fragmented beauty

Ace Of Clubs

For the dear and super patient @kawereen, who not only graced me with my some amazing comics and pictures about my Demetra, but also makes this fandom a funnier, brighter place thanks to her art!
I strongly suggest you to check her work, because it’s seriously amazing!

Cullen Rutherford X Artemis Trevelyan

Artemis shook her head, exasperated. Sera showed her thousands of times how to do that damned thing. The young elf repeated the instructions day after day, while they were travelling through the Emerald Graves, mercifully sparing her jokes – at least, the lewdest ones. Artemis had thought it would be easy and funny making a flower crown for Cullen, once back in Skyhold, and she tried to learn standing around the fire even when the others were soundly sleeping in their tents. When they had seen Skyhold fortress at the horizon at the end of their journey, Artemis was sure she had mastered the art of making flower crowns. Yes, maybe her first tries hadn’t been a complete success, she grimaced remembering Cole’s worried voice about her work - Too forceful, she grabs and pulls, but her fingers don’t listen and the flowers are in the wrong place. They are not happy to be wasted - but surely all her training had improved her abilities.
She had giggled, imagining her Commander with that particular crown on that beautiful head of his. A true prince from the fairytales, she had smiled playing with the coin she always wore under her shirt, the thought keeping her company during the return travel. But now, with blossomed embrium and crumpled crystal grace on her lap, sitting alone under the gazebo in Skyhold’s garden, she wasn’t sure she had had a great idea. 

Keep reading

Made with Instagram

Those first world intellectuals engaged in repopularizing communism tend to make movementist strategies and tactics their default practice. Placing their faith in disorganized rebellions, they argue either explicitly or implicitly that we must tail every unfocused mass protest that erupts in response to global capitalism. The argument, though not always stated, is that these protests will, through some inexplicable mechanism of combination, produce a revolutionary critical mass, at some point on the distant horizon, that will finally resolve the communist hypothesis- this is precisely what is now called movementism.
There was a time, in the late 1990s and early 2000s, where most of us believed this movementist strategy was synonymous with revolutionary praxis. We went to Seattle to protest the World Trade Organization; we assembled in Quebec City to challenge the Free Trade Agreement of the Americas; we proclaimed that we were part of a beautiful and fragmented chaos of affinity groups, conflicted organizations, disorganized rebels, all of whom were somehow part of the same social movement that was greater than the sum of its parts. We believed ourselves to be raindrops that would produce a flood capable of sweeping away capitalism, unwilling to recognize that this was perhaps a false analogy and that we were more accurately, in very concrete terms, a disorganized mob of enraged plebeians shaking our fists as a disciplined imperial army. Years ago we spoke of “social movementism” but now it only makes sense to drop the “social” since this phase of confusion was incapable of understanding the social terrain.
So while we should endorse every rebellion against capitalism and imperialism, no matter how desperate (as Frantz Fanon once put it), we should also realize that the unfocused nature of these rebellions is intrinsically incapable of responding to the problem of necessity … 

[Movementism] goes nowhere because, due to its very nature, it cannot approach the point of unity- the point of theoretical and practical totality that post-modernists warned us to avoid- that should emanate from the understanding that communism is a necessity. For when we speak of necessities we also have to speak of building a unified movement that, due to this unity, will possess the intention of making what is necessary a reality.

—  J. Moufawad-Paul | The Communist Necessity (2014)
[Yuja Wang] played [the solo piano part to Messiaen’s Turangalîla-Symphonie] from a score, and on the night I attended did her own page turning, which lent a certain suspense to the proceedings. The pages flew at a rate of about one every thirty seconds… . Later, Yuja told me that she had put adhesive on the pages to insure that they would stay in place.

