-the-lambs-alike feature films. it's not like. a real thing. it's a product of the spin factory, re-working reality into something marketable.

and hannibal lecter - the original, fava beans and a nice chianti hannibal lecter - is perhaps the height of this cultural concept, the star of the serial killer... craze? moral panic? i suppose the word is phenomenon. so it's interesting to read bryan fuller's hannibal as a kind of indulgent commentary on the existence of the newspaper-literary "serial killer" figure.

[i would also recommend ywa's episodes on ed gein, jeffrey dahmer, and the dc snipers for more perspectives on serial killers. while i'm at it you should also listen to their episodes on gangs, human trafficking, sex offenders, the satanic panic, stranger danger, and true crime, but i realize i'm kinda pushing it.]

#hannibal #you're wrong about #csa tw

[gayalienwilde]

My secret fairy gift to @thomtrebond one of the longest analyses I've ever written until now (so much so that I'm still working on this). Truthfully, I was afraid that The Whole Shebang podcast had already said all there was about the Oscar Wilde references in Velvet Goldmine, and it has been a while since I've read The Picture of Dorian Gray, but while writing and doing research for this (I've studied more for this analysis than I ever have for school lmao) I realised things that I hadn't thought of before so this was a surprise for me as well! Also, since this analysis is gonna be split into different parts I'll link them all once I'm done with them. I hope you enjoy your gift <3

Part one: The importance of being Jack Fairy

When thinking about Velvet Goldmine and Oscar Wilde I'm reminded of the first episode of the miniseries "Queers" (2017), although I can't stand Mark Gatiss (Sherlock trauma) this episode is well written and just thinking about it makes me cry. There will be spoilers for the episode in this analysis, so be warned.

For the people that don't care about spoilers here's a small summary of what you need to know to understand this analysis: in the episode, titled "The Man On The Platform", the protagonist, a WWI soldier, gets asked about how gay men recognise each other, and he answers saying:"A certain liquidity of the eye." Later in the episode, he recalls a story from his teen years, while waiting for a train with his family he sees a prisoner getting taken away, he meets the gaze of the prisoner for a second and he feels seen by him and thinks "He knows me for what I am", after that he learns that the prisoner is Oscar Wilde.

In Velvet Goldmine, it's the pin that creates this connection between the characters and Oscar Wilde, Jack is able to find himself and others quite like him after finding the pin, and later we have all the young queer fans relating to Curt and Brian. The movie shows that self recognition through the other is an important aspect of queer communities, having an example of queerness to relate to or be inspired by makes it possible for people to find each other and learn about themselves.

In Jack's case, Oscar Wilde is not only a connection to queerness but also an inspiration for his art. Jack Fairy is the personification of art, specifically born from aestheticism's idea of "art for art's sake" Jack's persona is just that, beauty that exists simply to be beautiful and reveal nothing, the movie adds to this by never making Jack Fairy speak, even during the Death of Glitter concert he's either reciting a poem or singing, the little we know of Jack's inner thoughts is shown in the flashback of him as a child, adult Jack Fairy is a complete mistery to us.

What's interesting about this is that, unlike Brian, we never feel that Jack's persona is a manifactured one, even if we know nothing of him, and his looks and aesthetics are obviously thought out, he still appears much more genuine than Brian. Following Wilde's idea of art as an amoral creation that never expresses anything other than itself (in true wildean paradox fashion Wilde himself doesn't always respect this rule), it then becomes obvious why it doesn't matter if we know nothing about Jack, the way he presents himself is enough to express everything he wants other people to see, he's being truthfull to himself never trying to justify or moralise his art or himself but simply being, any possible reading or interpretation about his persona becomes then nothing more than the viewer's own thoughts or ideas projected onto him and do not necessarily reflect the truth, adding to the allure of his persona and making it a perfectly malleable art medium, free of bounds or expectations (apart from beauty, which is of course what all art, according to Wilde, should strive for).

On the other hand, Brian constantly trying to add a message to his aesthetic ended up being to his detriment since what he was saying was being fed to him through the record company to attract press, not leaving then any room for interpretation and putting strict barriers around his art, and of course to define is to limit causing his entire act and persona to never be as authentic feeling as Jack's. It's clearly artificial but not in a camp way, even if it might have started off that way, the alien and uncanny later becomes fake the same way advertisement is, planned and trying to get your attention for money, reaching the peak of uncanny valley with Tommy's way too pristine looks and character.

But even after having roasted him I have to admit that Brian's character has a much bigger connection to Wilde's work than Jack does, since Jack's story is more inspired by Divine from Genet's "Notre-Dame-des-fleurs", even having a scene from the book remade almost exactly in the movie, with Jack it makes more sense to compare him to Wilde himself since, just as Wilde became one of the major exponents of aestheticism and homosexuality in England, in the movie Jack is one of the original inspirations of the Glam Rock movement and an iconic figure in the queer community of the 60s and 70s, so of course he'd be the one to find the pin and carry the legacy of Oscar Wilde.

Tune in next whenever I post it to see me roasting Brian more in part two

#VGsecretfairy2023 #velvet goldmine #pointed epigram #movie analysis #ending this analysis by saying Jack Fairy is an icon and no one will be able to reach his levels of cuntyness #Also if anyone wants a link to the Queers episode feel free to ask me (it's a 🏴‍☠️ link so I hope you have a good adblocker lol) #"Peak of uncanny valley” new favorite oxymoron btw

[ecoterrorist-katara]

The West has been notorious in viewing and treating indigenous and Asian cultures as a monolith. Due to that, the idea of handpicking various aspects from those particular cultures seems to come from the result of a Western ethnocentric worldview. And due to how it does not acknowledge the differences in these various Asian and indigenous cultures….it’s hard to argue that it’s not orientalist. Especially since they combine these different aspects of those cultures in a simplistic manner to a western audience.

Whether the work encourages you to identify with the characters or not doesn’t matter in regards to if it is orientalist or not.

And I would suggest you research this show and Tibetan monks. If you don’t agree with their being orientalist aspects of the show, then fine, but that one aspect, in how they handled it, is orientalist.

Why specifically only Asian and indigenous cultures? what could two American Caucasian men find in those cultures that they think they can pick and choose certain things from them, and it end up being cohesive?

Whether a show encourages you to identify with its characters matters a whole lot in whether the show is Orientalist, because the whole point of Orientalism is making the Oriental Other look bad! If a work encourages you to identify with these “Others,” it’s actually breaking down the Orient-Occident binary.

To be clear, ATLA not being Orientalist doesn’t preclude it from being culturally appropriative. The important things to me are whether ATLA is harmful to 1) the cultures that inspired it or 2) the people from those cultures, and the answer to both questions is no. ATLA is not claiming to represent anything, and therefore it’s not spreading misinformation or stereotypes — with the exception of, again, Guru Pathik which I think was in poor taste.

I do take issue with how easy it is for fans to take the Air Nomads as representation of Tibetan Buddhist monks. I think Bryke should have gone further to incorporate more influences to get away from the impression that Air Nomads are Tibetan Buddhist monks (or Buddhists in general), because people now moralize about the Air Nomads using the plight of Tibetans, and the oppression of Tibetans — like the oppression of all real-life people — should not be shoehorned into a cartoon. Still, a child fan of ATLA wouldn’t think the Air Nomads are Tibetan Buddhist monks unless someone in their life tells them so, because the inspiration is not explicit in the text. It’s fans who draw asinine conclusions like Fire Nation = Japan / Air Nomads = Tibetans or Buddhist monks / Earth Kingdom = China / SWT = Inuit, and then interpret ATLA according to corresponding real-life dynamics, who inadvertently spread misinformation. I have never seen such ridiculous takes on Buddhism as I have in the ATLA fandom. Nobody with an iota of knowledge of South Asian or Southeast Asian politics would claim that Buddhists are always non-violent. Nobody who knows about monks would think monks can get married. But I can’t even fault the text; I fault people who take their information about Buddhism from a cartoon that never even mentioned the word Buddhism.

Fundamentally I think this conversation is about whether it’s okay for white Americans to take aesthetic inspiration from non-white cultures to create their fantasy worlds, and to what extent they’re responsible for the ways in which their fans interpret the sources of their inspiration. I’m fine with people taking aesthetic inspiration from my culture (beyond sacred and religious cultural practices, which I generally don’t think should be aestheticized by people who don’t understand them). I don’t know why Bryke chose to take inspo from Asian and northern Indigenous cultures; people can certainly say it’s culturally appropriative and decide not to watch it.

#atla fandom critical #hell hath frozen over because for once I cannot blame Bryke #can i ask you a question? #don’t ask me about cultural appropriation I don’t want to rehash the 2010s

[thesteriuswife]

Eye of the Beholder

Summary | Theseus gifts Dianthus a custom made arena uniform. Unfortunately... Dianthus thinks the arena uniforms are a little ugly. Notes | Reposting this fic just so I can finally put something in my writing tag 😭 don't feel obligated to read it though! ~1333 words. Has some nondescript nonsexual nudity as well as Theseus being a little bit of a pervert. [ You can alternatively read this on my neocities! Displays best on desktop as I have not yet figured out mobile responsiveness. Header image is from Unsplash. ]

The gift itself was simple enough; displayed upon a mannequin was  a chiton of a gentle blue colour with a trim of shimmering ruby on its skirt. The cloth had been customized so it would fit easily over Dianthus’ soft curves, and was meant to cover her chest in the same way a peplos would (as Theseus knew how she hated to be more exposed than necessary, though he himself was much the opposite.) Alongside the chiton was a pair of gauntlets and a golden belt, though its design was much simpler than the championship belt Theseus himself wore.

Yes, the gift was simple. What wasn’t simple, however, were the implications of this gift. An arena uniform, worn by those who trained and competed in Elysium’s colosseum. A garment typically only donned by warriors. Theseus had designed the uniforms  himself, choosing the colours,  drafting the belt’s insignia, even tracking down a jeweler to test out different shades of ruby gemstones to embed within the gloves.

Dianthus was no warrior,  yet it made sense that Theseus would pick such a gift. The king had on occasion expressed a desire for her to begin training alongside his fellow warriors: Strength alone does not make a warrior great! One must be of great intellect, and have the mental fortitude to quickly create and act out strategic plans. And you, my lady- your intellect astounds me! If you were to apply such intellect  to the battle field, why, you’d be unstoppable!

And on a different occasion, while watching the battle of a lesser hero, he expanded on his point: Though I am Elysium’s champion,  he’d said, I find there is much to learn from observing the battles of others! Watching for their strengths, their weaknesses! Strategizing at a mere glance!  Studying these techniques is but another way that I remain Elysium’s greatest warrior!

And while that much was certainly true, there was also the fact that he loved watching Asterius’ private matches for reasons that could be simply described as “Theseus thinks the bull is at his most attractive during a fight.”

And thus, Dianthus assumed this had less to do with the actual art and technical skill that came with wielding a weapon, and more to do with “Thesus thinks the outfit would look cute on her.” Which is all fine and good, truthfully. Dianthus had no issue with dressing up in a way Theseus would enjoy, as he would do (and often does) the same for her.

The issue was the simple fact that Dianthus found the arena uniforms to be ugly.

She’d never mentioned it to the king, knowing how proud he was of his craftsmanship, but his taste was just so… gaudy. His work lacked cohesion. He would  put strange colours together and slap gold ornamentation wherever he liked regardless of whether it fit or not.  And if that wasn’t bad enough, Theseus  was so stubborn! Many of Elysium’s tailors had attempted to set him down the path of aestheticism, but the king would not listen to their suggestions. And so…

“Erm…” Dianthus gently lifted the sky-blue fabric of the chiton, hesitant to so much as touch the garment. “Thank you very much for the gift, Theseus.”

“There is no need to thank me, my Lady Dianthus! To deliver such a gift unto you is my honour!” Theseus beamed brightly, standing proudly as he often did within the arena itself. He did this to appear confident, and to show how he took pride in his work.

“I assume you want me to try it on.”

“Yes!!” Theseus exclaimed a bit too enthusiastically. “Ahem, that is… though I would enjoy seeing how the outfit fits upon your figure, whether you try it on now or another time shall be your decision. Indeed, I have little desire to rush you.”

“I see.” Dianthus traced a finger along the ruby trim which glittered almost blindingly; an indication of how newly made the garment was. What to do? Wearing it would be a simple way to make Theseus very happy. And while he certainly wouldn’t be too upset if she never got around to trying on the chiton, she knew he would be disappointed… and that may lead him to trying to track down something even gaudier to gift her with, in the hopes she’d like that item more than the arena uniform. It would be simpler, then, just to put the damned thing on.

“Give me a moment,” Dianthus sighed. Then, “you go stand outside.”

“But of course my lady Dianthus! I shall do as you ask!” Theseus bowed, then exited the room… all while doing a fairly poor job of hiding his excitement, judging by the way he kept giggling to himself.

Now alone in the room, Dianthus turned to face the mirror that stood tall on the opposite wall of her home. She again lifted the blue cloth of the garments, idly rubbing it between her fingers. It was soft, at least. It felt comfortable enough, and the wool of the fabric was very clearly of  high quality.

Frowning only slightly, Dianthus began to disrobe. She would only have to do this once. Settle her king’s curiosity and then she’d never have to wear the blasted thing again. As always when she was nude, the nymph gazed at her figure. She had no qualms with her size at this point in her life, but she couldn’t help but feel certain parts of herself looked a little strangely, with her narrow hips and uneven chest. It was nothing she could change, however, so she’d simply elected not to worry about it.

Dianthus pulled the garment from the mannequin, mindful of the golden pins that aided in keeping its form. It didn’t take long to pull it over herself, letting its gentle blue settle upon her body in waves.

It was… hmm. Though it had been less obvious at first, it seemed the skirt of this particular uniform had been made slightly longer than usual, reaching to just beneath Dianthus’ knees. Which in turn meant that the typically forgetful king had remembered Dianthus’ preference for longer skirts on her clothing. It was a small gesture… but it was still surprisingly thoughtful for him. She would have to thank him later. When she twirled, the loose fabric twirled alongside her, soft blue and shimmering ruby blurring together as she did so. The next item of business was the belt, made with a soft leather so it could comfortably curve around her wide waist, then the gloves. In this outfit, she looked like a proper warrior… kind of. Would it even be possible for her  to battle while wearing glasses…?

