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monsieurwyatt‌:

  “Such modesty from a muse; I am saddened to not have enjoyed witnessing her further, while she was unassuming of my presence.” Few venues would peak his interest as vehemently as a secluded studio, occupied solely by women undertaking artistic ventures; whether as artists or muses, each held a candle of curiosity and allure Wyatt was all the more intrigued to explore. Quietly he had entered the room, praying his figure could be as unassuming as a shadow; but the gentle energy of the studio was easily disrupted, and he found his cheeks hastening to redden at the unexpected attention. Wyatt reveled in being admired, but there was no joy to be found in adopting the part of interloper, intruder. The perfect crowd of spectators was gathered around their patroness, whose noble features recalled a myriad of unpleasant rumors to Wyatt’s mind. 

 He did nothing to lessen the distance between them, but his voice carried further this time, directed solely at her person now. Her ambivalence intrigued him, in equal measure as her work delighted him. “If you accuse me of being in the midst of a hunt, I shall bow to the assumption, only if what I seek is the pleasures of art.” 

Lavinia's muse covered herself in a chiffon robe, the expanse of her body now sheathed in the sheer fabric, while the wild loveliness Lavinia sought to capture disappeared from her features, leaving little more than modesty in its place. Modesty, of course, was not what the artist was after; timidity existed in endless bounds around court, and shadowed the footsteps of nearly all courtiers. She yearned for boldness, sought out those who might succumb to their whims and desires without hesitation or question. She wondered, after taking a glance over her shoulder, if she would find such a person in the man she recognized as a courtly figure.

“Far be it from me to deter a hunt for pleasure,” the artist responded easily, turning around to greet the man with a smile. In her studio, she did not enforce the hierarchy of power that existed within the courts, nor the rules of etiquette that followed suit. “After all, is that not precisely what art is? One’s pursuit of pleasure laid out for all to see?” Lavinia stepped closer and focused her gaze on the sharp features of his face, drawn immediately like a moth to a flame, mentally tracing the angle of his cheekbones, studying the shades of blue that colored his irises. He would make a fine model, she decided, even if the mere thought of such a thing was of little consequence to whatever he sought.

“Pray tell, how may I assist you in such a noble quest?” 

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Hers was the fairer sex, all curves and loveliness, blush creeping on the temples, on the cheeks, on the chest -- anywhere one could place a kiss so that shades of rouge might follow. Women were her favorite subjects to sketch and paint, to fasten their loveliness into a machination of her own desiring and present them to the world through her eyes. And so it followed that her studio hosted several women regularly. Harlots, maids, and seamstresses took turns acting the part of the dutiful model, with naught but the light of the springtime sun separating the artist from her muse.

Harmless though it may be, others would still see it as a scandal, and so the doors to her studio were closed shut to deter any interruptions. Still, it seemed one’s curiosity could not be contained, and the easy mirth of the room drained at the surprise of unexpected company. 

“You’ve frightened her, and now she looks quite like a little doe,” the artist commented, not bothering to look away from her canvas. Assuming that her visitor was yet another disapproving critic come to express disappointment, Lavinia asked bluntly, “Have you come here to hunt?”

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youngestcromwell·:

the rays of the sun, that seemed to get stronger by the day, finally started to warm her again. she could smell spring finally setting in with the first few flowers blossoming through the still halfway frozen grounds she walked. her petit hands were still covered in gloves as she was focused on the words written on the pages of the book. some lite italian novel translated into english. the prince. it seemed rather odd the wording and  the story did confuse her but could not stand it if she had to stop reading a book. the cromwell would always finish one, no matter the story. perhaps it was better in italian. 

absentmindedly she was walking the cobble stone path through the gardens, much more interested in each letter than the things happening around her. the way she walked rather familiar, so often she had been there she could blindly tell where each stone was lying. 

“ good god, this is terrible… “ grace did mumble freely under her breath as she read word after word, which was rather confusing, the autor probably not knowing what he had translated or he barely did care, making up one contradiction after another. arriving in the familiar part of the gardens, the young woman leaned against a big oak tree, a grey cloak keeping her warm even if the sun was shining onto her back providing her with extra warmth. 

