#space montparnasse
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i just read This is Not Your Year by montparnasse/@montpahrnah… holy shit. holy shit!!! i’m a changed man!! this story had wound itself into my dna and now i’ll never go back to who i was before, and quite willingly so. sorry sorry sorry but this is a both a ficrec and a jumble of thoughts and feelings spilling out of me in the aftermath of reading this!!
it’s an explicit wolfstar fic (~17k words) set in 1979, deep in the guts of the first war. it’s haunting and mundane at the same time—it’s eerie how normal life continues when some of the worst imaginable things are happening to you and around you. everything is uncertain and fucking scary and you still have to get out of bed and make some coffee and maybe go to work and then also you have to go on a possibly wild goose chase to find the things that might end this living nightmare. the war isn’t just a backdrop to this story, it’s entirely tangled up in it.
(incoming long quote with a part i really like in bold, to really try to hook you on this story because it really is that good):
Of late Sirius had had the notion on several heartbeatless occasions that he was being watched, through the windows in the flat and on his way home from work in the blood-swill of sunset and coming out of James and Lily’s place in Lambeth last month, a week or so after the wedding; a few days ago he woke with unquiet dreams in the middle of the night convinced someone was in the room with him, watching over his shoulder from the sludgy shadow-mouth on the other side of the bedroom, just beyond the foot of the bed. When he got up he found Remus awake on the couch watching an old movie on the television, looking a bit shaken but saying only that he couldn’t sleep when Sirius stretched out on the couch with him and fell asleep. He couldn’t recall what the movie was but he remembered it had been severely homoerotic, though that might’ve just been the proximity of his feet to Remus’s lap underneath the blanket tinging everything a delirious fever-red.
and here’s one of my favorite bits to entice you even more:
Around his ribs Remus’s fingers squeezed tight, counting every rung, one-two-three-four-five one-two-three like a vindictive typist or a penitent counting Hail Marys on the very warp and weft of his best and worst mistakes. All along the road in the blazing spread of late afternoon the sun pulled their shadows towards each other, and when the wind changed directions they pressed close to each other, Remus’s arms around his waist and Sirius’s shoulderblades pressed to the headwaters of his pulse in his chest where it slid down the tributary of Sirius’s spine and into his own. Altogether this was undifficult to decode: it was surrender, and shelter, and get the fuck over yourselves. It was not exactly forgiveness.
there’s a point when it all clicked into place i felt the floor drop out beneath me and my heart fell out my chest, and other dramatic things, etc. etc.
have you read this fic? did it do all these dramatic things to you, too?
#okay i don’t think i’ll apologize anymore for how long these might be#i think i’d just like to gush about the things i love instead!#fic recs#wolfstar#hp#montparnasse#someone tell me is this is the right way to tag these please :)#also i can’t get that weird space to go away so
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Champ de Mars - Paris (2023)
https://www.flickr.com/photos/burtgummer/53196485934
#Champ de Mars#open space#park#gardens#Paris#France#Eiffel Tower#seventh arrondissement#Esplanade#Panorama#panoramic#Wide angle#panoramique#Tour Eiffel#Tour#Montparnasse#Tower#Garden#Outdoors#day#daytime#summer#streets
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Les Amis and how they'd decorate for Christmas
It's like, super late and I have tons of shit to do tomorrow morning but here we go
Enjolras & Grantaire
Enjolras is big on the whole "Christmas is just a capitalist propaganda" thing and Grantaire wouldn't really care that much, so I feel like there wouldn't be many decorations in their apartment. However I think Grantaire would still want to be a lil festive so he probably gets one of these tiny ass trees and some lights. And one of those elf pushes because "Look it's blonde, it looks just like you enj!"
Combeferre & Courfeyrac
Courfeyrac absolutely LOVES tacky Christmas decorations and he fills the apartment with glittery shit every year. Their Christmas tree is huge and has literally everything imaginable on it. They probably invited les amis to decorate it with them, so it's messy. Combeferre just goes with the vibes and rocks that Christmas sweater Bahorel knitted him all winter long. (I'm,also 1000% sure they even have one of these Christmas toilet seat covers or whatever they're called)
Feuilly & Bahorel
Feuilly just has a box full of handmade decorations so their tree has some a-list ornaments on it. Apart from that, the rest of their place isn't really decorated. Maybe some lights on the windows. Anyway, Bahorel probably printed Feuilly's face and put it on top of the tree because "he's a star✨" and Feuilly just went with it
Bossuet, Jolly & Musichetta
Either did one of those creative alternatives to a Christmas tree or have the most chaotic decorative situation going on. I'm talking randomly placed fairy lights, weird ass tree ornaments, and one (1) Christmas themed candle that Bossuet made in high school and is still around for some reason
Jehan
No one does Christmas decorations better than them. Pretty lights on the windows, candles, cookies always on the counter, red and green couch cushions etc. I have a feeling they decorate their plants instead of a tree because they'd rather DIE than have any sort of fake plant in their space.
Marius & Cosette
Marius unironically bought one of those god awful white trees, thinking Cosette will like it. She absolutely did not, but she worked with it and made it look decent. She even made a gingerbread house, which pissed her tf off.
Marius decorated the balcony and it ended up being a bunch of random lights placed awkwardly on top of each other, no plan at all.
Eponine, Gavroche and Azelma
A fairly small tree, nothing more nothing less. Eponine let her siblings decorate it and it shows, but she loves it because "it has personality". Azelma decorates her room with garlands and stuff.
Bonus: Montparnasse
Straight up doesn't decorate. Bitch barely has his own apartment
#les mis#les amis#les amis de l'abc#les miserables hcs#les miserables#christmas edition#fuck im done
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Based on:
Dark paradise by Lana Del Rey
Grantaire takes the bullets.
Enjolras pretends to be shot but he was spared. No words were spoken. None could be. Grantaire was choking on his own blood, while Enjolras was trying to keep his sobs quiet. Still they had a conversation. Grantaire smiled, holding Enjolras hand. Enjolras kissed his head while squeezing his hand tightly. He felt useless as Grantaire slowly died in pain.