Once she’d finished observing herself in her mirror, ensuring all her items were in order, she called out to the king:  “Theseus? You can come back in now.”

It took merely seconds for Theseus to burst into the room, seemingly having grown bored of masking his own excitement,

“Ah, look at you!” he gasp, “Just as I thought! How gorgeous  you are, my lady! Aphrodite herself would cower with envy before you!!”

Dianthus laughed sweetly. “The goddess would be quite upset if she heard you just now. Perhaps it’s better to keep her name out of your mouth, hmm?”

“Pah! Let her be upset! I would be a fool to deny the beauty that stands before me now.”

Theseus, physical as ever, went in to hug his lady, and Dianthus allowed it. His arms wrapped tightly around her, and Dianthus could feel him laughing against her neck, as he often did when his mood turned jolly. It wasn’t often that Theseus allowed himself to show his joy so openly, preferring to stay composed and confident before the rabble of Elysium. But here, in private, he smiled for her.

And yet… even after all this… She still thought the outfit was ugly. But if it would make her king happy… she supposed she could tolerate wearing it, at least for now.

#🌺👑 king's flower #📚 codex

[jellogram]

Hitler Was Not a Very Good Artist (an essay by me)

Speaking completely objectively here, with no regards to the man's Other Work, Hitler's paintings are not very good.

Are they technically impressive? To some degree. He's clearly got some skills. He's clearly practiced. He's no Michelangelo, but as hobbyist, he's not bad at all. This could hang in a local coffee shop:

But he wanted to go to art school. He wanted to make a career out of this. And while his paintings aren't technically terrible, there's absolutely no personality to them whatsoever. There's no life. There's very little depth, both in the literal sense and the metaphoric sense. He paints idyllic landscapes and beautiful architecture as if they're anatomical diagrams.

While detailed and technically competent, this painting looks like it would be on a textbook page about the building, not in a museum:

If I'm on the board of admissions, deciding who gets into my prestigious art school with limited space, technical skill is not going to be enough. (And Hitler's work shows barely enough skill to even satisfy THAT merit).

But I'd be looking for voice.

Technical skill can be improved, but voice is very hard to develop or teach. I'd be looking for someone with a strong perspective, who only needs a little help to come to their own. Hitler's work shows nothing of the sort. It could have been made by anyone, in any time or place, and has no opinions whatsoever. (And aestheticism can still accomplish this— there are plenty of basic landscapes that feel lively).

And for the time period, his work is also out of date. This was at the start of art movements like cubism and expressionism, and impressionism had already come and morphed into Modern Art™️. There was an especially large emphasis on challenging what art can be and making a statement. Hitler's work is, quite simply, old-fashioned and boring.

For comparison, here are several landscape paintings from 1907 and 1908, the years Hitler was rejected from art school:

Look at the color! The lines! The movement! Even Mondrian's near-abstract landscape in the lower left evokes the feeling of the place.

It's not purely stylistic, either— the more realistic work being done at this time still has life to it:

After looking at all these other works, suddenly Hitler's technically skilled landscapes and buildings seem a lot more flat and lifeless, like a painting that hardly appears interested in being a painting at all:

There's probably a metaphor in here about soullessness. These paintings were not made by a man concerned with emotional expression or pushing boundaries or challenging the status quo. There's an emphasis on traditionalism here, with old architecture and classical landscapes. He wasn't using art as a tool for expression, he was trying to master what he identified as a traditional and therefore valuable practice.

So when his ideals got rejected, he took it personally.

#you never know what you're gonna get with this blog #sometimes i write about jesus sometimes i write about killer klowns from outer space #sometimes you get a massive essay about hitlers art #art history #art

[the-resurrection-3d]

(@maskwasii​ wanted me to post this despite, ironically, it all being shit I’ve told him before. Regardless.)

Something that I’ve been thinking about for awhile and might as well post while I’m waiting for the sleeping pills to kick in:

It really feels like the great irony of shipping drama is that it pushes out the people who would take this shit seriously. By “this” I mean darkfic topics like rape, incest, pedophilia, and so on. Because let’s be real with ourselves: regardless of your opinion on “dead dove” content, the majority of people who make that content don’t fucking care what you have to say. Nothing you can say is new to them, most of them are perfectly comfortable with remaking twice, thrice, even 5+ times after being mass-reported, and as far as ao3 goes, that site’s rules are intentionally designed to make removing someone else’s work as hard as possible.

A lot of people say they’re just against “romanticizing”/ “fetishizing” that type of content, which is fine on its surface, but there really isn’t any consistent metric for what “romanticizing” actually means outside of just pointing at shameless porn and going “don’t do that.” I remember once scrolling through an anti’s blog, seeing a typical post about how they’re only against romanticization, and then ~two posts down was a callout for someone for having edgy OCs. No context whatsoever into the actual story’s lore or how the author seems to want said OCs to be viewed-- the OCs themselves are bad people/have bad kinks, therefore this blogger must be shunned and publicly shamed. Again: hate stuff like rape/non-con kink all you want, but let’s imagine, for a moment, that Alberto had a genuine rape kink in “the grammar of violence” series instead of intrusive thoughts -- that type of presentation, where we’re meant to feel sorry for Alberto due to his urges (”””urges”””), is in a completely different universe from how I handle the same urges in Nick. 

When a work does not have an obvious sexual element, they stumble. The best example of this is how they’ll insist that murder can’t be romanticized, even though many books, shows, and films not only justify but aestheticize their protagonists' murders, fully intending for us as consumers to derive some amount of pleasure from watching the protagonists kill people (often in very drawn-out, spectacular ways).

It’s thus undeniable that many antis, knowingly or not, conflate “having X in your content” with “romanticizing X” -- take that one popular post that’s just a bunch of screenshots of the number of works tagged with “underage” on ao3 and decrying all of it as “child porn.” If you’ve ever earnestly written about csa trauma and tagged your fic with “underage” and/or “explicit” to try and keep your readers safe, no you didn’t, you’ve written CP. 

Why would anyone bother trying to write a serious story under these conditions? 

I know I joke a lot about how trying to put actual effort into your fanfics is a waste of time (except it’s not a joke because it’s true and I’m only here because I’m Asterion trapped in the labyrinth of my own autism), but seriously. Even showing support for these creators leaves many people feeling at risk, which removes pretty much the only thing fanfic is good for, aka that community element. 

I’ve mentioned this before here and there, but I’ve had multiple people come to me asking for help on their stories because they wanted to avoid “romanticizing” something fucked up, and every time, they have only a vague idea of what that would actually mean. I’m not trying to shit on them for this, because it’s not their fault, but these are the writers I’m talking about -- they have anxiety over the hypothetical backlash they could receive before the act of writing has even begun. 

Anxiety in art can be productive, such as when it motivates a creator to research experiences or cultures they don’t have firsthand experience with, but how can someone do that research when the guidelines don’t exist? “Don’t write porn.” Okay.... but I’ve seen fan-art of Luca doing stretches called “horny.” (Yet also somehow cartoon Beetlejuice calling a 13-year-old girl “babes” and getting jealous when she pays attention to other guys is just him “acting like an uncle.”) Furthermore, sometimes the only way to handle your trauma is to write through it, in all the gorey details. Sometimes that means writing a graphic rape scene, writing an unhappy ending, or writing “trauma porn” (keeping in mind, of course, that I’ve seen people’s fucking memoirs called trauma porn solely because they didn’t bend over backwards to make the reader feel comfortable).

Fandoms are just so fucking vile not only to survivors, but to people who want to earnestly and respectfully explore topics relevant to those survivors. The kinksters don’t care, as we’ve already established, and the people who don’t do any research or put in any thought at all will also continue just spewing their bullshit, because they lack the self-awareness to even realize that they’re doing so. I know a lot of dead dove creators are also survivors and are using their shit to cope, so don’t get me wrong, I don’t think their content is an issue in and of itself-- but again, let’s be real, most of them know that their content isn’t saying anything meaningful about trauma or the systems that enable it, nor are they trying to. The coping, that exploration, is within the process and not the product.

But some survivors need it to be in the product. Some survivors are unable to make art, or are not yet ready to make art about their trauma, but would benefit from consuming others’. So, while I don’t think having kinky dead dove art is an inherent issue, it's an issue when that type of content ends up dominating the creative marketplace, because as much as the creators themselves are soothed by it, a lot of other survivors are alienated. Both of these responses are valid. But I just think it’s a meme and half how, given everything I’ve seen, antis seem to be doing the most damage towards the kinds of content they always say they’ve made an exception for. 

[margridarnauds]

I think a lot about what it means to be a Celticist, what it takes, how I ended up in this area, what led me here, what my relationship is with it. Most of the time, terrified of accidentally leading someone into being in over their head, I emphasize the hard work, and it’s true --  the field is notoriously strenuous. 

But there are times, just times, especially when I see people’s ideas of what it’s like, usually filled with misty forests and insufferably easy translating work, when I want to talk about the emotion behind it, the love. As terrifying as it is, as raw as it is, because it’s so much easier to talk difficulties. You’re not putting as much out on the line, it’s more detached, more clinical. Talking about the love is inherently personal, it’s inherently terrifying and vulnerable, especially when you’re in such a position that people have, in the past, voiced a belief that you have no business studying it in the first place. It isn’t what people who are invested in notions of dark academia or overly aestheticized visions of the Celtic peoples think, it isn’t particularly mystical or effortless. 

It’s almost the opposite, really. 

It’s when I was working at home over the summer, my head bent over my notebook, my brow knit, working through some Old Irish paradigms, and one of my cats would paw at my pen, and I would think of the poem Pangur Bán, about the monk and his cat and, for a moment, I wasn’t sitting in a disheveled desk, littered with books and bits of paper, lit with a cheap lamp that made my face look absolutely ghoulish in morning Zoom calls, I was a medieval monk, carrying out my studies in the dead of night, a small candle burning at my side, my trusted cat beside me, as we worked to turn darkness to light. 

It’s when I’m working on some line or the other from the Mabinogi and, for one moment, one magical, golden moment, I figure out how all the verbs and nouns and adverbs and particles fit together perfectly, and, in that moment, the text sings, and I can step back and appreciate how good the writing is, the fine use of Middle Welsh, the attention to pacing, the delicate characterization, all the better part of a thousand years later. 

It’s looking at a manuscript and seeing all the little ways that a scribe’s hand could differ, all the little things that make them unique, at the little notes in the margins, in the way that the symbols can change. (And sometimes, being furious at a scribe with a particularly bad hand or bad vellum to work with, when you have to cut off a transcription partway through.) It’s wondering whether, when they were writing this down, they knew it would reach quite so far into the future, by people with such different lives from them in so many ways. 

It’s walking by a river or lake or bit of rock and thinking of the Dindshenchas, of how the Irish heroes carved their identities into the landscape and thinking about how, no matter where you go, people have looked at the same rivers and lakes and woods for thousands of years, and I’ll wonder what people saw a thousand years ago.

It’s when I delve into the historical side, looking deeper into the people who are otherwise just names in the annals, all these people with names like “the short”, “the fair”, “the dark one”, and realizing that each one of them had lives and loved ones, all these lives spread out across the years, just names to us now. 

It’s reading bardic poetry, listening to all these great poets from close to a thousand years ago -- Their loves, their heartbreaks, their fears, about one princess’ love for her favorite lapdog and another’s love for her pet goose, and feeling this connection to people who are long since gone.

It’s finishing a paper on some character or person and being overwhelmed because, after hours and days and weeks and months and, God help you, sometimes years, it’s done. And you feel, if not totally happy with it, because there are always going to be little things, that you did them some amount of justice, after all these years, and for a second, they’re there with you, whether they were chieftains or slaves, whether they even ever existed in any tangible way. 

It’s being able, if you’re very lucky, to visit some spot or another associated with a character that you’ve done research on, and being overwhelmed because it doesn’t really matter if they never existed, what matters is that you have something of them that’s solid. 

It’s sometimes looking at when a text references some work that’s been lost and feeling this overwhelming sense of loss and fury, not just for the stories or the books, but for everything. All the lives lost to the greed and cruelty of colonialism. All the things we can’t know because they were destroyed. All the things we can’t get back. And then it’s going right back into it because there’s nothing else to do but to fight like Hell for everything that’s been preserved. 

It’s looking at the historical scholars who did everything they could to preserve these things, often at great cost, and just wanting to reach out and tell them that it was all for something. That we’re carrying on what they started, and that we know what they did, that we’re grateful.

It’s being worried each time some new ordinance passes against a Celtic language, every time another comes within a knife’s edge of extinction, every time someone writes a thinkpiece about their lack of relevancy, every time Celtic Studies programs are cut, and wondering whether we’ll ever see a day when everything we’ve done, all of us, all of it, is for nothing. And it’s wanting to reach out and SHOW THEM, take them by the hand, let them read the literature, let them understand the greatness that these languages produced. (As an American Celticist, it’s wanting to SCREAM “If I can love this, why can’t you?”) And it’s knowing that it wouldn’t matter to anyone whose mind is already closed to anything outside their own experience, especially as I think back to everyone who told me I was wasting my time doing this work, that I should go somewhere important, someplace useful.

It’s feeling an immense debt to it all, because it did give me a life, it’s saved my life multiple times at this point, while knowing that there’s an awesome responsibility to make sure that it’s all passed on, that it can keep living, the modern and the medieval alike. 

It isn’t easy. It isn’t effortless. And, frankly, most of the time, it isn’t particularly #aesthetic or romantic. But it’s worthy.