Someone, likely a fellow artist rather than a politician, had once told her that springtime in England was more beautiful than any other nation, as the anticipation of frost melting to allow blooms to grow was more torturously exquisite than any other season one could experience. Now was such a time, the fruits of the sun's labor displayed in the early blossoms of flower adorning endless green fields. For too long had grey clouds and snowstorms covered the castle grounds, and the first taste of warmer weather was nothing but a triumph in her eyes -- so much so that she decided to abandon her studio for the day and enjoy a picnic near the pond at the end of the cobble stones, so she might take a swim and simply float in the sunshine.

Lavinia never truly enjoyed being alone, but had not succeeded in roping in any of her paramours to join her, and so ate her berries and cheese and drank fruity wine in the springtime sun while imagining a group of lovers and friends surrounding her to share in the delights. It seemed the visions of her mind’s eye came partly true, as a young woman appeared from across the way, and she studied the girl briefly before making herself known.

“Does the sun not warm you, pretty one?” Lavinia smiled sweetly as she basked in the sun. Genuine curiosity painted her tone, as she had left her own coat hanging on a nearby tree branch so she might enjoy all the warmth the weather had to offer. “Or is it the book in your hands that chills you? The birds are singing again, perhaps they will amuse you more than your reading.”

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ofbedford·:

The court was, in and of itself, a puzzle not even the brightest would be able to solve, not fully. It was an interwoven web of intrigue, power, and politics. Margery still wasn’t quite used to it but she would learn; she would learn and she would conquer. People underestimated her and Margery knew that. She wasn’t a big player just yet but she sure as hell wasn’t going to be treated like a pawn. 

Despite all of that, however, there is no doubt the palace was beautiful, perhaps even a bit too big for the new Duchess for it seemed like wherever she went, the feeling of being lost was still present inside of her mind, even after weeks of staying there. Sitting down, enjoying her own company and a plate of citrus pastries, the Duchess enjoyed the flavorful snacks. 

Holding a segment of a pastry in her hand, Margery let her eyes inspect it as she tasted another bite in her mouth, letting her taste buds dance with the flavor. “The bakers certainly know what they are doing when it comes to citrus pastries, do they not?” The Lady spoke, to whoever wanted to hear. 

It was her husband who played the role of politician, not Lavinia herself, although it was a rare day indeed that she did not find the role expected of her nonetheless, all polite smiles and antiquated courtesies as she made her way around the castle grounds, or forced herself to sit through the mundanities of a day at court. The brush and canvas were what called her name, and she was fortunate to have been granted a position within court as the new king’s favored painter. It was an appointment that frequently saw the young woman with a sketchbook in hand, freely transforming the ordinary around her into lovely fantasies of her own, her innate sense of airiness and proclivity towards day-dreaming often coloring in the piece before paint touched the paper.

She had studied the woman for some time, the delicate features of the other’s face captivating Lavinia almost immediately -- as all living, breathing art works in the form of destined royals did. With all other thoughts suspended, save for the delicate curves of the woman’s countenance, the artist sketched quickly, privately, as though the image would flee her if not committed to paper immediately. 

A little ringing bell in the form of a question pulled her from her reverie, not believing it was she who the Lady addressed. After seeing no one else around, Lavinia responded, “I have found that the English mistake blandness for flavor, and aim to make up for it with something sharp and sour, but delicious nonetheless.” The words floated airily from her lips, forgetting her courtesies all at once and mistaking the collected presence of the other woman for something akin to familiarity. Tucking the sketchbook into one of the dress pockets, Lavinia hastily attempted a curtsy before adding with a hint of humor, “In a way, the English people might not be terribly different from their food..”

