beams gallery

anonymous asked:

What would your ideal dwelling look like?

The dwelling of a hermit, in two parts.

Part I (THE DANDY): A crumbling manor house, countryside chateau, or palazzo. Splendid gothic revival, something between decaying grandeur and fin de siècle opulence. Lancet arch windows and vaulted ceilings, with stained glass and arched niches in the reading room. Frescoes on the ceilings and gold filigree in the balustrades. Bookcase walls that reveal secret passageways to the tower attic refuge: a bed with overflowing curtains from the crown, and chandelier hanging from the beams. A long gallery lined with cabinets of curiosities and 14th century tapestries. Classical antiquities and plaster casts in the mezzanine and maps and portraits lining the corridor. Pass the sculpture gallery to reach the terrace overlooking the courtyard. Moroccan tiles in the courtyard and drapery of Byzantine silk concealing every window seat (tea taken at irregular hours). Peacock tail feathers and Turkish oil lamps in the living room, settees and divans in deep cobalt and aubergine. Daybeds in nearly every room, ideal for lounging at inconvenient hours. Copper pots and pans in the stone kitchen, window sills teeming with herbs and spices, a fireplace raging at the far side of the room, baskets overflowing with garlic and leeks and pheasant and rabbit. A three-storey library; books organised by subject; built-in alcoves, and art deco stained-glass. Twilight suppers beneath the wisteria and deadly nightshade in the conservatory, a fountain in the centre lit through a skylight on moonlit nights. A wine cellar, of course. A post-dinner soiree in the music room. A maze garden that tends towards the overgrown. Basically a mixture of John Soane’s and Dennis Severs’ house with a touch of Wilde, Byron, and Sackville-West. Ghosts welcome.

Part II (THE ASCETIC): A cottage by the sea, in the highlands, or on the moors (the colder the better). Steel coloured shutters, paint chipping at the edges, an overgrown garden of ivy and clematis, a flotsam cat for whom milk is left out every evening. A reception room with worn sofa, a Georgian wingback, Aran woollen throws, and empty mugs littered about. A writing desk littered with quill nibs and blank staff paper, facing the large window overlooking the miles and miles of isolation. Not enough shelves for the books; most must be stacked on the floor, alongside butterflies and candles. Peeling wallpaper and faded portraits. A stone kitchen which used to be a 14th century storeroom. Modest eating and sleeping quarters, bare and unpretentious. An atelier in the back, overflowing with glass belljars, plaster casts, and overgrown ferns. A private chapel of stone, silent and candlelit on cold evenings. A short walk to the abbey ruins, best enjoyed on overcast days with picnic basket in hand and aforementioned flotsam cat by side. Evenings spent in front of the coal-burning fireplace (dressing-gown preferred, socks mandatory), either to the sound of the gramophone or the wind or sea. Please do not disturb.

Alternate Part II (the warm weather version): White-washed, stone steps to a courtyard overlooking the sea. Cotton and linen and swathes of azure blue. Spare and austere, save for a collection of gorgonians, icons, and fragments of neoclassical statues on the mantelpiece. Escaping inside from the heat of the day, a bowl of pomegranate airils on the daybed surrounded by cushions.  Late afternoons with rakı, figs, olives, honey, and a book of Hikmet poetry. Feet bare on the tile floors, warmed by pools of sunshine streaming through the windows of the kitchen and bedroom.  Listening to the meltemia in the night, a steady breeze rustling the diaphanous mosquito nets, as music from the tambouras echoes with the voices of ancient gods.

Modeling Deals

zendria asked: I’ve got this horribly silly idea in my head: Somewhere along the line, a student majoring in photography (not a reincarnation, just a random person) has this whole vision about a project of theirs, but it requires weird lighting and a model with inhuman eyes because reasons, but sclera contacts are too expensive for a poor college student, so they just straight-up summon Alcor and ask him to be their model. He actually agrees to it, the photos come out great, and the student aces the project.

On AO3 // On

Photography was Killian’s passion, his reason for life, his everything.

Which was a Bad Thing in the eyes of his parents (who had very old-fashioned ideas about what was Acceptable Behavior and Interests for People of Certain Genders) and the reason he was currently living in the cheapest option for photography students.

All the restrictions, the near cut-off situation (because his parents weren’t about to pay for any of this, but wouldn’t let him starve – even if it came with conditions – like listening to the hour long lecture on Proper Masculine Ambitions) it would all be worth it once he had that degree.

But it wasn’t going to happen unless he came up with something utterly spectacular for his final project, if only for the sake of his pride. He refused to have gone through all this and then turn in something less than his very best.

Killian could visualize what he wanted to do, and it would be amazing, he just knew it would. If only he could figure out how in the cock-a-doodie world he was going to make it happen!

It would take special, fancy lighting, and sets, fancy costumes and, worst of all, cosmetics – contacts, specifically, and sclera contacts at that – that were just plain out of his current price range, and out of the budget range of anyone else he knew, except maybe his parents, who would never pay for such a thing.

Just about everything he could manage except for the make up, those ridiculously expensive contacts, and the lighting. And he was out of ideas.

Sighing, he threw himself onto the (third or fourth hand) couch in the studio/kitchen/workroom he and his friends shared and threw an arm over his eyes dramatically.

The over-dramatic motion knocked Alyssa’s demonology textbook over from its perch on the back of the couch, and it landed on his face. He sputtered and grabbed it, yanking it off his face and glaring at it before his eye was caught by an artist rendering of Alcor the Dreambender.

He gaped at the picture for a few seconds, letting out a long, slow breath before skimming the text. Eyes lighting up with ideas, he scrambled off the couch, reaching for his tablet computer. He needed to do some research right away.

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