Sam I have an important Chicago question: just north of the DuSable bridge there is a statue of what looks like Abe Lincoln excitedly taking a man in a knitted sweater on a first date. I only saw it from a bus, so didn't get either a photo or an explanation. Can you explain this phenomenon? Are Abe and Sweater Man happy???
*head in hands* FUCKING SEWARD JOHNSON
You have triggered the rage within me, so now you will ALL be treated to an outside-the-readmore screed about SEWARD GODDAMN JOHNSON.
I don’t normally attack artists because a) it scares my friends who are artists (I love you all, you are beautiful, don’t be afraid) and b) honestly most artists don’t deserve the level of vitriol I’m about to employ. I want you all to remember that the seething hatred I feel for Seward Johnson is driven in large part by class consciousness.
But not entirely. So let’s begin.
First what you have to know is that Seward Johnson is a “sculptor”. If you google “seward johnson sculpture” you’ll get an idea of his work, most of which is terrible. I feel okay calling his work terrible because he is also the scion of the family that founded SC Johnson Johnson & Johnson (my bad), so he has all the money he needs and could step back, do his art for funsies, and let people with actual talent or two original thoughts in their heads exhibit their art, but he doesn’t, he forces his terrible art on all of us.
The reason I harbor such animosity towards Seward Johnson is that he has been exhibiting on Pioneer Plaza (that area north of the DuSable Bridge) for almost a decade now, and when I worked in the north loop I had to walk past his art every day. It was bad enough when the sculpture was American Gothic, rendered without talent or meaning into three dimensions and provided with luggage.
How very fucking dare you, you talentless hack
These things are sculpted out of what amounts basically to styrofoam painted in rubberized/weatherized paint, so they are fragile, and tourists were constantly climbing on Farmer’s shoes and falling into them when they found out it wasn’t the cheap but supple fiberglass you would expect of a tacky monstrosity more suited to a roadside motel than the business district of a major metropolitan city. (I would imagine this is why Abraham Lincoln And The Mayonnaise Sandwich has a little fence around it.)
But American Gothic Motel Attraction was mostly just annoying because it was meaningless, derivative, and CONSTANTLY covered in gawkers getting in everyone’s way.
Additionally, Seward Johnson’s sculptures on the Plaza are very popular photo spots for tourists, who carry lots of cash and are constantly distracted, which means beginning with The Assault On American Gothic it became a very popular spot for pickpockets. Which means members of our staff, who had nothing to do with this mess, got pickpocketed as collateral damage about once a week during the exhibition of….
SEWARD JOHNSON GO FUCK YOURSELF
This is a very famous image of Marilyn Monroe which is horrifying for the following reasons that Seward Johnson appears not to have understood nor cared about:
a) The day this was shot, on an open set with people leering at her all day, her husband, professional athlete and dirtbag Joe DiMaggio, found out about the filming. Rather than comfort his wife, who had been through some shit already that day, he became angry she’d been showing her panties in public and beat her so badly the neighbors called the police on him. Joe DiMaggio also go fuck yourself.
b) IT’S IN A MOVIE INFAMOUSLY SET IN NEW YORK. To quote a local newspaper, “Did Chicago lose a bet?”
c) Yes, you can look up and see her panties. While this is juvenile, it’s not nearly as juvenile as the literally thousand of photographs I angrily photobombed of some douchebro from Fuckville Middle America in a backwards baseball cap standing between her legs with his face tilted upwards and his tongue out.
Oh and btw before it was unveiled it looked like this:
For literal days, before it was installed, she had a bag over her head. (For more on this, though the pictures are now missing, you can read my reaction post here.)
In any just world, there would be a trap door between her legs and everyone who tried to do the upskirt shot would fall into a pit where they would be forced to give five dollars to women’s shelters before they were allowed to leave. THAT would have been interesting art.
Sidebar, both as contrast and because I love it: Marilyn left a few years ago and was briefly replaced by a refreshing and beautiful piece called The Watch, by Hebru Brantley. The Watch was playful and interesting and didn’t have a single upskirt. Hebru Brantley is a wonderful artist in his own right, but he was also a welcome breath of fresh air after Johnson’s mediocre tribute to sexual assault.
It is an unfortunate coincidence that Confused Closeted Republican there is wearing khakis and a white shirt, the new uniform of the alt right, and it’s also coincidence that this is facing Trump Tower, but it’s not exactly helping Seward Johnson’s cause that he chose the blandest outfit possible for Paean To Confused White Bread. The sculpture is meant to be Lincoln, the darling of Illinois, welcoming a visitor to our fair city, but it sure does look like fresh meat is about to get a free trip to Boys Town with the Sixteenth President of the United States.
This is what I mean when I say Seward Johnson lacks not only skill but also understanding: he clearly didn’t know that Lincoln’s sexuality is under enough debate to have its own wikipedia page, and he either didn’t know or didn’t care that Marilyn Monroe was nearly killed by her husband for shooting that scene. All he cares about is image and he’s bad at reproducing image. That is not a well-executed rendering of how human beings are, and dynamically speaking it’s boring. If he were good at visuals or if he had something meaningful to say I would be less angry, but he is mediocre at best and the statements his sculptures make are banal pap if they make any at all.
But he is rich, and I guess either he likes Chicago or he’s got blackmail on Sam Zell, owner of Pioneer Plaza, so he gets to spatter his hideous, meaningless masturbation in my city. And lest you think Seward Johnson got here on his own merits, Forever Marilyn, now on tour from coast to coast, is owned by The Sculpture Foundation, which is heavily subsidized by Seward Johnson. He basically founded a nonprofit to ensure his work gets toured around and publicized and to ensure that if no museum wants it, it has a place to go to die (Palm Springs, CA).
In short, I hope Abe and Sweater Man are happy, because at least then something good has come out of Seward Johnson’s astounding mediocrity. That said, if you are passing his latest work, spit on it for me. As performance art.
1. yuuri has had to owe yuuko many favors over the years, and she never really collects, so when she asks him to take the triplets to the doctor for their check-up one day he has to agree. he doesn’t mind, anyway. he REALLY doesn’t mind when their doctor is one victor nikiforov, who has cartoon poodles plastered all over his clinic
2. all of his patients always comment on his forehead, and victor knows they’re all under the age of 12 and don’t really know any better, but that just hurts more. because that means they don’t have a filter, and that they’re telling the truth. victor stress-eats the lollipops he’s meant to give to them.
3. when yuuri brings the triplets in, it takes approximately 5 seconds for victor to fall in love with him, 27 seconds for yuuri to decide victor is out of his league, and an excruciating 48 minutes before victor realizes axel, lutz, and loop are his godchildren and can finally, in good conscience, admire this man deeply and openly.
(it had taken the girls all of 1 minute to catch on and were totally milking having yuuri take care of and coo over them, just to fuck with Dr. Shiny)
(“please… stop calling me that…” victor says cheerfully, a shadow over his eyes.)
4. yuuri somehow manages to leave without ever getting a clue that victor wants his number for a date, and NOT to update the triplets’ emergency contact sheet. victor takes this as a subtle rejection, (“even when he’s cruel he’s so kind,” he mourns) but listen. part-time front desk receptionist yuri plisetsky is having none of this. no fucking can do, he says. you’re not gonna fucking finish off these lollipops they were supposed to last us another week or two, he tells victor.
(“you’re not even in charge of the accounting,” victor wants to tell him.)
5. it’s probably a total breach of some confidentiality and privacy laws, but victor takes yuuri’s number from the emergency contacts and rings him up. yuuri, it turns out, is a vet who owns a clinic at the same medical plaza. yuuri has been looking after makkachin the past six months.
victor sends an exasperated look at yuri p, who had been taking makkachin and potya to the clinic for them.
“why didn’t you tell me he was the vet?”
yuri p does not understand. “well weren’t you going to find out anyway?”
yuri p does not understand ANYTHING. “the… the emotional turmoil i’ve been through,” victor cries. “i thought he was their father and then he rejected me—”
“he didn’t, he just thought you were totally flirting with him just like you flirt with all the moms here, which you do.”
“—and all this time i could have been the one bringing our pets to the vet and i could have asked him out a long time ago, while i was in MY ELEMENT…”
yuuri is still on the phone. “um, victor?” his voice calls through the speaker.
haha. hahahahaha, victor thinks. fuck.
“ah, yuuri!” he tries to say with a normal voice. yuri’s face says that he is failing spectacularly.
yuuri sounds like he’s trying not to laugh, but tells him he’s free for coffee the next day.
i would like season 5 to bring us an update on rosa’s puppy arlo like how big is he now? does he play fetch? does he give a high five with his paw before he gets fed? has he learned not to chew on rosa’s leather jacket when she forgets to hang it up in her closet? this is important
Hey can we get a fanfiction on Peter x Reader, where the reader is Tony’s daughter and it’s just super cute and fluffy.
(AN. Hi! this is basically just Peter fluff o k I love it and dad!Tony is just killing me)
Being Tony Stark’s daughter is overrated.
It was just a huge, chaotic mess of helping Tony prevent the world from going into a more chaotic state. It’s not that (Y/n) doesn’t like her father or anything, it’s because she loved him so much she was worried half to death everyday that he wouldn’t come home in one piece after a mission.
But like everything else in the world, being a Stark has its perks. (Y/n) grew up with the Avengers, meaning that when she was a little girl, it was Natasha and Clint who told her how to fight, Steve who told her bedtime stories, Bruce who tutored her, and Thor who comforted her when she was afraid of thunderstorms.
But that was years ago.
Now (Y/n) is 15, too old for bedtime stories or to be afraid of thunderstorms.
The events of the Sokovia accords broke her. What she knew as her family was now separated into two.
She would give anything to hear another bedtime story from Steve.
“(Y/n)?” Peter called, noticing that (Y/n) had a blank stare in her usually lively eyes,“Are you okay?”
(Y/n) snapped out of her train of thoughts. “I’m fine,” she sighed quietly.
They sat on the couch together, watching the Hobbit as their hands tangled together, (Y/n)’s head on Peter’s shoulder.
Of course, the Sokovia Accords also has its perks. She met Peter.
At first, Peter was just a stuttering mess who didn’t know how to act around her. Given time, they bonded over their love of Star Wars their similar intention of saving the world. It wasn’t until one night while watching Return Of The Jedi that Peter suddenly blurted out that he liked her.
That was two months ago.
And no, her father didn’t know.
Honestly, (Y/n) wasn’t really sure how he’ll react when he finds out.
“You’re doing that again,” Peter said softly. (Y/n)’s nose crinkled in confusion, “doing what?”
“That look with your eyes. Like you’re thinking, you know? What are you thinking about?” he asked with genuine curiosity and fascination.
“Just how dad will react if he knew,” (Y/n) said, chuckling in the end.
Peter grinned, kissing her nose playfully. “He’ll kill me when he finds out.”
“Who’ll kill you when who finds out what?” asked a stern voice from the back of the room, causing (Y/n) and Peter to jump in their seats.
Tony had ‘the look’ in his eyes, meaning that he could go off anytime now.
He stepped closer to Peter. “Don’t tell me it’s what I think it is.”
Peter sank down in seat. “I-I think it is what you think it is…?” he answered uncertainly.
“Okay,” Tony said, forcing himself to say the word.
“It’s okay?” Peter asked, a tint of hope in his voice.
“No,” he replied. “I’m giving you a five-minute head start.”
Peter’s eyes widened like tennis balls as he ran to the door, giving a pleading and apologetic look at (Y/n).
As soon as Peter was out of sight, Tony sat next to his daughter and gave her a grin. He laughed out loud. “He’s going to be so pissed when he finds out I’m just messing with him.”