When the women came to clean, one, who resembled Grantire, found him still clinging on his hand whispering a tearful apology. She too started to weep and helped the young leader up, pulling him into a silent hug. Enjolras apologized for getting blood on her dress, but she said not to mention it.
Days later Marius found the leader in the abandoned Cafe setting in a chair. The place was empty besides the furniture and two school boys. Marius sat across from him. He took note of Enjolras's bloodshot eyes, and his tear stained face. He held a tight grip on his handkerchief as he stared off into the room. He no longer wore his red coat, nor was his hair at his shoulders. No, he wore a black trench coat that was buttoned, with his hair pulled back into a low ponytail.
Marius looked no better with his bullet wound, broken bones, and shattered heart. Cosette, who took care of him, said he had gain some color back but was still awfully pale. His hair seemed to darkened, and he felt like he aged 20 years. He wasn't sure if he was alive without a soul, or just lost.
"What are we to do now?" Enjolras's weak voice broke Marius from his thoughts. He looked back at the blonde, who was still staring into space.
"I'm not sure, brother," Marius answered as they fell back into their silence.
After a sad sigh, Marius turned to the door. He haft expected their friends to walking into the door laughing. He waited for it, but they never came.
Enjolras found that he missed their laugher the most. The roar of it after one of Combeferre's remarks. The not so hidden chuckles when Bossuet trips. The gleeful victory "haha"s when Bahorel or Grantaire won a sparing match. The sneaky snickers that accured when a prank was being played. Their smiles. Their voices. Their presence. Them.
Feuilly always worked hard. Harder than any other in Paris. Joly was so compassionate and helpful to everyone. Jehan Prouvaire was simply a bright star that always helped them get through rough patches. Bahorel would always have your back in the best and worse way. Courfeyrac could influence anyone to do anything, but was still respectable. Combeferre, with his smarts could outwit a sly fox. Bossuet could give some of the best hugs. Grantaire, as much as he hid it, would have done anything for the group. Oh and how could he forget Gavroche? The little guy had more spirit in him than any of them. And poor Eponine, she was tougher than any of the national guards' men.
Enjolras spent so much time on the revolution that he had no idea who or what he was without his friends and movement. Really he didn't want to remember who he was, because it wasn't. It was not him. Not anymore.
"Their funeral is tomorrow," Marius reminded him still looking at the door.
Enjolras finally pulled his eyes towards Marius, "Yeah. Musichetta promised to help cook the food."
"That's nice."
"Yes, and Montparnasse promised to help Bury them."
"I'm thankful for him," Marius looked at him, "How's Grantaire's sister?"
Enjolras looked down at the table, "She saying it wasn't my fault. I'm just glad she agreed to move in with me, you know? With out Grantaire she probably wouldn't be able to make rent."
Marius nodded.
A few months later, Enjolras walked to the graveyard. He said hi to each of his friends, and even Javert, placing a flower on each stone. He stopped at Grantaire, sitting by his headstone in the snow. The blonde, who wore a green heavy coat, pulled out a bottle of wine and placed it by his stone.
"Marius' wedding is today," He said out loud, "I just got back from the tailors. I'm honored to be his best man."
The wind blew into his face making a roar in his ears. It was freezing, but Enjolras didn't leave, "We've helped each other a lot in these past few months, Marius, your sister, Musichetta, Montparnasse, and I. Talked a lot about old times. It's been hard."
Snow started to float softly down around him. It was beautiful and peaceful. "People say we should move on, past the revolution, love, and friendship. They tell us to forget the songs and memories."
Enjolras laid down in the snow, feeling as numb as his legs. He looked at the sky, "Sometimes I close my eyes, you lot are still here. You're drinking your wine. Courf' and 'ferre are talking about something Courfeyrac said to get Combeferre heated up. Joly and Bossuet are talking about Bossuet's soup he made for him. Jehan, Feuilly and Bahorel are singing a song. And 'Poni and Gavroche are happy. I feel save in this place behind my close eyes."
"That's when it scares me. It scares me because when I go to join you one day, will I see you? Will I be punished for causing this to happen? Will you guys want to see me?" Tears fell from the corners of his eyes making his face colder.
He closed his eyes and he was still there, everything was the same. The only difference was Grantaire laying beside him, holding his hand, "Red, you say the stupidest things. We're waiting for you guys."
"Are you really here?"
Grantaire smiled sadly, "I love you Apollo."
Enjolras opened his eyes and he was alone.
"I love you too, Icarus."
#grantaire#enjolras#les amis de l'abc#exr#enjolras x grantaire#enjoltaire#e x r#rxe#combeferre#courfeyrac#bahorel#bossuet#eponine thenardier#marius pontmercy#joly#jehan prouvaire#feuilly#Grantaire's sister#les miserables
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Cimitière du Montparnasse
This weekend I went to Paris with my sister and yesterday, 2nd April 2023 I went to Cimitière du Montparnasse...
Before entering, I went to a shop and bought a white cloth flower.
I searched on the google maps app and I found Maria Montez grave was marked, which was great as I didn't knew if this cementery was very big or not.
Being at the outside, I quickly saw the cementery and one of the main entrances and it seemed the cementery was calling me to come in, or maybe were Maria and Tina... The fact is that at the entrance there is a map with lots of graves but theirs was not in it!! or I didn't knew how to find it, but luckily, the way was easy and it wasw near the entrance.
It was really quiet, some people were walking there, some kids running around... at first attempt I didn't find it, but at second one I did. The grave is placed in between other graves and there is little space to walk in, and there it was...
Maria Montez and Tina's grave along with three other women ancestors of Jean Pierre Aumont: Cecile Cahen Berr, Louise Berr & Suzanne Cahen (Jean-Pierre's mother).
I felt so so much love, I could feel Maria Montez and Tina Aumont, but also I could feel little baby Maria, the child Tina had but survived just few hours after being born... Their energy was big, powerful, strong, and they were happy I was there, and I felt too much love and gratitude from them but I felt the same towards them. They were happy to be together and grateful I visited them. I looked at Tina's photo and I told her "je t'aime", three times, just the way she does to Frédéric Pardo... I almost cry...
