Francis Bacon, born this day in 1909, created this menacing, raw painting in the wake of World War II. See it now on our third floor as part of Soldier, Spectre, Shaman: The Figure and the Second World War.
did you guys notice at the end of the movie the way Katniss was looking at Peeta while he was reading Annie’s letter? specifically when he read the line about how her son looked like his father, how she endured because “we owe it to ourselves and our children.”
that was the moment Katniss realized she wanted to have Peeta’s babies :’)))
Water and smoke and the sweet tang of blood fused into one, and the cried of his people, father against son, brother against brother. All of him all of them on the line of fire. Screams in the distance, desperation and hate, self-loathing and deep as a sword in his guts, and the dull gazes of well known eyes turning away as the stars fall from the sky in a rain of gunpowder.
Something reached out for him, a voice… a voice that he knew very well. Pictures of bloodied swords and handguns and binding rage, all wrapped in one over the parchments of broken truces an…. The touch shook him of of his dream but not out of another time as he launched himself aside and, using the bed sheet as a whip to distract Francis for a couple seconds, threw himself forward, tumbling them both over and landing on the floor with his forearm pressed against Francis’ throat.
A/N: loosely based on the song Atlas Hands by Benjamin Francis Leftwich, which you can listen to here.
It was just supposed to be one night. One night of bliss and passion with a rebellious boy you hardly knew, and then you’d return to your life, and he’d go back to his as well. But one night turned into a week as his band stayed in your hometown to record for their new album, and soon his bed was as familiar as the back of your hand, and his band’s faces were no longer shocked when you walked into their kitchen each morning.
You knew you were falling too deep too quickly, but you felt light and happy and never had you felt quite so beautiful as when you removed your shirt and a mischievous smile was painted across his face. You loved the feel of his bright red hair on your fingers, feather soft, and his calloused fingers on your lower back. His voice saying your name was your favorite sound, and you found yourself wondering how life could possibly get any better.
It couldn’t, honestly. His arm was draped over you when you woke up. You carefully untangled yourself from him and silently put on shorts and a tank, then emerged into the kitchen. Ashton was spreading vegemite on toast, and looked up at you smiling when you walked in. He asked if you wanted a slice, and you politely declined, opening up the fridge to pour yourself a glass of juice.
“We’re really gonna miss having you around, Y/N,” he said, and you almost dropped the juice.
“What?” you asked, completely taken aback.
Now Ashton looked confused. "We’re… we’re headed home today. Didn’t Mike tell you?“
Tears began to well up in your eyes. You shook your head and put the juice back in the fridge slowly, trying to process what you had just learned. Suddenly, all you felt was rage. You stomped back into his room and threw the covers off of him.
"Are you fucking kidding me?” you shouted, and he blinked quickly.
“Y/N, what’s going on?” he asked, rubbing at his eyes and sitting up.
You were livid. "Oh, not much. I just went to get breakfast and Ashton told me that you’re leaving today. Thanks for telling me, by the way,“ you said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
His eyes widened. "I was gonna tell you,” he began.
“But you just forgot?” you asked. "Forgot that you were leaving the country and we might never see each other again?“
"No, I just…” he was scrambling to find the right words, his voice still endearingly husky from sleep. "I just didn’t know how to tell you,“ he finished quietly.
"There’s a million ways to tell me!” you shouted, tears springing up in your eyes. "God, you’re such a dick.“
"I am. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. Sorry I ever thought I was in love with you.”
His jaw dropped. You grabbed your shoes and bag, not wanting to look at his face for another second. "Y/N, wait,“ he said as you opened his bedroom door. You heard him curse before you slammed it shut. You walked swiftly to the front door, bypassing Ashton, who stood shocked in the kitchen. You flung open the front door and made it to the driveway before he caught up. He grabbed your arm, and you whirled around to face him.
"I don’t want to hear it, Michael,” you said. "Let me go.“
He stood on the pavement in just his boxers. "I don’t want to,” he replied.
His words pulled you up short. “You have to. You’re leaving today.”
“I know, but… God, I suck at this. Look, I just didn’t want you to be sad about us leaving, so I kind of didn’t tell you. I know, that was stupid and I’m an idiot,” he said, reading your expression. "But… I don’t know, I kind of really like you. Or love you or whatever.“
Now your jaw dropped. You recovered, and smiled. "What was that, again?”
He smiled back at you shyly. "I love you,“ he said, and then he said it again, louder. And then he was shouting it. He ran up to an older couple walking their dog on the street. "Hey, hi, do you see that gorgeous girl right there?” he pointed at you. "I love her.“ You giggled as they looked at him, traumatized by this boy standing on the street in his boxers.
"Okay, I get it,” you said, and he walked back to where you stood. "But what does it matter if you’re leaving?“
He smiled wide. "I’ve been thinking about that. We’re going home for a while, but then we’ll be back for tour. I wanted to- oh, fuck, I suck at this. Okay, just- will you be my girlfriend?”
Your eyes widened. "I- yeah, of course!“ you yelled, and hugged him.
"Yes! Wait, I’m not done.” he said, and you pulled away from him, your arms still around his shoulders. You felt his hands slide around your waist. "I wanted to ask if maybe you’d want to go on tour with us?“ he asked, uncertain.
Your jaw dropped again. Your mind spun with the possibilities, of travelling with him the way you had always talked about. Sleeping in his bunk with him. Watching him live his dreams on stage. Singing to you in front of thousands of people every night. "Are you serious?” you asked.
“Yeah, I think so. Yeah. Definitely. Yes."
"I would love to, Michael,” you replied, and lifted you up and spun you around, then kissed you right there, on their driveway in his boxers. You giggled.
“And until then, just remember that the stars you see every night are the same ones I see. Remember this place, and that I’m in love with you, and we’ll be fine." You smiled at how honestly he spoke. "Fuck,” he suddenly said. "That’s good. I could write a song with that. Come on,“ he grabbed your hand, pulling you back towards the house, and your let him. "Let’s eat breakfast and then you can watch me write a song about you before we kiss goodbye at the airport tonight.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a plan, Clifford,” you replied, a smile on your face that wouldn’t go away.
“I always do,” he replied, as you walked through the door together.