#celtic studies #long post #medieval ireland #celtic mythology #irish mythology #celtic #celts

[tobiosmilktea]

amor vincit omnia — akaashi keiji

     ↪︎ O2. I CHOOSE YOU

masterlist | prev. | next

a/n: i absolutely hated rewriting this chapter after it glitched out the first time 😔

since the beginning of your first year of university, you and the rest of your lovely friends had been eating in the library, specifically the large round table secluded and at the very corner for every meal without fail, and nobody really cared to stop you guys for two reasons. For one, no one really goes into that corner of the library that only collected dust, and two, you guys were there so often that you all befriended all the librarians to the point they stopped coming by to tell you guys to leave and eat in the canteen instead.

you were placed between daichi and kiyoko, counting the seconds by as they worked diligently in silence, munching on their lunch in the process. daichi tapped on the keys on his laptop rather quickly, the impact of each click being unnecessarily loud while kiyoko was cross-referencing documents and highlighting lines of never ending texts in a nice muted green color. tsukishima, on the other hand, was too preoccupied reading his book. eyes completely glued to the novel resting in his hands as he readjusted his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. sugawara was out and about somewhere in the sea of towering bookshelves to find a book to read, mentioning something along the lines of—and you quote, ‘something to quench his thirst for entertainment.’ 

it was honestly just his fancy way of saying that he was bored out of his goddamn mind. perhaps you were the same, eyes wandering your surroundings for something, just something to capture your attention for a few moments. it wasn’t at all difficult, actually, considering how pretty your university was.

higashi university had always been your dream college. not just by its blatant aestheticism, but the academia as well. with tanaka and nishinoya being your main friend group during your high school days, it feels rather refreshing being surrounded by other incredibly smart individuals than constant brain rot.

(no offense to tanaka and nishinoya, you loved them to pieces)

and as your mind began to wander, so did your gaze. from admiring the library’s interior to looking out the window, your lips slightly curved down into a frown.

it was only noon and the clouds were already darkening the sun’s piercing rays that usually shone through the large domed windows of the library. it was going to rain soon and for a couple hours as well.

it’s quite peculiar to think about now after you received that damned chain letter. earlier this morning, while shoving on your wool sweater and trousers, that even the weather app on your phone didn’t show any signs of inclement weather until an hour after you texted your group chat in an awkward panic.

you didn’t really pine yourself to be so superstitious. if anything, you were the complete opposite, and yet, here you were worrying over the sound of rumbling thunder in the distance.

tsukishima lifted his gaze from the words printed on his novel as he pushed his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. he flickered a look at you, a smirk appearing on his visage the moment he noticed the way you stared at a single drop of rain on the window, flowing down rather slowly.

that stupid letter of yours was still in your hand as well. he watched you fiddle with the corners, careful not to mess with the mahogany red wax stamp that sealed the envelope.

“have you thought about which poor, unfortunate soul you’re going to give it to?” he asked, smirk still annoyingly evident. this was the third time he asked you this question in a span of three hours.

you flicked your eyes towards him coolly before it fell onto the letter in your hands. "ask that question again and i’ll be sure to send it your way, tsukishima.”

“i’d like to see you try, honestly.” he muses, “your best bet is probably slipping it into one of your professor’s inboxes. maybe professor oshiro, by chance?”

“please,” you snort, “she only gave me one failing grade that i eventually made up in the end.”

“just give it to a random stranger,” daichi cuts in, eyes still glued to his laptop as he typed his fingers away. dark circles dusting his eyes like a dark shadow. law school was certainly doing its works on the likes of poor, poor sawamura daichi.

he shrugs, evidentially fatigued when he meets your eye.

“that way your grades won’t have to potentially deal with the consequences if your professor finds out.”

you nod, humming in response. that would be terrible.

sugawara then emerges from the maze of bookshelves, holding up a book towards you with a smile on his face. “found one,” he beams, tossing it atop the messy table.

you reach for the book as sugawara pulls out his chair whilst he mutters something to his daichi about his whereabouts.

“wuthering heights?” you say the title aloud and capture kiyoko’s attention along with it.

“yeah. have you guys read it?” the silver-haired boy asks. he takes your opinions quite seriously knowing how much of an avid reader you and kiyoko were. whenever he needed book recommendations or opinions, he would always go to you two.

you nod, “i quite liked it.”

“some parts tend to be slow, though.” adds in kiyoko, taking the novel from your hands and flipping through the pages briefly before slipping back over towards sugawara. “it should keep you occupied for a few days.”

you chuckle slightly, giving her a look. “you forget how slow suga is at reading. the few days it takes us to finish a book is a good month for him.”

offense coated sugawara’s expression as he lets out a scoff in retaliation. “don’t you have a chain letter to give to someone?”

“she’s stalling,” tsukishima teases.

“am not!”

“then want to go give it to a random stranger then?”

your brows draw together, “right now?”

tsukishima nods as he stuffs his belongings back into his bag. “i’ll come with you for shits and giggles.”

a sigh escapes you, rolling your eyes as you take a look at the letter one last time and wanting to laugh at yourself for doing all this. a full chain letter from front to back, with the first quarter of it is you viciously apologizing that you had to do this in neat cursive handwriting, all written in fifteen minutes.

you gave in.

“fine,” you huff as you grab your own bag as well.

“good luck,” kiyoko muses up at you as you squeeze past her.

tsukishima waits for you until you’re by his side, strides shorter than usual just to match your pace as you two navigate through the labyrinthine arrays of bookshelves. the letter was in your hand, all small and discrete for a quick and easy delivery to an unsuspecting victim. your palm perspired slightly as you kept your eyes open, scanning for an easy person as you were aware of the possible repercussions.

you could easily get in trouble for doing something this childish, but you were in too deep already.

“hurry up and find someone, we’re almost at the entrance already.” tsukishima hisses in a harsh whisper.

“i’m working on it!” you hiss back.

“working on what?” a familiar voice asks then, capturing both you and tsukishima’s attention, whipping your heads towards the owner.

kuroo combed his freehand through his hair while he had two textbooks tucked under his other arm. he gave you a smile.

you never really got close with kuroo despite meeting him at nationals a few years back. despite only talking a few times due to him being good friends with tsukishima, you knew he was nice, incredibly smart in the sciences, and yet oddly awkward for someone as good looking as he.

not him, you thought to yourself, too nice.

“a little project,” the blond immediately answers just like that. “our majors tend to overlap sometimes, so we decided to partner up.”

“nice, i’m here with my friends to study as well.” kuroo states, causing your eyes to scan behind them for any evidence of their rambunctious selves.

like kuroo, you weren’t close with any of them either. if anything, they were just mere acquaintances on the precipice of becoming strangers. regardless, they all seemed quite nice too from your lack of interaction with them.

tsukishima says something in response then, igniting a short little catch-up conversation with an old high school friend as you lay distracted. your eyes flicked down to a study table in front of you, one of the chairs just a foot shy from you had a satchel hanging off of its side. the brown leather flap was wide open with its owner nowhere in sight as you gave your surroundings a once over.

carefully, you made your way over the table, pretending as if you were taking something out of your bag as kuroo was being distracted by the blond. neither of them were looking at you fortunately. as you placed your bag back over your shoulder, you slipped the letter right into the open satchel right at the same time–the envelope falling and disappearing into the depths of the bag.

“i’ve got to get to my next lecture,” you say to the two men, giving tsukishima a sly wink that it was a job well done. “i’ll see you guys around.”

checkmate.

fun facts! —

after kiyoko graduated and moved to tokyo, (y/n) and kiyoko kept in touch by sending each other cute handwritten letters

no one really is aware of that area in the back of the library since no one goes in that section often (this is uhh,, an important detail for later 😳)

taglist: (comment or send an ask to be added!)

@channiechanchan @elianetsantana @suhkusa @agaashesmilktea @dwcljh @duhsies @thevillagehiddenintheinternet @kitsunetea @morpheus-rex @noeminemi @ntimacy @kurokenchan @kittyddandnyla @amboisez @komouri @stargirlara @itsmeaudrieee @immxnty @spicyshinsou @bombardia @yammerss @crescenttooru @tadashi-simp @sunanyaa @saikishairclip @marvel-ing-at-it-all @seijqhigh @normalisthenewnorm @allielozoya @peteunderoos @inflxxtions @peg-legz4 @kawafika @apollochjld @bap-kingdom @yongboxerrr @kenssister @galacticyoongs

#haikyuu!! #haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smau #akaashi keiji #akaashi x reader #akaashi scenarios #akaashi imagines #akaashi smau #akaashi fluff

[catxsnow]

CO-CAPTAINS D.W.

Request: could i please request a damian wayne x reader imagine where she's a complete badass who keeps damian on his toes and they both do debate (because let's be honest damians favourite sport would be to show how much better he is at arguing) and maybe they have to work together to prepare for one debate and have an enemies to lovers situation and the debate comes and the batfamily comes to watch but instead of the usual sour damian he's got the 💖lovebug💖 and simping over his partner.

Warning: fluff, Older!damian, x fem!reader

A/N: I’m so sorry I literally know nothing about debate?? I was a basketball kid in high school so I did that instead. If you’re not satisfied let me know PLEASE!! I’m happy to write something else as well but I hope that you enjoy!!

Word count: 4k

Gotham's private school were one of the few good things to come out of the city. The public school were terrifying and you were lucky enough to get scholarships into the best school in the city. At least, it had to be the best if Damian Wayne was going there, right?

Son of Bruce Wayne, richest kid probably in the entire world. He also happened to be the cockiest asshole you had ever met in your life. You were well acquainted with him being on the same basketball team and everything. There weren't enough girls to make a team that year which meant you had to play with the boys - not that it was a problem for you.

A lot of people underestimated you skill since you were one of two girls on the boys senior team. It came in handy with a lot of games where you came out scoring the most amount of points each quarter. You skill had brought you to captain of the team. Or at least co-captain with none other than Damian. 

The two of you were constantly trying to outdo each other and see who was the better captain and who was the better player. It was a constant battle between the two of you. Damian drove you crazy with his cocky attitude and his ever lasting need to prove that he was right. He was constantly trying to call the plays and you knew god damn well that it wasn't going to work.

Half the time, you were right.

Damian found you infuriating. A girl shouldn't be playing on the boys team - everyone knew that. Yet, here you were. You were proving to be better than half the guys on the team and Damian couldn't stand you for it. He hated when you were right and when you scored more points than he did.

Mostly, he hated that you always had to fight against him, rather than agree with him. You guys could never see eye to eye. And as much as you wanted to blame all the fights on him, most of them were started by you. You couldn't stand to see his stupid smirk when he came up with an idea to win the game.

Everyone on the team knew that you didn't like one another. Sometimes it fueled them up to win the game they were playing. Mostly, it got in the way to the extent that you had lost a game. The worst case was when Damian refused to pass to you and during the last few seconds of the final quarter, missed the shot and lost the game.

Yours and Damian's feud started long before you joined the boys team. Two years ago, there were enough girls to form a separate team. Some practices you would scrimmage against them - that was when your hatred started.

It was his first year playing and he was infuriated that you were beating him at every chance you got. Offense, defense, even court side you seemed to out wit him. He was tired of you and he didn't even know your name - just your number. His number.

"Wayne!" You shouted. Damian once again had his nose in his phone. You guessed that being the son of Bruce meant that he had diligent responsibilities to attend to as well - that didn't mean he got to be excused from practice though. Damian's eyes darted to you and a scowl spread on his lips. “Just because your co-captain doesn’t mean you can skip practice.”

You had to admit that it was one of your favourite past times to piss him off in anyway you could. Whether it was because it made you feel like the better captain or because he looked a little too hot when he was angry. Still, he threw his phone back in his bag and ran onto the court to join you and the others.

It was the end of practice and he looked like he was itching to leave. However, Coach had one last drill to run before hitting the change rooms. It pushed you just hard enough that sweat dripped down your face and soaked the back of your neck. Damian didn't even appear to even break a sweat.

With all the years that you had known him, he never seemed to be overworked. Coach would throw everything at him and he would always accomplish it with ease. You hated him for it. Whatever aestheticism he had was natural, you had to work you ass off for it. Nothing seemed to tire him out.

You nearly dropped to the floor the second the change room door closed. The cold tiles would have felt nice against your hot skin but you didn't know if you'd be able to get back up after you got down. So, you reluctantly threw on some sweats and a hoodie and headed out to catch your bus home.

Of course by the time that you got out there, all the other players were long gone and the only person left was Damian Wayne. Unlike you, he wasn't waiting for the bus, he was waiting for his butler. You wished you had that kind of luxury in your life - Gotham City busses weren't always the most reliable.

"(L/N)," Damian acknowledged you. The bus you were going to catch wasn't going to be there for another twenty minutes. As much as you didn't want to stay with Damian, you also felt a hell of a lot safer standing next to him rather than yourself. "Your free throws were off today."

"Thanks," You rolled your eyes. Of course he noticed your weakness of the day. He always seemed to be pointing out things you did wrong during practice and especially during games. You held up your hand to show him your taped fingers which seemed to be a good enough answer for as to why you were off. "Crushed my pinky last night."

"TT," he nodded. Part of you hated when he did that. That other part thought his little tick was adorable. The worst thing about hating Damian was that he also did the smallest gestures that made you swoon to him. You liked to blame it on his rich-boy-son-of-Bruce-Wayne facade, but you knew that wasn't it.

"You were leaning to your right instead of left today," this time you pointed out his flaw. Damian lifted up his pant leg to show of his ankle brace. How you hadn't noticed it in practice, you weren't sure.

"Two days ago," Damian briefly told you. "Don't worry, I could have crutches and I'd still be a better player than you." You scowled at him. The second that you thought that the two of you could get along, of course he had to go and ruin that with some plain-faced compliment.

"I'm pretty sure that someone who's never stepped onto a court could do better than you," you scoffed. The short time that you had left you little imagination to come up with insult. "My bus is going to be here soon, better go catch your babysitter."

"He's my butler," Damian corrected. You always referred to Alfred as Damian's babysitter - with his childish attitude god knows he needed one.

"Whatever," you were already walking away from him. As you continued to the bus stop, you spun around and flipped him off. Your middle fingers were raised high in the air and you could nearly feel his glare at you. "Have fun being privileged."

What you didn't know, was that Damian knew Alfred was there the whole time. He didn't want to leave you waiting in the dangerous streets of Gotham by yourself - not when he knew the horrors that were truly within them.

><

Damian knew you were one tough motherfucker.

He knew that on the court you were ruthless, unforgiving, and determined. Playing against a bunch of men that towered over you and sometimes having way more body mass against you meant you had to be tough. It was something that he always respected you for. Time and time again you surprised him with being able to take care of yourself.

