I CAN EXPLAIN THIS so basically there’s this type of bonnet called a ‘poke bonnet’ and they look like this:
and in the regency there was this trend of the front part getting longer and longer until you couldn’t really see the wearer’s face… and people have been mean for all history and love to really deride and rip into the fashion trends of young women, so satirical cartoons like the one above popped up that were basically trying to say ‘hurr dburr stupid poke bonnets soon we won’t even be able to talk to women unless we stick our damn FACES INSIDE THEIR HATS!’
and yeah so that’s why we have a drawing of what looks like women sucking men’s heads off floating around tumblr
let’s bring back poke bonnets so ppl will have to leave me alone
I think the most compelling part of this comic is the two women in the background who are having a conversation without their bonnets even touching but all the men feel they have the right to invade the women’s spaces as much as possible
i know right? the woman in pink is clearly not having a good time
Satirical Regency Artist: Women, if these hats get any bigger, it’s going to be very difficult for men to mash our faces right up against yours!
Regency Hatter: *maintains eye-contact as she sews a massive goddamn brim onto a new hat* Imagine that.
Apparently, their hostess is very traditional–”For the case,” Phryne says, slipping the gold ring over his finger. “For the case,” Jack echoes, and slips a finer gold band over her ring finger.
(It feels more binding than any ‘I do’)
The first time Phryne introduces herself as “Mrs. Phryne Robinson“, Jack gives a full-body shudder. “Someone walking over your grave, darling?” she asks, her eyes twinkling. The sensation–that phantom wanting, the sweet surprise of it–doesn’t really leave him for the rest of the day.
The first time she kisses him, it is chastely on the cheek, as she excuses herself from dinner to rummage through their suspect’s luggage powder her nose.
(She smells powdery and sweet, of the Shalimar he knows she dabs on her wrists, pulse-point–and something else, metallic, like gun residue. He wonders when he learned what she smelled like.)
“Miss Fisher, around you, I feel a distinct need for a chastity belt.” “Detective Inspector, whatever can you mean?”
On the second night, he feigns a roaring drunk, in order to earn the trust of the dead woman’s husband–there’s a bravery in it he hadn’t expected, as he mirrors the man’s advances toward his secretary with Phryne. She tolerates his wandering hands with much more grace than the clearly-annoyed secretary, whom Jack makes a note to ask some pointed questions tomorrow morning.
(He does not think about how warm Phryne’s thigh is through the fabric of her dress. That does not–even cross his mind.)
The second time, Jack kisses Phryne, sloppy, mindful of the ruse, but he can feel her laughing under his hands, the way her mouth curls at the corner. “You are very drunk, my dear,” she says, and his answering grin is shameless, and unfeigned.
Jack insists on sleeping on the floor. (”I assure you, I’ve had a kip in much worse situations.”) Phryne insists with equal fervor that this will blow their cover–what if a maid lets herself in at an ill-timed moment?
As with all arguments Jack Robinson has had with Phryne Fisher since the moment their paths crossed, he loses.
(He wakes up the next morning with a mouthful of Phryne’s hair, and a very warm hand creeping up inside his nightshirt. He has to spend a good five minutes thinking about Hugh in a bathing costume before he’s fit for company.)
“Miss Fisher, I think you enjoying this case just a little too much,” Jack announces as she ruffles his hair in a semblance of ‘recently disheveled by his amorous wife.’ She smiles in that secretive, pleased way she has. “Nonsense, Jack, I am enjoying this case just the right amount.”
The third kiss is in the hall closet, Phryne’s breathing hot on his cheek and Jack’s heart hammering in his chest. “Kiss me,” she says, and Jack opens his mouth to protest when suddenly it is–occupied. With other things. “Oh!” their hostess exclaims, when she opens the linen closet. “Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, I’m sorry, I’ll just…leave you.”
It takes him a moment of blinking into the light to realize that the waxy feel around his mouth is Phryne’s lipstick.
They catch their killer, and Jack only gets knocked out once during the case. It seems to be a hazard of his job now, so he writes it up as a victory.
She gives him back the false wedding ring with a sad smile. “Till conviction do us part, I suppose?” she asks.
The fourth kiss happens there, when Phryne leans over his desk and kisses him at the corner of his mouth, lingering. He doesn’t realize he’s holding her until a moment later, when he registers the silk of her blouse beneath his hand, and her mouth opens under his with a soft sigh. “Jack…” she breathes.
“Inspector–oh!” Hugh exclaims, and hightails it from the office, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Um. Good work, Miss Fisher. On the case,” Jack says, rubbing the back of his neck. She touches her lips, clears her throat. “You as well, Detective Robinson,” she answers serenely. “I should–” she gestures to the door.
Jack watches her go, touching the false wedding ring still on his finger. He doesn’t take it off for a long while.
Look, I’ve loved notebooks since I learned how to write. I hoard empty journals and filled ones, I’ve kept diaries since I was six, I’ve used various types of bullet journals since before the term was invented; I’ve done it all.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about keeping the joy in journaling, it’s this:
LET. IT. BE. MESSY.
I mean, let’s be honest, how many of us have held onto a gorgeous notebook that we’ve been dying to use for way too long, never writing in it because we were terrified of not being able to fill it or live up to the aesthetic we dreamed up?
I know I have.
Nothing will kill your journaling experience faster than that kind of pressure. Besides, aiming for that kind of rigid consistency with a grimoire just seems bizarre to me, because your grimoire reflects your journey. So of course it will change as you do!
Variety is beautiful, so let your book be wild. Let one day be a freewriting journal entry, and the next be a Pinterest worthy spread with watercolour and washi tape. Write ten pages one day and ten words the next. Use different pens, switch colour schemes, switch between cursive and print. Draw cartoons, write notes in the margins, paste things in!
It becomes so much easier to record things regularly when you don’t have the pressure to live up to a certain standard or commit to a certain format each time.
It gives you permission to have different moods and styles. It gives you permission to evolve.
Don’t tie yourself to the ideas you had when you started. They’re good ideas, but they’re not the only ones.
if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to live in the midwest, this is it.
You missed some of the best ones
the best part about it is that the art installation isn’t actually called the Bean. It’s called Cloud Gate, and artist Anish Kapoor (yes, THAT Anish Kapoor) hates that we call it the Bean.
But i mean, look at it. It’s a bean.
How could you forget this one though
I HAD NO FUCKING IDEA THAT THE BEAN WAS CREATED BY ANISH KAPOOR.
someone help me why is anish kapoor important what did he do?
Alright sit down for some Art World Drama bcause this is what I live for.
So, sometime last year (?) science invented Vantablack, which is the darkest possible shade of black. Art world got incredibly excited. But as it needs to be very carefully made in a lab, it’s hard to get a hold of, and is extremely expensive. Enter Anish Kapoor, aka FuckFace McGee. Anish Kapoor buys the rights to Vantablack. He is the only human being on the planet that can legally use it, and he’s kind of a prick about it.
Art world is not thrilled with that.
Enter Stuart Semple.
Stuart Semple is an artist, and also makes pigments to sell in his free time. Stuart Semple is astoundingly pissed about this Vantablack nonsense, and Anish Kapoor’s dickery. Stuart Semple makes a new pigment, the brightest shade of pink ever, called Pinkest Pink, and puts it for sale on the internet. To be bought by everybody except Anish Kapoor. Literally, to purchase, you need to confirm that you are not Anish Kapoor, do not associate with him, and will not sell or give the pigment to Anish Kapoor or his associates. Art world has a good laugh, everyone buys Pinkest Pink because it’s awesome, and damn it we deserve something.
Anish Kapoor however is a penis, and will not take this lying down, because HOW DARE he not have literally everything.
Anish Kapoor gets his London associates to buy him a thing of Pinkest Pink, and being such a classy human being, posts a picture to instagram of him with his middle finger covered in Pinkest Pink, captioned with “Up yours. #pink”
Everyone flips shit, because. Y’know. Fuck that guy. Especially Stuart Semple. For context here, Anish Kapoor is one of the richest artists on the planet, and has repeatedly been referred to as everything wrong with the art world, and the epitome of the art worlds elitism problem. He’s a giant douchebag. Meanwhile Stuart Semple makes pigments just to get them out there. He turns 0 profit from his now enourmously popular pigments.
Stuart Semple launches an investigation as to who the fuck leaked Pinkest Pink, and plans to strike back. He does so by releasing two new products. First is Diamond Dust, which is a glitter made from glass, so that a painting is still visible after it’s applied, but glitters like a mofo. It’s the most reflective glitter out there, and is available to everyone who isn’t Anish Kapoor. And it being made of glass, if you stick your finger in there, it’s going to hurt quite a bit, so that was Stuart Semple’s way of saying “shove your middle finger in this, asshole, see what happens”. Except without saying that, because he can get an insult across while still being fucking classy.
He also releases Black 2.0, created with the help of over a thousand artists worldwide.
Black 2.0 is the answer to Vantablack. Black 2.0 is a slightly less black black, but looks functionally the same to the human eye. It’s completely safe, smells like cherries, and costs four pounds. Vantablack is highly toxic, potentially explosive, needs to be applied in a special laboratory and sealed properly, can’t be moved across borders, can reach 300 degrees celsius if you’re not extremely careful, and costs thousands of dollars. Anish Kapoor is the only human being who can use Vantablack. He is the only human being who cannot use Black 2.0.
So I think we can guess who got the better deal.
And thus the feud ends, Kapoor defeated.
…But not quite.
Kapoor, in this entire afair, has made exactly two comments to the public. The first being his charming message about aquiring Pinkest Pink, the second being claiming to Buzzfeed that he and his small army of lawyers will be suing Semple, an extremely poor artist who cannot afford a lawyer.
No lawsuit has been made yet, fyi.
The point is, Kapoor is a prick, and doesn’t like talking to the lower classes. So one day in July 2017, he decides he needs another floor on his London studio apartment, and starts making arrangements to have it built. His neighbors are fucking pissed, because this will ruin the light of their apartments. They call to Semple to save them, or at the very least piss Kapoor off some more.
Semple answers to the call, and releases two new paints, Phaze and Shift, as always, banned to Kapoor. They change colours, Phaze with temperature, and Shift is just iridescent. Shift needs to be painted over Black 2.0 to work, and Phaze just works on its own.
So that’s been the art world for the last two years.
Basically, get fucked Anish Kapoor your bean sucks and so does your vantablack.
Stuart Semple is organising a bean-kissing event for Anish Kapoor’s birthday.
Reblogging for “By attending this event you confirm that you are not Anish Kapoor, you are in no way affiliated with Anish Kapoor, you are not attending on behalf of Anish Kapoor or an associate of Anish Kapoor. To the best of your knowledge, information, and belief this event will not be attended by Anish Kapoor.”
ALSO HE JUST POSTED THIS!!!!!! LIGHTEST LIGHT!
I know this isn’t my art blog but this entire post gives me life
im sorry is that man holding a real actual miniature star in his hands
Y’all missed the best part about the lightest light, called aptly ‘Lit’. This is from their product page:
Two things:
1. “Anish Kapoor is however a penis” is the best line in this post.
2. I wish to be half as petty and half as awesome as Stuart Semple
I hope Stuart Semple is making a lot of money. What a good person.
Go support him the paint’s are pretty cheap and you get the added bonus of being one of many to help piss off Anish Kapoor
I’m a gay homosexual male man but as soon as I saw Cate Blanchett start turning those looks in Ocean’s 8 I could feel the powerful psychic energies of thousands of my lesbian and bisexual sisters collectively swooning at the sight and honestly I’m so happy for y’all you drink in that raw sapphic beauty this weekend you deserve it.
Spitfire Alice A Gra 
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