katsuki’s warmth is the thing that grounds you.

it’s everywhere—radiating off his skin, in the timber of his voice, all over his face when he looks at you. it’s funny, how unaware you were of the cold until he brought his heat—bone deep and all consuming. it’s hard to imagine a reality without it now.

with the way he’s tucked you under his chin, curled around you in some animal instinct of protection, you wonder if you’ve dragged something to his feet, too. something old and shiny that he keeps around his neck now.

it’s quiet here, in your room. you tried to leave the chaos at the door, but it’s clear it still has a hold on the two of you.

you’re in his lap on the edge of the bed—he can’t bring himself to lay down and you don’t have it in you to make him. you let him hold you—curled up like a child in his arms. any other time, it’d seem silly. right now, you let him be. some part of you thinks he could’ve benefitted from being held like this—could still, now.

“that was scary.”

in the dark, katsuki’s voice is thick and far too small. you don’t think you’ve ever heard him admit to a fear before. the knowledge that he too is human doesn’t come as a comfort in the way you thought it would.

you hum, and he pulls you tighter to him at the sound of it. you burrow deeper in his sweatshirt—a willing participant in this game of absorption. of how quickly you can be shed of beginnings and ends—to be closer than skin will allow.

he inhales shakily and you close your eyes, seeing only the image of expanding tissue of his lungs in your mind. the fragility of the human body is not ever lost on you, but when it comes to katsuki, it’s always a little bit of a surprise. what a cruelty it is, to be a pillar of such strength and be just as soft as everyone else.

but the parts of him that are tender and malleable are on full display to you now. you sink into them and he lets you—both hands cradling your head to lead it to the aching flutter of his heart. if you hear it, he’s still here. if you hear it, you’re still here.

“you were brave,” you murmur to the patter against your temple, “i love you.”

he brings his forehead down to the crown of yours and lets out a shuddering sigh against your hair. it’s warm.

“love you,” he says, “so damn much.”

THE FORGOTTEN DAY. - AKAASHI, DAICHI, KUROO, ATSUMU.

@luveranime wrote : ❝Hey Nikki its me again lmao 😂. Could you do one where they actually completely forget your birthday? With Akaashi, daichi, kuroo, and atsumu? Make it angst please🥺❞

A.N: ❝dear reader,

thank you so much for trusting me once more with your request! i always love writing the requests even more so than my own prompts. i sincerely hope you’ll like these hc’s, i tried to make these as angsty as i could but atsumu has two braincells and i could NOT resist the temptation of doing something more lighthearted, i hope you won’t be mad at me! mwah! enjoy your promised letter!

sincerely yours, nikki❞

Genre: Kinda angsty, kinda fluffy. Warnings: Cursing, crying.

Now, Akaashi is not one to forget about dates and birthdays. I’m pretty sure he has a notebook filled with everyone’s birthdays written in a chronological order. Needless to say, he’s someone who is extremely organized. 

He is the kind of boyfriend to remember all the slightest details you mention when you guys have a conversation. We’re talking about small details, pieces of informations that others wouldn’t necessarily pick up on except if your name is Akaashi Keiji. (I.E: he knows that Bokuto-san classifies his underwear according to each day of the week.)

The week leading up to your birthday, he makes sure to leave several notes stuck on your notebooks, laptop, mug, even your jacket to let you know how loved you are and how exceptional of a human being you are.

Unfortunately for you, your birthday has the misfortune of being set right during the revision week leading to the final exams. The latter are extremely important to Akaashi because missing his exams would result in him not being able to go to inter-school volleyball training held during the weekend. 

Even though he’s in a relationship, he can be quite distant when something is bothering him because he refuses categorically to drown you with his problems, revisions being one of them. He’s so driven to study hard (although he’s already an excellent student), that everything else appears as a blur to him- he breathes revisions, eats revisions, lives for revisions.

The latter causes him to inevitably forget about your birthday. At first, you just think he’s playing along with you and he has this huge and sweet surprise in store for you which might explain why he hasn’t left you any love notes or sent you any texts, or even avoid you at school.

The evening of your birthday, you crash down at his place, a bit perplexed at his antics. But, unconsciously, you were still in denial, you knew or at least hoped that he was just purposefully acting as such because he wanted to surprise you for your birthday.

When he opens the door and sees you, he has a quizzical look on his face “Um, hello, Y/N? May I ask what you’re doing here, dove?”

Now, it was your turn to have a quizzical look on your face, “So you really don’t know? Isn’t it, you know, a special day?” 

His mind is so coated by his obsession to study hard that nothing comes to his mind, nothing to answer to your interrogation and eventually, nothing to leave his mouth as a response. He could swear there’s something he has forgotten, it’s somehow on the tip of his tongue but no sound is echoed on his part. 

“You know what, Akaashi, just don’t make promises you can’t keep. I hope these notes you left me will help you.” 

First of all, you called him Akaashi instead of Keiji, meaning that there was something terribly wrong with him or his deeds.

Second of all, he looked carefully enough, there were pearls of tears on the corner of your eyes.

Third of all, he was so taken aback, as if all his memory had resurfaced in the blink of an eye that he still couldn’t find the strength to say something. Instead, his eyes wandered on your figure, his back facing you, already on your way home. The sole reflex he had was to raise his hand in your direction, as if he could catch your silhouette already long gone, hopelessly.

Daichi is already the (unofficial) dad of troublesome children (thank the heavens for mama Sugawara and uncle Asahi), which means not only he has to juggle between his duty as a captain and as a student, but he also must make sure of the stability of your relationship.

It’s really taking a toll on him. Seeing him come home late after late night practice is not even surprising anymore, he just comes to your place and crashes down for the night at unbelievable hours- sometimes ten, sometimes eleven.

His role of captain is so dear to his heart and he’s kind of an all or nothing kind of guy. But when it comes to the volleyball team, he pours every once of passion, patience and energy he has to offer. He knows that the first years have literally gifts when it comes to playing and he wants to exploit their potential at the fullest.

Nonetheless, when it comes to remembering dates, Daichi (being an unofficial dad) has the tendency to remember rather quickly common dates like birthdays, if not, he can always count on Suga to remind him in case he gets too hotheaded into what he’s doing.

On the day of your birthday, he sent you a myriad of texts, mini-novels if you will. All of them were the testimonies of the love he held in your regard, he was so thoughtful, each one of his word was carefully chosen to make you feel like the most loved person on the planet.

Starting the day off with a series of loving texts from your boyfriend is indeed the best way to wake up.

However, after close inspection, the last text he had sent you mentioned a date tonight at your favorite restaurant in town because, and I quote, “you deserve to be treated like the royalty you are.”

Focusing in class was almost impossible, the only thing occupying your mind was tonight’s date with Daichi, just the two of you on your birthday. And truth be told, there was no other way you’d rather spend this ever so special day.

Right after the bell rang, you made a beeline to your place to get ready as Daichi told you he would pick you up at 7, right after practice. Your heart was bursting with joy and impatience, a sweet mix of emotions which made you feel overwhelmed by love.

It was 7 already and your eyes were stuck on the alley of your house, waiting to see Daichi’s car arrive and admire the beautiful, lovestruck grin plastered upon his face. 

Then it was 8, and suspicions started to arise in your mind. Your head was clouded by interrogations : “Does he not love me anymore?”, “Is this is way of telling me we should break up?”

Then 9, then 10 and eventually 11.

You waited four hours to hear a sign from Daichi, and you couldn’t keep up with the countless texts you had sent him, wondering where he was. But, you still had hope. Heart-crushing hope that is, or maybe you were just stuck in pure denial.

You were sitting on a chair, several stains of tears on your cheeks already, facing the window which offered a view outside your house because “You never know, he might show up...”

At 11, your phone rang and Daichi’s number highlighted the screen. You were so quick to pick up the phone, your quickness was almost inhuman. 

“Baby? Hi, it’s me. Are you still awake?” You hummed in response, scared of the way your voice would break if you were to talk. “Listen, practice-...”, you cut him off : “Practice ran late again, I know, Daichi.”

There was a moment of silence on his end of the line, a moment of guilt.

“Baby, you have no idea how sorry I am. It’s just the team and the firs-...” - “I know, the gifted first years.” your voice was barely above a whisper.

“We can reschedule tomorrow if you want, I’ll ask Ennoshita to take care of the training for me.” He sounded desperate, eaten alive by the guilt consuming him and the fragile tone of your voice, you sounded like a broken record.

“Tomorrow won’t be my birthday anymore, Daichi, you know that.” You knew that if you were to hear the sound of his voice again, you were bound to break in tears, and as much as he hurt you, you knew it wasn’t his fault and you didn’t want to make him feel even more guilty than he already was feeling.

Instead, you hung up while he was still rambling about confused apologies and you headed straight to your room, head low, fresh tears crashing on the stains left by the dried tears. Like an eternal circle, if you will.

Kuroo is someone who is extremely observant by nature, just look at the way he behaves around Kenma- he doesn’t need for you to talk to know how you’re feeling and can directly dissect what’s wrong with you.

So when he finds himself having a one-sided discussion with you, (or a double-sided conversation if you deem silence as a worthy response), his brain automatically goes on retrospection mode and he’s trying to reminisce absolutely everything that happened during the last 48 hours.

The science-related puns don’t work, the teasing is a crushing defeat, all his best aces fail to put a smile on your face or make you crack a laugh. You’re still silent, or if he’s lucky enough, he can hear the faint sound of hum leaving your lips.

His last option is to ask Kenma because Kenma appears as an omniscient point of view in your relationship. And although he’s not directly involved in your couple, he always seems to find the responses to the riddles left by the cons of being in a relationship.

Kuroo and Kenma are having lunch outside, as expected of the blonde individual, his eyes are solely focused on the device held between his hands, but Kuroo is used to it. 

“Man, I just don’t get why Y/N is giving me the cold shoulder, it’s really weighing on my mind.”

“Are you sure you don’t know, or do you act as if you don’t know?”

“Ha? What do you mean?”

“Yesterday was Y/N’s birthday, just in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Oh... Oh! It’s time to panic, it’s time to leave his brain on overdrive and find a solution to make up for what he judged an inexcusable behavior. 

What broke his heart even more is when he imagined to put himself into your shoes, how heartbroken you must have felt, how alone you must have felt, he even wondered if you wanted to break up with him.

Sure, Kuroo was observant, but sometimes being a airhead got the best of him. Or perhaps in this case, the worse of him.

He froze, his mouth was set agape and kind of like Akaashi, in moments of panic, he didn’t know what to do. He felt defeatist, he knew that forgetting your birthday was a dealbreaker. He already thought of all the consequences of his actions, and he knew that none of these consequences would turn out good in any way.

He ran through the hallways like a madman, yelling to the other students to step aside as he did so. He knew where you were, and he felt so stupid for knowing your timetable off by heart but not being able to remember such a simple date as your birthday.