Tonight was a home game and you were more than excited to be out on the court and kick some sorry ass. Just as always, the other team was shocked to see a girl playing and instantly started making fun of you. They were rough on you, refs were obviously not caring enough to call the fouls, and you were pissed.

By the third quarter, you were furious that so many calls were being missed. Your shooting started to get more forced and your defense more aggressive. It wasn't until the player you were guarding jabbed his elbow into your face did you finally have enough.

Blood dripped down your busted lip and your fists clenched up at your sides. If it wasn't for the bright red flowing out of you, you were sure that it would have been another foul that was shrugged off. With the sound of a the whistle being blown, both teams headed back to their benches.

"Fuck these refs!" You seethed. The back of your hand was smeared with blood from wiping it away. Your coach glared at you for the swear but since you were feeling ballsy, you only glared back at him.

You were already in a bad mood. Before the game had started, you and Damian had another one of your spats. This had been a big one too, you had never yelled at him so much in your life before. And to be honest, you couldn't even remember why it had started. He had said something to tick you off and it had just escalated from there.

The two of you were the first to arrive to the game - as it seemed to happen every time. While waiting for everyone else, you found yourself arguing once more. He always seemed to find the kind of things to just make you angry enough not to be able to forgive him. It drove you crazy.

When some of the other players filed in, the two of you stomped off in your own directions and never spoke again unless necessary. Damian was the one person that you could never get along with no matter how much you tried. And you wished you could get along with him too.

He was your co-captain, you should have easily been able to get along with him. Damian was someone that you truly could see yourself getting along with if he wasn't so damn stubborn.

"She's right," Damian suddenly defended you. He couldn't help but be in awe of you as you nonchalantly shrugged off the wound. You were fuming at the team, the refs, and now your couch. Damian had never seen you so riled up before and he had to admit that he loved this side of you.

"Doesn't matter," your coach cut the both of you off. "(Y/N), you're out for the rest of the game."

"No!" You argued. There was no way that you were going to be benched for some busted lip. Your coach wasn't going to let you argue it. So, for the rest of the game you grumbled on the bench and glared at any player from the other team that ran by you. This was unfair, yet no one seemed to disagree with the coach.

As the last seconds of the final quarter ticked away, victory was upon your team. The last buzzer went off and your team crowded around each other for the win. You on the other hand, already stalked off the the change room. Your bag was hastily thrown to the ground and you planted your hands on the edge of the sink.

To no surprise, your lip was swollen and bloody. A split ran vertically on the bottom and dried blood was caked around it. You splashed cold water on your face, hoping that it would cool you down - both from your heat and your anger. It didn't do either.

Your team was most likely already waiting for you for a post-game talk. That was the last thing you wanted to partake in. Unfortunately, you were already in enough trouble as it was and you couldn't miss this. You shoved a hoodie on and joined the rest of your teammates outside.

Twenty minutes later you had nearly droned out everything your coach was telling you and your team. Everyone decided to join up at the pizza place a couple streets down from the school before heading home. You on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to be in your own bed away from everyone else.

A hand on your shoulder stopped you from walking away. Damian.

"What?" You snapped.

"Calm down, (L/N)," Damian rolled his eyes. He had the time to cool off from your fight several hours ago - you on the other hand most definitely had not. "Come get pizza with the rest of us. I know you're in a... bad mood, but it'll be good to spend time with everyone without coach there."

"No."

"I'll buy," Damian offered. You rolled your eyes at him. A slice of pizza really must have just dug into his budget a lot - being so rich and all. "Just... I'm sorry, for earlier. I shouldn't have said those things."

"Wow, is Damian apologizing?" You were genuinely shocked. He never apologized after any of your fights so he must have felt bad about this one. "I guess I'm going to have to come now."

><

The final game of the season always made you nervous. This year, was even worse. Senior year of high school meant that scouts would be watching for new players in university. Tonight, the gym was packed with them. You needed this scholarship if you wanted to get into the university of your dreams.

To make matters worse - Damian's family had shown up as well. Bruce Wayne and several of his brothers and sisters sat in the stands. It was the first time that you had seen them together outside of his ridiculously expensive galas. Bruce had shown up to support his son - his siblings wanted to see this girl that he had ranted on and on about.

There were many times after practice - or even just regular school days - where Damian would come home and complain about how much he hated you. He was constantly infuriated by your presence and he couldn't stand the thought about how impossible you were to try and have a proper conversation with.

Dick was the one who heard about it the most. He told Jason about it, who started showing up to the manor just to his little brother get so worked up about a girl. Steph became the most invested - she wanted to know everything there was about you and most importantly how, how she could get the two of you together.

Tim didn't believe that it would ever happen. When Damian hated someone, there was no changing his mind about it. You seemed to be at the top of his list at the moment and there was no way that Steph's wishes would ever come true. Damian hated you, simple as that.

You stood on the court side bouncing up and down on your toes. All the nervous energy was pent up inside of you and you had no idea how to get it out. This game meant everything to you - you needed to show off how good of a player you were and that you deserved to have a full-ride scholarship.

"You okay?" Damian stood beside you. He had grown a lot since you first met him. Before, you stood at the same height as him, now, he towered over you. His arms were crossed over his chest as he looked down at you. You couldn't help but briefly gaze at his muscles that popped out of his jersey before meeting his eyes.

"Nervous," you answered.

"Why? We've beat this team before. Is it because it's the finals?" Damian raised an eyebrow. You were never one to show off your nerves - especially right before a game.

"No," you shook your head. "Scouts. I need a scholarship to get into university. I'm just worried I'm gonna fuck up tonight and lose my chance."

"You're going to do fine," Damian assured. You weren't used to this side of him. He never was one to boost your confidence, always the one to tear it down. "If it makes you feel better, I'm nervous too."

"You? Nervous?" you cheekily grinned up at him. Damian rolled his eyes and nudged your side.

"My father is here," he jutted his chin in the general direction of his family. One of the older men seemed to notice and waved at you both. "And my nuisance brothers and sisters. They've never seen one of our games before."

You didn't have a chance to say anything else. A whistle echoed through the gym and the two of you were ushered onto the court. The second that you stood within the lines, your nerves seemed to wash away.

Damian stood in the center for the tip off. He did a short glance back at you and have a reassuring nod. For some bizarre reason, it filled you with joy. You felt a surge of confidence as well as determination. Whatever happened after tonight was out of your control. All you knew was that you had to bust your ass out there and everything would work out one way or another.

That game, you had worked like you never had before. You were making nearly every shot and putting up such a great defense. For the first time in your lives, you and Damian were working in sync. It seemed like he knew what you wanted to do before you even had the chance to think it. The two of you were incredible.

His family noticed how well you worked together. After everything that they heard about you - they assumed his hatred would show on the court as well. Most of the time, that was true. Tonight, you had never seen anything like this before. It was your best game of your life - skill wise.

At half time, your team huddled around to devise a strategy for the second half. You were ahead of the other team, but only by a few points. This was the final game of the season, you had to win. You stood beside Damian in the huddle.

Sweat dripped down his skin which seemed to accentuate his beautifully tanned skin. He left from your side and part of you felt disappointed at his departure. However, he returned only moments later with his water bottle, as well as yours. You thanked him as you grabbed it from his hand.

"You guys are on fire out there," One of your teammates stood behind you and Damian. He had a hand on each of your shoulders and a grin on his face. "It's crazy! I've never seen you work together like this before. Guess you guys are uh, warming up to each other, huh?"

Coach called him over before you could reply to him. He squeezed your shoulder before jogging off in the other direction. Damian didn't look too pleased by the short encounter either.

"Scouts have been watching you all night," Damian looked over to where one of them was sitting in the stands. He had made sure that he made all the right assists for you so that you would go noticed. It was working - you were doing incredible.

"Still half a game left to go," You muttered. As soon as you stepped off the court, you nerves had started to come back. "Thank you, for everything out there."

"(Y/N)? Thanking me?" He teased. He never had a playful attitude like this - but you had to admit that you really liked that side of him. The smile that caused his eyes to crinkle and his cheeks to squish. You couldn't help but gleam up at him the second that you saw it.  "Come on, coach wants us."

The rest of the game went just about as good as the first half. You were drowning in sweat from all the work you were doing but if the scouts kept their eyes on you, then it was well worth it. You and Damian continued on just as you had before - playing as if you were one person, not two.

The final quarter came and went with your team pulling way into the lead. By the time the final buzzer went off, your team had already celebrated it's final win of the season. It was you and Damian that had been the reason for such a dramatic win - and the scouts knew it.

You had been pulled off to the side by one scout in particular before you could even make it to the change room. He happened to be from the university that you were so wanting to go to. Before he could even finish his offer for a full ride, you already had a massive grin on your face and nodded your head yes.

This had been exactly what you wanted in your life, you needed this win. The scout left you to go get changed and speak with your team. However, you had ran into Damian first. Your heart was beating so fast that you were sure it was going to pop out of your chest with excitement.

Whether it was the adrenaline, the excitement, or the pure happiness you felt, you weren't sure - but that didn't stop you from running to Damian and up into his arms. Damian nearly tumbled at your sudden weight. You legs wrapped around his torso and your palms were on his cheeks. Before he could ask what the hell you were doing, you kissed him.

Damian was standing there in shock. He held your legs for support and you could feel them stiff against your bare skin. Then, he melted into your touch. Damian kissed you back with the same cheerful energy that you had. His grip on you became more natural and he felt as if he never wanted to let you go.

The clapping and cheering from your team had pulled you guys apart. Damian carefully set you back down on the ground and stepped away from you. Heat of embarrassment crawled up his skin. "I'm sorry," You squeaked out. "I just, I wanted to thank you. Scouts are interested me and it's all because of you."

You had never really thought about Damian in this way. Sure, he frustrated the hell out of you and sometimes you wanted to punch him in his perfect little face, but you never found yourself hating him. Yet, you never thought that you’d want to kiss him either. 

The instinct feeling that you had? That spoke more than anything else. After all this excitement, you should have thought to tell your parents, your best friend first. Instead, it was Damian. Maybe it was because you ran into him first, but you couldn’t blame your thoughts on that as well. 

"They're interested in you because of how great of a player you are, not because of me," Damian argued. His cheeks were tinged the slightest pink as he stared into your eyes. "And there's no need to apologize... I enjoyed that. I'm sorry for being terrible to you for all these years."

"I deserved a lot of it. I'm sorry as well," You told him. Damian placed his hand on your waist, closing the gap that was between you. He tilted down, placing his lips on yours once again. He never realized how much he had argued with you just to hide his own feelings until now. All these years of fighting had been pointless.

This time, it was a camera flash that broke you apart. A blonde girl with a huge grin on her face held up her phone. Damian scowled at her. "Steph!"

"Tim!" Steph ran back to Tim as well as the rest of Damian's family. She was holding the phone high up in the air, obviously excited to show her brother about what she had just seen.

"Sorry," Damian apologized once more. He glared over in the direction of Steph running away to meet the rest of her siblings. "My family can be a lot sometimes."

"Well if they're anything like you, that doesn't surprise me," you joked. You glanced between him, the team, and his family - all of which seemed to be looking towards you. "Wanna ditch the team and our families and get out of here?"

"Never thought you'd ask."

#damian wayne #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne oneshot #older!damian #dc #dc imagine #dc one shot #batfam #batfam x reader #batfam imagine #fluff #damian wayne x fem!reader

[passionate-reply]

In this installment of Great Albums, we’re back to talking about albums nobody’s ever heard of! You might not know who Zaine Griff is, but you’ve probably heard of a guy called Hans Zimmer, and Zimmer is the real mastermind of this record: a masterpiece of New Romantic synth-pop made long before he made his name composing for the big screen! Not to mention contributions from Ultravox’s Warren Cann, YMO’s Yukihiro Takahashi, and even Kate Bush. Find out all about it by watching this video, or reading the full transcript below the break!

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today’s installment is going to feature an album that is most definitely towards the obscure side--but, like most of the more obscure artists and albums I’ve talked about, I think this one is every bit as good as the classics. Zaine Griff’s Figures is not only a forgotten album that I think deserves more acclaim, but also an album that, in many ways, feels like it could have been a huge success in its own time.

Zaine Griff grew up in New Zealand, and moved to Great Britain in the 1970s in the hopes of pursuing a career in music. His debut LP, 1980’s Ashes & Diamonds, would mark him as one of the many artists straddling the musical landscape in the aftermath of glam, in the long shadow of David Bowie. With keen visual panache, a suave way of slurring when he sang, and the requisite killer cheekbones, Griff fit in perfectly with the so-called “New Romantics,” as stylish and sophisticated as Visage, Ultravox, or Japan.

Music: “Ashes & Diamonds”

The real turning point in Griff’s career was his being “discovered,” so to speak, by Hans Zimmer and Warren Cann. Cann had already become a figure of some renown, as the percussionist for the aforementioned Ultravox. Despite his tremendous fame today, Zimmer actually had much less to show for himself at this point, aside from a somewhat dodgy stint in the Buggles. While geniuses in their own ways, neither of them were necessarily natural frontmen, and Zaine Griff seemed like the perfect missing piece to fit into their pop ambitions.

Even setting aside Zimmer and Cann, Figures is actually full of recognizable talent, and I think it may have the single most stacked list of album credits I’ve ever seen in my life! You’ll also hear contributions from Yellow Magic Orchestra’s Yukihiro Takahashi, backing vocals from Linda Jardim, who was also the soprano on the Buggles’ famous “Video Killed the Radio Star,” and a guest appearance by none other than Kate Bush. That’s really a lot of clout going around, which is one of the reasons I’m so surprised this album went nowhere. Anyway, that aside, the most dominant sonic footprint on display here is certainly that of Hans Zimmer. Zimmer is credited with producing the album, and his dynamic, expressive, perhaps “cinematic” work with digital synthesisers is surely the driving force behind Figures’s sound.

