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pxgeturn·:

“Then you shall always be morally rich, no matter their cost,” she wagered. They did not venture in any particular direction, simply out of the slums where eyes would follow their finer dresses and men hopeful for all sorts may be inclined to tail them. Busier streets brought more anonymity, strangely, which favoured Catherine’s question. 

Isabelle’s smile faded as she nodded, a look of concern overtaking her features. “Fortunately, I left before midnight and escaped it all. I thank God, for I fear my sister may have killed me for less,” she explained, punctuating herself with a nervous laugh. “You were not so lucky, I hear,” she added, her voice lower still, though only to mimic the others. 

Though they might still be quite strange to one another, and certainly did not have the familiarity afforded by being long of each other’s acquaintance, Catherine found she already held Isabelle’s opinion in great esteem. Especially when it came to the subject of morals. To hear her own ethics praised was a delight, therefore, and with thanks she gently squeezed their arms together.

Her delight, however, quickly stumbled over the mention of her own imprisonment. “I believe I was mistaken for something, and someone, I am not,” she explained in a quiet voice with a slightly wooden shrug. “I am glad to hear you were unharmed by it. There must have been much for you to do in the aftermath, with regards to your charity.”

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“Few men have risen to any great eminence in learning, who have not received something like a regular education. Why are women expected to surmount difficulties that men are not equal to?”

— Mary Wollstonecraft

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To The Ladies

Wife and servant are the same, But only differ in the name: For when that fatal knot is ty’d, Which nothing, nothing can divide: When she the word obey has said, And man by law supreme has made, Then all that’s kind is laid aside, And nothing left but state and pride: Fierce as an eastern prince he grows And all his innate rigor shows: Then but to look, to laugh, or speak, Will the nuptual contract break. Like mutes, she signs alone must make, And never any freedom take: But still be govern’d by a nod, And fear her husband as a God: Him still must serve, him still obey, And nothing act, and nothing say, But what her haughty lord thinks fit, Who with the power, has all the wit. Then shun, oh! shun that wretched state, And all the fawning flatt'rers hate: Value yourselves, and Men despise: You must be proud, if you’ll be wise.

-Lady Mary Chudleigh 

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“I love you no longer with the devotion which is paid to a Saint: I prize you no more for the virtues of your soul; I lust for the enjoyment of your person. The Woman reigns in my bosom, and I am become a prey to the wildest of passions. Away with friendship! ‘tis a cold unfeeling word. My bosom burns with love, with unutterable love, and love must be its return. Tremble then, Ambrosio, tremble to succeed in your prayers…. I feel with every heart-throb, that I must enjoy you, or die.”

—

Matthew Lewis, “The Monk” (1796)

(via pocketwatches)

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Armed Women in Art

(  Part I  ✤  Part II  )

Giuditta con la sua ancella, 1608. Artemisia Gentileschi.

Giuditta e l'ancella con la testa di Oloferne, ca. 1623. Orazio Gentileschi.

Le Temps enlevant la Vérité, 1733. Jean-François de Troy.

La Giustizia e la Pace che si Baciano, 1600s. Circle of Antiveduto Gramatica.

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ohbedlam·:

there was no telling what plagued the artist’s thoughts, why her cheeks burned to a red only found in the pits of the hearth. though to see her displaying such emotion was quite the joy, sean finding himself staring for a moment too long before he pulls himself back. 

he steadies himself beside her, an arm stretched out to take hold of a stranger’s arm as he hulls himself up to his feet. the evening was late, but as disorientated as he was in such a state, sean knew he wouldn’t be able to make his way back to his friend’s lodgings. so instead, he pretends as if he were to carry on - though his body is seemingly too heavy for his legs, so he proceeds to fall back beside dear catherine, who was going through her own life issues. 

“i apologise catherine-” the informality of using her name a blemish from the way he abused alcohol, one hand cradling his forehead. “i fear the devil has gotten the better of me, and what a curse it is,” words slip from his tongue quieter than normal, leaving him a somewhat dodgy shadow of his presented self - his words daring to enter the void with an irish twang clinging to each syllable. 

releasing his head to look towards his peer, sean takes the time to focus on anything other than the spinning room - eyes now focusing in on her eyes and how they seemed wider, and more alert, than usual. perhaps they both had been taken over by the vice. “let us get a carriage, they are simply brutes tonight, don’t you think?” 

Catherine watched as Sean burst to his feet and then, obviously unable to support his own weight, fell back down again, clumsily, and entirely without elegance. She had seen drunkeness plenty of times in her life, and knew that when this point was reached it would soon be followed by awful sickness, and heavy sleep.

