made by the art of pretension


For murkybluematter’s The Pureblood Pretense series 
Finally sharing these (unfinished) fan-made covers for the three currently complete books of my absolute faveeee author Violet

If you love complex characters and well-thought-out world-building, read this series. It’s immersive, and I’m still blown away by how much I love this series and how many times I can reread it.

Enjolras had barely stepped into the room that Courfeyrac said: “You should paint me, someday.”

He was lounging on his couch, looking every bit like the young and idle rich heir he pretended to be, and observing his hands keenly. Enjolras raised an eyebrow, waited for the domestic who had lead him to Courfeyrac’s chambers to leave, and then he replied carefully: 

“I’m a printer, not a painter.”

Courfeyrac turned to look at him at last, and grinned warmly; “So you are; but Combeferre revealed your secret yesterday - was all flustered about it too - and now I can’t stop thinking about it: aren’t we already pretending I’m a great patron of the arts anyway?” 

“It’s not pretense if you love doing it,” Enjolras pointed out, and Courfeyrac acknowledged it with a humble nod. Still, the twinkle in his eye had not died. “It’s no secret I know how to draw,” he said. “But nobody would ever see what I draw and come to the conclusion I’m good enough to make portraits.”

“I believe you’d be good at anything you set your mind into,” Courfeyrac said greatly, and from anybody else, it could have sounded patronizing, but Courfeyrac had a way of speaking that made everything he said sound sincere and friendly. Enjolras smiled. 

“And I’ve got no manners at all,” said his friend, suddenly. “Heavens, Enjolras, sit! I have so many things to tell you - some I’m afraid you may not like.”

“I heard about the Inquisition moving again,” said Enjolras somberly. 

“I advised Combeferre to be a little more quiet with his experiments,” Courfeyrac said, shuddering. “Do you think -”

“They can’t know,” Enjolras said, shaking his head. “We trust everybody we work with.” Courfeyrac was still frowning, preoccupied. Enjolras leaned in, and put a hand on his arm. “We’ll be fine, as long as we’re careful. If it makes you feel better, I can arrange for you to meet with our latest ally - he had to deal with them before, and has a lot to teach us: I believe you will like him. He’s highly respectable, and the epitome of success and bravery. He gives the name ‘man’ some genuine pride.”

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. “Is this how you talk about every single one of us to others, or is this man truly special?”

Enjolras refused to blush; “You’ll like him,” he repeated. “His name’s Feuilly and, as luck would have it, he also happens to be a much better painter than I.”  

“The Circus” 1928

Charlie and Numa the lion

“In at least one scene that appears in the finished film, as Chaplin would unashamedly point out in later years, the fear on his face was not a pretense.  Despite the risk, Chaplin went back into the cage day after day..By the time the sequence was completed he had made more than 200 takes with the lions”

Source: David Robinson: Chaplin - His Life and Art

doctortreklock  asked:

Hey, I saw you posted about going to undergrad early and the Imposter Syndrome that ensued. As someone who's had to deal with Imposter Syndrome, what would you recommend for dealing with it and moving on?

 Hello!  Thank you for asking me this.  My answer won’t be universal, as everyone responds to and overcomes things like this differently.  However, I think overcoming Impostor Syndrome takes a combination of courage, self-love, and a leap of faith.

You have to believe that other people have the same fears and insecurities as you do, and you also have to believe that you, without pretense, are enough.  

In order to overcome my own impostor syndrome, I had to stop imposing the narrative of what I wanted myself and my life to be over what I actually was:  for me, the shift came about around the same time I switched my focus from biology (which made me miserable and I largely sucked at) to art.  My mom suggested I become an art professor, and I realized how much happier I immediately felt when I was looking at a prospective future I could actually enjoy.

I think this was one of the first moments I actually realized the joy that could come from being myself.  

This was the second semester of my sophomore year, around the same time that I came out to my friends as bisexual, began to redecorate my room and live a healthier lifestyle, and come out of my depression.  I think a large part of this coincided with overcoming the Impostor Syndrome that I’d struggled with before, as I was finally becoming comfortable in my own skin.    

So in closing, my advise to you in overcoming Impostor Syndrome is somewhat cliched, to the point where it may be a bit frustrating to hear it:  love yourself.  Once you’re comfortable with yourself, and cultivate pride in who you are, you won’t want to be anyone else.  