Music: “Fahrenheit 451”

It’s easy to imagine “Fahrenheit 451” is the thumping theme to some delightfully 80s adaptation of Ray Bradbury’s classic novel. Its theme of lustful but dangerous romance is a constant throughout the album, most notably on tracks like “Hot” and the haunting closer, “The Beating of Wings.” The song’s tense and dramatic mood is well bolstered by those soaring synths, courtesy of the Fairlight CMI. One of the most distinctive sounds of mid-80s synth-pop, the soft, breathy tones of the Fairlight hadn’t yet reached full saturation when Figures was made--Zimmer was an early adopter of this particular musical revolution. You might be surprised to learn that “Fahrenheit 451” only saw minor distribution as a single, exclusively for the French and Belgian markets. I think that sort of mismanagement on behalf of Polydor really shafted this album. Its lead single was actually its title track.

Music: “Figures”

The title track of Figures isn’t the worst song I’ve ever heard, but I do think it just might be the worst song on this album. With a strident, stabbing synth riff and a somewhat sparse and anemic soundstage, the title track is not particularly exciting, and also not particularly representative of what the rest of the album sounds like, with no indication of the lush and vibrant textures that dominate tracks like “Fahrenheit 451.” It also has less lyrics than the other tracks, and offers Griff little opportunity to demonstrate his pipes. Thematically, though, its imagery of wispy and mysterious personas, flitting in and out of substance in a world where appearance and identity are trifling and ephemeral, is something that resonates strongly with the album as a whole, as one might surmise from its title also being used for the album. “The Vanishing Men,” another song that easily feels like a better single than “Figures,” handles the same sort of subject in a more playful and upbeat manner.

Music: “The Vanishing Men”

The titular “vanishing men” are quite clearly the life of the party here, and in the world of this track, the insignificance of true identity is portrayed as an invitation to experiment and have fun with it--though not without a slight hint of danger as well. Perhaps it’s a good metaphor for the curated aestheticism of the New Romantic movement, decried by some as “style over substance.” New Romanticism really didn’t have much time left by the time *Figures* came out, being so strongly associated with trends in fashion that were on their way out by this point. Even Ultravox would find themselves pivoting towards more of a pop rock-oriented sound for their final classic lineup LP, 1984’s Lament. I can’t help but think that the changing landscape of musical trends is part of the poor reception of Figures, which is such a consummate New Romantic album, which basks in the full flush of the movement’s prior penetration into the mainstream. As stated above, “The Vanishing Men” is all about the glamour of mutable identity, but other tracks on the album seem to assign this theme a bit more weight, as in “The Stranger.”

Music: “The Stranger”

The titular character of “The Stranger” is described as “a stranger to himself,” but also “no stranger to anyone else.” This track seems to be more focused on the negative aspects of fashionable persona-play: losing the dignity and security of a true form, the people around you seeing through your charades, and becoming trapped in an existence defined by arbitrariness and artificiality. I’d also be remiss not to mention this track’s winsome pentatonic synth riff, which helps create a mercurial and ambiguous mood. It might be interpreted as a nod towards the rampant Orientalism of New Romantic music, which ran with the early 80s verve for all things Asian, and wasn’t shy about appropriating “Asiatic” musical motives like pentatonic scales to evoke mystery and wonder. Griff and friends’ use of such here is relatively subtle, though, and perhaps a bit more tactful than how many of their contemporaries approached other musical ideas associated with the East.

The unforgettable cover of Figures is as dramatic and infused with capital-R Romantic sentiment as the music contained within. Above the text relating the artist and title, which uses a V for a U for a touch of the classical, we see Griff splayed dramatically in a pond of lilies. With sharp makeup that emphasizes his lips, and a diaphanous, blousy top that turns translucent in the water, he seems to be the perfect tragic hero of some lost work of Shakespeare’s--complete with another flower stylishly pinned to his chest. As I mentioned before, Figures is an album that rides the wave of New Romanticism particularly hard, and I think its cover is yet another symptom of those sensibilities.

Speaking of Shakespeare, I can’t help but want to compare this image with a famous painting of one of Shakespeare’s best-known characters: Ophelia, by Sir John Everett Millais. Painted in the early 1850s, Millais’s Ophelia depicts the moment where Ophelia, driven mad by Hamlet’s romantic rejection of her, drowns herself in a river. It’s exactly the kind of story of wild, passionate, and doomed love portrayed on tracks like “Fahrenheit 451.” Ophelia is also associated strongly with flowers in the text, and features in a particularly memorable scene where she doles out various symbolic blossoms to members of the royal court. Besides the affinity of subject matter, even the composition of Millais’s work resembles the cover of Figures, contrasting its subject’s pale skin with the dark and murky natural surrounds, and emphasizing the drapery of their wettened attire. Ophelia is often considered the definitive masterpiece of the short-lived art movement, the “Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,” who, as their name implies, sought to recapture the intuitive, colourful, and emotive power of art created prior to the High Renaissance. Not unlike New Romanticism, the Pre-Raphaelite movement would crumble after only a few years, but not without leaving behind a trail of masterpieces that would continue to inspire future artists and admirers, far removed from their own time.

After the release of Figures, Zaine Griff remained involved with Hans Zimmer and Warren Cann, and, as the supergroup “Helden,” they embarked on an even more ambitious musical opus together: Spies, a sort of synth-pop oratorio about immortal Nazi super-spies falling in love in a futuristic dystopia. Spies is about as out-there as it sounds, and brings the flamboyant musical excess of Figures into a suitably theatrical setting. It’s also got nearly as star-studded of a cast as Figures, featuring not only Zimmer, Cann, and Jardim again, but also Eddie Maelov of Eddie & Sunshine as a mad scientist, and the enigmatic French electro-cabaret chanteuse Ronny, in the role of a super-computer with a sultry female voice. Griff portrays one of the titular immortal spies, known only as “The Stranger”--which, of course, begs comparison to the track of the same name on Figures, and prompts the question, to what extent was Spies already in the works when *Figures* was being written and recorded?

Music: “The Ball”

We all know the rest of the story for Hans Zimmer, who began working with music for film in the mid-1980s, such as the queer cult classic My Beautiful Laundrette. But Zaine Griff obviously never became a household name. Despite being finished in 1983, Spies never got to see an official release, as it was a bit too out there for a label to take a chance on at the time, and it would probably be lost media today if it weren’t for a vinyl bootleg that’s thankfully fairly easy to find online. Griff decided to retire from music shortly after this, and recounts a story of having walked past an extremely talented street musician, and having a sort of epiphany about just how hard it was to make it in music. After all, if a true virtuoso could end up busking on the street, how fair and rewarding could the industry possibly be? Disillusioned with the world of pop, Griff returned to his native New Zealand and got a day job as a golf instructor. More recently, though, he’s also released several new solo albums in the 2010s, surprisingly enough, and attempted to push forward into some very contemporary-sounding pop rock. The world is, of course, a very different place nowadays than it was in the 20th Century, and particularly in the world of music distribution, so perhaps it makes sense that our brave new world has room in it for someone like Zaine Griff to return.

My overall favourite track on Figures is probably “Time Stands Still,” which I think is perhaps the most accessible, pop-friendly track to be had on the album, and the one I would’ve released as the lead single had I worked for Polydor. With a big hook and simple, repetitive lyrics, it’s a true pop song through and through--though, if an artist releases a commercial-sounding album in the woods, and nobody is around to buy it, is it still really “pop?” Anyway, I also love this track’s delightful outro, imitating a skipping record to represent a freeze in the flow of time...though I admit it’s a lot less harrowing to hear when listening digitally! That’s all I have for today--thanks for listening.

Music: “Time Stands Still”

#music #great albums #album review #album reviews #zaine griff #new romantic #ultravox #warren cann #hans zimmer

[ill-be-istj-if-no-one-else-is]

Would you be able to highlight the differences between a 3w4 sp/sx and a 4w3 sp/sx? I’m having a really hard time figuring out which one I am. I did have a rough physical and emotionally abusive childhood and I’m still working through that as an adult so that colors my experience a bit. If it helps I’ve tested as ENTP, INTP, infp and intj. No clue on my mbti. I relate to the 3 aspect of wanting to look together but I feel like I’ve been living through a 3 wing my whole life because of my domineering mother and trying to get approval I’ll never get and love from an anti conflict father who never stood up for me with my mother. I relate to that idea of fantasizing about someone to come save me, the romanticism, aestheticism etc of a 4. But I don’t try to stay in that melancholy phase. I wasn’t allowed to show my emotions growing up but now that I’ve given myself permission I just feel so much more at piece even though they’re rollercoaster every hour it seems lol. It’s hard to tell if I was a 4 that was repressed due to abuse and learned on my 3 or I’m a 3 that’s now channeling into my 4. I’m just really stuck. I test often as either a 479 or a 378. I know I’m a lot more passionate, moody and quick tempered but after years of the physical and emotional abuse I just feel I got it beaten both of me. I don’t have the anxiety or security aspects for the 6, intelligent but not 5 driven. Def not 1, 2. Don’t have the energy of a 7, don’t have the protective vibe of a 8. 3w4 or 4w3 is what I keep coming back to consistently. I really just want to be free to be myself, and accepted for who I am. I wish someone would want to know me intimately but I know I’m some type of introvert so it takes some time for me to open up. I relate to infp and isfp the most, strongly relate to se but I’m always bumping into things so wondering maybe it’s an aesthetic, nature thing not necessarily se. I would really appreciate any help, insight or direction you could give.

Hi anon,

I do not do variants questions, so if you have any sp/sx specific questions you will need to go to someone else.

I always recommend people review the Enneagram Institute's misidentification pages when asking about two different types; please keep in mind the type itself is much more important than the wing.

I don't know how to put this but: I tend to get really uncomfortable when people talk extensively about trauma in my inbox. This is not because I think it's bad or wrong to have experienced trauma; this is because I am an internet stranger who read a lot of stuff about personality theory. I have zero credentials, and I always just feel like I should not know any of this kind of information, even in an anonymous setting. It makes it difficult for me to be sure of any typing, because every part of my brain just screams "please direct this person to someone who is actually helpful because personality theory is not going to help with like...real problems."

To that point, if you are still working through those issues, and you don't know what is truly your behavior and what was forced upon you by a traumatic and abusive circumstances, typing is probably not a good project to take on because typing serves to give a name to what you already are. If you are not sure what you already are, then it is far more important to take all of the time you need to develop that first than to be able to assign it a specific number.

#enneagram

[letterboxd]

How I Letterboxd #13: Erika Amaral.

Film sociologist Erika Amaral on the blossoming of Brazil’s women filmmakers, the joys of queuing for the movies, the on-fire Brazilian Letterboxd community, and the sentimental attachment of her entire nation to A Dog’s Will.

“It is hard to produce art without institutional support and it is very complicated to produce art during this tragic pandemic.” —Erika Amaral

In the wide world outside of English-language Letterboxd, Brazil occupies a particularly fervent corner. Sāo Paulo-based feminist film theorist Erika Amaral has connected with many other local film lovers through her Letterboxd profile, and for anyone with an interest in Cinema Brasileiro, her lists are an excelente place to start.

From her personal introduction to Brazilian film history, to her own attempts to fill gaps in her Latin American cinematic knowledge, Erika’s well-curated selections are a handy primer on the cinema of the fifth-largest country in the world, and its neighbors. These lists sit alongside her finely judged academic deep-dives into filmmakers such as Luis Buñuel, Glauber Rocha and Sarah Bernhardt.

Endlessly fascinated by how “the history of cinema is all intertwined”, Erika has also written on Jia Zhangke for Rosebud Club, is an Ana Carolina stan, enjoys collecting films directed by women featuring mirrors and women, and, like all of us, watched many remarkable movies during quarantine.

Suzana Amaral (left, rear) with cast and crew on the set of her film ‘A Hora da Estrela’ (Hour of the Star, 1985).

Olá, Erika. Please give our readers a brief introduction to your brilliant Introduction to Brazilian Film History list. I’m so happy to see this list getting popular! I’m a sociologist interested in film and gender studies. It’s been four years since I started studying Brazilian film history but my passion for film is much older. I tried to combine those two aspects in this list; films that are meaningful to me, historically relevant films, and historically relevant films erased from film-history books, for instance, those directed by women. The main purpose of my list is to highlight Brazilian women filmmakers’ fundamental contributions to Brazilian cinema.

I listed some absolute classics such as Hour of the Star by the late director Suzana Amaral, and other obscure gems such as The Interview, by Helena Solberg, which is a short feature released in 1966 alongside the development of Cinema Novo. Solberg’s work was hidden for decades. No-one knew about it. In Brazil, especially in the field of film studies and feminist theories, we are experiencing the blossoming of public debates, books being released, and film festivals that look specifically into films such as Solbergs’s and [those of] many other women directors, including Adélia Sampaio, the first Black female director to release a feature film in Brazil in 1984, Amor Maldito. We need these debates on Letterboxd as well, so I wrote this list in English.

As a representative of the passionate Brazilian community on Letterboxd, can you provide some insight into the site’s popularity where you live, especially for those of us who have not learned Brazilian Portuguese? I feel at home using Letterboxd. Everywhere I see Brazilian members posting reviews in both Portuguese and English. It’s a passionate community. It’s directly related to Twitter where Brazilian cinephiles are so active and productive, always sharing film memes (and even Letterboxd memes). Many content creators are using both Letterboxd and Twitter to showcase their podcasts, classes and film clubs. I once started a talk at a university for film students mentioning that my Masters research project came into life when I watched Amélia, showing my mind-blown Letterboxd review in the presentation. I follow many of those students now and it is so good to be connected. Brazilian Film Twitter and [the] Brazilian Letterboxd community are on fire!

Alexandre Rodrigues as Buscapé in ‘City of God’ (2002), directed by Fernando Meirelles and Kátia Lund.

When uninitiated cinephiles think about Brazilian cinema, City of God is most likely top of the list. It’s the only Brazilian film to be nominated for Best Director at the Academy Awards (despite co-director Kátia Lund being shut out!) and it’s the only Brazilian film in IMDb’s Top 250. After nearly 20 years, is it fair for City of God to represent Brazil? Of course, it is fair for City of God to represent Brazil! The only problem is if we think all Brazilian cinema is exclusively City of God. The film is entertaining, well-directed, has a great cast, but it has some flaws—for example, the aestheticization of violence and misery in Brazil, which scholar Ivana Bentes calls the “cosmetics of hunger”. Even so, it is a great film and it captivated Brazilian and international audiences. We shouldn’t limit any country to only one or two films.