All about them their compeers carried on, and Catherine quickly realised that, whilst Mister O’Donoghue might have been a little further along than them, all were headed in the same direction. Personally she had no desire to be caught in a room of men three sheets to the wind. She had stayed amongst the artists once before in such a state, and whilst she may have forgiven them their lewdness and cruelties, it was an experience she did not care to repeat. At least Sean appeared to know that the state he was in was a Bad one, even if he had lost his sense of decorum and referred to her by her Christian name.

“Mister O’Donoghue, tonight you appear to pluck the thoughts straight from my mind and speak them aloud.” Gently, she placed her hand again on his shoulder, and leant closer to him to speak into his ear as the hubbub of the room grew louder again. “Come, I will take you in my own carriage.”

With that, she stood and straightened her skirts, and waited calmly for Sean to stand beside her, so that she may escort him home.

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sexuality & gender diversity headcanons.   here’s one for the lgbtq+ muses: put a number in my ask, and i’ll tell you about my muse’s gender or orientational identity and their relationship with it. tw: topics of homophobia, transphobia, dysphoria and discussion of internalised oppresive attitudes in some of the questions. if you want to help your followers to pick out questions a bit, tag this post with your muse’s label(s) as you reblog!

what do you label your muse as, and how do they label themselves? is there a difference, and if so, why?

has your muse’s understanding of their own identity changed after realising they aren’t cishet, and do you see it developing further in the future?

when did your muse first realise they’re attracted to the gender(s) that they are?

when did your muse first realise they’re not attracted to the gender(s) that they aren’t?

when did your muse first become aware that they’re not cis?

when did your muse first become aware that their gender identity isn’t within the binary?

how public is your muse about their gender / sexuality / romantic attraction?

is your muse out as lgbtq+? how specifically and in what situations, if that varies.

how much does your muse’s gender identity and presentation differ from one another? is this a source of issues, or does the relationship between the two feel natural?

how does your muse feel about not being cis or straight? are they content with it, proud, ashamed? would the situation be the same if the culture or surrounding support systems were different?

have there been other meaningful people of the same or similar identities in your muse’s life that they’ve looked for support or understanding from? how did that go, and was the impact positive or negative in the end?

what are your muse’s feelings towards stereotypes relating to their identity? do they affect their self-image, or how they perceive others?

was your muse ever in denial about the matter? do you have any examples of specific instances where it was particularly obvious?

has your muse had feelings or experiences that seem to / do conflict with their identity? are these general knowledge? does it alter how others see them, or how they see themselves?

if the thing that originally caused them to realise / start the chain reaction to realising they weren’t cishet had not happened, how much longer would it had take to end up here?

do they consider to ‘always have been’, or do they see the phases in their life before coming out as ‘back when i was [cis/straight/allo]’?

how are their feelings towards pride and related phenomenons?

how does their family feel about the matter? friends? coworkers?—and does their thoughts matter to your muse?

what’s your muse’s relationship with the current state of their body?

what are your muse’s feelings towards the culture of romance and sexuality as it pertains to their identity?

what words do they reclaim, what are they okay with being reclaimed, and what do they do not want to used to describe them?

[figuresandbones-blog]

pxgeturn·:

Slipping her arm through the others, her smile felt far easier to come by than it had in her previous, tedious conversation about money and debts. Catherine seemed to her a supremely interesting and warm person, and someone she was naturally drawn toward. 

“I find that ever so fascinating,” she admitted, with regard to Catherine’s paintings. “You have no idea how refreshing it is to have the women here treated with some modicum of respect. The Lord knows they could do with it, and the break that you give them.” 

With an earnest smile and a dip of her head, Isabelle lifted her other hand to wave away any concern. “Not to worry. You have been generous enough already with just the one. Let us hope they won’t take these lessons to close to their heart, or your models may start charging extra,” she continued with a teasing sidelong glance. 

Flattered by Isabelle’s quick praise, and shy in the face of her wit, Catherine ducked her head with a smile. “I assure you, never would I dare to undercharge my models for what they do for me. Though it might provide me with a little more coin, it would leave me a poor artist, indeed.”

For a moment she watched their feet as they walked their way through the street, unsure of exactly where she was taking them, but knowing she would enjoy the company wherever they ended up. “How were you following the-” Catherine dropped her voice, “-the raid?”

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goldengrace-rosyemory·:

“what type of people?” he’d always liked asking questions, even if they got him into trouble, which more often than not, they did. he was greatly appreciative of the fact that she hadn’t asked more questions about his own profession. he was afraid she’d think he terribly improper; though he was also quite sure from this interaction alone, she already had thought so.

