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Something very sad and dumb is happening. During the slow collapse of the Roman empire we lost many "luxury" trades and techniques due to them not being sustainable in a post-roman less connected world. People didn't get dumber, and they kept using and inventing new things to improve their quality of life, but, to take an exemple out of many, the recipe of the seawater concrete that was so closely tied to Rome's monumental architectural projects was forgotten for over a thousand years simply because for quite some time there just weren't cities vast enough to attract the kind of patrons to fund them, which stopped the process known as euergetism to take place.
Somehow we have been going through the same process again over the past hundred and so years, not because there's no upper class to chase civic recognition by sponsoring the arts, but because the upper class has lost interest in sponsoring the arts at all. It seems like rich people have become more and more into the idea alone of accumulating money, and just can't think of ways to spend it that wouldn't also be thought off by the most basic dudebros around. Not to glorify rich people at any point in time but it used to be that when you had an insane amount of money you'd use it to foster a court of artist, build gigantic public baths or commission a rank in the navy to discover new continents. Nowadays it all goes towards a dick measuring contest of yachts, mansions and what just seems like the least satisfying way one could ever spend their money.
This wouldn't be so much of a problem considering the lower class has had more spending money than ever before in history, but aside from that and in lock step with exponential capitalism, rich people seem to take personal exception to the arts existing at all, opting instead to commodify everything, copy it and sell it for cheap. We're staring down the barrel of losing thousands of crafts honed over dozens of generations simply because the mercantile hellscape we live in does not, for whatever reason, value having the best possible teapot ever produced, or the best knife, or the best brush, etc... instead these products are undermined by cheap imitations sponsored by rich assholes wanting the appearance of quality over the real thing for revenues' sake, possibly because the idea that an ultra-skilled artisan class getting paid insane amounts of money completely proportional to their labor feels alien to this bunch of parasites.
And I don't think that trickle down economics has ever been a thing, but it sure as hell feels like we went from being the paid monkeys of the elite, to them not being willing to spend the piss it would take to save us from a fire.
i have a few resources i look to consistently but i'm gonna plug anatomy for sculptors as One Of The Most Useful. great if you're a 3D artist, INVALUABLE if you're a 2D artist. gives you turnarounds of specific limbs/fiddly body parts like ears. great especially if you're referencing a photo and start looking at an individual part like 'wait, what the hell is going on in there'
Angel of War, angular and strange, gleaming silver and gold,
Angel of Wonder, pure and one-eyed, looking to stars new and old,
Angel of Harvest, simple and hidden, bring nature's sweetness to all,
Angel of Health, mysterious and fine, beacon when life starts to fall,
Angel of the Deep, crooked and cage-like, guide us across the sea,
Angel of Solace, protect us from evil, lead us to where we are free.
(image description:) a phrase - angels of - followed by bright-on-black drawings of helmet-covered faces of: a knight captioned as war, an astronaut captioned as wonder, a medieval beekeeper captioned as harvest, a plague doctor captioned as health, an old-fashined diver captioned as the deep, a gasmasked person captioned as solace (/end description)
a quick fanart to the concept; do you think a motorcyclist and a person in a surgical mask and cap may join these ranks?
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What is the quote from Jingo, by Sir Terry Pratchett, to the effect of "when someone does something terrible, we want it to be one of Them, because if it isn't Them, then it is Us?"
“It was because he wanted there to be conspirators. It was much better to imagine men in some smoky room somewhere, made mad and cynical by privilege and power, plotting over the brandy. You had to cling to this sort of image, because if you didn’t then you might have to face the fact that bad things happened because ordinary people, the kind who brushed the dog and told their children bedtime stories, were capable of then going out and doing horrible things to other ordinary people. It was so much easier to blame it on Them. It was bleakly depressing to think that They were Us. If it was Them, then nothing was anyone’s fault. If it was Us, what did that make Me? After all, I’m one of Us. I must be. I’ve certainly never thought of myself as one of Them. No one ever thinks of themselves as one of Them. We’re always one of Us. It’s Them that do the bad things.”
Jingo. 1997. Pratchett, Terry. NY, London, and Ankh-Morpork: Harper-Collins. p. 205
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this concept that won't leave my brain. It's like a little gremlin banging to be let out.
Particularly, - Batman is Gotham's hero; He's not like any other baby faced, squeaky clean, popular good guy. He's scarred and brutal and violent in his service.
But it's fine, because Gotham is like that, too.
It's never peaceful, but it's standing strong, and there's an unanimous agreement they have Batman to thank for that.
The thing about Bruce is that he gives. He bleeds for Gotham, dies little by little every night protecting it, sacrifices everything he can and a little bit more so it won't be swallowed up by the evil that took his parents.
He doesn't expect parades, or celebrations, or gratitude because in his mind, it's just the decent thing to do.
Goodness isn't a chore. It's a choice. It's a sword you pick up again and again until your hands spill red and then pick it up some more.
And there's a collective fear in Gotham City. that one day, Batman would get tired of bleeding. When the GCPD gangs up on him, for refusing to let them gun down an Arkham escapee, they watched.
" He's not presenting a danger right now. His healthcare isn't enough to cover medication and he was dissociating. Let me take him back."
" For what? So he could escape again and rob another bank, like all the others?! Why are you protecting this psycho?!"
" He needs help."
" I don't care. His 'needs' aren't our damn problem. He wouldn't be anyone's problem if you just stepped aside and let us do the job you're too chicken shit to do. Who's side are you on, anyway?"
Batman's jaw is screwed tight, but he doesn't move. If he did, that guy hiding behind him would paint the streets red with a bullet hole in his head.
" We're supposed to work together, Batman."
" I work with people. Not pigs."
Commissioner Gordon tried to be fast, but he was pushed back as nearly half the police force swarm Gotham's knight; Kicking, stomping, punching, attacking because they know he can't attack back.
Because he's Batman, and they're just people. And the crowd watches, eyes wide and limbs frozen, until they can't. Until they won't.
There's a purse flying between the two crowds, hitting one of the officers square in the face.
" Hands off our Bat!"
There's pushing; That's what Bruce can see. Bodies on bodies, but it's easier to breathe again without a forearm pressing on his windpipe. He can't tell what's happening, but he's pulled back, handled almost... Carefully.
" Hey," he knows this voice, this face; It's the mailman, probably the one guy brave enough to deliver to the Waynes, who wonks for Damian three times as he drives away, elping him stand on a bad leg. " You alright, Batman?"
Someone else picks up his weight, - It's the owner of the grocery store his boys like to shop at.
She's glaring at police man currently sharing punches with an angry mob of people. " Bastards roughed you up, huh? Jim! Get your car!"
The people make way for Jim until he safely unlocks his car, threatening to fire anyone who even touches a trigger before he wheels over to where they're at. " Take care of him, will you?"
Jim nods, " I'll try."
They drive away, Jim locking the car because he knows Batman. But the people here are tough. They're just as angry and vengeful as their city is.
" Why?"Bruce is speaking outloud, watching a dozen, hundred people fight; For him.
Jim thinks it's very simple. " Gotham's fucked up. But we take care of our own," and he looks at Batman, eyes gleaming and grateful and relived, just like the runaway in the back-seat. " You may not be one of them, but you're one of us. Hope that's enough."
There's quiet.
" Thank you. For fighting for us."
"... Thank you for letting me."
Batman says nothing, but he doesn't need to. Jim doesn't say anything to his glassy eyes, or the temple of his lip.
Hope isn't permanent, but it's not lost. Not if they're reminded to find it.
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