If you enjoy City of God, check my list for Brazilian films directed by women in this period, which we call “Cinema da Retomada”—the renaissance of Brazilian cinema after the economic problems [that] hampered the film industry in the 1990s.

Selton Mello and Matheus Nachtergaele in beloved Brazilian comedy ‘O Auto da Compadecida’ (A Dog’s Will, 2000).

Several Brazilian films have stunningly high ratings on Letterboxd, giving them a place on many of our official lists. This includes A Dog’s Will, which is in the top ten of our all-time Top 250. On Letterboxd, A Dog’s Will reviews are cleanly divided into two camps: Brazilians (who absolutely love it) and everyone else (who fail to understand its popularity). What drives this home-team spirit? People truly love A Dog’s Will! It’s funny, has a fantastic rhythm, and it references many aspects of Brazilian culture, especially regarding north-eastern Brazilian culture. It was shown both as a film and as a miniseries infinite times on the largest and most popular television channel in Brazil. I can’t help mentioning that A Dog’s Will portrays Jesus Christ as a black man and Fernanda Montenegro as Brazil’s patron saint, Nossa Senhora Aparecida. It’s a brilliant moment for Matheus Nachtergaele, one of the greatest Brazilian actors ever.

Can you offer us a ‘Gringo’s Guide to A Dog’s Will’? I love the idea of a ‘Gringo’s Guide to A Dog’s Will’! You need to have good subtitles. The beauty of A Dog’s Will is that it is regional but it was made to be understandable to all of Brazil. You are going to need subtitles that [cover] the expressions, slang and proverbs—not mere translations. I would recommend watching some other films from north-eastern Brazil; Land of São Saruê, Love for Sale and Ó Paí Ó: Look at This. This can help you understand other social and cultural dimensions of Brazil beyond, for instance, City of God. A Dog’s Will is a movie that we would watch on a lazy Sunday afternoon with the family, so we have a strong sentimental attachment to it.

Leonardo Villar bears the weight of a cross in ‘The Given Word’ (1964).

Religion plays an important role in Brazilian cinema—for example, one of the few Brazilian films to win the Palme d’Or is the masterful The Given Word. Is this connection a part of what makes Brazilian cinema so potent for the local community? Religious symbolism and religious beliefs are extremely significant in Brazilian cinema. Its presence in cinema seems to address our daily challenges, rituals, history, but not always apologetically—as you can see in the despair of Zé do Burro in The Given Word. Religion does not seem to help him. There’s nowhere to run. The spiritual belief, as well as the cross itself, is a weight on his shoulders.

So you see, religion in Brazilian cinema is so potent because we can think beyond it, we can understand how people relate to their beliefs and how sometimes religion can fail a person. That’s what happens when a priest falls in love with a local girl (The Priest and the Girl), when a curse falls upon a man who turns against his people (The Turning Wind), when we teach fear and sin to young girls (Heart and Guts), when religion becomes a determining way of life that does not pay back efforts (Divine Love), when we accept the possibility of going against religious institutions (José Mojica Marin’s, AKA Coffin Joe, films).

We have all these movies fascinated by religion and how it creates meaning in our society. This is just from Christianity, because if we think of African and Indigenous heritage, we have another whole dimension of films to reflect upon, such as Noirblue and the documentary Ex-Pajé.

We have some Brazilian films in our Official Top 100 by Women Directors list, including The Second Mother, which sits in the top five with City of God. Who are some overlooked female Brazilian filmmakers that you want to celebrate and put on our map? Undoubtedly Juliana Rojas and Gabriela Amaral Almeida. They’re both on the horror scene and their work is astonishing. I strongly recommend Hard Labor and Rojas’ latest film Good Manners (if you are into werewolves). I can’t even pick one for Almeida—The Father’s Shadow and Friendly Beast are awesome. Beatriz Seigner’s The Silences—filmed in the frontier between Brazil, Colombia, and Peru—is really impactful. Glenda Nicácio’s films, co-directed with Ary Rosa, are among my favorite recent Brazilian films. Watch To the End immediately!

Eduardo Coutinho’s ‘Twenty Years Later’ (1984).

Brazilian documentarian Eduardo Coutinho has not one, not two, but three of his films in the Official Top 100 Documentaries list, including the all-time number one Twenty Years Later. Can you describe Coutinho’s significance in Brazil? Coutinho is a monument! Coutinho is an institution! Coutinho is everything. His works are of strong political importance, as you can see in Twenty Years Later. A movie he was making in 1964 was interrupted by the dictatorship installed in Brazil, and the main actor and activist, João Pedro Teixeira, was murdered, then his wife Elizabeth Teixeira had to flee and change her identity.

The documentary follows Coutinho and his crew looking for the actors from his movie from twenty years before. Later, his works developed many different tones and formats as you can see in Playing, an experimental portrayal of real women and their personal experiences side-by-side with actresses representing their real-life events as if in a play. Playing was one of the mandatory films to be analyzed for [my] Film School entrance exam, so I had to watch it a million times in 2017. His works are profound studies on Brazilian people and culture—piercing, but also delicate.

Contemporary documentaries are also doing well; Petra Costa’s latest, The Edge of Democracy, was nominated for an Oscar, and Emicida: AmarElo – It’s All for Yesterday was briefly Letterboxd’s highest-rated film late last year. How are these docs tapping into the zeitgeist? Those are both very different films. Emicida is part of a strong and structured movement against racism, against the marginalization of Black people, against limiting the access to art and culture to certain social groups, which is a common practice in the history of this country. Petra Costa’s documentary is another form of reflection on contemporary politics but in a melancholic tone since, recently in Brazil, we have been facing political storms such as the impeachment of ex-president Dilma Roussef, the imprisonment of ex-president Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva (who has recently been declared not guilty), and rising far-right politicians. Not to mention another of our losses, the still-unsolved killing of Marielle Franco, a Black and lesbian political representative. These films have helped us face these difficulties and try to gather some hope for the future.

Bárbara Colen (center) and villagers in ‘Bacurau’ (2019).

How has Brazil’s cinema industry been affected by the one-two punch of the pandemic on top of ongoing social and political issues? And, can you talk a bit about how the acclaimed Cannes-winner Bacurau shocked the nation two years ago, and in what ways the film confronted these problems? This question is challenging because there’s so much happening. At this moment, we have 428,000 deaths [from] Covid and we are still mourning the Jacarézinho favela massacre in Rio de Janeiro. We have very troubled political representatives that are not fighting Covid in an adequate way to say the least, and we have had major cut downs in the cultural sector since, in Brazil, a lot of artistic and cultural projects are developed with governmental incentives. It is hard to produce art without institutional support and it is very complicated to produce art during this tragic pandemic.

Right before this chaos, we had Bacurau. Actually, I have a pleasant anecdote about my experience with Bacurau. Everybody was talking about how it was going to premiere at a special event with the presence of its directors. We had some expectations regarding the premiere because it was going to be free of charge and it would take place at the heart of São Paulo, the Avenida Paulista, in an immense theater.

We arrived at 1pm to form a line and people were there already. I discovered through Twitter that the first boy in line was hungry so I gave him a banana. I had brought a lot of snacks. The line was part of the event, and it got so long you couldn’t believe it. It was great to see so many friends and people gathered to see a movie—and such an important movie! There weren’t enough seats for everyone but they exhibited the film in two different rooms so more people could enjoy it.

I love everything about that day and I think it helps me to have some perspective on cinema, culture, politics and what we can accomplish by working collectively—people uniting to fight dirty politicians, people joining forces to fight social menaces, generosity, empathy, fight for justice and the power of the masses.

The life of 17th-century nun Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz is explored in María Luisa Bemberg’s ‘Yo, la Peor de Todas’ (I, the Worst of All, 1990).

Would you like to highlight some films from your neighboring countries? I have been watching some fascinating films from South America. Bolivian filmmaker Jorge Sanjinés has an extensive filmography and his films were the first to portray characters speaking Aymara. I really like his Ukamau. I also love Argentine director María Luisa Bemberg’s films, such as I, the Worst of All. I’m currently studying Jayro Bustamante’s La Llorona, from Guatemala. I have no words to say how incendiary this film is. You’ll have to watch it for yourself!

Who are three Brazilian members that you recommend we all follow? Firstly, I recommend you follow my beautiful partner in crime and cinema, Pedro Britto. Secondly, a fantastic painter and avid researcher of Maya Deren and Agnès Varda, my adored friend Tainah Negreiros. Finally, I recommend you follow Gustavo Menezes, who is the author of many excellent lists [about] Brazilian cinema. He’s also the co-founder of a streaming platform called Cinelimite, which everyone should take a look at.

Related content

Silvia’s Cinema Novo list

Gabriela’s Cinema Brasileiro master list

Serge’s list of films that have won the Grande Otelo (Grande Prêmio de Cinema Brasileiro for Best Film)

Follow Erika on Letterboxd, Tumblr and in print

Follow Jack on Letterboxd

#letterboxd #how i letterboxd #erika amaral #film academic #film study #feminist film theory #feminist film #feminist theory #brazilian cinema #cinema o brasilia #Cinema Brasileiro #Brazilian film #suzana amaral

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/7/2020

I missed THE GOLDEN GLOVE at Fantastic Fest last year. It was one of my only regrets of the whole experience, but it was basically mandatory since the available screenings were opposite the much-hyped PARASITE. As annoying as that sounds, it was actually a major compliment, since what could possibly serve as a consolation prize for the most hotly anticipated movie of the year? Needless to say, I heard great things, but I could never have imagined what it was actually like. I'm still wrapping my mind around it.

Between 1970 and 1975, an exceptionally depraved serial killer named Fritz Honka murdered at least four prostitutes in Hamburg's red light district. Today, we tend to think of the archetypal serial killer in terms of ironic contradictions: The public is attracted by Ted Bundy's dashing looks and suave manner, and John Wayne Gayce's dual careers as politician and party clown. Lacking anything so remarkable, we associate psychopathy with Norman Bates' boy-next-door charm, and repeat "It's always the quiet ones" with a smirk whenever a new Jeffrey Dahmer or Dennis Nilsen is exposed to the public. The popular conception of a bloodthirsty maniac is not the fairytale monster of yore, but a wolf in sheep's clothing, whose hygienic appearance and lifestyle belie his twisted desires. In our post-everything world, the ironic surprise has become the rule. In this light, THE GOLDEN GLOVE represents a refreshing return to naked truth.

To say that writer-director Fatih Akin's version of the Fritz Honka story is shocking, repulsive, and utterly degenerated would be a gross understatement. We first meet the killer frantically trying to dispose of a corpse in his filthy flat, wallpapered with porno pinups, strewn with broken toys, and virtually projecting smell lines off of the screen. One's sense of embodiment is oppressive, even claustrophobic, as the petite Honka tries and fails to collapse the full dead weight of a human corpse into a garbage bag, before giving up and dismembering it, with nearly equal difficulty. The scene is appalling, utterly debased, and yet nothing is as shocking as the killer's visage. When he finally turns to look into the camera, it's hard to believe he's even human: the rolling glass eye, the smashed and inflated nose, the tombstone teeth and cratered skin, are almost too extreme to bear. Actually, suffering from a touch of facial blindness, I had to stare intently at Honka's face for nearly half the movie before I could fully convince myself that I was, in fact, looking at an elaborate prosthetic operation used to transform 23 year old boy band candidate Jonas Dassler into the disfigured 35 year old serial murderer.

Though West Germany remained on a steady economic upturn beginning in the 1950s and throughout the 1970s, you wouldn't know it from THE GOLDEN GLOVE. If Honka's outsides match his insides, they are further matched by his stomping grounds in the Reeperbahn, a dirty, violent, booze-soaked repository for the dregs of humanity. Though its denizens may come from different walks of life, one thing is certain: Whoever winds up there, belongs there. Honka was the child of a communist and grew up in a concentration camp, yet he swills vodka side by side with an ex-SS officer, among other societal rejects, in a crumbling dive called The Golden Glove. The scene is an excellent source of hopeless prostitutes at the end of their career, who are Honka's prime victims, as he is too frightful-looking to ensnare an attractive young girl. These pitiful women all display a peculiarly hypnotic willingness to go along with Honka, no matter how sadistic he becomes; this seems to have less to do with money, which rarely comes up, and more to do with their shared awareness that for them, and for Honka too, it's been all over, for a long time.

Not to reduce someone’s performance to their physical appearance, but ???

To call Dassler's portrayal of Honka "sympathetic" would be a bridge too far, but it is undeniably compelling. He supports the startling impact of his facial prostheses with a performance of rare intensity, a full-body transformation into a person in so much pain that a normal life will never become an option. His physical vocabulary reminded me of the stage version of The Elephant Man, in which the lead actor wears no makeup, but conveys John Merrick's deformities using his body alone. Although there is an abundance of makeup in THE GOLDEN GLOVE, Dassler's silhouette and agonized movements would be recognizable from a mile away. In spite of his near-constant screaming rage, the actor manages to craft a rich and convincing persona. During a chapter in which Honka experiments with sobriety, we find a stunning image of him hunched in the corner of his ordinarily chaotic flat, now deathly still, his eyes gazing at nothing as cigarette smoke seeps from his pores, having no idea what to do with himself when he isn't in a rolling alcoholic rampage. The moment is brief but haunting in its contrast to the rest of the film, having everything to do with Dassler's quietly vibrating anxiety.

Performances are roundly excellent here, not that least of which are from Honka's victims. The cast of middle-aged actresses looking their most disastrous is hugely responsible for the film's impact. These are the kinds of performances people call "brave", which is a euphemism for making audiences uncomfortable with an uncompromising presentation of one's own self, unvarnished by any masturbatory solicitation. Among these women is Margarete Tiesel, herself no stranger to difficult cinema: She was the star of 2012's PARADISE: LOVE, a harrowing drama about a woman who copes with her midlife crisis by pursuing sex tourism in Kenya. Her brilliant, instinctive performance as one of Honka's only survivors--though she nearly meets a fate worse than death--makes her the leading lady of a movie that was never meant to have one.

