Prog aesthetics
  • Genesis: Renisance paintings, fields of wildflowers, old abandoned mansions with overgrowth, Greek mythos, old decorative bibles, the smell of hot herbal tea, early mornings, fresh dew on a spiderweb, makeup, large elaborate fountain sculptures, and the sound of the wind rustling leaves as they fall
  • Emerson Lake and Palmer: smashed guitars, large cities at night, dusty church organs, metropolis movie posters, elegant gilded swords, old sifi novels, old alcohol bottles, the smell of cinnamon, bruised knuckles, sunsets, the smell of summer air, and the sound of a forest in winter
  • Yes: the ocean, iridescence, mountain air in the early morning, water lilies, greenhouses, the smell of the sea after a storm, holding hands, glittery capes, fae, ripples in a cup of water, elegant lace dresses, warm raspberry tea, daisies in the early morning sun, and grainy mermaid footage
  • King Crimson: large abandoned castles, old music books, smeared crimson lipstick, crowns made of gold and rubies, velvet robes, gold flakes, the smell of autumn, the sound of leaves crunching, baroque shattered mirrors, elaborate gilded daggers, red candle wax on a skull, the smell of insense burning, shattered crystals, blood soaked books, torn midevil tapestries, and empty parlor rooms with nothing but old broken furniture and paintings on the floor
  • Pink Floyd: Light shows, prisms, torn up money, the smell of old cigarettes that linger years after one was ever smoked, mushrooms, silhouettes, vintage postcards, erupting volcanos, broken walls, abandoned factories, the smell of an old book, dusty rooms, big fuzzy wool sweaters, and decorative tobacco pipes
  • Rush: the night sky, old science textbooks, silk kimonos, skeletons, the desert, the smell of new technology, dusty Ayn Rand novels, the sound of music through an old radio, the smell of an old maple table, the Canadian tundra, apples, smashed synthesizers, gears, grandfather clocks, and carved statues of trees
MTV Cribs, tho

Seriously, picture an early-2000s, half-washed-up but still fame-hungry Lestat.

(Since after all, Anne did establish that he’s got a fucking Greatest Hits album, in defiance of all logic. Two can play at that game.) 

He doesn’t tour any more, but clearly he’s still dropping albums every few years which are snapped up by his aging fanbase, now in their 40s and generally respectable. It’s a running gag on various forums to speculate regarding his plastic surgery and Botox bills, or whether the label just bumped the original Lestat off years ago and keeps replacing him with younger stand-ins.

So MTV wants to do an episode of Cribs with him, and of course he says yes because fuck it in this I’m just ignoring continuity and going with a post-QotD world.

It’s a fucking disaster.

His manager is a little weaselly guy in a full suit who obviously and loudly hates this entire idea. His lawyer, Christine, is semi-retired in the Bahamas and can’t be reached for assistance half the time.

This does not seem to have much of an effect on The Man In Question.

All the Cribs people want is to just film the episode, have some laughs. Everybody knows Lestat is a high-energy presence, lots of personality, and crazy ostentations, so it should be fun, but.


This motherfucker.

This fucking character asshole with his dedication to schtick.

Won’t meet them before dusk, or even answer phone calls during the day. Won’t let them even go into his Malibu mansion to film during the day, for B-Roll, because “The decor is designed to be viewed at night. Besides, I don’t want anyone unsupervised; it could be dangerous.”

Refuses to let them film his kitchen, which they can’t even figure out the location of based on the footprint of the building and the routes they take through it once they finally do go over after sundown on the appointed day.

Lestat’s in full makeup. Face painted white, fake fangs in, long nails, hair big and shiny as Hell–looks just like his stage persona and album covers in his goddamn home. He’s wearing ripped jeans and a horrifying all-leather frock coat and entirely too much jewelry. He shows them his collection of violins and guitars, and it’s exhausting because he never shuts off the persona. Has a story about the history of all of them.

His manager, or handler, or whatever, is there, still loathing every second of this with every fiber of his being. He straightens any object anyone touches seconds after it’s been filmed. It seems like a stressful job.

They tour down halls decorated in the most clashing mishmash of styles known to humankind–gold trim, Baroque mirrors, black lace, intricate carpets, 60s psychedelic prints, several original Nagels hung up in the movie room. (The movie room is actually rather cool, velvety-black with multiple screens and everything from Betamax to Laserdisc to DVD to an full-on projector. Enormous squashy couches, daybeds, and beanbag chairs are the order of the day.)

Every light in the place blazes all the time; someone asks about his electricity bills, and the manager takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose at the number Lestat responds with.