“then i’d call you the lucky one,” he chuckled as he picked another card from the deck and handed it over to her without looking at it. “but it builds good character, i’d say.” he added as an afterthought - but if one were to ask him, he’d say very little on his own character. russel street did not make him the man he was today - his past did.

her words slipped through his ears and he laughed, shaking his head. “i’ve a feeling you’re correct.” but emory was used to it; he’d made a nasty habit of smoking the herb since coming to london and the effects weren’t nearly as strong as they used to be. “hit or pass?” he asked again, itching to look at his own cards but fighting the urge. 

“Oh, Lords, Ladies, the sort of people who will pay for their vanity to be encouraged.” She shrugged as she said it, as if casting off the mantle of her own title and distancing herself from such things. “Money makes our world what it is, as I’m sure you know.”

It was money, for example, that allowed her to have knowledge of Russel Street. Money which let her buy the bodies of others for a few hours, and position them in the way she needed. Money which let her walk away when those hours were up and leave the slum behind. Money which forced those women and men to work there, and to ply their flesh like it was product. As he spoke, she could not help but disagree with him, and her hackles raised as she looked at her card. Jack of Spades. Fifteen.

There was a looseness about her that she had not often felt before, one that was no doubt encouraged by sherry and smoke and strangeness. She rolled her tongue around in her mouth in a moment of hesitation, and then, throwing all to the wind, decided she would very much like to speak her mind.

“I hope you’ll permit me to say, Mister Em’ry, and not think it overstepping my bounds, that what is often said of places such as Russel Street is that the Good do not profit or succeed, and that rather it is Cunning and Villainy which are cultivated.” That said, Catherine stuck the bit of the pipe back within her mouth, and puffed upon it til she fell again into coughing and spluttering.

Of those she knew in Russel Street and Greek Street and the other, cheaper houses through London, it was not the Good who found keepers. it was not the Good who were happy, or healthy, or whole. It was the Ruthless, and the Smart, and those who would step on another to reach their goal. Oh, perhaps they would not be it with pleasure, and perhaps they would be reulctant, but in the end they would, and it was what let them survive.

It was strange. For all that people of her family’s rank thought the poor almost a different species from them, she was constantly struck by the similarities between the society of the rick and the society of the destitute.

Once she was quite done coughing, she passed the pipe onwards. Her head spun for a moment, and she decided then and there that she would not take any more from it. Then, looking again at her cards, she nodded. “Another card, please.”

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pxgeturn·:

Continued bargaining took only a minute or two more, though Sally seemed determined to be as difficult as possible despite Isabelle’s persistent patience. When, at last, she had reserved a chance to continue their conversation, the two split apart and Isabelle stepped over to Catherine once again, an exasperated sigh giving way to a put upon smile. 

“I’m ever so sorry about that. Anyway, I am here now. What has you popping by today, Catherine?” she inquired, her tone polite, though a tad reserved on the off chance her answer may not be so shareable. “I wanted to tell you, I took to heart your suggestion about teaching numeracy. I’m working on having it arranged, and I think it was a marvellous idea. I don’t suppose you have any other notions I can milk you for, do you?” she inquired with a playful grin.

She waited patiently as Miss Thomas continued about her business, her gloved hands folded neatly in front of her bodice and her eyes wandering through the street. When finally their conversation seemed to be done, she gave one last smile and dip to Sally, and offered her arm up to her companion so they may walk as a couple.

“Just the usual,” Catherine supplied in way of an answer, “I’m struggling with some anatomy and sought a visual aid. But it can wait.” The drawing would remain another day. Truthfully, Catherine was quite joyous to have an excuse for putting off working upon it. Each time she took as much as a glance at the sketches she had taken at The Auction, she was overcome with all manner of emotions. The appearance of Isabelle provided comforting distraction, and, at news that she had taken up her advice, happiness and pride.

Catherine’s lips brightened with a smile. “Well, to be honest I’ve not had much time to think of other ideas. Perhaps that was my only one. I am ever so glad you took it up; how lovely it will be for those girls.” Armed with knowledge they could save their coin, could put money aside and plan for their futures.

[figuresandbones-blog]

Gugu Mbatha-Raw as Nell Gwynn, mistress of King Charles II, in Jessica Swale’s Nell Glynn at Shakespeare’s Globe, London, 2015. 

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Gugu Mbatha-Raw as Nell Gwynn, mistress of King Charles II, in Jessica Swale’s Nell Glynn at Shakespeare’s Globe, London, 2015. Ph. Tristram Kenton.

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pxgeturn·:

Isabelle really was flattered to hear as much, and though Catherine’s presence was an interruption, it was not an unhappy one. Smiling apologetically, she nodded before tilting her head to the side. “I don’t come to Russel Street for fun,” she admitted with a hint of amusement she managed to largely bite back. 

Stepping back from Catherine, she turned a warmer, encouraging smile to the woman she had been speaking with. “This is Sally,” she said by way of introduction. 