I am guilty of too serious, too grave living, but never of shallow living. I have lived in the depths. My first tragedy sent me to the bottom of the sea; I live in a submarine, and hardly ever come to the surface. I love costumes, the foam of aesthetics, noblesse oblige, and poetic writers. At fifteen I wanted to be Joan of Arc, and later, Don Quixote. I never awakened from my familiarity with mirages, and I will end probably in an opium den. None of that is suitable for Harper’s Bazaar.

I am apparently gentle, unstable, and full of pretenses. I will die a poet killed by the nonpoets, will renounce no dream, resign myself to no ugliness, accept nothing of the world but the one I made myself. I wrote, lived, loved like Don Quixote, and on the day of my death I will say: ‘Excuse me, it was all a dream,’ and by that time I may have found one who will say: ‘Not at all, it was true, absolutely true.’

—  Anais Nin, excerpt from letter to Leo Lerman, 1946.

pigeon-pigeoff  asked:


💌: I’d love to send you more messages and asks but you make me nervous!
😊: You’re sweet. You’ve made me smile before.
👒: You come off as very friendly!
🍳: This is an egg in a frying pan!
🐚: I find your blog very calming.
👍: I like you. Just, in general. I think you’re a genuinely good person.


i can’t believe my disaster of an internet pretense is calming to you but you know what? i’m glad


REVIEW: Aku no Hana // The Flowers of Evil

Aku no Hana is a masterpiece in a medium that has difficulty recognizing artistic perfection unless that greatness exists along pre-established lines. You may have already heard of the show as the one with rotoscoped animation – the show that anime fans by and large decried for being ugly, boring, and too different – too unlike anime. After all, anime have always existed as escapist tales of either over-the-top or nearly meaningless consequence, populated by purposely designed caricatures; Aku no Hana is not that. There seems to be little room in public perception for the medium to evolve out from under the prejudices of the average anime viewer. It is a shame, then, that we must discuss Aku no Hana as a work all but completely ignored when it is easily the most important anime of the decade so far and one of the most important of all time – let alone one of the best.

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Die 4 U
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Lana Del Rey’s sound is nostalgia for an old lie

“Darling, you can’t let everything seem so dark blue. Oh, what can I do?”

—“Black Beauty,” Lana Del Rey

The summer I was 16 and cripplingly awkward, my father’s job moved our family from Toronto to the southern U.S. After spending my whole young life in Canada, I started my first day of 10th grade at George Walton High School in East Cobb County, Georgia, and the ensuing culture shock was about as harrowing as you can imagine for an already uneasy teenage girl.

The high school of nearly 2,700 students was primarily white and Baptist, complete with daily prayer around the flagpole, pancake breakfasts for Jesus, and a Friday Night Lights–style football obsession. On game days, fully suited football players brought roses to their assigned cheerleaders, while the girls, clad in their freshly pressed red-white-and-blue uniforms, provided players with baked goods and breakfast sandwiches from Chik-fil-A. The town was famed for a 56-foot-tall steel-sided chicken statue, and for being an early adopter of evolution is just a theory stickers for its science textbooks. In one memorable round of bullying, a few other students decided I was a weirdo and a freak and threw food at me in the cafeteria while gleefully chanting insults.

The only way to suffer through 18 months in the slo-mo sport-movie montage of southern teen culture was to fetishize Americana—protests in Marietta Square and peach pies cooling on windowsills, buttery Waffle House grits and chain-smoked Marlboro Reds with bottomless diner coffee, and the appealing façade of southern hospitality. It was a bright-side approach to darkness, a juvenile fascination with the great American road trip, with drug-fueled binges for the sake of poetry and art, with Hollywood glamour and revolution and the blinking lights of Vegas—a false frontier mentality that made America seem majestic rather than menacing. Deluding myself into survival, I found something to love where there was nothing. And decades later, I’ve found that Lana Del Rey that sounds exactly like that glorious pretense. Her songs, are in essence, nostalgia for an old lie.

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We teach young girls shame. close your legs, cover yourself. We made them feel as though being born female they are already guilty of something. So girls grow up to be women who cannot say they have desire, women who silence themselves, who cannot say they truly think. They grow up to be women who have turned pretense into an art form.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie