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maeviuslynn · 4 months

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This image represents different symbols important to Aleister Crowley as depicted by Steffi Grant in The Carfax Monographs. The center symbol is the Lamen of the Master Therion which was Crowley's personal magical lamen.

#aleister crowley #occult #thelema #magick #occultism #occult art #ceremonial magick #93 #magic #art #Crowley #thelemite #The Carfax Monographs #Steffi Grant

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arsanimarum · 1 year

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“The Solar Greek Cross is formed of thirteen squares which fitly refer to the Sun’s motion through the Zodiac, these signs being further arranged in the arms of the Cross according to the Four Elements with the Sun in the centre and representing that luminary as the centre of the whole. The Thirtieth Path of the Sepher Yetzirah which answereth to the Letter Resh is called the Collecting Intelligence, and it is so called because from it the Astrologers deduce the judgement of the Stars, and of the Celestial signs, and the perfections of their science according to the rules of their resolutions. It is therefore the Reflection of the Sphere of the Sun and the Path connecting YESOD with HOD — Foundation with Splendour.”

The Greek Cross of the Zodiac (Greek Solar Cross) — Steffi Grant.

#greek solar cross #the greek cross of the zodiac #steffi grant #bibliophile #upload #art #occult #zodiac #celestial sign #symbol of the serpent #serpent #ouroboros #the history of magic #magick #magic #occult art #witchcraft #esoterique #on witchcraft

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basicallyanotherwitchesthing · 2 years

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Aleister Crowley (The voice of) - Pentagram & La Gitana - Marabo rec. - 1976

#witches #voices #occult #vintage #vinyl #cover art #graphic #aleister crowley #pentagram #la gitana #marabo records #1976 #steffi grant #jan bailey #chakra #scarlet woman

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arcane-offerings · 2 years

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Kenneth Grant. Outside the Circles of Time. London: Starfire Publishing Ltd, 2021. Hardcover. 320 pages.

Shop link in bio.

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#kenneth grant #occultism #occult books #occult #esotericism #esoteric #steffi grant #austin osman spare #aleister crowley #bookseller #Instagram

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travelling-my-little-pony · 2 years

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Lil Pumpkin is visiting the Museum of Witchcraft and Magic!

In Boscastle, in Cornwall, England.

This is photo number 270 of 365.

#My Little Pony #g1 #hqg1c #lil pumpkin #museum of witchcraft and magic #boscastle #cornwall #england #steffi grant

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talonabraxas · 2 months

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“In this book it is spoken of the Sefirot and the Paths; of Spirits and Conjurations; of Gods, Spheres, Planes, and many other things which may or may not exist. It is immaterial whether these exist or not. By doing certain things certain results will follow; students are most earnestly warned against attributing objective reality or philosophic validity to any of them.” --Aleister Crowley

Art: Qabalistic Tree of Life, by Steffi Grant. With alphabetic, zodiacal, elemental and planetary attributions according to the Golden Dawn system, as interpreted by Aleister Crowley in 777.

“It should now be perfectly simple for everybody to understand the Message of the Master Therion [i.e. Crowley]. Thou must (1) Find out what is thy Will, (2) Do that Will with (a) one-pointedness, (b) detachment, (c) peace. Then, and then only, art thou in harmony with the Movement of Things, thy will part of, and therefore equal to, the Will of God. And since the will is but the dynamic aspect of the self, and since two different selves could not possess identical wills; then, if thy will be God’s will, Thou art That.” --Aleister Crowley

The Message of the Master Therion, The Equinox III( 1), 1919, 39–43. Art: Steffi Grant

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santoschristos · 2 months

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Qabalistic Tree of Life

Sefirot and the Paths “In this book it is spoken of the Sefirot and the Paths; of Spirits and Conjurations; of Gods, Spheres, Planes, and many other things which may or may not exist. It is immaterial whether these exist or not. By doing certain things certain results will follow; students are most earnestly warned against attributing objective reality or philosophic validity to any of them.” --Aleister Crowley

Art: Qabalistic Tree of Life, by Steffi Grant. With alphabetic, zodiacal, elemental and planetary attributions according to the Golden Dawn system, as interpreted by Aleister Crowley in 777.

Probably one of my favourite Crowley quotes. Unfortunately (as is often the case with Crowley’s wisest quotes) he doesn’t always follow his own advice. I think he’s writing as a reminder to himself because he knows it’s a personal weakness. Post: @SmaragdinaVisio

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thesorceresstemple · 10 months

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The Occult art of Steffi Grant

#occult art #witchy art #witchy aesthetic #sigil #mystical

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werkboileddown · 8 months

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From the Museum archive: Clipping describing a painting of witches by Austin Osman Spare. Cecil Williamson Object Label Collection

Document Number: 9753b

Left A painting of witches, by the English occultist and artist Austin Osman Spare. Their paraphernalia includes a figure with a pin stuck into it, and imitative magic of this type, meant either to kill or to seduce, is known from all over the world and all through history. It has its roots in the experiences of childhood, when a child believes that a doll is a real person and can be cosseted or hurt.

Cecil Williamson knew Kenneth and Steffi Grant. He communicated with them by letter and collaborated with them on the Temple Room display in the Witches' Mill on the Isle of Man (see object number 941 - Double Cubic altar for more on this display). Kenneth and Steffi were good friends of Austin Spare, helped him in his career and published his works. They later worked with Robert Ansell and were key in ensuring Spare's reputation as an occultist and artist. It is probably Cecil met Spare or acquired this crystal through his connections with the Grants.

There are two documents in the Museum archive written by Cecil which relate to Austin Spare, they are documents 180 and 367. In Document 180 (a letter from 1982), Cecil recommends someone contact the Grants for more information on Austin Spare (he is very complimentary about the Grants and obviously held them in high esteem and affection). He also includes an anecdote about Spare and Gardner which is similar to one Kenneth Grant told (perhaps they were there together? See document 2914). In document 180, Cecil shows an understanding of Spare's magical practice when he says, "Spare had found his own pathway to, and through, to the world beyond. He did his own thing in complete confidence. He was beholden to no-one."

Document 367 is addressed to Robert Ansell (founder of the publishing house Fulgur Press and the pre-eminent scholar on Austin Spare and publisher of the Grants). Again Cecil shows an understanding of Spare's magical practice, "Thoughts are things" but he also explains how it was difficult to get to know Spare and that he never acquired any of his works of art.

The Museum library has a first edition of Kenneth Grant's "The Magical Revival" (1972) which includes some discussions of Spare. This copy was Cecil's and it has been heavily annotated by him. There are asterixes in the margins of the sections on Spare and this part of the book has been heavily underlined by Cecil.

In 2018, the crystal was displayed in the Museum's "Dew of Heaven: objects of Ritual Magic" exhibition alongside original artworks by Steffi Grant.

#austin osman spare #museum of witchcraft and magic #the witches

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viadescioism · 11 months

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Vault of the Adepti

This vault is of the Whare Ra Temple in New Zealand, which operated throughout the 20th century and closed in 1978. Whare Ra was one of the last surviving temples that could trace its lineage back to the original Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. It was the only temple to operate in a permanent, purpose-built building. The Vault of the Adepti is a special, seven-sided room used for initiation into the Inner Order of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.

“3945 - Sketch of the Vault of the Adepts by Steffi Grant.” Museum of Witchcraft and Magic, 2 Sept. 2018, museumofwitchcraftandmagic.co.uk/object/sketch-of-the-tomb-of-the-adepts-by-steffi-grant/.