You were having lunch in class with your friends, and when a hint of a roster’s head peaked through the door, making hand gestures to silently tell you to come see him, you excused yourself and left the class under the puzzling looks of your friends.

To say that Kuroo was sweating was an understatement, he was absolutely shaking to death and he exuded guilt by every pore of his body. Your gaze landed on his face, and your expression seemed lifeless- where did the usual gleam in your eyes go? The shine in your eyes he loved so much?

“You’re free to insult me for the rest of my days on this planet. I know I messed up, I messed up so bad and I don’t even know how to-... Hey? Oi, Y/N, please, please don’t cry.”

If he needed yet another reason to feel guilty, that was his cue. The tears falling in cascade on your face, the scarlet tones of your eyes, everything about you screamed pure sadness.

Both of your hearts broke in unison, and the motion of his hands to capture you and hold him close to his chest was so experimental, as if he’d never held you in his arms in his entire life. 

“Why did you forget, Tetsu?”

“I swear on my life that it was unintentional. I know you won’t forgive me anytime soon and, kitten, you have every right to do so. I know it’s not an excuse but just believe me when I say that it was unintentional. I’m so sorry, you have no idea.”

“Just wish me a happy birthday instead of rambling.”

“Happy birthday, kitten, I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

As the manager of the volleyball team, you were Inarizaki’s pride and joy. You were a literal ray of sunshine, the embodiment of a gem and you were always cherished by the entire team for helping them so much.

You always made sure they drank enough, prepped several towels in case they sweated too much (they always did), listened to their problems, eased their doubts- you were undeniably perfect to them.

So perfect that Osamu, as well as the rest of the team, always wondered  how and why you ended up with his airhead of a twin, or rather, and I quote, “The useless piss-haired twin.”

To be frank, if it wasn’t for you, Atsumu would probably be dead by now. The cause of his death? Osamu himself? The whole team? His stupidity? We shall never know.

You cannot expect Atsumu to remember any specific dates, he even struggles to remember his own birthday which results in him asking when was his brother born and Osamu letting out a desperate sigh, wondering what on Earth did he do in his previous life to deserve such a twin.

Nonetheless, Osamu’s cooking skills came in handy. The whole team had agreed on celebrating your birthday, a kind of surprise birthday after practice if you will, because you were so good to them.

The divine smell of the cake didn’t go unsmelled (please help is that even a word?? no it’s not but i couldn’t say ‘go unseen’ because a smell can’t be seen like???) by none other than Atsumu himself. “Whatcha’ baking this for?” Osamu didn’t even bother to throw a glance in his twin brother’s direction “You should know, idiot.”

Safe to say that Atsumu got absolutely z e r o information from his brother whatsoever and was thus left in general incomprehension. He then figured that maybe it was someone’s birthday given how well looking the cake was, but whose birthday was it? Once again, z e r o idea.

After practice, the whole team gathered to show you the surprise they had in store for you- Kita had stuck some ‘happy birthday’ posters on the wall, Osamu had brought the cake and Aran had the gift from the whole team in his hands. The preparation was quick and efficient, all while you were changing in your more regular outfit in the locker room. 

Needless to say, Atsumu still had z e r o clue to whose birthday they were going to celebrate but the grin on his face still testified of how happy he was. 

When you exited the locker room to say goodbye to the rest of the team, you were absolutely overwhelmed by joy when you saw them gathered together, a radiant smile plastered upon their face, they were so proud of themselves and most of all, they were proud to be the reason of your happiness. 

Reflex kicked, both of your hands covered your mouth and your vision quickly became blurry from the pearls of tears gathering at the brim of your eyes. To say that you were happy was an understatement, you felt so moved, so touched that this whole surprise was for your birthd-

“Hold up, I thought it was mom’s birthday? Who’s the cake for?”

The look on Osamu’s face screamed “Someone hold me back before I kill this idiot with my bare hands.”

Kita threw a volleyball at the back of Atsumu’s head.

Suna was crying on the inside out of desperation.

Hitoshi was holding Osamu back.

The rest of the team eventually ganged up on Atsumu for even daring to forget their sweet angel’s birthday while you were standing there, dumbfounded to say the least, torn between crying and laughing.

You didn’t even need to make Atsumu pay for his mistake, the team had made sure to make him pay for the next ten years (if I’m being generous.)

So... Happy birthday... I guess?

Fic Writer Questions

I was tagged by @haztobegood and @becomeawendybird to answer these questions. Thanks, y’all. I am so uncomfortable because I am so bad about talking about my writing.  

1) How many works do you have on AO3? 45 - 43 in the 1D fandom.

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?  359,791 (holy shit how did that happen?)

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they? 2 fandoms for posted works, - 1D and Twilight. I also have three started Drarry fics and a few original pieces. 

4) What are your top 5 fics by kudos? Well - my very top fic isn’t technically my fic, which actually makes me kind of sad that it’s not something that’s wholly mine, to be honest. However, for fics that are solely my writing, my top five are -

Take Your Time (11556 words) Kudos: 688 

Day 24: Trust In Me (6737 words) Kudos: 301 

As The World Falls Down (1352 words) Kudos: 285  

This Fragile Heart (WIP- 4771 words) Kudos: 265 

Before It Gets Beautiful (15700 words) Kudos: 245

5) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? I would have to say the two fics in the Before it Gets Beautiful ‘verse - only because they’re both open-ended. 

6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending? LOL Everything else, I suppose. No, Honestly? I’d have to say For Evermore - it is a fairytale, after all. 

7) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written? Does writing a remake of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast count as a crossover? 

8) Do you write smut? If so what kind? I do - but I’m unsure what is meant by ‘what kind’. I write what I like, and what fits the scene/story/characters. 

9) Do you respond to comments, why or why not? For the most part, yes. Not always right away, though I am trying to be better about responding sooner. As for why - I honestly would just like to spark conversations with the people who read my stories - I would love it if people would send me asks about my stories, or just talk to me about my writing in general. It’s not as much fun to throw things into a void and pray someone likes it. 

10) Have you ever received hate on a fic? Unfortunately yes - several times, both on AO3 and in my asks. 

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen? I did when I was still writing Twilight fic. 

12) Have you ever had a fic translated? Not to my knowledge, and I don’t allow translations, either. 

13) Have you ever co-written a fic before? I have! The aforementioned top kudos fic in my AO3 stats - it was a round robin collaboration with nearly two dozen other writers as a gift for @louandhazaf as a birthday gift. I only knew like 4 of them before that collab, and I’m now honored to call all of them friends. 

14) What’s your all time favorite ship? I have two - Ziam and Drarry. 

15) What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will? This Fragile Heart. The first chapter is posted on AO3 because I can’t bear the thought of taking it down, but the fandom and circumstances are so much different now than they were when I started writing it, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to recapture how I felt when I was first inspired to start it. 

16) What are your writing strengths? UGGGGGGHHHHH this is the part I hate to talk about... as I’m probably my own worst critic. Based on the comments I receive, I would have to say its believability, dialogue, and descriptions. I do so much research for fics - even short ones - because I want the details right. I love writing dialogue and using it as a means to move the story. And finally, I love writing descriptions that help make the story immersive. 

17) What are your writing weaknesses? Probably over-fixating on the details. I also have a tendency to self-edit the shit out of what I write, so it takes me forever to finish things. I legitimately spent over two hours editing one small 1K  scene today because I kept reworking the sentences over and over. Of course, it’s now nearly a 1700 word scene *facepalm*

18) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? If you are capable of doing it, I say go for it! I’ve used phrases from other languages in my writing- and made sure to have a native speaker check them for accuracy.  I have a fic I’m working on now where the main character is English, living in New Orleans, and speaking to a Creole co-worker with patois scattered throughout their conversation. 

19) What was the first fandom you wrote for? Twilight - I started off writing Jasper/Bella fics, then moved on to Jasper/Edward, Edward/Carlisle, Jacob/Emmett, etc. 

20) What’s your favorite fic you’ve written? NONONONONONO!! Don’t do this to me!! It definitely has to be one of my Ziam fics - because I feel like I put so much more into writing them. I’d have to say I have three favorites, honestly - Live a Thousand Lifetimes - because I poured a lot into that fic emotionally, For Evermore - because I had the opportunity to reimagine my favorite fairytale, and my current WIP Shadow Dancing - it’s the longest thing I’ve ever written, and while there is a love story in it, it’s more a story about acceptance, believing in yourself, and knowing your truth. 

I’m not sure who has and has not done this, so I’m going to tag a few people - @lightwoodsmagic @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed @disgruntledkittenface @a-brighter-yellow 

Also you see this, and you want to do it - please consider yourself tagged - and let me know so I can reblog your post! 

princess-nazario:

It's ok, thanks for clearing things up. See, everytime theres a post that might just be different the tumblr-fad! Version you speak or questions how tumblr might be romanticizing them theres always annoying people in the replies saying that theres a version where she wanders down the underworld herself, or that the version where shes kidnapped is...weak or a damsel in distress since it doesnt fit into tumblrs made idea of empowerment?? Its so annoying honestly. I saw this kind of stuff in a lot of posts while exploring the greek myth tag and its just... infuriating. I definitely should ignore them but it seriously makes me kind of sad and angry at the same time? The hades and persephone posts are everything(mostly tumblr-fad!) Version I reread your original post and yes I do agree, tumblr-fad! Persephone does take away a lot of the complexities and archetypes I read you examine. I think Hadestown might portray Hades and Persephone's power struggle well, it doesnt completely ignore the implications its giving off for the sake of some romance. This is what tumblr is doing and it's really annoying. By doing this and reducing the characters here to simple boxes it's taking away your interest in the myth, I think that's what you meant? I think your study of Hades/the underworld being Persephones self, cthonic meaning "spirit of nature within, inner self" while I dont fully understand that's really cool. I especially dislike how woobified and depowered he usually is in the tumblr-fad! Theres a lot you can work with him as the antagonist in a retelling I think. In fact maybe itd be great to have a retelling that explores the power struggle between Hades and Persephone and shows how Persephone gets through adversity and becomes of equal power through oppressive authority? Thatd be really cool. Tumblr-fad! Version is the twilight of myths but kind of the opposite. In twilight, the author itself romanticizes the creepiness and power struggle that might be there between Edward itself(although Bella does have a lot of agency so I think that's why it resonated so much with female readers?) while the Persephone has a various amount of versions, most versions being she was kidnapped/abduction with many meanings and metaphors and allegories to things, and tumblr-fad! Version ignores nuance in favor of their ships. Thanks for being so open and honest about this, I honestly was stressed because I thought my response maybe being immature or uninformed might be irritating or annoying. I haven't been sneaking through your blog or anything like that, I just saw your original post in the goddess demeter tag so I searched up "Persephone" on your stuff since I was curious with what else you might have to say about it. I wish Tumblr could maybe bother to learn something called not everything is entirely not THIS thing or the OTHER and maybe do something different from what Hades and Persephone coming to be known as the peak of all love stories on the website.