So, what does all this unpleasantness add up to, you might be asking? It's hard to say. THE GOLDEN GLOVE is a film of enormous power, but it can be difficult to explain what the point of it is, in a world where most people feel that the purpose of art is to produce some form of pleasure. This is the challenge faced by difficult movies throughout history, like THE GOLDEN GLOVE's obvious ancestors, HENRY: PORTRAIT OF A SERIAL KILLER, MANIAC and THE TEXAS CHAIN SAW MASSACRE. Describing unremitting cruelty with relentless realism is not considered a worthy endeavor by many, even if there is real artistry in your execution; some people will even mistake you for advocating and enjoying violence and despair, as we live in a world where huge amount of movie and TV production is devoted to aspirational subjects. (The fact that people won't turn away from the Marvel Cinematic Universe movies, no matter how monotonous and condescending they become, should tell you something) How do you justify to such people, that you want to make or see work that portrays ugliness and evil with as much commitment as other movies seek to portray love, beauty, and family values? Why isn't it enough to say that these things exist, and their existence alone makes them worth contemplation?

A rare, perhaps exclusive “beautiful image” in THE GOLDEN GLOVE, from Fritz Honka’s absurd fantasies.

You may detect that I have attempted to have this frustrating conversation with many people, strangers, enemies, and friends I love and respect. I find that for some, it is simply too hard to divorce themselves from the pleasure principle. I don't say this to demean them; some hold the philosophy that art be reserved for beauty, and others have a more literary feeling that it's ok to show characters in grim circumstances, as long as the ultimate goal is to uplift the human spirit. Even I draw the line somewhere; I appreciate the punk rebellion of Troma movies as a cultural force, but I do not enjoy watching them, because I dislike what I perceive as contempt for the audience and the aestheticization of laziness--making something shitty more or less on purpose. A step or three up from that, you land in Todd Solondz territory, where you find materially gorgeous movies whose explicit statement is that our collective reverence for a quality called "humanity" is based on nothing. I like some of those movies, and sometimes I even like them when I don't like them, because I'm entranced by Solondz's technical proficiency...and maybe, deep down, I'm not completely convinced about "humanity", either. However, I don't fight very hard in arguments about him; I understand the objections. Still, I've been surprised by peers who I think of as bright and tasteful, who absolutely hated movies I thought were unassailable, like OLDBOY and WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN. In both cases, the ultimate objection was that they accuse humans of being pretentious and self-deceptive, aspiring to heroism or bemoaning their victimhood while wallowing in their own cowardice and perversity. Ok, I get it...but, not really. Why isn't it ever wholly acceptable to discuss, honestly, what we do not like about ourselves?

The beguiling thing about THE GOLDEN GLOVE is that, although it is instantly horrifying, is it also an impeccable production. The director can't help showing you crime scene photos during the ending credits, and I can't really blame him, when his crew worked so hard to bring us a vision of Fritz Honka's world that approaches virtual reality. But it isn't just slavishly realistic; it is vivid, immersive, an experience of total sensory overload. Not a square inch of this movie has been left to chance, and the product of all this graceful control is totally spellbinding. I started to think to myself that, when you've achieved this level of artifice, what really differentiates a movie like THE GOLDEN GLOVE from something like THE RED SHOES? I mean, aside from their obvious narrative differences. Both films plunge the viewer into a world that is complete beyond imagination, crafted with a rigor and sincerity that is rarely paralleled. And, I will dare to say, both films penetrate to the depths of the human soul. What Fatih Akin finds there is not the same as what Powell and Pressburger found, of course, but I don't think that makes it any less real. Akin's film is adapted from a novel by Heinz Strunk, and apparently, some critics have accused Akin of leaving behind the depth and nuance of the book, to focus instead on all that is gruesome about it. This may be true, on some level; I wouldn't know. For now, I can only insist that on watching THE GOLDEN GLOVE, for all its grotesquerie, I still got the message.

#blogtober #2020 #the golden glove #fatih akın #heinz stronk #jonas dassler #margarete tiesel #difficult cinema #horror #slasher #serial killer #period piece #adaptation #historical #biopic #fritz honka #i may have been watching a lot of powell and pressburger movies recently #sorry...

[happylittlemarmite]

Creative Journal

7/12/20- Week 10

Sessions Themes: In this weeks session we looked at being alert to unexpected opportunities and different creative environments. The example we looked at when discussing the former was for the invention of the post-it note which i have bullet pointed as follows:

Designed by accident

Spencer Silver- trying to create “super strong” adhesive for use in aerospace industry

Creates an extremely weak adhesive- Acrylate Copolymer Microspheres

Arthur Fry heres of this in a seminar and decides it would make for a good non-residual bookmark

Post-it is born- Unsuccessful at first due to unfamiliarity but after work with free samples 90% of American households would go on to buy them.

We also looked at some creative environments from big companies such as google and Pixar, and discussed how our environment can impact on our creativity. Brad Bird of Pixar said “if you have a loose, free kind of atmosphere, it helps creativity.” in relation to the interesting working environments throughout Pixar, where employees are allowed to decorate their workspaces however they wish. I think this was an extremely interesting concept to think about, it’s one of those background things that you know to be true but don’t give a lot of thought. Recently with trying to do my uni work I’ve been driving myself up the wall a bit, and i think it’s to do with there being no clear work/rest divide now we have to work from home. I wake up, sit on my bed at my computer studying, watch a little Netflix before i go to bed and then sleep in the same bed I’ve been sat on all day. Hopefully once lockdown is lifted, I’m going to try and study in commons during the day time so i don’t get stuck in such a weird cycle. 

DSD: This week for my do something different activity i have been working on my anxiety. Daily i leave for work at the same time and usually there are around 4 or 5 faces that i see every time. Sometimes as i pass them i smile, but often they dont see or smile back and i get so embarrassed, so I’m going to take the initiative and start saying “hello” as i pass them. One of them in particular, i know we have the same employer because of our uniforms but assume we must work different shifts, ALWAYS blanks me which is particularly disheartening to me, so once I’ve cracked that I’ll be golden. I know it’s silly but I’ve given some of them nicknames based on description in order to feedback to the boys i live with regarding my success.

Inspiration: Some interesting media I’ve been looking at recently is early 2000′s British sit-coms. I’ve been trying to find something i can watch on Netflix that makes for good “passive viewing”. It’s unlike me to have any more than 2/3 series’ on the go at any one time because my attention spam would not allow for it. I like to watch one series that’s long and in depth but with something shorter and more light-hearted for when i just want something on in the background or if I’m not feeling like paying too much attention. I hate American lifestyle TV SO MUCH, it’s one of those things i feel like I'm watching to laugh at not participate with, and especially American comedy I have to be in a very specific state of mind to try and enjoy it. As much as i hate to admit it, my friends always say i like “boomer humour” because of the way i communicate with older people and the type of jokes i like to tell. It’s not that i think my taste is “mature”, it’s most likely that i virtually grew up down the pub surrounded by people my parents’ age. I don't understand a lot of the older pop culture references but i find myself laughing at silly “mum humour” often, it’s just not something I’ve ever thought to pursue in terms of the media i consume. I’ve been watching things like Teachers and Spaced on Netflix and i love the witty dry humour so much. The only reason these kind of shows stand out to me against newer sit-coms also is the pacing of the jokes. I’ve been trying to watch some modern sit-coms on Netflix too such as Drifters and Crashing and the humour is so much more obvious. It’s like something will happen in front of you and then, just to make sure you got the joke, a character will explain what you just saw. 

I find early 2000s TV particularly interesting because of the stark differences in social attitudes between now and then. For example, I know socially that LGBT+ issues have progressed so much in the past few years, however it’s so much easier to pinpoint these progressive peaks through TV. The stereotyping of the “gay best friend”, or “trendy gay” tropes, with people asking questions like “who who is the man in the relationship?” It’s not that they’re being overtly homophobic, but it’s so crazy that these kind of cliché’s were socially acceptable not even that long ago.

All that being said, as i mentioned in my last post with the rise of the y2k trend i could just enjoy this under the influence of the aestheticism of the 90′s and early 2000′s, but even so, it makes for good tv.

#Journal

[thesarosperiod]

Talk Oscar Wilde to me what was his life like? I know he went to prison for homosexuality but other than that I don’t know much about him also a bunch of my friends’ copies of Dorian Gray have a picture of Franz Liszt on it which. Makes no fuckin sense

yes! gladly! the question is where to start- his life was so full. i’ll do my best to do him justice though:

so oscar wilde was born in dublin, ireland. his mom was a writer who wrote under the pen name “speranza.” lady wilde took oscar to all the salons she attended, and oscar grew up surrounded by the intellectuals of dublin. he wrote his first poem about the death of his sister, and i think it really shows his propensity for using words even from a young age. he attended college at multiple universities, and this was where he really started to get involved in aestheticism and the decadence movement, which is what we know him for today.

he had a sweetheart named florence balcombe, who ended up marrying bram stoker, which is hilarious to me- if i remember correctly, wilde introduced the two of them originally. there’s this letter he wrote to her after the whole affair in which he talks about the two years they spent together as “the sweetest years of all my youth” and less romantically asks for the jewelry he gave her back. he married a woman named constance lloyd. wilde wrote about her beauty, but after her second pregnancy, he was sort of physically repelled by her appearance (which like... what the fuck, dude, but i guess her being aesthetically pretty was the only thing that made him attracted to her?).

at this point, with his marriage unraveling, he meets a student named robert ross. robbie ross was openly gay and, by all accounts, seduced wilde and introduced him to the world of gay men in victorian england. i’m not going to get too into this part of his life, but quick sidenote- robbie ross was referred to as “oscar wilde’s devoted friend,” and stuck by wilde until his death. wilde also spoke of how ross was a great match for him intellectually. so i think that’s pretty cool.

anyway, at some point or another, ross introduced oscar to lord alfred douglas (known to his friends as bosie). bosie was uh (this is my opinion) pretty demanding, and wilde was absolutely infatuated with him. it was not a healthy relationship, and wilde was pretty much willing to give bosie whatever he wanted. unfortunately, along with bosie came the ire and wrath of bosie’s father, the marquess of queensbury. the marquess did not like wilde one bit, and there was a whole variety of things he did to make that displeasure explicitly clear. 

the final straw was when the marquess left his calling card at oscar’s club, with a message on it calling wilde a “posing sodomite.” wilde was, as expected, pissed, and attempted to sue the marquess for criminal libel. the marquess could avoid this by proving that he had not made false statements about wilde, and through some... interesting investigative techniques, he was able to do so, which eventually lead to oscar wilde being prosecuted for gross indecency. 

(contrary to popular belief, he was not prosecuted for sodomy- they didn’t actually have enough evidence to prove that, and without getting too into the gross details, apparently wilde might not have even done it at all.)

there’s so many great quotes from the trial, but in the end, wilde was convicted and sentenced to two years hard labor. he was put into reading gaol. here i want to make a brief note- when victorians said hard labor, they meant hard labor. backbreaking, soul-crushing work. when you hear those stories about treadmills being designed to torture prisoners, this is the era we’re talking about here. wilde would have suffered. it was also at this point that wilde managed to write de profundis, which was addressed to bosie douglas, on a sheet of paper per day in the prison. which i find absolutely incredible.

anyway, once wilde got out, he had to go to france. he stayed in paris under the name sebastian melmoth. unfortunately, going to jail meant that all of wilde’s possessions had been sold, including his copyrights- he was Very Broke. robbie ross did his best to help him out, in addition to other friends, and helped buy wilde’s copyrights back. however, wilde eventually died in paris at the age of 46- i won’t get too into his cause of death here (you can look it up if you want) but fair warning it’s... kind of gross. robbie ross had a tomb built for him (featuring a relief of an angel who’s genitalia were just. stolen at one point?) and ross’s ashes were eventually placed in the tomb as well.

so... that’s the life of oscar wilde! i know this was probably longer than you expected, but i honestly skipped so many cool stories that i can go into if anyone is interested- like his relationship with his children, the time when the marquess threatened to give wilde rotten vegetables, the weird shit he did in his final years, his run-ins with censorship... there’s honestly just so much.

(also i have absolutely no idea why your friend’s copies of dorian gray have franz liszt on them? mine has a painting of some random ass aristocrat on it and it bothers me to no end because dorian’s hair is supposed to be blond, not brown like on the cover. classic novel covers are always weird af though for some reason)

#this answer is incredibly long but! #thank you for the ask! #asked and answered #imcompletelylost #oscar wilde #oscar wilde appreciation hours

[leonaesque]

Poetic Injustice: On Ateneo and Negotiating Complicity

To be a successful comprador is an art. Tony Tan Caktiong knows this. Given the scale at which multinational corporations influence Philippine culture, at this point, who are we to refute it? And how? Profit-seeking forces itself on us; to be recognized. Every mass-produced item of clothing featuring the pattern of an ever-smiling billion-dollar bee is indication enough: Art is execution. In fact, being the recipient of foreign capital requires deliberate hands able to maintain thousands upon thousands of labor-only contractual workers, despite their having worked at the same establishment for years on end. These workers produce what no middleman can. Yet a company will still view being bought-out by an industry giant as the ideal exit strategy. Each moving part makes for one striking image of monopoly– worthy, one might insist, of being featured in a gallery.

Jollibee Foods Corporations (JFC) acquires stakes or ownership of restaurant chains in order to expand, as it has done over the course of many years with local and foreign brands. Their current roster includes Greenwich, Chowking, Red Ribbon, Mang Inasal, Burger King PH, The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, and Panda Express PH. The company also runs businesses internationally, such as Smashburgers in the United States, and Yonghe Dawang or Yonghe King in China.[1] Of course, the face of this massive undertaking remains the once tiny Magnolia-inspired ice cream store, Jollibee, now every business-oriented insect’s wet dream.

Ernesto Tanmiantong, brother and successor of Tony Tan Caktiong as Chief Executive Officer (CEO) of Jollibee Foods Corporation, is the latest former Chairperson of the Ateneo de Manila University Board of Trustees.[2] One can even find his name, along with his wife’s, gracing a first-floor exhibit hall of the Ateneo Art Gallery, found inside the university’s so-called creative hub, the Arete. In the months before the start of the first semester of S.Y. 2018-2019, Tanmiantong’s adorable, marketing-committee-approved buddy in white gloves and a chef’s hat took a trip to the then-newly inaugurated art gallery for a photo-op. The mascot then posed with several installments and paintings, a couple of which depicted farmers and workers.