#magick #occultism #witchblr #golden dawn #Hermetic

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astralterrorist · 9 months

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"Priestess of the Fire Snake" by Steffi Grant, 1940s

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indiesole · 7 months

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THE 236 GREATEST PERSONALITIES IN THE ENTIRE KNOWN HISTORY/COLLECTIVE CONSCIOUSNESS OF THIS WORLD! (@INDIES)

i.e. THE 236 GREATEST PERSONALITIES IN WORLD HISTORY! (@INDIES)

Rajesh Khanna

Lionel Messi

Leonardo Da Vinci

Muhammad Ali

Joan of Arc

William Shakespeare

Vincent Van Gogh

Online Indie

J. K. Rowling

David Lean

Nadia Comaneci

Diego Maradona

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Meena Kumari

Julius Caesar

Harrison Ford

Ludwig Van Beethoven

William W. Cargill

Fritz Hoffmann-La Roche

Samuel Curtis Johnson

Sam Walton

John D. Rockefeller

Andrew Carnegie

Roy Thomson

Tim Berners-Lee

Marie Curie

James J. Hill

Cornelius Vanderbilt

Roman Polanski

Samuel Slater

J. P. Morgan

Cary Grant

Dmitri Mendeleev

John Harvard

Alain Delon

Ramakrishna Paramhansa (Official God)

The Lumiere Brothers, Auguste & Louis

Carl Friedrich Benz

Michelangelo

Maharishi Mahesh Yogi

Ramana Maharishi

Mark Twain

Swami Sri Yukteswar Giri

Bruce Lee

Bhagwan Krishna (Official God)

Charlemagne

Rene Descartes

John F. Kennedy

Bhagwan Ganesha (Official God)

Walt Disney

Albert Einstein

Nikola Tesla

Alfred Hitchcock

Pythagoras

William Randolph Hearst

Cosimo de’ Medici

Johann Sebastian Bach

Alec Guinness

Nostradamus

Christopher Plummer

Archimedes

Jackie Chan

Guru Dutt

Amma Karunamayi/ Mata Parvati (Official God)

Peter Sellers

Gerard Depardieu

Joseph Safra

Robert Morris

Sean Connery

Petr Kellner

Aristotle Onassis

Usain Bolt

Jack Welch

Alfredo di Stefano

Elizabeth Taylor

Michael Jordan

Paul Muni

Steven Spielberg

Louis Pasteur

Ingrid Bergman

Norma Shearer

Dr. B. R. Ambedkar

Ayn Rand

Jesus Christ (Official God)

Luciano Pavarotti

Alain Resnais

Frank Sinatra

Allah (Official God)

Richard Nixon

Charlie Chaplin

Thomas Alva Edison

Alexander Graham Bell

Wright Brothers

Arjun (of Bhagwan Krishna’s Gita)

Jim Simons

George Lucas

Swami Sri Lahiri Mahasaya

Carl Lewis

Brett Favre

Helen Keller

Bernard Mannes Baruch

Buddha (Official God)

Hugh Grant

K. L. Saigal

Roger Federer

Rash Behari Bose

Tiger Woods

William Blake

Jesse Owens

Claude Miller

Bernardo Bertolucci

Subhash Chandra Bose

Satyajit Ray

Hippocrates

Chiang Kai-Shek

John Logie Baird

Geeta Dutt

Raphael (painter)

Bhagwan Shiva (Official God)

Radha (Ancient Krishna devotee)

George Orwell

Jorge Paulo Lemann

Catherine Deneuve

Pierre-Auguste Renoir

Bill Gates

Bhagwan Ram (Official God)

Michael Phelps

Michael Faraday

Audrey Hepburn

Dalai Lama

Grace Kelly

Mikhail Gorbachev

Vladimir Putin

Galileo Galilei

Gary Cooper

Roger Moore

John Huston

Blaise Pascal

Humphrey Bogart

Rudyard Kipling

Samuel Morse

Wayne Gretzky

Yogi Berra

Barry Levinson

Patrice Chereau (director)

Jerry Lewis

Louis Daguerre

James Watt

Henri Rousseau

Nikita Krushchev

Jack Dorsey

Dev Anand

Elia Kazan

Alexander Fleming

David Selznick

Frank Marshall

Viswanathan Anand

Major Dhyan Chand

Swami Vivekananda

Felix Rohatyn

Sam Spiegel

Anand Bakshi

Victor Hugo

Bhagwan Sri Sathya Sai Baba (Official God)