@princess-nazario I hope you don’t mind, I copy pasted your last reblog into a new post thread because the last one was getting massive.

I think I’m starting to understand what you’re getting at regarding the perception of victims as “weak,” and it makes a lot of sense. Thank you for clarifying regarding the “damsel in distress” trope because that’s when it clicked for me what you were talking about. I actually agree on that point, I think there is a tendency for pop feminism to kind of portray more vulnerable, sensitive or fragile women as less feminist, so I can see how you’re applying that to your views on how people on tumblr perceive the story of Hades and Persephone.

That said, I think you have a lot of different angles you’re looking at this whole thing from, and that’s great! However I think there’s so many subjects you are trying to tackle here that it seems like you are kind of are only half informed about, maybe from exploring discussions online. I think this is resulting in conclusions that are kind of confused and lacking in more solid foundations, if that makes sense. I think maybe you might benefit from exploring each element further on their own merits.

For example, did you know that there are a lot of different feminist viewpoints on Twilight itself? And not all feminists completely condemn it? In my opinion, there are a lot of things about Twilight to criticize, however there was a distinct element of hatred for the interests and desires of teenage girls involved with how people responded en masse to the Twilight phenomenon. I don’t think you were old enough to be directly familiar with all this at the time. I think a decent primer would be this video from Lindsay Ellis (tho please keep in mind that some of her most recent content is not for younger audiences). It doesn’t cover all angles of the topic, but it does give an alternative perspective in retrospect about the raging Twilight hate that swept through pop culture for a long time:

Also, there is a whole conversation to be had about the concept of “woobification,” and why that word exists, as well as how it is used in conversations about girls and women’s fantasies. The original post I made shows that I have my own frustrations when male villains and darker archetypes are whittled down to something seemingly non-threatening and “socially acceptable” myself (like...turning the beast into the prince in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast), but in my experience, people have often used the word “woobie” to describe any explorations of the vulnerability of these types of male characters when women do so because they find those men intriguing or attractive, and that can get kind of tricky because in many ways, those conversations can harbor a subtle resentment and shaming towards female fantasties, period.

I’m getting the impression that maybe there’s something about Hades and Persephone, or at least the archetypes they embody, that really intrigues you, but you’re not sure what you are supposed to think and feel about it from a feminist perspective. That’s ok, ultimately you’ll figure it out on your own. I can’t tell you what to think about the myths themselves on their own, separate from contemporary feminist media because that’s ultimately it’s own thing, and you can springboard your own perspectives and reimagining off of the original in any way that feels right to you.

 What I can do though, is leave you with some age-apropriate content that I was consuming at your age, as well as a link to a site that explores stories with similar archetypes that Persephone embodies. 

The site is called Girls Underground, and it explores and catalogues stories about girls who go on heroine’s journeys in the “Cthonic” context like I was talking about, as in exploring their own inner psyches through the experience of traversing a strange, scary, magical place. Sometimes these stories involve the trope of a spooky attractive male character who takes on an adversarial role that is sometimes also romantically charged, but not all of them do. I think the resources page may be of particular interest to you because it links to essays on subjects within this genre of storytelling. The Examples page has a ton of other stories not listed here that you can take a look at, however not all of them (but many of them!) are kid friendly.

Movies that I would recommend: 

Labyrinth (1986), which was my favorite film since early childhood, and is the reason I love these types of stories to begin with.

Legend(1985), which doesn’t depict a healthy dynamic, but is a great film and does have a big place in the general conversation about this type of storytelling.

Howl’s Moving Castle, either the book or the film. 

Pan’s Labyrinth is rated R for some gore and violence, and it has scary moments, but I think it’s fine for most teens. The character of Pan is not part of that whole “demon lover” trope because the heroine is a small child, but he takes on a similar role in terms of being a figure that embodies the underworld and thus a major part of the heroine’s psyche.

Honestly, I would consider Disney’s Beauty and the Beast (the original, not the live action remake) a good rendition. It was written by a woman.

Jean Cocteau’s black and white La Belle et La Bete.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, or a film adaptation of the same.

Rebecca by Daphne DuMarier, which is what my username is from. I’m fond of the Hitchcock film adaptation.

Honestly, the 2004 adaptation of Phantom of the Opera is...flawed, but it was my introduction to Phantom, and it’s a lot of melodramatic fun. 

It’s worth noting that in a lot of these stories, there are not perfect, healthy relationships depicted between men and women. There is cruelty, there is harm. But in many cases, that does not mean these stories have nothing to say about relationships between men and women, nor does it say that they are solely tales about abuse and we cannot find romanticism within them. Each story has it’s own flaws, it’s own strengths, hold deeper meanings beyond the surface. They contribute something distinct to a rich history of artistic explorations of the dynamics of power in romance and the female experience with our own desires within a patriarchal society.

Which other tcw Arc`s do u think are not in character (like the Clovis arc)?

Oh dear I think I’ve genuinely made y’all think I hate TCW or something.

Nah, look, it’s. The Clone Wars is one of my favorite cartoons of all time and always will be. The way it expanded the SW universe and the Prequel universe in particular was astounding and its complex ideas and mythology and worldbuilding and additions to the established story were wonderful. I adored the new characters it introduced me to.

MOST of the movie characters? I LOVED what they did with them. They didn’t really alter Obi Wan’s character that much at all besides making him way more of a hoe lol. I’d say my only OOC critique of him in the show is that they lean on him too much as the only moral compass character which means his characterization and motives have a tendency to slide around a bit for different episodes that need him to behave differently to do the “right thing” in that particular circumstance, if that makes sense. There IS one particular arc where I feel Obi Wan acts out of character quite often, but I’m saying right now that that leads into an argument I don’t want to get into so I’m not saying 😇

(Ik I ranted a bit about Pads in the last post too but overall I think she’s pretty alright in TCW too! I like her solo plots and her ones bonding with other characters!!!!)

But anon’s question was if I think any other arcs are OOC like the Clovis arc, I’m gonna say yes solely in regards to Anakin being OPC as for any other characters it’s not that big an issue save for the one unnamed Obi Wan offender. While I think Anakin has some individual moments where he’s OOC peppered throughout the series, I’d say the only two arcs that are particularly guilty offenders besides the Clovis arcs are the Deception arc and the Kadavo arc.

Now, the dichotomy of these two arcs is funny to me because the Kadavo arc is unfortunately my least favorite arc in the entire series while— and now THIS is an unpopular opinion —the Deception arc is one of my favorite arcs in the series because I am so SO here for the Obi Wqn character study it is; I think he’s totally in character for it and I love watching what they do with him in it.

However, where they go right with Obi Wan in this, they drop the ball with Anakin unfortunately. Like Anakin’s plot throughout the arc is.... gah, ok so. Ani boy vowing to hunt down and murder the guy who killed Obi Wan in vengeful rage is in character for him, it is, I get that. But the fact that that Vengeful Silent Broodish Rage is literally the only reaction we get out of Anakin the entire fucking arc???? Nah. NAH.

I’m sorry, but if there is ONE universal constant we’ve seen in the movies, it’s that Anakin Skywalker loses his entire shit if he’s faced with losing someone he cares about. We saw it with Shmi. We saw it with Padmé. We saw how emotional he got before he went into Murder Mode, he was kind of a wreck, he CRIED.

Now, TCW has a number one rule and it is that Anakin Cannot show any “girly” emotions whatsoever, ESPECIALLY none of the Dreaded Tears. So they just skip right over the messy emotions part and just have him be silent and cold and Angry. Full of brutish violent anger. Acceptable emotions for an Alpha Male to have. When OBI WAN died.

And I’m sorry, if your logic for Anakin’s muted reaction is just that he doesn’t care about Obi Wan as much as he does about Shmi or Padmé, I gotta STRONGLY disagree. It doesn’t matter if their relationship is viewed through a romantic lease or not, I will die on the hill that they were one of The Most important people in each other’s whole life and their relationship defines the whole prequel trilogy.

So yeah, no, Deception bugs me because they don’t let Anakin mourn Obi Wan at all, only get angry, like we don’t even get a freaking reaction to his death, we just get him yelling his name when Obes falls and his kinda confused-distressed face when he finds Ahsoka crying over the body (and SHE is allowed to cry..........) and then just a flash forward to his brooding sulk at the funeral.

Now, I’m not asking for much, I’m really not. I don’t need him uncontrollably sobbing at the funeral or anything (they already have Satine for that and no I will NOT rant right now about how taking a female character and bringing her back once briefly just to be a man’s Fragile Weeping Widow and then again to be his Helpless Damsel who you then fridge to make him sad is Not Good Writing I’m already writing a whole-ass spitefic about that 🙃🙃🙃)

But ughhhh they could have let Anakin have just a BIT of softness, of upset for losing his fucking best friend. Like, just save Ahsoka the additional teenage trauma and have Obi Wan die in Anakin’s arms instead, hype up them Qui Gon parallels! Give him just like a single fucking tear, just ONE for a moment! Like what y’all did with Rex, remember? He’s still Manly(TM) for crying!!!!!! Maybe make Satine not be the only overly emotional person at the funeral and then afterwards have her and Anakin have a convo where he accuses her of not caring and we can see how she, unlike Anakin, knows how to let those she loves go.

So gah yeah Deception is OOC for Anakin because he doesn’t get to show emotions, and Kadavo...... ugh, so many other people have written very detailed pieces that summarize basically my exact opinions on why I don’t like the arc, but I think a huge part of that is how they downplay Anakin’s trauma as a past slave in favor of, once again, brash, cocky toxic masculinity.

Anakin the former slave would NOT be so easily comfortable and all jokey jokey with letting the sixteen year old in his care pretend to be sold into slavery and he definitely wouldn’t be cracking jokes about how he makes a better slave master. Like I mentioned before, he would Not be able to keep his cool around the slaver Queen so easily. He wouldn’t. This isn’t even just a question of whether his newfound flirting abilities are valid because I actually think they are so long as he doesn’t feel attraction himself, but the pure rage at her being a slaver who sees him as a sex slave would at Most mean he’d be able to barely be restricting himself from murdering her. He would not be that good at it with her specifically

And tbh I do think this arc has several issues so I don’t even quite know how I’d fix it. I know how I’d fix certain issues, but def not all of them.

So yeah agh, Anakin OOC in Deception and Kadavo, other characters are usually p fine. Clone Wars Good Show!!!!

SELF PARA 002.

[ isa 💕 → monty ] sel’s already here but you’re welcome to join us...? 😁 

It was, objectively speaking, a terrible idea. For a number of reasons that came quickly and didn’t require any great amount of overthinking on Montgomery’s part this time. If it were only Isabel, there wouldn’t be a question, a promised bottle of Patron that he’d offered to bring to her tonight, a long overdue escape that he thought they both might need. Drinking with Selwyn, however, carried a number of complications, even if it was solely for her status within the Magistrate. A string he’d already pulled on a few times, bullets dodged thanks to sympathies she pretended she didn’t have. Which still didn’t make it wise to let go of his firmly held self control, not in front of a telepath or a friend, when there was an expansive list of secrets he carried, both damning and personal. 