Janet Malcolm, “Performance Artist”, printed in the 5.9.16 issue of The New Yorker (p 57)

ok i find this deeply amusing b/c i can now recount the Full Saga of Yuja Wang’s Page Turning Adventures with Turangalîla at the NY Phil

i saw her perform on Thursday. she had a page turner, who was seated unfortunately far away from her and had to lunge forward to grab and flip the pages. unfortunate, since there are so goddamn many, and also unfortunate b/c that score did not want to stay flat and there was hella breeze in that hall. so there were a couple times where the poor turner had just sat down and then had to leap up again to prevent catastrophe. there was also one time where they were struggling to flip one, and Yuja held out a fermata just a liiiiiitle longer than i was expecting and it was not quite clear whether that was an artistic decision or her just desperately trying to cover for not being able to see the next measure. on the whole, it was a p distracting affair

Janet Malcolm clearly saw the Friday night performance. no page turner, adhesive on the pages, most of the distractions gone, but now with the added complication of trying to figure out where to flip the darn things while also playing approximately 500,000 notes per second

on Saturday, she did it from memory

Your shoulders retold the tales
of seas and caryatides in the sun
and supported a golden burden of noons.
The nights of adolescence nested in your hair
in the dark wild vines and the olives
of a myth you could never understand.

Fragment of beauty, warm statue
carved on the pediment of night
beyond identity and time;
anonymous like a tree and detached
like a statue; what sibyl seeks
your gaze now turned towards darkness?

Alexander Matsas

How Beautifully I Burn

How beautifully I burn, touching fervent kisses upon the fiery arch of your lips.

How beautifully I burn, tracing the dipping curve of skin that hides your pulsing heart.

How beautifully I burn, matching your ardent gaze with my own lust-hooded eyes.

How beautifully I burn, tangling the soft golden curls of your hair along my calloused, broken hand.

How beautifully I burn — how beautifully I destroy myself — to touch your divine grace.

— Fragmented Whispers /// beautiful-because-we-are-doomed

Eastern Massachusetts Gothic, Part 2

In Salem, tourism is a thriving industry, built on the infamy of the Witch Trials. Witches, ghouls, and ghosts walk in costume in Derby Square, handing out fliers for nighttime ghost tours. Perhaps this is how Salem buries its dead, you think, realizing that you never even learned all of the names of the 19 victims of the Salem Witch Trials. The Grim Reaper walks up to you. He hands you a flier with a discount for a nighttime ghost tour.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people pass Boston’s homeless on the streets each day, averting their eyes and quickening their pace as they walk by people holding donation cans, signs, pleas for money or assistance, some acknowledgement of their plight. You walk by too, and you always feel a twinge of guilt. Sometimes you contemplate buying one of these people a sandwich or a coffee, or asking them if they’re alright. Most people wonder the same thing. But no one stops; kindness disrupts the monotonous, soulless routine of daily life. You continue walking.

In your upper-middle class suburban town, you are always told to avoid the poorer neighboring towns or cities. They’re dangerous, you’re told, dirty and mean and not meant for you. They’re places to be ridiculed, scorned, and feared. You must stay where it’s safe, in your social bubble. Here, you’re told, everything is fine. People are kind, the schools are good, the community is close. Stay in the community, you’re told. And you stay.

After Halloween, many pumpkins remain on porches, stoops, and sidewalks, left to rot. Their carved features become distorted as the structure collapsed on itself, blackening as it decays and liquifies. You begin to avoid the houses guarded by Jack'o Lanterns.

Some mornings, you wake with a start to the sound of gunshots and fleeing birds. It takes a few moments to realize that you are not the target, and that the firing comes from across the border in New Hampshire. At nightfall, you can’t sleep; the sound of fireworks and rockets going off from across the Merrimack River keeps you up. Fucking New Hampshire.

The shores of rivers are plentiful with trash turned treasure. You find clay pipes, marbles, bottles, and broken china fragments with beautiful patterns. You also find dead fish and animal bones. There was that time you found what looked like human teeth. You wonder how they got there, but you’re not sure you really want the answer.

Everyone has a Harvard or BU sweatshirt. And yet, you know no one who goes to Harvard, and only a handful who go to BU. You never bother to say anything about it.

There are also a lot of people with Cape Cod t-shirts and sweatshirts. You assume they’re not from around here. Almost no one goes to the Cape. It will be underwater soon enough anyway.


hi, everyone! It could have been a fragment of a beautiful map, which me and guys wanted to finish way back in 2016, but something went wrong. I felt badly about this fragment being made in vain. For a long time it was kept on my computer, where no one could see it, and finally I’ve decided - 4/13 is a great opportunity to show it to you!
enjoy it and subscribe to my channel, it’s not the last time I post my animation!