Steve Jobs

Srinivasa Ramanujam

Lord Hanuman

Stanley Kubrick

Giotto

Voltaire

Diego Velazquez

Ernest Hemingway

Francis Ford Coppola

Michael Douglas

Kirk Douglas

Mario Lemieux

Kishore Kumar

James Stewart

Douglas Fairbanks

Confucius

Babe Ruth

Raj Kapoor

Titian aka Tiziano Vecelli

El Greco

Francisco de Goya

Jim Carrey

Mohammad Rafi

Steffi Graf

Pele

Gustave Courbet

Rani Laxmibai of Jhansi

Milos Forman

Steve Wozniak

Georgia O’ Keeffe

Mala Sinha

Aryabhatta

Magic Johnson

Patanjali

Leo Tolstoy

Tansen

Henry Fonda

Albrecht Durer

Benazir Bhutto

Cal Ripken Jr

Samuel Goldwyn

Mumtaz (actress)

Panini

Nicolaus Copernicus

Pablo Picasso

George Clooney

Olivia de Havilland

Prem Chand

Imran Khan

Pete Sampras

Ratan Tata

Meerabai (16th c. Krishna devotee)

Queen Elizabeth II

Pope John Paul II

James Cameron

Jack Ma

Warren Buffett

Romy Schneider

C. V. Raman

Aung San Suu Kyi

Benjamin Netanyahu

Frank Capra

Michael Schumacher

Steve Forbes

Paramhansa Yogananda

Tom Hanks

Kamal Amrohi

Hans Holbein

Shammi Kapoor

Gerardus Mercator

Edith Piaf

Bhagwan Shirdi Sai Baba (Official God)

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daydreaming-in-letters · 2 years

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In a week

Chapter 3

07/20/2022

Pairing: Andrew (Hozier) x Clara (OFC)

Word Count: 1,765

Warnings: rpf, au, language, a little angst, heartache, comfort

Summary: Despite their broken hearts, Clara and Andrew both enjoy the peace their little escape brings them. Until one night the dam suddenly breaks.

Masterpost

A/N: Now we come to the scene that actually inspired this whole story or at least convinced me that I had found the perfect hero to my heroine. I just can't listen to Movement and not have this scenario play out in my head.

Picture by steffi harms via Unsplash (cropped and text added)

If you like my story, you are very welcome to like, comment or reblog. No permission is given to copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

Hozier - Movement

Andrew’s notebook

I still can’t believe I’m here. This place is…well, I’m not sure which words to choose that could do it justice. I know she told me her parents owned a beach house, but house is not even anywhere near cutting it. It’s more like a glass palace amidst the dunes. When you’re sitting outside, no matter if it is in the lounge that expands all the way around a fireplace or by the pool, you can hear the deep rumble of the waves that hit the beach only a few metres away. It doesn’t even take two minutes on foot and I can feel the cool saltwater lap at my ankles. It’s paradise by the sea.

I have to admit, when I accepted her offer, I was a little unsure whether this would turn out to be such a good idea for the both of us. I mean, coming here to forget might prove more than a little challenging with a reminder of the fuckery we’ve been through around at all times. Well, that worry turned out to be unfounded from the moment we arrived here as our routines couldn’t be more different.

While I rise with the sun every morning and busy myself with my music, she finds comfort in sleep and walking the beach for hours on end. It’s only in the evenings that she seeks my company. She’ll come and find me by the fire, sometimes sitting down beside me or rolling herself up like a cat. She doesn’t say a word, her eyes fixed on the flames or wandering off into the vastness of space while she listens to me putting my emptiness to melody. We will stay like that for hours until at one point she’ll get up as silently as she has settled down. This is always the highlight of my day. Not because she leaves me, that’s just the customary price I have to pay. No, it’s the tender goodbye she grants me every night, applying her affection like a healing balm for my touch starved being.