[laviniadeconde]

☆ ━ ━ OUT OF THE WAY ! can’t you see LAVINIA DE CONDE, the TUDOR COURT PAINTER of TURKEY coming this way ? I hear SHE is FLIRTATIOUS, but also SUPERFICIAL. SHE seems to remind everyone of FLOWERS SCATTERED OVER MOONLIT WATERS, A PEARL STILL IN ITS SHELL, .&. PAINT SMUDGES ON DELICATE HANDS. hopefully one day SHE will succeed in HER ambition to KEEP FAVOR AT COURT, but then again, the court is a dangerous place. one can only hope SHE will keep HER head… ( MERVE BOLUĞUR  ) ━ ━ ☆ as written by DAISY ;; EST, SHE/HER, 22 .

Historical Inspirations: Levina Teerlinc, Lavinia Fontana

Levina Teerlinc (1510s - 1576) was a Flemish painter and miniaturist who lived in the Renaissance. Widely regarded as one of the most important artists of the Tudor court, Levina served the English courts under the reigns of Henry VIII, Edward VI, Mary I, and Elizabeth I.

Lavinia Fontana (1552 - 1614) was an Italian painter who is regarded as the first female artist working in the same capacity as her male counterparts, outside of a royal court or religious convent. She was the first female artist to paint female nudes, and possibly the first female to use live nude female models.

AU History:

[ trigger warnings for mentions of sex, miscarriage/loss of baby, and parental death ;]

With such a strict upbringing, it is wholly surprising that Lavinia Efendi grew up with naught more but freedom in her heart, her words and thoughts wrapping themselves into poetry and song. The daughter of an Ottoman ambassador and a French countess, Lavinia discovered her talent for turning observation into art at a young age, her bouts of childlike fixation on the exquisite remedying itself in the examination and creation of art itself. As the daughter of world-travelers, the young girl often awoke to chambers filled with color and splendor, discovering different landscapes and new skylines with each city her father was tasked to visit, the nomadic lifestyle simultaneously an expansion of her boundaries and knowledge, and a contributing factor to her restlessness and inability to simply settle.

Her mother often lamented the fact that, of the two jobs women should hold (being pretty and sitting still), her daughter only ever managed to accomplish the former. Pretty was easy, but stillness, a forever-escaping ideal. There was no stillness when so many lovely things were around her, and her adolescence was one of self-made adventures, of finding a new escape in unexplored castle corners and mud-soaked peasant streets alike, as well as in their respective inhabitants. Her tendency to simply follow an interesting, beautiful thing stirred up disappointment in her parents, who believed the worst of their daughter and feared she had been stripped of her virtue before being presented for marriage opportunities within both the Ottoman and French courts.

The pursuit of various romances and trysts existed, of course, though they were not the sole reason for the excursions that persisted throughout her late adolescence. The girl, despite obvious beauty and the innate sensibilities that came along with a privileged background, found it easy to blend into her surroundings through her ease in presence alone. While her aptitude for chameleon-like charm went largely unnoticed by the royals and courtiers who almost always surrounded her, the locals were quick to consider her one of their own, teaching her peasant songs and drinking games without hesitation. It was never her plan to find a new lover in each new city, and neither a simple kiss nor the pleasure-pain of a song caused the ‘typical’ reactions of shame within her body or her mind, aligning herself explicitly with pursuits of freedom and beauty. In her mind, love was meant to be felt, to be experienced, and often -- as often as possible.

At eighteen, her father relocated the family back to France in order for  Lavinia to pursue a proper education in art, his hope being that the stricter French lifestyle would iron out her proclivity towards the wild, and subdue any and all tendencies she had towards romances with anyone other than a suitor he approved of. For four years, she lived the way he requested of her, devoting her life to art and poetry -- a life of beauty, to be sure, but one restricted in its endeavors and unsubstantial in terms of fulfillment. For a girl who knew only how to live with freedom shadowing every step she took, the greatest restriction came upon her father’s death, a sudden iron tether to the reality that she would have to marry in order to secure her family’s wealth and their position within French society.