There was one reason stacked against it, a side effect of the forced distance between himself and Emil. One he hadn’t anticipated, because it had never been a problem before, not really. He might have had a strained relationship with sleep, a tendency to overthink that kept him up until strange hours of the morning, but he’d learned to function on the bare minimum. It was time alone that was disappointing, sure, but it wasn’t an overwhelming kind, at least it wouldn’t have been before. 

Before the Institute. Before cuffs around his wrist and white walls around him, memories that crept into his thoughts when he was staring up at the ceiling in an empty bed, finding himself stretching his mind out to move the bed, or a book, or anything so long as he could assure some irrational part of his mind that there wouldn’t be a blue flare across the ceiling the second he did. Memories that found those cracks in his unconscious mind, a few confusing moments when he first awoke that he couldn’t remember where he was. A brief second of panic, of his heart pounding as he tried to blink the grit from his eyes and focus on his bedroom. Bed empty, but his, scars on his wrists, but no cuffs.

It was a reassurance that got him through the day, but hadn’t helped the last three nights, and it left him staring at his phone for a moment before he replied.

[ monty → isa 💕 ] be there in twenty, chérie. 

The game was never have I ever, and after the first three shots Montgomery decided it had been chosen with the specific purpose of fucking with him. Enough sins already shared between the two women sitting around the table with him that he suspected most of what they said was either an inside joke, or in Selwyn’s case, a chance to figure out just how much Monty had changed. Because she’d recognized a shift in him as much as he had in her, pinpointing it the first time he’d seen her at the Pit, just by the way he smiled. Even if she didn’t know why he hadn’t before, even if she didn’t know why it hurt to hear himself called a robot. And maybe it was because she’d paid more attention, because Dom had looked up to him, but not at him, and Dev might’ve forced her hobbies on him, but she’d found him boring.

“Never have I ever been arrested.” Isabel’s offering, accompanied by a muted grin in his direction. His response an easy roll of his eyes before he tossed the shot back, aware that there were three empty glasses hitting the table afterwards.

“Why Dr. Monty, I’m shocked.” Selwyn, putting a hand to her chest and looking at him with mock surprise. “Scandalized even.”

“Are you though?” Brow raised in a challenge before he nodded his head to the dark haired woman on his left. “We have the same friend.” A point proven solely by the ease of his posture, back against the chair and Isabel’s feet crossed and resting in his lap. Palm curved around her shin with easy affection he didn’t give most.

Something just as endearing in the way she cursed him afterwards. “Hijo de puta I did that for you.”

“Oh, I know, that’s why it’s funny.” A grin flashed at her that dissolved into a laugh as she kicked at his knee, and a memory of a holding cell that shouldn’t have left him with so much warm fondness sitting on his chest.

It didn’t surprise him when the game started devolving into questions of love and sex and heartbreak, and he lost track of how many he tossed back alongside them. Ignoring that three months ago he wouldn’t have been able to drink to half of them, heartsick before, but never heartbroken, a list of lovers but never in love. Somewhere along the line it drowned out some of his fear, leaving a secret out on the table among empty shot glasses. One he’d kept so long he thought it had become part of him, but there was something liberating about leaving it on the cutting room floor.

"It makes sense,” said Sel. A response that had Monty lifting a brow, a tone far too innocent as she toyed with a shot glass. “No wonder you were so oblivious to my charms.”

It made him laugh, something too relieved in the sound, head resting against the back of the chair. “Obviously. The only reason.” Because some secrets were easier to let go of than others, and he found this one didn’t hurt as much as he’d feared.

He was still grateful when they broke for food, a chance to let the tequila settle, Isa complaining about the poor quality of her weed before she remembered why, and he blamed both the liquor and the smoke hanging thick in the air instead of her for the bluntness that followed. “Tell your boyfriend to stop avoiding me.” 

“We’re too old to pass notes, chérie.” Said as gently as he could, not wanting to sit in the middle even while feeling as though it was a space he firmly occupied.

“Dile a ese cabrón, stop being a little bitch.” A curse accompanied by a gesture of the lighter, and he knew he was drunk because he found himself biting back a laugh, even while fully aware it wasn’t funny. That his trust wasn’t the only one left shattered, too many messages in her phone that Monty hadn’t written, and if there was the faint prick of guilt that he might’ve helped ruin something between them, he couldn’t remember how to lie to her, or if he even wanted to.

It left him with a quiet longing, missing the man abruptly when he’d managed to keep himself distracted most of the night. Not for any comfort he wanted to steal, but for the absence of him, the certainty that Emil would fit easily into place around the table with them. A familiar fantasy of their lives intertwining, and after a moment he pulled himself to his feet and reached for his phone.

Monty didn’t regret the decision to call Emil, not while he was on the phone with him. It wasn’t until after, sitting there on Isabel’s fire escape with nothing but the quiet sound of voices and laughter behind him and the distant hum of a car in the distance that it finally set in. Trying to replay a conversation where already the details were slipping away, and he was just left with a growing unease and the ache in his chest, a quiet voice swearing that he’d somehow fucked up. Sinking guilt following when he thought it was for the conversation itself, Emil miles away and trying to balance his life and his family. He didn’t need Montgomery falling apart.

He was slow to untangle himself from his place on the metal grate, vertigo hitting him hard and leaving him with a hand pressing against the side of her building to keep himself steady. A brief laugh following, an instinctive reaction that lacked real humor, and then he was trying to navigate his way back through the window.

It went worse this time, one leg getting caught on the edge, body tilting to compensate for it, and ending with Monty on his back staring up at Isabel’s ceiling with one foot still sticking out into the cold air. He heard laughter somewhere behind him but he didn’t look back, a distant awareness of burning in his eyes and the sensation of something stuck in his throat. Making it harder to breathe, to talk, to think, and he couldn’t tell if it was regret or despair.

Only that it hit in waves, his own voice in his head, am I different?

Do you want to be the same?

The answers slipping in easier now, one after another, when he wasn’t trying to hold onto something more fragile through the thin connection of a phone call. I just don’t want to be weaker. I don’t want to be ruined. I don’t want to feel that powerless ever again. I don’t want nightmares and I don’t want fear and I don’t want to wake up and not remember where I am. I don’t want to wonder if everything good about myself already got destroyed years ago and if Hugo just finished the job.

I want to know who I am.

Monty’s palms pressed against his eyes, self restraint doing a poor job of holding himself together when there was so much tequila stripping it away, so he tried to cling to it with the pressure of his hands and desperate, steadying breaths that got cut off again when it just left room for something worse to slip through. Every memory he’d tried to put aside, to strip whatever useful information he could before discarding them, a month of his life that still clung to him like smoke. A logical dissection of events and an illogical shaking of his frame, trying to hold in the wretched sob that wanted to rip from his chest, because what good is that? 

“Monty?” Isabel’s voice breaking through first before he felt fingers in his hair, a soothing comfort that he flinched away from before settling under her touch. “Hey. What happened? What did he say to you?” 

“No, no, he didn’t do anything wrong.” Words that came quickly and thoughtlessly, escaping somewhere between ragged breaths to stall any anger before it came. Even if it felt like a blatant lie after it was past his lips, because Emil had left one of the deepest scars, that feeling of betrayal, of trust shattering, one he hadn’t given blindly, but with too much hope. And the man had burned it all down, maybe destroyed them both, and it left Monty with too much hurt pressing down on his chest, a brutal crushing ache in both heart and his lungs that wasn’t just for himself, his prison stark and white, Emil’s looking like a rotting mockery of his own bedroom. 

He didn’t know if he could forgive, but he’d wanted to forget, and found it still all too close the second he stopped packing those wounds with something golden and kinder. Reaching out his hand to grasp at her arm, the other dragging across his face again, trying to ignore the warm wetness slipping down his cheeks, a memory of sitting on his couch trying to stem the same flood. “Can you just... hug me?” 

There was no hesitation, just Isabel shifting behind him, pulling his head into her lap and arms curving around his shoulders. A comfort that made the shaking of his frame worse before it got better, fingers tight around her arm and wishing he could explain to either of them why he was crying. But if Emil had told him to talk about it, he couldn’t find the words, just the distant awareness of a wound that hadn’t healed and her voice, telling him “I’m here.” 

His awareness of Selwyn was just as removed, barely aware of her settling down on the carpet next to him. None of the same easy affections given, but after a moment her hand settled on his shoulder, her voice “do you want to see more of memories of you?” and no real chance given to answer before the world faded away.

Isabel’s living room was made black, soft and encompassing, like dreamless sleep, a darkness that Montgomery felt himself sinking into. Warmer for the comforting contrast to stark white, muscles untensing and going liquid as he stretched out onto the carpet. Wondering if he didn’t fall asleep in the brief moment before nothingness and the sudden emergence of memories, cast in bright technicolor even if his own were black and white. An intense projection of thought, of someone else’s life, none of the images belonging to him, and he didn’t know if it was comforting to see it all again, but he thought it was meant to be.

Because there was a version of himself in Selwyn’s memory, the version she saw, of someone calm and composed even as a child. Always the babysitter when he was older than the rest, always the one taping up wounds and skinned knees, and there was a flicker of his own memory in the back of his head, putting them on his own scrapes and scars too, but alone in the bathroom. A version of himself he’d thought was so dissonant from who he was now, but there was too much familiar, beyond the simple physicality of the boy in her memory. The starkest difference in the eyes, because they looked impossibly vacant, and part of him wondered distantly how she hadn’t seen it, how no one had seen it, why no one could hear him silently screaming when he’d still been young and new. It was a feeling that was all too familiar, like it had echoed through the years until history repeated itself, taking new form; how did no one notice I was gone?

The tug on curled locks distracted him, tipping his head back to see a smile so much brighter on Isabel’s lips as she watched the images around them, invited in by the woman who controlled them. “Look how young you were. Look at your hair,” she said. A different echo this time, like family, like a mother sharing stories about her only son, the warm smell of coffee and old books. And those were present too, an image of a lanky, teenage version of himself, still curled in a chair with a book in his lap before he was interrupted. He closed his eyes briefly to hold onto it, to hold onto Isabel, letting the world shift on its axis beneath his spine, the kind of vertigo that made him wonder if he wasn’t in danger of spilling off the earth altogether. A distant, nostalgic ache that always came with missing a home that he’d never had. 

And he knew when it faded, light pressing against his eyelids before she was prodding him gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He stayed quiet for a moment, blinking away the darkness and left staring up at the ceiling that was too bright in comparison, but he reached out, floating the bottle of tequila off the table. Thoughtless and casual and his, no flicker of blue, no yawning emptiness greeting him in place of his gift. He wasn’t trapped, not in a cell, not in his own home, not by anything but chains of his own making, and if he’d changed, if he was different, it wasn’t the first time. A painful echo of empty eyes looking back at him, and he finally nodded his head. Tilting it back to look up at her, a grateful squeeze of her arm. 