First, her eyes will find mine. Waiting, searching for a sign of consent. That is when I stop singing, my fingers stilling to cloak us both in reverent silence. It’s the only way I know to savour the moment, to revel in her aptitude to fill my senses, to possess every last bit of me at this one point in time. Then her fingers reach for me, brushing my thigh, my arm, or, if I’m lucky, my hair and cheek in the most delicate of touches. While she begins to lean in, I can smell her, that enchanting scent of saltwater mixed with the remains of sunscreen and just the tiniest smidge of lavender evaporating from her hair. It’s that very fragrance of hers that forces my eyes to abandon the world every time and focus solely on her instead. Or maybe it is the faint hope that this time her lips will press to mine instead of connecting to my forehead or cheek.

“Good night, Andrew,” she always whispers while she draws away, her voice taking on that low bedroom tone that will still resonate deep inside of me long after she has vanished inside the darkness of the house.

But last night, things were different.

The sun had been burning down relentlessly all day, repulsing even the cool breeze that usually drifted through paradise from the sea and after setting one foot onto the deck after lunch, I decided to spend the rest of the day inside. Clara didn’t seem very fond of being turned into a lobster either and so we both hid away in the air-conditioned glass palace until the sun had met the sea and lost it’s scorching power.

Still, when we finally abandoned our cave, it only took one look to come to the mutual agreement that lighting a fire was out of the question tonight. So instead of lounging around the fireplace, we sought the modest chill of the pool, however insignificant it seemed. Taking my place on the vast sunbed, guitar in hand and ready to serenade her once again, I watched as she sat down at the edge of the pool, her feet dangling in the illuminated water until the faint glow was set in motion and her shadow began to dance to the slow melody.

I cannot say how many minutes or hours had passed, time always seems to escape me when I am with her, but suddenly she stood. And then she moved. Slowly at first, awkward and shy, but with every hesitant roll of her hips, she drew larger circles. Soon her arms joined in, reaching out towards the nightly counterpart of the sun like a moonflower. Her style was far from graceful, nothing like the controlled elegance of a ballet dancer, yet there was something enchanting about watching her move, so flawed and free. Immersed in the music, my music, it seemed as if she gave herself to the melody completely, swaying peacefully like the branch of a willow tree that surrendered to the summer breeze.

But then what little lightness had accompanied her movements dissolved with the last tunes of the song, and the weight of the world once again crushing down heavily on her shoulders, she sank to the ground.

I remember shouting her name, wishing my body could move through space and time with the speed of my voice so it wouldn’t feel like an eternity until I was by her side. Like an idiot I asked the first question that came to mind.

“Are you all right?”

Of course she wasn’t all right. Someone who was all right didn’t cower on the ground, sobbing and hiding their tearstained face in the palms of their hands.

“Are you hurt?” I tried again.

“No. Yes. Maybe. It just hurts.”

I don’t know if these were her exact words. Her voice came muffled through her fingers, leaving me with the almost impossible task to make sense of her gibberish.

“Clara, love, look at me, please.”

It took her a moment to gather enough strength and show herself to me, unprotected by her hands, raw and vulnerable. And when she did, I could feel it too. Brutal and merciless, coming from deep within and tainting every last bit of hope and happiness it found in its way.

“I’m never going to have this.”

Hearing the pain in the tremble of her voice broke my heart all over again.

“Have what, love?”

“That kind of love you sang about. That deep, unbreakable connection not even death can defeat.”

Her confession almost made me chuckle, partly from the relief I felt that she wasn’t actually injured, partly from the sweet innocence it held. But seeing how serious she was about this made the laughter die in my throat. Softly I cupped her cheeks to make her look at me.

“Clara, this is just a stupid metaphor I came up with. No one will ever rise from the dead to crawl home to their lover. Because eventually, all love will end.”

She was silent for a moment, collecting her thoughts, the embers of her crushed believes rising to flames behind her shimmering eyes.