Her mother, before her untimely death, worked quickly to present her to the French court as her world-traveled, exotic beauty of a daughter, a talented conversationalist and even better artist, hiding entirely the girl’s history of indiscretions while living in the Ottoman territories. She attracted several suitors, though none quite held her attention the way that Antoine de Conde did, his charismatic way of speaking enchanting her entirely and inspiring a deeper passion than she’d ever held for any of the men or women before. At twenty-three, she was married to the ambassador, perfectly in love with him even while finding herself still attracted to beauty in all forms.

The first affairs started quietly after their first year of marriage. In her hopes to find new muses to spur on her creativity in the wake of both her parent’s death and the suddenness of married life, Lavinia sought men and women of great beauty to soothe the distress she did not know how to present to her husband. Unlike the trysts of her past, this time was not just for the experience or to test her own boundaries, but as a means of clinging onto something familiar when everything seemed shaken and ripped away from her -- or, perhaps, as a way to simply be anything but what she was: an orphaned woman married to a man she may have loved, but did not truly know. The hedonistic, freedom-seeking girl of her youth was not lost entirely, but simply buried under the earth of newly-married life and all the trappings of societal expectation and reputation. 

As the years have passed on, however, Lavinia has found herself returning more to the innocently reckless free spirit she once was, though only time will tell if the King, the Tudor court, or even her husband will cast her from their good graces and into a world with no safety net, and no freedom to exist exactly as she pleases.

Additional:

When it comes to her indiscretions, there is a part of her that does feel (somewhat) guilty for her actions. She understands that her affairs are not acceptable to the society she now finds herself in, but refuses to accept their reasoning and adopt their refusal as her own. Her guilt mainly stems from the fact that she does love the man she married, and she knows that this marriage is likely not what he had hoped for. For Lavinia, Antoine is the first one to inspire in her what can only be love, a distinct blend of both passion and respect, and an endless fascination with his mind. Still, not only is it currently impossible for Lavinia to resist her innate tendencies towards hedonism, but the idea of limitation of one’s experiences is one she will always rebel against. 

Prior to rumors of her indiscretions swirling about court, Lavinia was granted a position of ‘Court Painter’ to the Tudor Court, which she takes great pride in. Others may slander her or speak ill behind her back, but no one can speak negatively of the woman’s work, which has been thoroughly praised by the previous King and current King alike. Due to her success within the artistic realm, the King has also appointed her as art tutor to the young ladies of the royal family. She greatly enjoys this role, and finds she is at her most peaceful when she is around children.

Lavinia fervently longs to have children and raise a family. In the past, she has had trouble carrying the baby to term, but has kept her fertility issues private -- not even her husband knows that she has gotten pregnant, let alone suffered a miscarriage. While she will likely always crave freedom, she cannot deny that there is something entirely appealing at the prospect of starting a family and raising little ones to embrace themselves fully, and carry themselves with dignity and grace.

Essentials:

Name: Lavinia de Conde (nee Efendi)

Position: Tudor Court Painter

Nationality: Turkish, French (through marriage)

DOB: May 21, 1508

Birthday: May 21, 1508

FC: Merve Bolugur

᛫ art heaux  ᛫ honestly, a hot mess. wants to be loved but doesn’t subscribe to societal conventions of love, which in turn limits the way she can receive love. ᛫ fights in the form of pouts and whines, never knows how to express her anger or frustration ᛫ gives the impression of an airhead, though her original thought often hides behind poetry to mask her more intellectual, ever-examining nature ᛫ falls in love every day with someone new (im paraphrasing Hozier here) ᛫ does actually feel guilty about how her indiscretions have negatively impacted her husband! ᛫ “limitations? i don’t know her.” -- lavinia de conde, probably + imaginative, artistic, charming, free-spirited, mischievous - selfish, superficial,  childish, air-headed, reckless

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requested by anon: 

↳ favorite nurbanu sultan costume 

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Backstage at Sudi Etuz | Istanbul https://ift.tt/2HeKxrj

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“Come on, dance with me. The earth is spinning. We can’t just stand on it.”

— Dino Ahmetović  (via wordsnquotes)