“No,” he said. “But I feel a little better.” Sitting up slowly, hand reaching out for the bottle as it drifted into his grasp, a swig straight from it before he turned and passed it to Selwyn like quieter gratitude. Letting the taste of something sharp and sweet ease the dull and distant ache in his chest when he couldn’t quite name its form. If it was for what he’d lost or never had, if it was for who he’d never become and who he wished he was, for a moment all he had was another memory, her voice somewhere in the back of his head, and he didn’t know if it held hope or just another hurt. Although, who knew you would change so much, after all these years, making jokes and all. No longer quite the robot.

Despite his assurances, Monty didn’t feel better, not right away. Tequila that was compromising his faculties, but kept him hovering on that line between bleak despair and a reckless, boundless happiness that he’d wanted to hold onto. A quieter thought that he’d wanted to share that with Emil more than anything, a version of himself that didn’t carry cuffs around his wrists or the scars from it, but he’d warned the man about delusion and he should’ve known better. There was more comfort from simply passing the bottle around like he was back in college again, the first time he hadn’t felt like an outsider staring in from behind two way glass. 

“I want ice cream.” Decided abruptly, unsure if it was true until he was saying it.

And that was how Montgomery Lacroix ended up in the Circle K sometime after midnight, a mess of snacks and ice cream scattered across the counter, and Sel plopping down a slushie next to it. “It’s not a Slurpee,” she said. “But it’ll do.” 

This time the nostalgia made him laugh, something easy and simple from his childhood that didn’t demand anything more complex, a joy so small it hadn’t been worth stripping away from him, and he nodded his head at her once it settled into an easy grin. “Get me one too, yeah? The blue flavor.” Turning afterward to the poor kid working behind the counter, a little wide eyed as he stared at the three of them. Finding himself unconcerned for now about whatever rumors spread tomorrow, the kind of thing he’d always avoided and always feared, never letting anyone see a single crack in the man he’d made himself into. 

Ones that might all be on display, but there was something just as liberating in how little he cared, even if it was courage fueled by tequila. “Can I get... stop...” the words broken up by a short laugh and Isabel tucking sunglasses into place over his ears, grinning at her reflection in the red and orange lenses. “A pack of Camels,” he tried gain. “And these too, apparently.” Gesturing vaguely at his face, and if his eyes were hidden he decided it was enough for tonight just to know they were no longer empty and vacant.

Conflict post that got too long and title doesn’t match the rest because I didn’t plan to write so much

Please be honest: Do you think Conflict is an angsty fanfiction?

Despite the amount of sadness, suicidal tendencies, ptsd, panic attacks and even implied incest; I can’t bring to think that Conflict is angst. It’s just the story of two flawed boys falling in love in their most vulnerable moments and learning how to know themselves as they get to know each other.

It might be because I know the whole story, though, unlike the readers who know the first arc only. I mean... it’s perfectly fine however you interprwt their story. It’s not like I’m mad. I’m just surprised when I see things like “this is so sad!” I mean, yes, Ray is not going through best time of his life, but I think it is honorable. It’s honorable that he is trying his best, despite the depression blowing his mind. It’s honorable that Norman is trying to be a little honest with himself despite the chaos he is living in. It’s honorable that Emma sticks with Ray through thick and thin. It’s just characters trying their best, I don’t think it should be needlessly tagged as “angst” because I don’t think I write them that way for the sole reason of sadness. Rather, there is something I want to tell— something I want all of my readers to see.

But I can’t blame anyone since I haven’t written 3/4 of the fanfic yet. I haven’t shown you even a bit of the path I’ve already decided and mentally written for Conflict. I actually wanted to write Conflict tonight, but due to personal reasons I’m not feeling my best and despite my efforts to write Shotgun, I couldn’t write shit, and it won’t be good for my mental health to be in fiction today. Today I need my science and my facts (I say today but it’s 2.40 am and maybe I should sleep).

So, basically, I want to just SHOW by writing instead of giving leaks and stuff, but...

But...

You have no idea how much braining it takes to write Conflict.

Sure, I’m not a professional writer and there may be many better, smarter stories out there, but to me, personally, I put my best into Conflict. I give it all I have. I give it all my experience and everything I’ve learned until age of 21. It is a very condensed, artistic way of me talking about my life and experiences and observations throughout a fictional universe where it is not directly my life, but a world I try to represent in balance. So— to me, ever since I started writing first chapter I treated Conflict like my first book, I mean, sure it is a fanfiction but I thought “I’d give it a try as a hobby and if it goes well— if i can stick to it determined and if I get nice feedback and if people like it, this will give me strength to write a real book!” and BOY I got SOOO MUCH MORE THAN I’D EVER EXPECT, I even got FANARTS and people messaging me or commenting how much they personally relate or how much the fic helped them to go through bad days or how much they’ve seen themselves in Ray or Norman’s situations, and when I read those messages I can’t help but think all of you deserve to see the way Conflict builds up. You deserve to see how many times Ray and Norman are challenged, by themselves, by each other, and by society, and you deserve to see how they respond to them, and you deserve to see how much and how little of a difference it can make to have two people really love each other. Anyway, I went off topic, I was saying that, to me Conflict is a story I’m giving all I have got as the person I am today.

Other fanfictions of mine are moreee easy to write because they don’t have sovmuch in depth characters or complex plots and they are just that, fanfictions, in which I write a ship. But Conflict, man, I treat it like my real novel— which is technically one to me, though a non-profit one dedicated to the manga that really challenged me, and I have no regrets writing it or making it a fanfic. Anyway! Thing is, given the fact that Conflict is heavy, content and chapter length wise, I can’t always get to write it. I could, if this was summer, but this is collehe time and even though I really want to get going, sometimes I need to save Conflict for another time when I’m more available. Me publishing easy to write things like Shotgun doesn’t mean I’m available for conflict. The mental energy they take is A LOT different.

But it’s not in a bad-different way! I love both my fics! I have no regret over time and dedication I have for Conflict! I just, don’t have the time for it all the time, which can’t be helped.

It’s 2.49 am now. I really want to write conflict. First draft of chapter 16 was written two months ago. The scene is completed as a draft. But that scene includes a terrible pstd & panic attack about Ray and I just... /sighs/ don’t really wanna get in mood for something so gloomy? I wanna write more cute stuff like their awkward date on Shotgun... but I really want to keep Conflict going. I guess I’m terrified that given how fragile my mental health is right now, the content of Conflict might make it worse. I’d still proud to have finished a chapter. But thinking about writing about Leslie’s loss and its effects on Ray makes me shiver, because that’s a topic I’m sensitive of and although I almost never get affected emotionally from the ficsbI write (for example, I dont cry writing sad smiles neither do I smile a lot at soft scenes, I’m usually neutral and I simply enjoy act of writing itself) but the 1% chance that Conflict’s content might fuck with my mental health.. as if one last trigger before a breakdown, makes me want to stay a few steps back from Conflict and just breathe.

But I also somehow feel like I’m really available to write Conflict. I don’t know. Why do I care so much about Conflict, you may ask, since it’s just a fanfiction.

I think that’s because Conflict is the first real thing I’ve done (along with many other achievements that exactly started on the same day, July 1) after I got out of depression. It proves me that I can create something— get it visualized— and having people respond to it makes me feel connected to world. Remember the scene I wrote about Ray’s detachment to Emma’s calls? I’ve never gotten physically unresponsive like that, but there were times depression made me detached and to me that’s the scariest part... feeling detached. I feel as if I don’t post a fic for too long (assuming I’m in mood to write), or if I don’t go out/go to school/go to gym for too long, if I don’t meet up my friends or reply back to my texts for too long, I may get detached. If I get detached, I’ll think of dark, terrible stuff. If I don’t return world easily, it may easily slide into a depressed day. Or two days. Before I get back. And those one or two days are scariest because I’ve lived a YEAR worth of them, continiously, and god forbid me or anyone experiencing that. It was terroble.

So when I don’t write even when I want to, I feel as if I might get depressed. Not emotionally. But rationally— be being unable to do things I want to do EVEN WHEN I HAVE TIME AND SOURCES AVAILABLE FOR THEM would build depression up. I sm not saying right sway. Anyway. That’s why I care about Conflict. That’s why I’m staying dedicated. Dedication prevents detachment. When I’m not detached, and thankfully having readers interacting to me, I feel— or prove— that my work is reaching someone. I exist. My ideas mean something. Even if it’s just fan base, ie friends— I consider y’all friends— I mean, we are still kids, right? Most of us are 16-25 and that ain’t even real adult to me, we are just friends befriending each ofher oe so I believe, so like, even if its just with friends it means a thing. It prevents detachment. When I’m not detached I’m motivated. When I’m motivated I want to live. When I want to live I go out and do things. When I go out and do things I get motivated again. When I’m motivated again I write again. When I write I’m not detached. The cycle continues, see? Of coursw, writing is just ONE way to prevent detachment. It itself can’t carry all burden. Same goes for me regularly going to classes, going to gym, meeting up or calling my friends, etc. I’ve learnt that the more places you put a bit of yourself in, less likely you are from detachment. And that’s good. Idk, that’s why comments are important to me. It’s too personal at this point but they really, really, really help me to stay in connect.

So I want to write, so I can be happy, and I can interact, and look at my published chapter, so I can be further motivated to do things tomorrow... but it’s now 3 am and, I, if I start now I won’t be done earlier than 4.30 am and it’ll be cold and I’ll be brain dead, so for my sake, it’s better if I sleep. Msybe studying a bit before sleep will prevent detachment as well. I usually don’t EVER get detached, I’m quite successful at holding myselfnon line, but that’s bc I am careful about triggers. So... not starting conflict will be the best decision.

I don’t know how much time I’ll have in sunday but I hope it will be enough for a chapter update.

If you’ve read so far, thank you, this post went out of hand— but I can comfortably talk about it now because I’m over it, and I’m trying to rationalize the fact that me consistently updating really makes me happy and excited and having fun instead of feeling detached and it’s important and I just love my story and I hope you all feel content and satisfied when you read Conflict’s final.

Warning: this message might shock most people, although I assume only people with an interest in these issues are likely to read it till the end, and if you are an ex-anorexic or bulimic, or a person scanning the web in search for potential culprits against your good sense, this is perhaps not going to please you. All the same, I will write it.