“That’s not true. You know it’s not. There must have been a time when you believed in true love. Otherwise you wouldn’t have written those lines.”

Part of me knew she was right. I had believed in the myth of true love once, but life had opened my eyes, teaching me the hard way that hearts were fickle things, as easily changeable as they could be broken.

“You know, writing a song doesn’t necessarily mean it reflects the opinion of the artist.”

She was about to cry again, her eyes already filling with the salty liquid that threatened to overflow every second now, and if there was one thing I could stand even less than giving myself over to the illusion of ever finding myself a permanent home in someone else’s heart, it was seeing her this heartbroken.

“But just because I choose not to believe that there is that one person waiting for me out there, doesn’t mean you won’t ever find your forever love.”

“I won’t. I know I won’t. Knowing my luck, he’s probably a heretic like you and how are we supposed to find each other when his heart is closed to me?”

“Sh,” I wiped away the first tear that had broken loose and trickled down her cheek. “I’m sure that however much he tried, he could never keep his heart closed from you, Clara.”

The moment the words had left my mouth, I knew they weren’t enough. But they were all I could offer, I had gone as far as my courage allowed me to go. And now all that was left to do was to take her into my arms and wait until the storm had passed. So I pulled her closer until her head rested against my shoulder, my hand slowly gliding up and down the bare skin of her arm while the other kept on cradling her cheek. We sat there for quite a while and I can’t recall exactly when or why, but at some point I must have started humming. My lips pressed to her forehead, I hummed and hummed, like my mother had done so many times when the troubles of my young life wouldn’t let me sleep.

I didn’t pay it any mind yesterday, but when I woke up this morning, I realised what song my screwed up mind had actually chosen to soothe her with.

Where Lagan stream sings lullaby There blows a lily fair The twilight gleam is in her eye The night is on her hair And like a love-sick lennan-shee She has my heart in thrall Nor life I owe, nor liberty For love is lord of all And often when the beetle's horn Hath lulled the eve to sleep I steal unto her shieling lorn And thru the dooring peep. There on thy cricket's singing stone, She spares the bogwood fire, And hums in sad sweet undertone The songs of heart's desire Her welcome, like her love for me, Is from her heart within: Her warm kiss is felicity That knows no taint of sin. And when I stir my foot to go, 'Tis leaving love and light To feel the wind of longing blow From out the dark of night

I have no idea what to make of that. I truly don’t.

Chapter 4

#hozier x reader #hozier x ofc #hozier fanfiction #hozier #andrew hozier byrne #hozier fic #hozier fanfic #hozier imagine #in a week

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savage-kult-of-gorthaur · 1 year

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SECOND PROBABLY ONLY TO DISCHARGE -- ONE OF THE MOST ICONIC FACES IN EXTREME MUSIC.

PIC(S) INFO: Spotlight on the world-renowned design used by UK crust punk band AMEBIX since, at the earliest, their 1982 7" "Who's the Enemy," whichis is based on a pastel illustration by British occultist and artist Austin Osman Spare.

OSMAN DRAWING OVERVIEW: "The title of the picture is "The Vampires are Coming" and it was most probably item no.152 in Spare's exhibition at the White Bear Tavern in 1953. That show was not successful and the picture reappeared as item 132 in his final exhibition at the Archer Gallery in 1955. Spare usually worked through the summer for a winter show, so yes, I would suggest 1953 is the likely date it was produced. It is currently in the private collection of Kenneth and Steffi Grant." -- ROBERT ANSELL (via Todestrieb Records, UK distro)

PART II/AMEBIX USAGE: Used first as a label design on "Who's the Enemy" (1982) and "Winter" (1983) vinyl releases, it became a more prominent band symbol on the band's 1985 debut LP "Arise!" The stencil version of Spare's drawing was featured on the back of the sleeve with "No Gods No Masters..." in carved text."

-- TODESTRIEB RECORDS (UK distro)

Source/learn more: https://todestrieb.co.uk/blogs/features/austin-osman-spare-and-the-origin-of-the-amebix-head-design.