Sally, in her turn, offered Catherine an unimpressed once over and a taught smile. She was a slightly older woman, slim with dirty blonde hair, who was clearly displeased by being passed over, although Isabelle’s pointedly sweet smile was a clear attempt to bargain with her. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she responded with no small amount of mockery.

“I would quite like to speak with you, though, Catherine, before you busy yourself here. Sally, could I come and find you in a little while?” she asked, briefly interrupting herself to check in with Catherine. “If you’re not too pressed for time?” 

Catherine cleared her throat, abashed, and cast her eyes at the floor for her mistake. But she smiled through it, still honestly cheered to see Isabelle. She had not had much time to think on the way she could aid Miss Thomas in her aim to improve the lives of the working women around them, but she had a hankering for company from a woman of high class with whom she could share the part of her life that was spent among harlots and whores.

When introduced to Sally she gave a nod and dip in greeting. “A pleasure to meet you, also,” she said; a polite lie. She was much more pleased when Miss Thomas sought her time, and her smile grew upon her face.

“Of course, I would gladly,” she nodded, and folded her hands in front of her as she waited for Isabelle to finish whatever discussion remained between them.

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@victorcharbonneau

The exhibition was horribly empty. In the days past the crowds had come and gone, and now only stragglers came to gaze at the latest works unveiled to the public. Her friends in the art world had wanted the occasion to be monumental, but without the backing of royalty it had fallen quite short of the mark. No great event was this. But still Catherine was enamoured by the works unveiled to her, and fond still of those she had seen before.

She stepped light-footed through the auction rooms. Surely by the end of the month the crowds would come bustling again as the works sought to be sold. But for now they were uncrowded for the eyes of even the poorest of men and women. Perhaps Catherine should have come then, when she would have a willing partner in discussion with whom she could excitedly whisper oh, such a beautiful light, or see how the copper shines bright through his painting, or even I think the sitter quite ugly, but ne’er have I seen drooping jowls painted with such grace.

For now she paced the room quite alone, ‘til she came to one of Stubb’s horses, rendered exquisitely, so that it appeared almost as if it would snort, and bray, and paw at the ground. Before it stood another, dark of hair and wide of eye. Silently she came to stand beside him. Her eyes were transfixed upon the coat, which seemed to shimmer, and to split into thousands of hairs.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” she asked the stranger, her voice quiet as if she were in a church.

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An illustration from Les Liaisons dangereuses (1920) by George Barbier

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goldengrace-rosyemory·:

an artist. “how…curious.” the american attempted to mock the famed english accent that all those around him possessed, and the men around him howled in laughter at the choppy attempt. snickering emory took another nut from the dish and popped it in his mouth, listening to her speak as she explained further. “portraits of what?” he asked, the nut’s shell crunching beneath his strong teeth.

when she asked in return he sucked the salt off of the hard casing for a moment, trying to word it so that he didn’t send her running. “i’ve found some work over on russel street.” he explains briefly, glancing up momentarily to see if he’d given anything away. “i’m afraid i’m quite beneath your shoe, ms. black.” he chuckled as he spat the shell out into the dish, before leaning forward.

he slipped two cards face up to catherine, and set two face down in front of himself. “now,” he took a sip from his glass just to find it empty, “you tell me if you’d like another card, or if you want to play your hand.” instead emory decided on the pipe in lieu of his empty drink, taking another hit from it with ease before offering it back to catherine.

“Why, portraits of people, of course,” Catherine replied. For a moment confusion marred her face, writ as clear upon it as ink on a page. What other portraits were there? Dogs, she supposed, or horses?

Again the hard crunch of shell under his broad, white teeth echoed in her ears, and she fought back another wince. Quickly, she took another gulp of her sherry, and hid behind her glass for a moment. Russel Street - it explained the gambling, and the table manners, and so much else. Was he a bully? A pimp?

Her own time in Russel Street was mainly spent behind closed doors with her attention firmly on the figure before her and the paper under her. She made a point of avoiding men in those parts; they were not the type she withes to engage with. Eye contact in a Bawdy house could mean things to men which Catherine definitely did not want to communicate.

“I don’t know much of Russel Street,” she lied, and gratefully turned her face to the table as the cards were placed.

The rules were still fuzzy to her, and though she knew that Mister Emory had told her the number she wished to reach, it slipped from her mind like lingering smoke through her fingers. In her hand slotted a three of diamonds and a two of hearts, staring up at her with unblinking red eyes.

“Another, I think,” she said, and when the pipe was offered to her she plucked it delicately from Emory’s long fingers. That pungeant smell came over again, at all unlike the sweet scent of tobacco. “I’ve a feeling,” she said, waggling the pipe between her fingers, “that this is not the plant I initially thought.”