Then I placed the white flowers between the photos of Maria and Tina, and in front of Tina's photo I placed a Goddess a woman gave to me, and a red ribbon I used in a Women's Cirlce to heal my ancestry line. I think this is what Tina needed, maybe not now, but when she was alive, as she suffered too much for the loss of her mother and for the loss of her baby as well.
Then I kissed my hand and place it under Tina's name, a kiss for her, because I love her.
It was such a great experience to be there...
Eleni
#Tina Aumont#Maria Montez#Cimitiere du Montparnasse#Montparnasse#Montparnasse Cementery#Paris#2006 Tina Forever#personal post#actress#model#Queen of thechnicolor#La Reina del Tecnicolor#French Actress#Dominican Actress#love#Aumont family
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'La Vie' [meaning 'Life' in English or 命 (Inochi) in Japanese], a 1984 metals and oils on canvas painting, by Yoshida Kenji (24 May 1924 - 24 February 2009), a Japanese abstract artist who was born in Ikeda City (池田市), part of present day Osaka Prefecture (大阪府).
Known as the "Artist of the Soul" or the "Artist of Light", after having taught art at elementary schools in Osaka and Tokyo for many years, in 1964 at the age of forty, he famously quit the teaching profession to go to Paris, France.
Yoshida worked out of his atelier in the Montparnasse district of Paris, and created many great works of art on the theme of “La Vie et La Paix”, or “Life and Peace”, thereby becoming one of the most prominent artists of his generation.
He was a prolific artist until his death in 2009 at the age of 84.
[Jaded in Japan]
* * *
The experiences of the six realms
~ Chögyam Trungpa
And strangely enough, these experiences of the six realms - gods, jealous gods, human beings, animals, hungry ghosts, and hell - are ‘space’, different versions of space. It seems intense and solid, but in actual fact it isn’t at all. They are different aspects of space - that’s the exciting or interesting part. In fact, it is complete open space, without any colors or any particularly solid way of relating. That is why they have been described as six types of consciousness. It is pure consciousness rather than a solid situation - it almost could be called unconsciousness rather than even consciousness. The development of ego operates completely at the unconscious level, from one unconscious level to another unconscious level. That is why these levels are referred to as loka, which means 'realm’ or 'world’. They are six types of 'world’. Each is a complete unit of its own. In order to have a world, you have to have an atmosphere; you have to have space to formulate things. So the six realms are the fundamental space through which any bardo experience operates. Because of that, it is possible to transmute these spaces into six types of awakened state, or freedom.
– Chögyam Trungpa
from the book “The Collected Works of Chogyam Trungpa,
Volume 6”
[via alive on all channels]
#La Vie#Jaded in Japan#Yoshida kenji#about art#quotes#Chogyam Trungpa#the six realms#ghosts#aspects of space#loka#realm#world#Alive On All Channels
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Casting ask game: Les Miserables
(forenote: casting is genderblind)
jean valjean: @hecho-a-mano
fantine: hmmmmm. @stalinistqueens
javert: @saintjustitude but like not in a cop way. you have a very strong sense of right and wrong like javert, it's just your morals are way better.
cosette: @grahminradarin or @the-random-witch or @gueniver... I can't decide!!!!
eponine: @the-butter-churner
marius: @butterednuggets17
enjolras: me or @a-book-dragon
combeferre: @lorata or @antique-ro-man
courfeyrac: @space-arson
grantaire: @hadleyfrasergender (in the best way possible)
feuilly: @werewolfetone
jehan: @revolutionfairies
bahorel: @catgirlmarxism ik you're a girl but.... the vibes. the vibes.
joly: @usergreenpixel
bossuet: @luckysheikah. your username has 'lucky' in it. can it be any more obvious.
gavroche: @cactusbontigue :)
montparnasse: @coryo /pos
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bc monkey brain does what it wants to do, whenever it wants to do it, have a ridiculously belated
halloween-themed wolfstar rec bingo
🐈⬛ halloween '81: October 30, 1981 // Penknife // 1k, M
🩸 blood: The Cartography of the Wreck // berhanes (sqvalors) // 2.6k, T
😱 full moon gone wrong: How to be happy // TheDivineComedian // 6k, T
👹 monsters: Amateur Cartography // montparnasse // 50k, M
🕸️ free space: If We Make It Through December // Suchsmallhands // 14k, G
🍬 trick or treat: they walk in the dark // watfordbird33 // 1.7k, T
⚰️ death: Small Bones of Courage // 15k, E
🎭 costume party: Lie With Me // Squidgilator // 12k, M
👻 ghosts: The Love Song of Sirius Black // kaydeefalls // 7k, M
bingo board by @moonwalker94 for hpfc :)
🐈⬛ halloween '81: October 30, 1981 // Penknife // 1k, M. two parallel stories, canon compliant, short and so punchy.
The last good day he will remember, Remus spends the afternoon sitting on the windowsill of his flat pretending to read a book. Actually he is drinking in the deep blue sky and the golden light through the trees and the quiet of the street when everyone is off to work or school. The book is so that he can tell himself he is doing something, because there is no time these days to waste, even though he has nowhere to be until evening.
🩸 blood: The Cartography of the Wreck // berhanes (sqvalors) // 2.6k, T. angsty trust-issues first war wolfstar in interconnected vignettes get me every time. every time.
He thinks about the bruises etching themselves into his bones and the ache settling deeper than muscle. He thinks about how the man tending his wounds is the man holding him together is the man who might be trying to take him apart.
😱 full moon gone wrong: How to be happy // TheDivineComedian // 6k, T. it’s the moon in poa that goes wrong :)
"I want to go," said Harry quietly. "This is my fault, after all. If I had conjured a better Patronus –"
"No, Harry" said Lupin. "It's my fault. If I hadn't turned at that precise moment –"
"It's not your fault you're a werewolf!" said Harry.
"It's not your fault you're an unhappy teen," said Lupin. "Still, we both failed at playing the cards we were dealt with, didn't we? We were playing an unfair game, and this -" he gestured to the corridor, "this is losing. Let's go and face it."
👹 monsters: Amateur Cartography // montparnasse // 50k, M. first war montparnasse fics capture just everything i think and feel and want to say about monsters and this ship so have an extra-long vibe quote (it's two sentences).
