alternatively, someone summons Crowley for legit demonic thing, but instead receives a lecture on responsible houseplant care, because their plants are in pitiful condition, and Crowley won’t stand for this
I think i read somewhere at nordiska museet website that a easy way to tell if old photograps of people in folk custome are just upper class dressing up as their idea of folk costume, is that the women will have the head coverings pearched somewhere in their massive hairdo as “decorations”
[1895, unknown women, Carl Larssons Studio]
Another exemple, were the hair us showing waaaay to much for an adult farmer women of that age (she is also wearing her Underwear on the outside i think? Which is another tell i suspect…). Also fro national romantic upper class artist Carl Larsson studio.
What i read in those instructions from nordiska, was that looking at the headwear is a good tell because an ACTUAL adult farmer women of that age, would never take a studio photo (intended to be shown to the public) with that much hair exposed. Showing alot hair as an adult women was Just Not Done, among farmer class women.
Photo of actual farmer class people dressed up in festive folk costume (that is: rural fashion used by the farming class during the 19th-18th century)
They two people are from Leksand. Photo from 1911.
You see how you cant see the womens hair? Nor the mans hair either should be added. Men were also soppused to always wear a hat when outside during this epoch (like neither women nor men who were commoners from the countryside considered themeselves “dressed” if they were outside without head coverings)
I finally reached the point in my life where I buy art prints from amazing artists and display it like the fine art it is!
I finally got around to framing the art I got at Gallifrey One 2018. I was so pleased to find a familiar name at the show! @ladyyatexel is AMAZING! I bought two prints from her, however one of the frames broke so it’ll have to wait.
Seriously guys, look at her amazing art gallery: @ladyyatexelart
The dead are for morticians & butchers to touch. Only a gloved hand. Even my son will leave a grounded wren or bat alone like a hot stove. When he spots a monarch in the driveway he stares. It’s dead, I say, you can touch it. The opposite rule: butterflies are too fragile to hold alive, just the brush of skin could rip a wing. He skims the orange & black whorls with only two fingers, the way he learned to feel the backs of starfish & horseshoe crabs at the zoo, the way he thinks we touch all strangers. I was sad to be born, he tells me, because it means I will die. I once loved someone I never touched. We played records & drank coffee from chipped bowls, but didn’t speak of the days pierced by radiation. A friend said: Let her pretend. She needs one person who doesn’t know. If I held her, I would have left bruises, if I undressed her, I would have seen scars, so we never touched & she never had to say she was dying. We should hold each other more while we are still alive, even if it hurts. People really die of loneliness, skin hunger the doctors call it. In a study on love, baby monkeys were given a choice between a wire mother with milk & a wool mother with none. Like them, I would choose to starve & hold the soft body.