Finally Lestat is almost giggling as he lead the crew down a flight of thickly-carpeted stairs to a basement corridor painted a surprisingly soothing blue-grey. There are a number of doorways, each with a keypad instead of a normal lock.

He grins widely, showing off the dental work, and proudly swings wide the one at the end to reveal a room where a dark-haired man sits, reading, seemingly startled by the intrusion.

The crew is so distracted by the Surprise Boyfriend that at first they fail to notice what Lestat’s perched on, and when they do–panning down over the steel-blue casket with goldtone hardware and velvet upholstery–the signature line bursts out French-accented on a rush of laughter.

“You see–this is where the magic happens!”

(They end up running it on Halloween, with some altered graphics on the logo for the gimmick of MTV: Crypts.)

baroque-mirrors  asked:

re: your reply on Hannah's blog, GOOD POINTS. I've had such tunnel vision about the proposal that i've barely started thinking about the overall narrative & direction of the show from here. I guess for some reason I was thinking that if the setting changed then the overall story would kind of reset as well, but I think you're right - they've been carrying the plot over from season to season lately and it makes sense that even though the characters get moved somewhere else the same story points -

stay relevant. And you don’t just go all-in on a story about prison brutality & public visibility and then just drop it, lmao. So yeah, I think you’re right about the significance of all those details moving forward… I feel like I need to rewatch the season right way to fully appreciate everything that happened, I haven’t felt that since s2 so that’s pretty exciting!

I mean like… it still COULD… reset & everything. because I just genuinely would not put it past them after season three. since everything about that season is just ALWAYS going to prove that they’re more than capable of imploding everything in order to start over with a forced & false restart. but… I want to believe so badly that they have an endgame here, & that they’re not going to implode everything once again to stretch the story out in an unending cycle of building up & tearing down until they literally cannot suck anymore life out of this show & these characters. just… they have SUCH a good opportunity here to take the story in a bigger direction while ALSO starting to wrap it up in a really neat & concrete way, like PLEASE don’t fuck this up???

yeah, I’m clinging desperately to the hope that a story this big CAN’T just like… fade away. & that the youtube channel/fame & the viral video & all the family members who were thought not to care showing up & the parallels to Bayley & Poussey with that other kid/Piscatella & the ENTIRE GODDAMN MAIN CAST all being in that basement… it all has to mean something. & LIKE GOD. IMAGINE THIS KICK STARTING SOME SORT OF REFORM THAT SPANS THE NEXT TWO SEASONS, ENDING WITH PIPER GETTING OUT & LIKE “HEY GUESS WHAT, AS SOMEONE WHO WAS IN THE TRENCHES OF ALL THIS, I’M GOING TO WRITE A BOOK ABOUT WHY WE NEED TO KEEP PUSHING.” LIKE PLEASE WHAT A GOOD WAY TO TIE THE STORY UP BY COMING BACK TO THE REALISM OF IT ALL. PLEASE DON’T FUCK THIS UP GODDAMMIT.


For Thinking Tree Spirits, our goal was to create an interactive packaging experience with the playful exuberance of storybooks and Rococo scrollwork, all evocative of the lush bounty of Oregon.

We designed the Thinking Tree brandmark for flexibility, personifying the brand as a contemplative woman collared and crowned with ornamental branches that either gently germinate or grow wild to fill the canvas, be it the small circular icon on the cap, or front and centre on the hangtag.

For the illustrations, we were inspired by Late Baroque mirrors to create highly dimensional packaging, using the main label for deep background artwork, and layering over it a hangtag of duplexed cardstock with a pop of purple foil and, finally, a colourful ornate frame raised to its highest relief with sculptured embossment. Hidden throughout are local and mythological life, from Odin’s ravens (‘thought’ and ‘memory’), to the polyphemus moth (whose eyespots are named after Homer’s cyclops) and its caterpillars, down to the great horned owl, whose face is composed of oak leaves.

On the hangtag’s verso, the linework is reproduced by a letterpress, whose raised ink, along with the purple string that ties tag to neck, all add to the rich tactile experience. Here, one is invited to be creative, whether scribbling thoughts or verse, notes on a new infusion, or a kind gift-letter to a friend.

Beneath the hangtag is a fable of our composition that sets down the brand’s folktale roots:

Once, there was a forester who planted a seed in the earth. When the seed grew into a great tree, the forester placed an egg at the top of the highest branch. When the egg hatched into a great owl, the forester returned with gifts. “I have the gift of speech,” said the forester, “and the gift of thought.” The tree and the owl listened. “I can give only one gift each, and each gift only once,” the forester said. “First, one of you will receive the gift of speech.” Growing impatient, the owl asked “who?” And the Thinking Tree shook her leaves knowingly.