Monsters, it turns out, are what Dumbledore has in mind: werewolves mostly, same as it’s been for nearly a year, but now too giants and vampires and hags crouching in the distant crags and cracks of England where the bloodless whispers of war go unheeded by those living unfettered at the knife-edge of constant battles already long lost, strange covens of pale, mud-splattered people huddling under the cowl of their curse with their own dialect, their own dark comforts, their own brutal justice, weighed on the scales of fearful necessity and savage hunger. The cottage in the woods will lend him greater credence than a flat in Camden and a part-time desk job at a Muggle library and, though Dumbledore doesn’t say so, a handsome, reluctant Auror-to-be boyfriend with a last name louder than his motorbike; so Remus hoards what little he has and settles into the hillside, fighting his way through the roses and the mint that’s conquered the old garden and taking tea outside with The Secret Mating Patterns of Boggarts and Misery for Pastime and Profit at sundown, dwindling into the house with the ancient, dusty draught blowing through the kitchen every night and speaking its comfort against his lips and his ears, gently, gently.
🕸️ free space: If We Make It Through December // Suchsmallhands @shipsnsails // 14k, G. this fic is a solace, a warm little shelter in a snowstorm, a temporary respite in between the two wars.
He remembered when it was warm. Sipping absently and staring vacantly, he remembered summer and the heat that touched every memory. Even the warm nights on the parapets of Gryffindor tower, when four boys could gather and smoke cigarettes and grass without bundling up. The stars overhead seemed closer and blurrier in the summertime. Only the moonlight remained untouched by the sweetness of the summers, which brought visits at the Potter’s, and swimming in creeks without a shirt because the only people near enough to see were his friends.
🍬 trick or treat: they walk in the dark // watfordbird33 // 1.7k, T. have a side of james/peter to go with your remus/sirius 😘
They run until they’re somewhere else, and then Sirius is slamming Remus up against the wall, and every other time felt like play, but this doesn’t feel like play. This feels like James and Peter. This feels like Sirius means it.
And then he’s molding himself to Remus. He’s fitting his curves and he’s touching him everywhere and there’s fire in between them and they’re kissing. They kiss like the end of the world and the beginning. They tumble and they’re not coming up.
⚰️ death: Small Bones of Courage // 15k, E. small bones small bones my love my baby! i'm not normal about this fic. what writing -- but it is Death, front and center.
Sirius insides tug reluctantly, but he nods. The eternal serpent in his blood rears up and strikes violently at his spirit for rolling over like this, letting the dark creature have its way, losing the only battle worth fighting—infused with the unique strength of resignation, Sirius does the bravest thing he’s done in years and simply ignores the venom.
“Alright,” he sighs.
Alright, alright, alright. So much of Sirius’ time has been spent convincing himself of that vapid untruth. He thinks fondly of the time that he has now—precious little, but time nonetheless—to spend on enjoying what’s left of Remus’ existence instead of pretending that hell has frozen over.
🎭 costume party: Lie With Me // @squidgilator // 12k, M. all costume no party, i'm reccing it anyway. a polyjuice potion + magical theory-heavy first war fic.
summary: Sirius meets Remus unexpectedly, in somebody else's body. Nobody trusts anybody.
👻 ghosts: The Love Song of Sirius Black // kaydeefalls // 7k, M. ghosts in the sense of a series of canon-divergent vignettes, and ghosts in the sense of --
"You won't be here when I wake, will you?"
"No," Sirius says, and he suddenly knows it's true. This is Remus' dream, and he was lucky enough to be a part of it, but his time is running out as surely as sand slips through an hourglass. "No, I won't." He kisses Remus' forehead.
Remus nods, very still in Sirius' arms. He closes his eyes.
"Remus," Sirius whispers. "Will you do me one favor? Please?"
#wolfstar#remus x sirius#harry potter fanfiction#wolfstar fanfiction#hp fics#my fic recs#fic rec list
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Pierre Soulages (24 December 1919 – 26 October 2022)
Known as “the painter of black and light,” Pierre Soulages has forged a career remarkable not only for its rigorous invention, but for its longevity. Since the postwar period, the artist has evaded participation in such movements as Abstract Expressionism, tachism, and informel—rather contextualizing his paintings in terms of vitalism, classicism, and prehistoric forms.
Already in 1948, he refused the terms of lyrical abstraction: “Painting is not the equivalent of a sensation, an emotion, or a feeling; it is the organization of colored forms, on which is made and unmade a meaning that we impose on it.”
Mr Soulages has explored such contingency predominantly with the color black, arriving at tactile canvases which might recall nocturnal landscapes or charred earth. Since 1979, he has pursued his series Outrenoir, whose title is a portmanteau Soulages defines as “beyond black.” With these variously gouged, scraped, and slicked tar-like surfaces, he transforms the spatial and temporal dimensions of painting.
Critic Donald Kuspit once described the abstractions as “negatively sublime”—they inflect obdurate materiality with the mercurial aspects of light, achieving the effect of the immeasurable.
As a child, Soulages was drawn to the prehistoric menhirs found in his hometown of Rodez and the Romanesque architecture of the Abbey Church of Sainte-Foy in nearby Conques, and he would paint winter trees in black on a brown background, rendering branches in such a way to suggest movement in space. These early influences and endeavors would go on to shape his work for seven decades.
In 1938, he moved to Paris to train as a drawing teacher and take the entrance exam for the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts. Though he was accepted, he declined the offer, dissatisfied with the school’s mediocre standards. He returned to Rodez newly inspired after visiting exhibitions of work by Cézanne and Picasso. He was soon conscripted into French military service, but he forged papers to avoid mandatory labor for the Nazi party and spent the occupation in central France working as a wine producer.
In 1946, Soulages returned to Paris to devote himself to painting, and he eventually settled into a studio on Rue Schoelcher near Montparnasse. He first exhibited his paintings—bold, flat marks of walnut stain on paper—in the Salon des Surindependents of October 1947, where he caught the attention of Francis Picabia. The following year would prove significant to Soulages’s exposure throughout Europe and the United States: He was the youngest artist to be included in Grosse Ausstellung Französische Abstrakte Malerei (Grand Exhibition of French Abstract Painting), the major traveling exhibition of abstract art organized by the Württembergische Kunstverein in Stuttgart; and James Johnson Sweeney, the future director of the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum in New York, made a visit to Soulages’s studio after hearing talk in Paris of a painter who worked in black with broad brushstrokes.
In 1949, the artist mounted his first solo exhibition at Galerie Lydia Conti in Paris, and his paintings were included in a group exhibition at Betty Parsons Gallery in New York, where his work was received as a French analog to that of the New York School artists. In 1950, his paintings were juxtaposed with those of Franz Kline in the acclaimed exhibition Young Painters in the US and France, curated by Leo Castelli at Sidney Janis in New York.
Three years later, Sweeney included the artist in Younger European Painters at the Guggenheim, alongside Karel Appel, Alberto Burri, Hans Hartung, and Victor Vasarely, among others. Before the exhibition closed, Soulages had signed with the legendary Samuel Kootz Gallery, where he had his first solo exhibition in New York just two months later.
Mr Soulages’s first retrospective was presented in 1960 at the Museum Folkwang, Essen, followed by iterations at the Gemeentemuseum, The Hague, and Kunsthaus Zürich. His first American retrospective was held at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, in 1966. There, he suspended his paintings, back to back, from cables attached to the ceiling so that they appeared to float freely in space. The following year, the first retrospective dedicated to Soulages in France was presented at the Musée National d’Art Moderne at the Centre Pompidou, Paris.
In 1979, Soulages debuted his “mono-pigmented” black paintings at the Centre Pompidou, inaugurating Outrenoir, the body of work which would dominate his practice for the decades to come. “These paintings were first called ‘Black Light,’ thus designating a light that was inseparable from the black that reflected it,” Soulages has said. “In order not to limit them to an optical phenomenon, I invented the word ‘Outrenoir’ beyond black or—across black—a light transmitted by black.” Soulages received the Grand Prix National de Peinture in 1986, and the following year he was granted a major commission from the French state to design 104 stained-glass windows for the Abbey Church of Sainte-Foy. Over eight years, he expanded his engagement with light and architectonics to produce one of the great site-specific projects of the postwar period. In 1992, he received the Praemium Imperiale for Painting from the Japan Art Association.
Mr Soulages has been honored with two additional retrospectives in France, at the Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris in 1996, and at the Musée National d’Art Moderne in 2009. In 2001, he was the first living artist to be given a full-scale survey at the Hermitage Museum, Saint Petersburg, and in 2014, the Musée Soulages opened in the artist’s hometown of Rodez, housing five hundred paintings spanning Soulages’s career.
More than 150 of his paintings are in public collections around the world, including the Centre Pompidou, Paris; Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York; Harvard Art Museums, Cambridge, Massachusetts; Montreal Museum of Fine Arts; Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris; Museu de Arte Moderna, Rio de Janeiro; Museum of Modern Art, New York; National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC; Philadelphia Museum of Art; Tate Modern, London; and Walker Art Center, Minneapolis.
On the occasion of Soulages’s centennial birthday in December 2019, the Musée du Louvre paid homage to the artist with a survey of his seven-decade career, concurrent with an exhibition at the Centre Pompidou. Before Soulages, the Louvre has honored only two other artists with an exhibition during their respective lifetimes: Pablo Picasso and Marc Chagall. To shed greater light on the French artist’s presence in the United States, Lévy Gorvy presented the major survey Pierre Soulages: A Century in New York from September to October 2019. This exhibition was accompanied by a publication, featuring essays by Brooks Adams and Alfred Pacquement as well as poems by Sy Hoahwah and Virginie Poitrasson.
Peinture 81 x 60 cm, 3 décembre 1956, oil on canvas signed and re-signed, dated 12-56-1-57, 81 x 60 cm (approx. 31.8 x 23.6 in). © Adagp, Paris 2020.
#art#paiting#abstract art#abstraction#abstract#black#grey#pierre soulage#rip#rippierresoulage#centre pompidou#the louvre#peinture#texture#light#black&light#tatemodern#hermitage museum#rodez#france#outrenoir#art informel#tachism#abstract expressionism#iconic
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What's your favourite plant?
Thank you so much for this lovely question!
I love so many plants it is difficult to choose only one... but if I absolutely had to, it would be lily of the valley. It is sometimes called "May Lily", "May Bells", or "Ladder-to-Heaven" (such pretty names!). Fun fact: it was one of the flowers that Princess Diana had in her wedding boquet! (Picture below).
It has been one of my my favourite flowers, ever since I was a child: I called it "Thumbelina's Bells".
"According to Roman and Greek Mythology, the flowering species is linked to Apollo. Apollo was the Greek god of the sun. Some believed he made the lily of the valley flower as a groundcover. This was to have a suitable walking space for his nymphs when passing the Montparnasse." [1]-[2].
Lily of the valley meanings:
"The white lily of the valley flower is the most common color variant that exists. It is often used to symbolize joy and overall happiness. It represents positivity, humility, and purity. The flowering species is a great gift for friends." [3]
"Purple lilies of the valley flowers [...] represent dignity, success, and accomplishment." [4]
"Pink lilies are a true sign of love and overall femininity. They represent love, compassion, and admiration." [5]
[6] - [7] Diana Spencer and Prince Charles, 1981: gardenias, stephanotis, odontolglossum orchid, lily of the valley, Earl Mountbatten roses, freesia, veronica, ivy, myrtle and trasdescantia.
[1] - [7] - (quotes and pictures) from here (links under the cut):
[1-5]
[6-7]
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em montparnasse, estrela do street artist anônimo space invaders
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That series is not dead nor finished ! (damn, why did I make so many...) It’s going on with four new ones ! (part 1 - part 2 - part 3)
Being a criminal doesn’t mean you can’t like or want a nice, well organized space. Or clean shirts without any blood. Some are just more invested into it than others.
Montparnasse, that’s not an outfit to clean in (does he even own other clothes ?)
I’m still stupidly amused by their brand of cleaning, but the pun didn’t translate (it’s “washes redder than red”, a pun on the popular slogan “washes whiter than white”).
Feat. Montparnasse and Ebène, the patron-minous !
[image ID : four pictures in chibi-style of the four members of Patron-Minette doing various cleaning tasks.
First image : Montparnasse, an ivory-skinned man with slicked back black hair in an undercut and reddish-brown eyes, is sitting crossed-legged in front of a teal basin. He’s wearing a white shirt, black slacks and black shoes. He’s scrubbing at the collar of a shirt with a tiny brush. Several shirts are lying around, and a black cat is sleeping on one of them. There’s a red laundry detergent bottle with “St-Just, lave plus rouge que rouge” on it.
Second image : Claquesous, a white man with long, white hair gathered in a bun and ice blue eyes, is sitting beside a box with “masks” written on it. He’s wearing black sweats, purple socks and a white mask. He’s holding two more white masks, and there are several others strewn around, along with a marker. A black cat is sitting in the box, trying to catch one of the masks.
Third image : Gueulemer, a burly man with brown skin, long black hair in dreadlocks and black eyes, is whistling and carrying a nightstand on which are piled two boxes, a small chest and a potted plant. He’s wearing a light green shirt, a teal bandana on his head, denim cutoffs and bright green slippers.
Fourth image : Babet, a white man with greying brown hair cropped short and brown eyes, is sitting cross-legged on the floor, smoking a cigarette. He’s wearing glasses, a white button-down shirt, dark slacks and brown shoes. He’s throwing some papers in a fire burning out of a low metal bin. Beside him is a file box labelled “Dental files”. end ID]
#les miserables#montparnasse#claquesous#gueulemer#babet#patron minette#montparnasse the cat#ébène the cat#dorks being dorks#they are all working so hard#those are so fun to do#but so long#agh#my Drawings
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Vianden Seen Through a Spider’s Web by Victor Hugo (1871) [source]
I was reading Victor Hugo and the Visionary Novel by Victor Brombert (would recommend) and in his analysis of Le Dernier Jour d'un Condamné he says that spiders often represent fate in Hugo’s works. Well I wanted to see if that was true for Les Misérables. Honestly it seems like the relationship between ananke and arachne is more prominent in Notre-Dame than in Les Mis because I did not find much but then again, I haven’t done any literary analysis since high school so if you see anything I missed please add on.
Mostly spiders turn up where you would expect them: in unwelcoming places like at the Thénardiers, at the Gorbeau hovel (both when Cosette lives there and when Marius lives there) and in the dingy room where Cosette Pontmercy receives Valjean (“Persecution of the spiders was not organized there”). I guess you could say that those are places where the characters have little control over their fate (of the few things Cosette remembers about her early life, she remembers the spiders, which can be read literally or figuratively).
Javert, Montparnasse, and Thénardier (especially Thénardier) are all like spiders when they track Valjean but none of them succeeds. Valjean is spider like when saving the man aboard the Orion, but Hugo points out that it’s more of a reverse spider move.
Spiders spin webs on the doors through which dead nuns leave the convent. Maybe this portends a rare window of opportunity. The most fateful allusion to spider webs I think is the light cast by the lanterns that look like webs, which Marius walks by on his way to the barricades, intent on dying. Those webs seem to follow him through the sewers, where Valjean feels caught by them and on the brink of death.
Only Myriel has sympathy for the humble spider, saying “Poor beast! It is not its fault!” Simplice’s mind is characterized by the absence of spiders, since she never tells a lie. The children in the convent explore the spider corner, which doesn’t seem very sinister. Contrast that with the terrible spiders that share Gavroche’s living space.
Below the cut are all the references to spiders & spider webs that I found so that you can see for yourself, just copy and pasted from the Hapgood translation. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.
CHAPTER I—SISTER SIMPLICE: To lie is the very face of the demon. Satan has two names; he is called Satan and Lying. That is what she thought; and as she thought, so she did. The result was the whiteness which we have mentioned—a whiteness which covered even her lips and her eyes with radiance. Her smile was white, her glance was white. There was not a single spider’s web, not a grain of dust, on the glass window of that conscience.
[The Bishop] CHAPTER XIII—WHAT HE BELIEVED: One morning he was in his garden, and thought himself alone, but his sister was walking behind him, unseen by him: suddenly he paused and gazed at something on the ground; it was a large, black, hairy, frightful spider. His sister heard him say:— “Poor beast! It is not its fault!”
Why not mention these almost divinely childish sayings of kindness? Puerile they may be; but these sublime puerilities were peculiar to Saint Francis d’Assisi and of Marcus Aurelius. One day he sprained his ankle in his effort to avoid stepping on an ant. Thus lived this just man. Sometimes he fell asleep in his garden, and then there was nothing more venerable possible.
[The Thénardiers] CHAPTER II—TWO COMPLETE PORTRAITS: Cosette ran upstairs and down, washed, swept, rubbed, dusted, ran, fluttered about, panted, moved heavy articles, and weak as she was, did the coarse work. There was no mercy for her; a fierce mistress and venomous master. The Thénardier hostelry was like a spider’s web, in which Cosette had been caught, and where she lay trembling. The ideal of oppression was realized by this sinister household. It was something like the fly serving the spiders.
CHAPTER III—THE ANKLE-CHAIN MUST HAVE UNDERGONE A CERTAIN PREPARATORY MANIPULATION TO BE THUS BROKEN WITH A BLOW FROM A HAMMER: At last, the convict raised his eyes to heaven and advanced a step: the crowd drew a long breath. He was seen to run out along the yard: on arriving at the point, he fastened the rope which he had brought to it, and allowed the other end to hang down, then he began to descend the rope, hand over hand, and then,—and the anguish was indescribable,—instead of one man suspended over the gulf, there were two.
One would have said it was a spider coming to seize a fly, only here the spider brought life, not death. Ten thousand glances were fastened on this group; not a cry, not a word; the same tremor contracted every brow; all mouths held their breath as though they feared to add the slightest puff to the wind which was swaying the two unfortunate men.
CHAPTER I—MASTER GORBEAU: All this was dark, disagreeable, wan, melancholy, sepulchral; traversed according as the crevices lay in the roof or in the door, by cold rays or by icy winds. An interesting and picturesque peculiarity of this sort of dwelling is the enormous size of the spiders.