Since I have been living with eating disorders, more than a decade, and very nearly two decades have elapsed, and since I have joined Tumblr in a hope of finding some comfort and expressing myself at times like “these”, not even one decade has elapsed. I am a boy, I am twenty-eight, I have suffered from eating disorders for as long as I can remember, at about when switching from childhood to adolescence. I have taken a lot upon myself, and am still taking quite a lot, either out of habit or by sheer automatic resignation. I have finished my studies, I have my university diploma, I have remained at the same workplace for several years and I am both reliable and disciplined. But in the last ten years, I have been hospitalized a dozen of times, most of which upon my own free decision, and always seemed to recover a little more each time from I knew not what exactly, but that made me heartsick to the extent of driving myself to suicide on several occasions (at least 5, almost successful, by severe poisoning). I did not heed, at first, that my parents and their controlling temperament and conduct towards me might have the invisible cause behind all my self-destructive behaviours. I still find it hard to evaluate to what extent their pressurizing and eternally unsatisfied influence has driven me to hate myself only, to bear all the pain and to live only a small percentage of what is normally called “life” only to justify my existence and temper their grave looks upon my miserable person. The first thing to be said is that anorexia, bulimia, eating disorders in general and all feverous afflictions, when befalling a young person, girl or boy, is never a “fancy”, nor an invention of problems that were nonexistent beforehand, but a real discomfort, if not a living pain that is being converted into self-destruction, for want of a proper way out to an every-moment-guilt of being alive, under the control pf one’s parents, for they are authorities that are not to be gotten rid of as long as the child is a “minor” or is under their tutelage. Even when this comes to pass, the sentiment of the child who has lived under such a control for years, legally speaking, may and sometimes will inevitably reproduce his unhealthy patterns, either by the constant skin-deep memory of his former captivity of lack of freedom, which, after all, and I understand it now, is the sole and only motive for eating disorders in an adolescent and for an entire-life-wrecking nervous indisposition. I have noticed that at a healthy distance from my parents, I thrive rather well, although I still am fragile, and that when I am intensely with them for at least three or four days, this fragility is increased twice, thrice or more, proportionally to the albeit small time I have passed in the fateful company of my parents, who, despite what might be concluded from the above-written, are loving and caring, and wish nothing but my wellbeing. How then is it possible to feel, to declare oneself oppressed and pressed if one’s parents do not beat or ill treat one ? This is the whole issue: the pain inflicted by controlling parents is infinitely more subtle than any amount of “Physical” beating or mistreatment. All the more, that it is involuntary, and the parents do not realize the pain they are inflicting, and their ignorance of their very own misbehaviour is greater as they don,t understand that their love for their children is being counterproductive and is actually undermining their child’s development into healthy adults, and most of the time, driving them to self-destructive behaviours. This is no victim-playing, one has better things to do than looking, and even finding, guilt where it dos not have an actual existence. But in this lies the problem of nervous disorders into young people and their subsequent mark left upon the young people who have become adults and have to live with their self-destructive envies or direct behaviours, probably until they die, having half-lived only, become the ghost of their either living or dead parents has taken much of their energy and has achieved its final task: make oneself self-hating although alive and “functional” in society. I know why initially, eating disorder suffering patients were rightfully and tactfully removed from their families, from the sickening environment almost entirely manifested by the parent(s) or care-giver, of whoever while wishing the best for one’s child, drives her or him to seek freedom from the yoke through means by which they can escape, both physically and emotionally, and breathe, and while in the presence of the yoke-masters, feel themselves free, at least temporarily, by taking control over the only things they have any over: in this case, food intake, calorie outtake, etc. Drug problems, self-harm, and the like, are all ways of coping with a pressure than has become internalized and persists even when the subject is withdrawn from his familial environment for one’s best recovery or when one is definitely away from it. So tis is what I feel today, and what I come to realize. Of course, I am aware that this may be my case only, and that for all sorts of people, all sorts of circumstances are accountable for all sorts of joys and pains, and consequent self-building or self-destructive behaviours; that all cases of nervous indispositions are not imputable to the familial environment or the parental controlling facies, yet, this is my case and for my wellbeing, I must try to formulate it in a rational manner both for myself and for those whom it might be of use to to read these sentences and find that, as invisible as it is, the cause of their nervous disorders (I must insist, also, that a nervous disorder is not a mere nervosity or stress felt from time to time, but a fundamental indisposition of the whole nervous system, that affect the entire life and both physical and mental health of an individual, and it often drives one from depression to anxiety and back again, until one either is taken into a hospital for rest, or commits suicide although the material conditions in which he lives are what most of our “gentle-natured philanthropists would consider to be far above 2/3 of the world’s average material conditions). The whole point of this is not to throw guilt everlastingly upon one’s parents for all that happens, far from it. But if one is of a fragile nervous disposition and his parental environment does not help this disposition otherwise than retrogressively, as in my case of a till-here lasting eating disorder and as I imagine, of several if not most other people, girls or boys, with eating disorders, then severance from those austere parents is perhaps the first and most important step to be taken, either by the patient’s initiative or by his therapist. It may not be advisable in all cases, as the patient’s have different personalities and have received the more or less bad influence from their own different environments, but I am quite certain that in many instances of anorexia or bulimia or other EDs, this severance is salutary, and may, at the patient’s will, be prolonged as indefinitely as needed, for the invisible controlling influence can follow the patient, as I have already said, like a ghost, it matters not if the parents are still “physically” alive or not, or have been “objectively” demanding/austere/controlling/oppressing. The goal of this is not to spend one’s life in accusation of one’s parents, nor to remain mournful of one’s past, but once this step made, this important step, for the patient to be able to distinguish the part of himself that WANTS to suffer, to destroy himself and punish himself (eating disorders are self-harming coping methods, again, that can become internalized and last within the individual even years after the last definite severance from the individual’s unheeding parental environment/influence. I have repeatedly insisted upon this point, because once understood, as an underlying rule to unlock a difficult calculus of mathematics or physics, it will become not only easier, but truly feasible for the patient, whether he his 12 or 30, to know herself or himself and, as I had started to disert upon a little earlier, to know that his unhappiness is rooted in a self-hated that is rooted in a distorted perception of one’s worth and value as a human, as she or he perceives herself of himself as the direct product of his parents and must be perfect in every way and every instance, until it becomes untenable and metamorphoses itself into an altogether endeavour for irreproachability and self-control, which in its turn becomes what we call an “eating” disorder”. This is no freudian explanation of the mother or father sense within the child who either wants to kill the latter in order to freely fuck the former or simply hates them and eventually, himself, and strive never to resemble either of them by saying yes when they say no and reversely. This only means that the motive for an eating disorder is, in many cases, whether felt immediately and clearly or not, or only later, and to various degrees, a consequence of one’s unhealthy parental behaviour. I have written all this because it has become clear over time, gradually, and not all at once nor in a very definite and clear perception, for it is likely to change over time, as I live on, but these two tendencies, I have observed to remain constant and increasingly self-evident over time, regardless of individual circumstances: that is, 1) that my self-observation has always led me to understand that my self-destructive tendency varies along with my frequentation and near-sensing of my parents, who renew my self-hate, diminish or augment it proportionally, 2) that as long as eating disorders have been observed, whether they had already received a name of some sort or this generally nowadays accepted name, the tendency of the observer was that either the mother or the father had a devastating influence upon their child, an influence which, albeit invisible or at least very subtile, is very real and real enough to drive the child to self-destruction although their material condition is either normal or above the average. They are unhappy and feel oppressed enough to starve themselves, or to purge themselves, or have suicidal thoughts and or behaviours. Even in ancient cases, such as the all-too-famous on of Santa Caterina da Siena, the anorexic behaviour was associated if not entirely attributable to the mother’s controlling influence. In some other cases, modern or ancient, it may be the father’s controlling influence, which, of course, might not be physically agressive, but, upon a subtler plane, emotionally, intellectually, agressive, often when he has achieved some degree of intellectual authority and tries to impress it upon his child’s senses that she or he is to be at least equally rigorous, important or what not, which the child would have fain achieved even, and better so, without this moral pressure upon her or his nerves. Now, there are things upon which one cannot go back, but it is important, at least for me at this moment, to identify this cause, and to work from the knowledge of that efficient cause of the nervous/eating disorder to move forward, and have a decent life, because one cannot have it unless one makes this turn upon oneself and sees that what impedes one is the parental ghost, and I mean this without any psychoanalytical sentiment, for I do not see it as intervening in the eating disorder instance. This is equally true in the case of the freudian explanation of anorexia, that the mother being the material feeder of the child, the child stops eating when his mother’s will she or he fells antagonistic to its own. This is good for allegorical mythology, but not for practical problems that demand a practical solution: in this instance, what has to be understood, and what indeed HAS a relationship with either of the patient’s parents or with both, is that across time and space, this relationship is the root of the problem, which itself is not a one-sided guilt, it would be too easy, but rather a bad or shock meeting of genetic nervous indisposition on one side and of an austere or controlling parental influence on the other. Eating disorders become the only way out imaginable for this situation that involves no culprit but that involves as surely as possible at least one victim: the child who seeks freedom from a legal bondage, and tries to grow and to develop herself or himself under this constant nervous strain. The formerly eating-disordered children who, like myself, have gone into the adult age still carrying their self-destructive patterns and have tried to be a good citizen while waking with the envy of suicide in the morning and going to bed in tears, sleeping by the grace of strong drugs and working like a normal person by who knows whose grace, must, I declare it bluntly, turnabout and sweet is the cause of their lasting pain and poor mental health, which, in this instance, affects the whole physical organism equally, and can damage it permanently (the nervous indisposition has already a disabling effect upon the entire being, both during the adolescent growth wherein the individual is normally meant to build himself, and after the end of hormonal growth when one is an adult; the added problem of an eating disorder, superposed upon this already fragile nervous system, may be very destructive physically, and even more so as time rolls on, but also on the mind and the emotional faculties, which become prematurely tired and strained, especially when entertained over years, and eventually decades). I therefore conclude my long word, and also congratulate my reader upon his patience, by saying that an eating disorder is controlling parental influence + genetic nervous disposition and that the recovery can neither be forced upon the patient as an evidence nor even occur in the mind of the patient while her or his father or mother has not been identified as the cause of her or his emotional imbalance, and subsequently and consequently, been put aside from one’s life and definitely either discarded or healthily dealt with (by regulating, if not abolishing, the rapports one has with one’s parents or with the one in question that has an unhealthy bearing upon the child’s nerves). Now, this is only my opinion, and I perhaps imagine everything and I am not sick after all and all this is but a bad dream... But, on the other hand, I know not why, I feel that most eating disordered people, young or less young, will relate with the few statements I have abode made, and find that they describe their own cases quite accurately, because what I have singled out as the one invariable ou almost invariable tendency across time and space, in the case of EDS, is the parental influence, and it is a tendency because it cannot, totally at least, be dissociated from the very problem of EDs, and I am quite sure that those who have read this hitherto shall feel that they are not alone, and that behind their apparent madness, and underneath their emotional pain, there is something quite similar across the cases, and that something subtle lies at the foundation of it, something that has its constancy across the circumstances, and that determines the appearance of the coping method known under the name of eating disorders.