According to the Department of Labor and Employment (DOLE), JFC is one of the most notorious businesses with regards to the perpetuation of the practice of contractualization.[3] Contractual workers are, according to law, not employed by– and, therefore, not the responsibility of– the company they provide labor to. Because of this, these workers do not receive benefits or compensation, are often subject to abusive working conditions, and are vulnerable to the shameless practice of mass termination. No doubt, the Public Relations stunt with the Ateneo Art Gallery was ill-timed; right at the height of protests against the corporation, in the midst of its non-compliance with the DOLE’s order to regularize upwards of 6,000 of its workers– there was Jollibee: tone-deaf and taking pictures to post on his Facebook profile, The Atenean Way.  

Ironically, as the statement by Ateneo’s School of Humanities Sanggunian (which condemned the incident) pointed out, perhaps even the person inside that oversized blinking head of the Jollibee mascot was a contractual worker, posing in a space that he might never have been able to enter without the cartoon-bee-mask of his exploitation.[4] Surely, it does not matter whether or not the institutional faux pas was an intentional case of art-washing. At least, it should not. Is there such a thing as art for art for art’s sake?

---

There is this poem entitled “The Doomed” written by Mikael De Lara Co. A friend of mine recommended it to me once after a workshop session because my piece, he said, reminded him of it. I do not think my friend meant to insult me. Unless he did.

“The Doomed” is a poem about writing a poem, wherein the poet-persona is aware that, while he is writing poems about lilies, there is violence somewhere, which he is both physically and socially detached from. This violence is manifest into the shooting of Liberal Party supporter and candidate, Hamira Agcong, in 2010, as well as the infamous Ampatuan Massacre that occurred in 2009, where 58 people were kidnapped and killed.  

Where do poems fall under in the realm of social praxis (if at all)? “The Doomed” ends with the lines “I want to find beauty in suffering. / I want to fail.” Yet, the poem’s aestheticization of the murders via tone and imagery is blatant. The declarative rejection of an ideal like beauty or portraying beauty betrays the poet’s pretentiousness in what can only be his underlying conservativity. There is no attempt to avoid it. With lines like “You sit at your desk / to write a poem about lilies and a clip of 9mm’s / is emptied into the chest of a mother…” and “… a backhoe in Ampatuan crushes the spines of 57 / – I am trying to find another word for bodies”, it sounds as though these killings are more poetic material than actual, politically motivated deaths. Tell me, is the reader to blame for reading what is on the page? Mikael De Lara Co fails in failing, making the poem and its project a useless endeavor.

Despite the pointedly crafted grief into the persona’s voice, “The Doomed” does nothing to grieve the circumstances which brings about its dramatic situation. Why are people “doomed”, if not for the bureaucrat capitalists that viciously plot to stay in power? Could the poet not have addressed that, instead of weeping about his writing process? I do not believe that the poem would have failed that, at least, because all language inevitably fails in the face of social reality. That would be lazy, if it were not bullshit.

But I suppose that is why “The Doomed” fails, most of all: The poet believes it is fine to write speeches for a leader who allowed farmers and indigenous people to be harassed, as long as they could be tagged as members of the New People’s Army, the armed faction of the Communist Party of the Philippines. A text speaks, though the words are not on the page. So, the poet dooms.

Mikael De Lara Co has won many awards for his writing and translations, including the prestige-inducing Don Carlos Palanca Award for Literature. He graduated BS Environmental Science from Ateneo de Manila University, where he was once an editor of Heights, the school’s official literary publication. He has been published in many other magazines, literary journals, and the like, where his author’s notes proudly indicate all these accomplishments and more, such as having, himself, worked for the Liberal Party and once been a member of the former President Benigno Aquino III’s staff under the Presidential Communications Operations Office. Ergo, ghostwriter, alongside a number of other Ateneans who were also once part of Heights.

“Noynoy Aquino was a fascist” is a phrase that does not get said often enough. The Aquino administration, with its neoliberal policies the color of dehydrated piss, is credited with the starving thousands of farmers to death. Unsurprising, I suppose, for a family of landlords to inherit a disdain for the very hands that feed them. Corazon Cojuanco Aquino passed the Comprehensive Agrarian Reform Program (CARP) during her regime, and her son amended it with an extension and reforms (CARPer), making it even easier for land owners not to have to redistribute their lands at all.

For all its “Kayo ang boss ko” and “Daang Matuwid” pandering, the Aquino administration did not skimp on its counterinsurgency program, Oplan Bayanihan, which heavily drew from the U.S. Counterinsurgency Guide.[5] Here, it was farmers and Lumad, some of the most vulnerable sectors of Philippine society, that were tagged as rebels, terrorists, communists, etc., simply for knowing and standing for their rights, as the government failed to decimate actual armed revolutionaries in the countryside.

The massacre that took place under the Aquino administration occurred in Kidapawan, Cotabato on April 1, 2016. According to reports, among the group of 6,000 protesters that was mainly composed of farmers and activists, 116 were injured, 87 went missing, and 3 were killed.[6] Perhaps the lilies in “The Doomed” were a metaphor for De Lara Co’s beloved Noynoy.

---

Speaking of Ateneo: For an institution that makes yearly claims to combat historical revisionism and uphold the memory of the victims of human rights violations under the Martial Law era, this university loves to slurp on major Marcos ass. In 2014, President Fr. Jose Ramon Villarin, SJ drew flack for having rubbed elbows with the iron butterfly herself, Imelda Marcos, at an Ateneo scholars’ benefactors’ event.[7] The mere thought of Imelda posing as a charitable, bloated cockroach in a wig that feasts on all that is lavish and garish, while the university welcomes her to do so is nearly comical. I imagine the blood.  

In 2019, a similar incident ensued[8], this time with Imelda’s daughter, Irene, whose art connoisseur lifestyle she lives second-hand. It was during the inauguration of the Arete’s amphitheater, named after Ignacio B. Jimenez, a crony of the corrupt family themselves.[9] Community backlash forced the building’s executive director, Yael Buencamino, to resign and for University President, Fr. Jose Ramon Villarin, SJ to issue a statement in response to the instance.

Yet, despite the triumph of Ateneans in demanding accountability for having the Marcoses at our literal and metaphorical dining table, there are also the Camposes, the Consunjis, the Lorenzos, and other local elite whose hands are stained with generational blood, that have established their presence in the campus with no near hopes of showing them out. Students could also be as loud as they pleased about the violations on workers’, farmers’, and national minorities’ rights that these families are frequently attached to, with only the answer of a warning that school organizations may lose sponsorship opportunities. What else can we expect? Of course, the names that line the halls that one studies in are the limits of academic freedom.

---

A few semesters ago, I wrote a poem to be workshopped by my co-English staffers in Heights as part of our membership retention requirements. It was not a good poem, I know. It was about my experience of integrating with the striking workers of Sumifru, a multinational Japanese company that produces fruit, whose union was called NAMASUFA (Nagkahiusang Mamumuo sa Suyapa Farm). After struggling to get word out of their plight and facing violent dispersals and harassment, 200 workers came all the way from Compostela Valley to Metro Manila via boat and plane, despite the difficulties of travel due to the imposition of Martial Law throughout Mindanao. Their objective was to pressure the DOLE and its Secretary, Silvestre Bello III, into action; that is, to be firm in enforcing Sumifru’s compliance to regularize their workers, which the company refused to do even though the DOLE had legally recognized them as their workers’ employer. The workers set up camp in various places, such as Mendiola, Liwasang Bonifacio, and beside the Commission on Human Rights inside the University of the Philippines Diliman campus, and often welcomed students who came to learn about their cause.  

During the workshop, the discussion began with a silence and an awkward laugh. Political realism was how my poem was diagnosed, for obvious reasons. However, the main critique that I remember was that my use of language– the words multinational corporation and bureaucrat capitalists, in particular– did not induce the feeling of the struggle that the workers went through. It was not the language workers used or would use. I refuted this claim, saying I had talked to the workers. That this is exactly what they say. No, it is not poetic. It is real.

I agree, though, with the verdict that my poem was not good, if the basis were form. I agree because I do not think poems need to be good to say what is needed. If the basis were factors other than form, I still do not think the poem is good. I mean, either way, it does not change the fact that, ultimately, I only wrote a poem for a workshop, despite any intention of bringing awareness to NAMASUFA. Is a poem going to save them their jobs? Does that make a difference? Did it make a difference?

The Sumifru workers returned to Mindanao last July, 2019. I have left Heights as well.

---

Within the Ateneo campus, a tarpaulin overlooks the red brick road that the entire Loyola Schools population traverses. The sign merits a purposeful, impossible-to-miss position on the old Rizal Library building, immortalizing the critique: “We find the Ateneo today irrelevant to the Philippine situation because it can do no more than to service the power elite.” Nothing could be more fitting, in my opinion. The Ateneo de Manila University’s commitment to performativity deserves to be blasted in our faces, if at least once a day.

This declaration was taken from the “Down from the Hill” manifesto published by The Guidon in November of 1968. The manifesto was written by a group of five students, namely Jose Luis Alcuaz, Gerardo Esguerra, Emmanuel Lacaba, Leonardo Montemayor and Alfredo Salanga, all of whom actively campaigned for an anti-imperialist orientation to nationalism.

I want to talk about Eman Lacaba. Throughout the Marcos regime, he was a student activist– a radical, so to speak, as disapproving administrative bodies might now label him. Presently, he is known for being a poet, revolutionary, guerilla, and a martyr during the Martial Law era. One of his most often discussed poems is “An Open Letter to Filipino Artists”, a piece that finds itself into syllabi like a de-fanged snake. The poem is a detailing of his experience as a cadre of the New People’s Army; the provinces he visits, his process of proletarianizing from a burgis boy to a communist rebel, and so forth. The epigraph of the work, a quote from Ho Chi Minh, affirms his praxis– “A poet must learn how to lead an attack.” The poem is the revolution that Lacaba takes up arms for. I guess now that he is dead, Ateneans can wholeheartedly claim him as one of their own.  

After the Martial Law era, Ateneo decided to create a body dedicated to the integration of its students with various disenfranchised sectors of society, as encouragement for their middle to upper-middle class youth to become more socially aware and active. The Office of Social Concern and Involvement (OSCI) is the current iteration of this. Their programs, from first year to fourth, require students to be socially involved enough to pass their Theology units. Commendable, no? Still. You can almost get sanctioned for so much as lighting candles for state-murdered farmers on the sidewalk by the gates outside of campus if it is not an Office of Student Activities-approved event– something I learned the hard way. I was not aware that bureaucracy was a key principle in Catholic Social Teaching.

So, does this mean the opposite of active non-violence is that which is inactively violent? The areas that OSCI allows their students to immerse in are carefully chosen, the interactions are prepared for in advance. In fact, they do not want to use the term “immerse” lest they be misconstrued with the damn leftists that climb mountains and “brainwash” unsuspecting poor people. You know, the ones that dare challenge the status-quo? Ateneo, or at the very least, its administration, will recognize the necessity of political action, but only to a certain extent. Nothing like Eman, the warrior-poet, whose militance is much too red to aestheticize.

The contradiction between what is said (marketed, poeticized, apologized for, etc.) and what is done should be scrutinized, instead of convincing ourselves that our interests are not merely our own. The dominant culture of a society will expose who supports those who hold political and economic power.  

[1] Cigaral (List: Brands operated by Jollibee Foods Corp.)

[2] (Leadership)

[3] Patinio (Jollibee tops list of firms engaged in labor-only contracting: DOLE)

[4] SOH Sanggunian (The Statement of the SOH Sanggunian on Jollibee's PR Stunt)

[5] Karapatan (OPLAN BAYANIHAN For Beginners)

[6] Caparas (WITH VIDEOS: 3 dead, 87 missing, 116 hurt as police fire on Cotabato human barricade)

[7] Francisco (Ateneo de Manila 'sorry' over Imelda's visit)

[8] Paris (Irene Marcos was invited to Ateneo, and students are up in arms)

[9] Rappler.com (Ateneo hit for art ampitheater named after Marcos 'dummy')

Works Cited

Caparas, Jeff. “WITH VIDEOS: 3 Dead, 87 Missing, 116 Hurt as Police Fire on Cotabato Human Barricade.” InterAksyon.com, 1 Apr. 2016, web.archive.org/web/20160402013745/interaksyon.com/article/125901/breaking--security-forces-open-fire-on-cotabato-human-barricade.

Cigaral, Ian Nicolas. “List: Brands Operated by Jollibee Foods Corp.” Philstar.com, The Philippine Star, 24 July 2019, www.philstar.com/business/2019/07/24/1937490/list-brands-operated-jollibee-foods-corp.

Francisco, Katerina. “Ateneo De Manila 'Sorry' over Imelda's Visit.” Rappler, 6 July 2014, www.rappler.com/nation/62549-ateneo-manila-imelda-marcos-apology.

Karapatan (Alliance for the Advancement of People’s Rights). OPLAN BAYANIHAN For Beginners, Karapatan, 2011.

“Leadership.” Leadership | Ateneo Global, global.ateneo.edu/about/leadership.

Paris, Janella. “Irene Marcos Was Invited to Ateneo, and Students Are up in Arms.” Rappler, 8 Apr. 2019, www.rappler.com/nation/227702-irene-marcos-invited-to-ateneo-students-protest-april-2019.

Patinio, Ferdinand. “Jollibee Tops List of Firms Engaged in Labor-Only Contracting: DOLE.” Philippine News Agency RSS, Philippine News Agency, 28 May 2018, www.pna.gov.ph/articles/1036679.

Rappler.com. “Ateneo Hit for Art Ampitheater Named after Marcos 'Dummy'.” Rappler, 21 Apr. 2019, www.rappler.com/nation/228633-ateneo-ignacio-gimenez-ampitheater-marcos-dummy.

“SOH Sanggunian.” SOH Sanggunian - The Statement of the SOH Sanggunian on..., 2 July 2018, www.facebook.com/sohsanggu/photos/a.157891440898864/1893103380710986/?type=3.

#mine #nonfic #essay