[Valjean at the Thénardiers] CHAPTER VIII—THE UNPLEASANTNESS OF RECEIVING INTO ONE’S HOUSE A POOR MAN WHO MAY BE A RICH MAN: He traversed a corridor and came upon a staircase. There he heard a very faint and gentle sound like the breathing of a child. He followed this sound, and came to a sort of triangular recess built under the staircase, or rather formed by the staircase itself. This recess was nothing else than the space under the steps. There, in the midst of all sorts of old papers and potsherds, among dust and spiders’ webs, was a bed—if one can call by the name of bed a straw pallet so full of holes as to display the straw, and a coverlet so tattered as to show the pallet. No sheets. This was placed on the floor.
In this bed Cosette was sleeping.
CHAPTER X—WHICH EXPLAINS HOW JAVERT GOT ON THE SCENT: Then he began the game. He experienced one ecstatic and infernal moment; he allowed his man to go on ahead, knowing that he had him safe, but desirous of postponing the moment of arrest as long as possible, happy at the thought that he was taken and yet at seeing him free, gloating over him with his gaze, with that voluptuousness of the spider which allows the fly to flutter, and of the cat which lets the mouse run. Claws and talons possess a monstrous sensuality,—the obscure movements of the creature imprisoned in their pincers. What a delight this strangling is!
Javert was enjoying himself. The meshes of his net were stoutly knotted. He was sure of success; all he had to do now was to close his hand. . . When he reached the centre of the web he found the fly no longer there. His exasperation can be imagined.
[Description of the convent] CHAPTER VIII—POST CORDA LAPIDES: Towards the centre of this façade was a low, arched door, whitened with dust and ashes, where the spiders wove their webs, and which was open only for an hour or two on Sundays, and on rare occasions, when the coffin of a nun left the convent. This was the public entrance of the church.
[Chapter about the children in the convent] CHAPTER IV—GAYETIES: The refectory, a large apartment of an oblong square form, which received no light except through a vaulted cloister on a level with the garden, was dark and damp, and, as the children say, full of beasts. All the places round about furnished their contingent of insects.
Each of its four corners had received, in the language of the pupils, a special and expressive name. There was Spider corner, Caterpillar corner, Wood-louse corner, and Cricket corner.
[wow there are no spiders until Patron-Minette] CHAPTER IV—COMPOSITION OF THE TROUPE: From the vagrant to the tramp, the race is maintained in its purity. They divine purses in pockets, they scent out watches in fobs. Gold and silver possess an odor for them. There exist ingenuous bourgeois, of whom it might be said, that they have a “stealable” air. These men patiently pursue these bourgeois. They experience the quivers of a spider at the passage of a stranger or of a man from the country.
[Marius at the Gorbeau house] CHAPTER VI—THE WILD MAN IN HIS LAIR: The only furniture consisted of a straw chair, an infirm table, some old bits of crockery, and in two of the corners, two indescribable pallets; all the light was furnished by a dormer window of four panes, draped with spiders’ webs. Through this aperture there penetrated just enough light to make the face of a man appear like the face of a phantom. . . . One thing which added still more to the horrors of this garret was, that it was large. It had projections and angles and black holes, the lower sides of roofs, bays, and promontories. Hence horrible, unfathomable nooks where it seemed as though spiders as big as one’s fist, wood-lice as large as one’s foot, and perhaps even—who knows?—some monstrous human beings, must be hiding.
[“Alone with God, in a remote place, they will not be thinking of praying the Our Father” Marius discovers Jondrette’s plan to rob M. Leblanc] CHAPTER XIII—SOLUS CUM SOLO, IN LOCO REMOTO, NON COGITABUNTUR ORARE PATER NOSTER: Athwart the mysterious words which had been uttered, the only thing of which he caught a distinct glimpse was the fact that an ambush was in course of preparation, a dark but terrible trap; that both of them were incurring great danger, she probably, her father certainly; that they must be saved; that the hideous plots of the Jondrettes must be thwarted, and the web of these spiders broken.
[Valjean and Cosette live outside the convent] CHAPTER IV—CHANGE OF GATE: Her childhood produced upon her the effect of a time when there had been nothing around her but millepeds, spiders, and serpents. When she meditated in the evening, before falling asleep, as she had not a very clear idea that she was Jean Valjean’s daughter, and that he was her father, she fancied that the soul of her mother had passed into that good man and had come to dwell near her.
[Montparnasse attacks Valjean] CHAPTER II—MOTHER PLUTARQUE FINDS NO DIFFICULTY IN EXPLAINING A PHENOMENON: While Gavroche was deliberating, the attack took place, abruptly and hideously. The attack of the tiger on the wild ass, the attack of the spider on the fly. Montparnasse suddenly tossed away his rose, bounded upon the old man, seized him by the collar, grasped and clung to him, and Gavroche with difficulty restrained a scream.
[The Elephant] CHAPTER II—IN WHICH LITTLE GAVROCHE EXTRACTS PROFIT FROM NAPOLEON THE GREAT: An entire and gigantic skeleton appeared enveloping them. Above, a long brown beam, whence started at regular distances, massive, arching ribs, represented the vertebral column with its sides, stalactites of plaster depended from them like entrails, and vast spiders’ webs stretching from side to side, formed dirty diaphragms. Here and there, in the corners, were visible large blackish spots which had the appearance of being alive, and which changed places rapidly with an abrupt and frightened movement.
CHAPTER I—FROM THE RUE PLUMET TO THE QUARTIER SAINT-DENIS: Only the solitary and diminishing rows of lanterns could be seen vanishing into the street in the distance. The lanterns of that date resembled large red stars, hanging to ropes, and shed upon the pavement a shadow which had the form of a huge spider. These streets were not deserted. There could be descried piles of guns, moving bayonets, and troops bivouacking. No curious observer passed that limit. There circulation ceased. There the rabble ended and the army began.