Saturday the 18th of May, 2019

Lost Under Heaven Interview

Ellery James Roberts & Ebony Hoorn

Photo by Chris Almeida

Lost Under Heaven are the gifted Manchester-based duo comprised of Ebony Hoorn and Ellery James Roberts. Returning with the release of their new album ‘Love Hates What You Become’, the duo has formed a startling and thought-provoking record that follows their 2016 debut, ‘Spiritual Songs for Lovers to Sing’. Shot full of incisive social commentary, ‘Love Hates What You Become’ captures the couple at their most musically raw and visceral. The band wrote the album in Ellery’s native Manchester before traveling to Los Angeles to record with producer John Congleton, known for his Grammy-winning work with St. Vincent, Swans, Explosions in the Sky and Sigur Rós. Accomplished songwriting is at the heart of the creative cauldron for this release as the duo is bubbling and overflowing with enthusiasm. With ‘Love Hates What You Become’, Lost Under Heaven continue to establish themselves as a courageous and innovative band, hungry to create and perform their art with the sole ambition to see how far they can reach across uncharted territory… We talk to the delightful duo about working with John Congleton, performing live and downtime…

TSH: How would you assess your creative partnership in the lead-up to ‘Love Hates What You Become’?

Ellery: The whole process in working together with Ebony has really been like an experimentation and exploration for us both. We’ve come to really know one another so well and we now work in a harmonious way. We understand each other’s strengths and weaknesses really well. Ebony hasn’t really sung before or done anything performance wise musically in any way other than sound apps, so to hear how her voice has grown for this album was really great. We had no expectations and I was continuously surprised and impressed by her growth.

Ebony: I feel like touring really allowed me to find myself and lead more with Lost Under Heaven. I was able to confront what I needed to in order to become a better musician.

TSH: Throughout this record Ebony’s vocals feature more so signalling a shift in your tone and dynamic...

Ebony: Yeah, this was a very pleasing aspect for me. Just to understand both of our places in our creative spaces was really important. We both got to figure out what works best for each other’s voices.

TSH: Ellery, you’ve touched on having a ‘sink or swim feeling’ as you approached this record, however, you now feel a greater sense of freedom and like you have more control...

Ellery: When we started working together the feeling we had in Amsterdam whilst Ebony was still in school was completely conceptually free and there was no form to our work. Over the last year we’ve tried to reclaim our initial ideas of making this a multimedia art project. I guess the easiest way for us to function as a band is to keep it simple but we feel much more boundless than that. We’re working hard on the live show and are thinking much more about the theatricality and visual side of things in general. I feel like this record allowed us to have an opportunity to reaffirm our intent with everything related to this band.

TSH: When forming new music, do you still opt to not overcomplicate things and strip away instead?

Ellery: Yeah, for sure. The whole sense of making this record and working with John Congleton was to make a rawer document which didn’t have this sense of who it’s recorded by or produced by; instead it’s just capturing how we sound.

TSH: What sort of perspectives were you drawn to with the narratives on this album?

Ellery: In deciding to give the album the title ‘Love Hates What You Become’ this record pulls together a lot of the thinking from myself conceptually. The album touches on different angles but generally it’s about how we ended up living the way we do and wondering if there is something better for us to aspire for. The common adulterated mind consists of ideas that aren’t our own and leads us to pretend that we are against our own best interests. I guess I’m looking into what serves each of us to behave in certain ways. There’s also the astrology idea of ‘know thyself’ which informs parts of this album too.

TSH: What sort of treatment did the song ‘The Breath of Light’ require as you fleshed it out?

Ebony: That one was written from Ellery’s own experiences. For me, this song emotively instantly spoke to me as a really interesting place to place myself within vocally.

Ellery: I think sonically and with the production it was really a case of taking things out with this song. My initial thoughts are always quite dense and I try to weave in loads of intricate melodies, but working with John allowed me do things differently. John would often just tell me ‘Yup! That’s it. It’s done’ and I would think the song would sound like it’s unfinished, empty and like the spaces needed filling up...

Ebony: To me it was interesting that John said this because I agreed that Ellery’s vocals could carry this song even with so much being subtracted and pulled out of it. When we play it live, just the presence of the vocals is so powerful. I like that there is room to let Ellery’s vocals become sort of like a lead instrument...

Ellery: Yeah, it’s something I explored over the last year and it’s a new tactic I employ with songs now. Also, this is why I like the early PJ Harvey records; they are so empty, yet so powerful.

TSH: What does ‘Serenity Says’ convey to you?

Ebony: That song consists of this freedom kind of feeling and not being bothered by the eyes of the public. It’s like you’re doing your own thing and not having much inhibition or self-awareness. I think in general people have too much self-awareness in their day-to-day lives. I also like listening to this one whilst driving on the highway...

Ellery: Yeah, which reminds me, when we finished making the record (before it was mixed), me and Ebony rented a car and drove into the Los Angeles desert and drove towards Joshua Tree and the national park. We listened back through the mixed and unmixed record and ‘Serenity Says’ brought to mind the wide open landscapes and a sense of freedom.

TSH: Does is remain a key feature for you both to get your message across without just one medium when you perform live?

Ellery: Absolutely. We’ve been trying to find the right collaborators to allow for the right visual things to happen. You know, there’s always the tendency to have an idea or ambition that is above our pay day, besides I don’t really like it when people have a projection of some abstract thing. I feel like people look at screens far too much as it is to then have to see another one when they go to see a band live. However, we’re certainly getting somewhere with trying something new and unique with our visuals. What’s pleasing lately is that we play as a trio with our drummer, Ben Kelly. He’s been a fantastic addition and has really made it all come together for the live show. Ben is a really powerful drummer and enables this rawness to come into play; and he allows me to orchestrate the whole show via Ableton. Having Ben launching Albleton in a live format gives us the opportunity to design the set in a distinct way.

TSH: How’s the move from Amsterdam to Manchester been like for you Ebony?

Ebony: It’s nice to move out of Amsterdam. I lived there for 6 years and I enjoyed my time in school there. Moving to Manchester feels like you’ve been placed back into a world outside of a city where a lot of interesting cultural things happen. We used to live in the Northern Quarter, which is always busy with a lot people that go out over the weekend. Oh, and the drinking culture here In England is completely different to Amsterdam... it’s a lot more wild.

TSH: What was it like to tour the US again a few months back?

Ellery: The States kind of feels like it has 21st century humans overloaded with capitalism. Nonetheless, America is geographically such a powerful, beautiful and magical place. I really liked driving through California up to Seattle - it was incredible. It’s so fast-paced out there and people are kind of crazy and fragile. It seems like everybody is one step away from a breakdown or a break through. Overall, it does feel like an edgy kind of place.

TSH: Does downtime consist of being detached from your own human essence?

Ellery: Yeah, which is why we love nature. It’s been a year now since we moved north of Manchester into the countryside around where I grew up. It’s about a 30 minute drive out of the city. The video for ‘For The Wild’ was actually filmed 5 minutes from our house. I try and get out as much as I can - at least every day. Also, I’ve recently got back into painting, I used to paint a lot when I was young and I’ve started to take it up again. Painting is very fulfilling - my mind goes blank and I can relax.

TSH: It’s also been noted on your Twitter that sake, astrology and tequila are some of your favourite things in life...

Ebony: Haha! I like to incorporate and kickback with all three whenever I’m with friends. I mean you have to balance the light-hearted with the heavy-hearted at times.

TSH: What do you hope to achieve and explore as you look ahead with Lost Under Heaven?

Ebony: Our music has become like a lifestyle for us, it touches upon these ideas we are interested in and believe in. We want to experiment with our thoughts and put them into a platform of music or video. This is just the beginning as we have so many more ideas that we’d like to work out and present.

Ellery: For me, Lost Under Heaven has always been about being in pursuit of leading a sustainable and self-sufficient artist life. This involves utopian and bohemian dreams of just being able to create and be a good person. Ultimately we want to inspire people that there isn’t just one set way in which you need to do stuff. The world is how it is; it’s a vision that’s driven by media sensationalism, but you can do things your own way. There are lots of communities that exist away from the hype of the mainstream and they consist of much more humane ways of existing, so with Lost Under Heaven it’s all about learning for ourselves how to function in this way.

Lost Under Heaven - “COME (Official VR Experience)”

Lost Under Heaven - “For The Wild”

Love Hates What You Become

In the course of his four-decade career, the Belgian director Ivo van Hove has created more than 100 productions of theater, opera, and movies  throughout the world, with more of them in New York City than all other “continental directors combined,” according to Ivo van Hove: From Shakespeare to David Bowie  (Methuen Drama, 237 pages) a book of some three dozen short essays, each about specific productions, written by some two dozen theater scholars and artists.

Van Hove’s most recent New York production, West Side Story, which opened last night at the Broadway Theater, is his fourth on Broadway; the others have been his adaptation of the movie “Network,” plus two by Arthur Miller, “The Crucible,” and “A View from the Bridge“ which marked his Broadway debut in 2015. But van Hove has been bringing his norm-breaking – and video-making – to Off-Broadway for almost a quarter of a century, primarily at New York Theatre Workshop. I’ve seen about a dozen of them. Some, like Scenes from a Marriage at NYTW in 2014, and The Damned at the Park Avenue Armory in 2018, I’ve found astonishing. Others, like his Dutch-language production of Angels in America in 2014 and The One Who Disappeared in 2019, both at BAM, felt partially tone-deaf or inaccessible.

This book, one of four published about the director in 2018 (two of them in Dutch), helps give perspective on some of the recurring themes, techniques and patterns in van Hove’s work. There is even something of a Rosebud clue to his approach in his two-page foreword to the collection.  “My productions are autobiographies in disguise,” he writes. Born in 1958, the son of the sole pharmacist in his hometown in Belgium, van Hove was sent to a boarding school at age 11. He signed up with the students that met Wednesday afternoons “to create a show which we would then present to the outside world at the end of the school year.”   What he discovered was that theater was great way to resist the school’s strict rules. “I found that I could express something of myself by working in that gray area between what is allowed and what is not allowed.” He has been exploring what’s not allowed in theater ever since.

In 1980, at the age of 22, while studying at Antwerp to be a director, he met Jan Versweyveld, who was in art school. Although there is nothing remotely romantic in the account of their meeting — this is an academic book after all, not even a biography —  it seems obvious that theirs is a great love affair, certainly a consequential one.   They have been life partners and collaborators ever since. It doesn’t feel too much of a stretch to credit their relationship for van Hove’s unusually visual approach.

For every production, we’re told, the director assembles two separate teams – one for “dramaturgy,” the other for “visual dramaturgy,” which consists of him, his scenic and lighting designer (almost always Versweyveld) and his video designer (usually Tal Yarden.)

“Video is an extra element that the twentieth century gave us and it needs to be used carefully,” van Hove explains in an interview in the book. “We use it to bring the emotional life of the characters closer to the audience, but not to beautify the production or just to create effects…We also use video to show moments that could not otherwise be staged…” Not every show they do uses video, but when they decide to do so, Versweyveld adds, “video is integral to the design from the very beginning.”