[Valjean is slowly pushed away] CHAPTER I—THE LOWER CHAMBER: This chamber was not one of those which are harassed by the feather-duster, the pope’s head brush, and the broom. The dust rested tranquilly there. Persecution of the spiders was not organized there. A fine web, which spread far and wide, and was very black and ornamented with dead flies, formed a wheel on one of the window-panes. [And in the same chapter Cosette complains about receiving Valjean in a room with spiders, in the next chapter Nicolette gets rid of the spiders]
[through the sewers] CHAPTER VII—ONE SOMETIMES RUNS AGROUND WHEN ONE FANCIES THAT ONE IS DISEMBARKING: All was over. Everything that Jean Valjean had done was useless. Exhaustion had ended in failure.
They were both caught in the immense and gloomy web of death, and Jean Valjean felt the terrible spider running along those black strands and quivering in the shadows. He turned his back to the grating, and fell upon the pavement, hurled to earth rather than seated, close to Marius, who still made no movement, and with his head bent between his knees. This was the last drop of anguish.
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@montparnasse MY ASKBOX IS OPEN NOW LOL BUT HERES THE ANSWERS !!!!! MWAH . none under a cut because i am Evil . (LYING)
THE MASS APPEAL OF HOW GENTLE CLAUDETTE IS AND ANNAS POTENTIAL GENTLENESS . i could not put otp in good conscience cus my #1 is yuidette . but i love love love them . so much potential ... I FORGOT TO ENTER THE FREE SPACE . OOPSIE . imagine theyre holding hands in it .
ever since seeing that art of fengnea and kate trying to be like hey . she’s a devil you deserve better . my brains been like ouhhh ........ i love girl drama yuri . theres potentials here .
STONCY . STONCY RIGHTS !!!!!!!!!!! I WANTED TO PU TMARRIED FOR 30 YEARS BUT AGAIN . TAKING IT VERY SERIOUSLY . MWAH TO THEM I LOVE THEM SO MUCHMY LONGEST YEAH BOY EVER !!!!!!!!!!!!!! I STARTED OUT USINT HE TINY VERSION OF THIS SORRY .
SHE WAS IN BAND ..> SHE WAS A CHEELEADER.. CAN I MAKE IT ANYMORE OBVIOUS ...................... i did not consider until i saw the gifset you rbed and now i see . there is More Potential for robin and her multiple girlfriends ,’:^)
Blank one v
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tagged by @narrativefoiltrope for the wip meme a couple weeks ago but life happened so I’m just now catching up - tysm x
rules: post the names of all the files in your wip folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have wips! I have deemed that this isn’t just for writing either. sketch titles? comics? dnd campaigns? if you have an unfinished project, it counts!
all of mine are writing or notes/ramblings docs:
angelseb + vulnerability
baby’s first (space) heist
cousland feelings
edelie backstory take two
gay sith melodrama
homoerotic rivalry: agent story rewrite
oliviariver + confession
oricon character studies
revan and shiva
some coc and dnd brainworms
what is a haunting
wol thoughts?? spare lore??
not sure who’s been already been tagged by now (sorry if these are repeats) but @consulaaris @storyofthemoon @vespertine-legacy @jennystahl @newbordeaux @narshadda @montliyets @druidgroves @elvves @bigcheezey @montparnasse @jarael if anyone has anything to share but no pressure! mwah
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11. what’s something neat you’ve learned while doing research for something you were writing? also, how much do you worry about doing research in general?
17. what is your favorite line you’ve ever written?
18. what is your most and least favorite part of writing?
54. what’s a common writing tip that you almost always follow?
70. are you very critical of your own writing? how much do you find yourself editing (either during the writing or after the fact)?
11. I will do research into a certain thing mostly just to make sure it’s inclusion in my story isn’t anachronistic. Other than that, I mostly check Google when I am writing about a specific place (ex: the Paris Opera House, Paris in general, Perros-Guirec) so that I can describe the settings of my stories as accurately as I can. Other things I have learned about are operas, late 19th century fashion, and I recently went down a Wikipedia rabbit hole about the events and people that made up the Persian government during the time where Erik would have been in Persia (literally for no reason other than I was really bored). 😅
One thing that might interest you in particular: there is a very-real train station in Paris called Gare du Montparnasse, which is even mentioned in the POTO novel as the train station Raoul used to travel to Perros-Guirec. I saw that while rereading, and immediately thought of you! 😂
17. Oh man, I have quite a few! One that immediately comes to mind is from the first chapter of LAYNLB, and what I think sums up that fic in the best way possible:
“The sound of her sobs echoed through the silence, carrying through the thin walls to the hollow space beyond. Her voice and all its sorrow was heard, but not by an angel. That night, while the rest of Paris celebrated, two souls broken by the world wept together.”
Another one that I’m proud of isn’t really a line, but it’s a transition from one scene to another. It’s from chapter 12 of LAYNLB:
“The violinist rested his hand over his beloved daughter’s hair as she sobbed, silently praying for Heaven to have mercy on her, and to send someone who could help her where he had failed.
The Phantom was in a dark mood. Well, darker than usual.”
I just love the transition from Christine’s father asking God for someone nice and patient and responsible to care for his daughter, and then we immediately see how his prayer has been answered in the form of our grumpy, scrungly, stubborn sewer goblin. 🤣
18. My favorite part of writing is when I get to write a scene that I can see so clearly in my head, and I know exactly what the characters should say/do. This happens at least once every chapter, and while it doesn’t last long, it makes for an easy time to write.
My least favorite part is actually starting. Sometimes I have a really tough time deciding how the beginning of a certain chapter or scene is supposed to start, which is why I normally begin writing scenes that will end up in the middle of a chapter. But, I try to tell myself that not every start has to be groundbreakingly good, it just has to BE.
54. One thing I try to keep in mind is to try not to use the same word over and over again to describe your character’s actions in the same scene. This is usually during a scene with a lot of dialogue, when I pull out the thesaurus and look up all the synonyms for the word “said”. I try to mix it up as much as I can, or if I have to reuse a word I make sure it is far enough away from the previous time I used it so that it sounds new when you read it.
70. I am pretty critical of myself while I am writing, and that’s why it takes me so long to write certain scenes because I just want to get them “RIGHT”. Sometimes I’ll obsess over a single line for several minutes, because I can’t find the “right” words to use. After I finish writing a scene, though, I don’t usually go back and edit it unless I have a new idea to introduce to it. Usually my first draft is my final draft just because I spend so much time on making it the way I like it the first time.
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