What’s on the outside arguably interests van Hove more. The actress Ruth Wilson, who starred in van Hove’s production of Hedda Gabler, observes: “I feel that most of Ivo’s direction is physical rather than emotional and that his style of acting helps actors explore their emotions freely. So Ivo would tell me ‘Right now staple the flowers to the walls’….If one of us asked why, Ivo would answer ‘I don’t psychologize.”

One of the five sections of the book focuses on American theater, exploring several New York productions that reflect the director’s tendency to (as they might say it) strip the action to the elemental or (as I might see it) make the play look abstractly contemporary no matter when or where the play is explicitly set. In his 2010 production of Lillian Hellman’s “The Little Foxes” at New York Theatre Workshop, he replaced the usual period costumes with “clingy, sleek costumes” that made them more “exposed and vulnerable,” thus turning the play as much about the subjection of women as it is about greed.  As Professor S.W. Abbotson observes, van Hove took “a scalpel to the script with the precision of a neurosurgeon…Hellman’s missing dialogue was replaced with gesture, evocative sound and light, and other visual cues that more than helped carry its meaning and elevate it to a new and relevant commentary on our contemporary world.” Prof. Emile Schra (who is writing another book about van Hove) details van Hove’s “stripped-down” version of Tony Kushner’s Angels in America. “The big challenge for van Hove and Versweyveld has been to make this very complex play with its ingenious structure as simple as possible for the audience.” After bandying about several ideas, they decided “they wanted a space where transition was ultimately possible. And what served this objective better than an empty space?”  Kushner is quoted elsewhere in the book as observing that van Hove’s production “was very much about the frailty and fragility of the human body.”

“Ivo van Hoven: From Shakespeare to David Bowie” ends with editor Susan Bennett’s account of Bowie’s ‘Lazarus” in both New York and London:

“Lazarus bore all the hallmarks of a van Hove production — a sparse but potent scene and lighting design by Jan Versweyveld, extraordinary and poetic video work by Tal Yarden, dynamic acting performances….and the director’s own ability to conjure breathtaking images from an intricate interweaving of all production elements.”

Roslyn Ruff (Marianne 2) and Dallas Roberts (Johan2) in Scenes from a Marriage

Guillaume Gallienne as the scheming Friedrich Bruckmann and Elsa Lepoivre as the ambitious widow Baronne Sophie Von Essenbeck in Ivo van Hove’s The Damned, after Sophie’s son as tar and feathered her.

Ben Whishaw, Bill Camp, Tavi Gevinson, and Ciaran Hinds in The Crucible

Louis (Fedja van Huet) and Belize (Roeland Fernhout)

The One Who Disappeared

A View from the Bridge

Shereen Pimentel, Isaac Powell and the cast

Explaining Ivo van Hove (e.g. all that video!) In the course of his four-decade career, the Belgian director Ivo van Hove has created more than 100 productions of theater, opera, and movies  throughout the world, with more of them in New York City than all other “continental directors combined,” according to…

Artist Spotlight: Danish Painter Stine Tranekjær

Danish artist Stine Tranekjær’s main artistic concern lies in understanding the philosophical paradox of “right and wrong.” Stine explores the opposites through color, and light experiments, short statements, and riddles. There was a time when Stine wanted to study law to understand how the society regulates itself. What is Law if not a written justification of how the society distinguishes rightness or wrongness of a certain act? Stine says: “the idiomatic concept of right and wrong is a very fruitful concept to work around as an artist.” Art has no limits and is a space where one can create their own rules; Stine’s art is a point of entry for an age-old question.

We spoke with Danish painter Stine Tranekjær to find out more about her inspiration and work.

When and how did you begin working as an artist?



I once read an interview with Diana Vreeland where she was quoted as saying “all artists are born in bias.” I guess an artist is what you become when you question the world and your curiosity is not satisfied by common knowledge, “facts” or science. At least that’s what happened to me; I can’t remember it being otherwise.

    You are mainly concerned with the difference between the right and wrong. What have you discovered during your artistic journey?

When I was a kid, I dreamt of studying law. I was baffled by the tremendous amount of laws that existed and saw the law as some sort of matrix that held the heavens and kept our world from collapsing. I wanted to learn it to understand the world. As I grew older, I became aware that a given law is nothing but a written reflection of the society it governs. If the law is bad society becomes bad, and if society is bad the law becomes bad. Of course not instantly, but like a slow dance over time.

  My interest in the space between right and wrong grew. I discovered that the idiomatic concept of right and wrong is a very fruitful concept to work around as an artist because it is inherent in every culture and is very real to all humans. Many people have strong and normative opinions about rightness and wrongness, and the same people often see the two terms as direct opposites. These people often bring up their children to distinguish in the same way, and to deem their own (and other peoples) actions either right or wrong in their reflection. From a phenomenological or artistic point of view, things can be perfectly right and wrong at the same time. If you start seeing the world this way, the distance between right and wrong can become very small.

I personally really like the idea of the phenomenological term ”lifeworld:” a term used to describe the individual’s own perception of his/her life. A lifeworld can be partly shared with other individuals, but seen as a whole, the individual’s own lifeworld is solely governed by subjective perception. In my view humans could learn a lot from honoring the subjective position and sort of “agree to disagree.” What is right from your side does not need to be right from mine. So to answer the question: in my personal view, nothing’s ever utterly right or utterly wrong.

    Your website says “Welcome to the secret site of Stine Tranekjær.” What’s so secretive about your work and where did your interest towards unknown arise from?

When I built the site years ago, I felt that I was putting a paper boat or a fragile bottled message into the endless waves. I thought that my site would have been almost impossible to find in those waves and most visitors would have been random guests. So I found an appropriate name: “the secret site.”

I do like things that need to be explored. I like when things add up and make sense, but since I always have many questions, that sense seldom occurs quickly or easily.

    You conduct experiments on light and color theory through your art. Can you tell us about these theories and specifically about your project “Color Experiment?”



Color is a funny thing because most of us have a very direct response to it, although it does not carry objective messages. Colors are more like smells, either you like a given color or not, and it can be hard to describe why or what you like it. I like some tones of yellow very much, but I have no idea why. I lack the language to describe my emotions towards color, or maybe I just lack the direct connection to the memories that predisposed my likes and dislikes. Turquoise, for instance: I have problems with turquoise. I rarely use this color and I own no turquoise objects or clothes, but don’t know why.

On the other hand, it is interesting that different cultures have different systems of colors. A system that has dominated continental Europe comes from the German painter and writer Johannes Itten’s “Wheel of Contrasts.” The Itten Wheel of Contrasts is a color theory that defines and identifies strategies for successful color combinations. The theory itself is a rigid system of hue, intensity and light or darkness. Since Itten’s theories have been used quite a lot by designers, artists, and architects, we are very exposed to his ideas and his combinations seem familiar and maybe even appealing to many.

My “Color Experiment” evolves around Itten’s color wheel, and in some ways, this piece is an experiment of perception, or maybe rather possibilities for leading perception astray.

Back when I made “Color Experiment,” I was listening to an audio recording of Jean Baudrillard giving a lecture at Wellek Library at the University of California in 1999 on Youtube. Baudrillard talks about what he calls “The Murder Of The Real.” Reality is set up against virtuality and Baudrillard discusses the end of reversibility: “nothing is ever identical to itself” and ”nothing moves any longer from cause to effect.”

    From Baudrillard’s lecture, I became interested in his concepts of simulation and simulacrum, and this question: “can wrong become right, if alternated and repeated to an adequate extent?” formed in my mind. I questioned if simulacrum might have the capacity to take over the world. Consequently, I made a color experiment of seven mega-prints. Each is printed in a duo-color combination of two rectangular shapes that don’t overlap but accurately meet on the exact mid of the paper, building a striking contrast of the colors in the rectangular shapes. 

The colors for the seven combinations are all selected for their closeness to the Johannes Itten’s complementary contrast. The size of the prints is chosen so that the print itself might bring reference to the body mass of the viewer in order for the prints to validate themselves and their presence. Possibly the full image of the seven prints may consolidate a sense of “complementary contrast” but in fact, none of the seven contrasts alone resemble a valid complementary contrast.

As an example, the red/green center contrast of the experiment is burdened from vast amounts of yellow on both the red and the green. One of the two colors should have tilted in a more cold direction to fulfil the complementary contrast. What might seem like a display of seven complementary contrasts is, in fact, none at all.

    In Denmark, plants are holy; they are an integral part of living and you hardly find greens that are unwanted. What was the inspiration behind the series named “Unwanted Greens?”



I like your observation about plants being holy in Denmark. I never thought of it in that way, but there might be some truth to it. Plants are something that many Danes cherish and keep in their homes for generations, from seedling to seedling. I guess my own family is a perfect example of this habit.

    My painting “Unwanted Greens” is about plants I had when I lived in Berlin several years ago. When I moved from Copenhagen to Berlin I have brought some seeds and seedlings with me. They grew fast and helped me feel at home in a new city. Maybe they even grew to become holy, as you suggest. When I decided to move back to Copenhagen, they had grown rather luscious and big, but I couldn’t find a way to bring them back, they were too fragile. Strange as it may sound this made me feel sad and guilty because I felt as if I was letting them down. Attachment is a tricky thing. As soon as you attach yourself to people or things or plants, you become vulnerable because you give away mandate to be hurt.

    Your piece “Flexible Artist” brings to mind how many artists are “flexible” to what social media asks them to create, or what galleries are looking for, perhaps leading to a loss of individuality. What do you think about this tendency?


That is a very valid parallel. I think it has always been like that, however, all the way back to Michelangelo. Artists have always been creative in fitting to the trend of the time and the needs of their customers. This is the perpetual dodo’s conundrum of being an artist.




    Do you feel your art is particularly Danish or Scandinavian? And what’s your opinion about current Danish Art scene?


I don’t know a lot about the Danish art scene as a whole and I don’t feel particularly Danish myself, but maybe my art is? It is always interesting to look for traces of culture in works of art. I am sure that due to the fact that I live in Denmark and grew up here, there should be some inherent cultural connotations in my work. The world has sort of exploded lately both in terms of the Internet, war, migration, and tourism. On many levels, we all live in a state of emergency these days, as formulated by the philosopher Giorgio Agamben in his “Homo Sacer” project.

Etymologically, the word “nation” derives from the Latin “nasci” meaning ”to be born”. Thus, a nation-state is a state, where the way of obtaining civil rights is by being born in it. Maybe it’s time for us to start questioning the quality of this nationalist dogma. I believe, we, the human race, could greatly benefit from abandoning our ideas of nation-states and instead begin viewing each other first and foremost as individual human beings.

    Where can people find or buy your art, if possible?


My silkscreen works can be bought at Limited Works in Copenhagen. Monotypes, drawings and old works can be acquired from me, subjected to availability. Studio visitors are very welcome!

    See more of Stine Tranekjær’s work.

Artist Spotlight: Danish Painter Stine Tranekjær published first on https://medium.com/@OCEANDREAMCHARTERS