#(1935)

[genderoutlaws]

"Marguerite, dressed as a man."

Al-Quds, Palestine | c. 1935

[frostedmagnolias]

Chanel couture white lace gown

c. 1935

Augusta Auctions

[weirdlookindog]

Peter Lorre in Crime and Punishment, 1935

by Lusha Nelson

[jstor]

Happy Halloween from JSTOR! 🎃 👻 Wishing you a night full of sweet treats, spooky fun, and a little vintage charm. Image: Frederick Stanley. Untitled. November 2, 1935. Washington University in St. Louis.

[musicalfilm]

fred astaire & ginger rogers in roberta (1935)

[classichorrorblog]

The Bride Of Frankenstein (1935)

[zegalba]

Bride of Frankenstein (1935) Dir. James Whale

[gameraboy2]

Bride of Frankenstein (1935)

[nemfrog]

The grasshopper and the frog. Nature and Science Readers: Outdoor Visits - Book Two. 1935.

Internet Archive

[atomic-chronoscaph]

Peter Lorre - Mad Love (1935)

[mrbopst]

Colin Clive lights up Boris Karloff on the set of “Bride of Frankenstein” (1935).

[voguefashion]

Joan Crawford photographed by George Hurrell for No More Ladies, 1935.

[fawnvelveteen]

Vivien Leigh, The Mask of Virtue, 1935

[weirdlookindog]

Werewolf of London (1935)

[clarulitas]

Fred Astaire performs "Top Hat, White Tie and Tails" TOP HAT (1935) dir. Mark Sandrich

[aheathen-conceivably]

The tour was going better than even Josephine could have imagined. Despite the melodramatic resignation with which Antoine had gotten in the car the morning they had left Strangerville, or the brooding quiet he adopted on their drives between performances, he was a different person on stage. 

So much so that when Jo watched him perform she knew that this was where he was always meant to be, even if he had tried to pretend otherwise. After all, she had been the one who had been there from the first moment he had ever sat in front of a piano, advocating for him first at the club with their mother and then with men all over town. She had been the one who had believed in him, even when he hadn’t believed in himself.

And for whatever cowboy fantasy he may have been living in Strangerville, seeing him like this was like watching him come alive all over again - until finally, it was as though the best of the artist he had been under the heavy weight of the Storyville air had been set free, colliding and enmeshing with some idea of himself he had found on the open mesas.

With every cheer and every show it grew stronger; and even as he might have grown more homesick or quiet with her, something else was growing in him. Away from the stage, she would catch him at all hours of the day and night, huddled with his guitar and clutching a pen, working quietly but furiously on compositions and lyrics.

It didn’t seem to matter how shabby their accommodations were, or that each bed and each view was different but woefully the same as the one before. He only had himself and his guitar, and whether that was enough or just a distraction from the fact that it would never be, she was unable or unwilling to discern.

As the weeks wore on, they fell into a sort of rhythm, one governed by constant movements and brief moments of respite. Antoine would wake when Jo turned on the lights only to know without words that they would have to load up the car to get to their next stop, check in another hotel, unload their bags yet again, play another show, and end up back in the same room by evening. Day after day, the same routine was governed by blurred vistas from a car window, tinged with movement and restlessness, just like Jo's soul had always been.

So it was in those brief moments of stillness that Antoine would just simply sit and write, allowing whatever stained carpet he was sitting on to become home for just a moment. Only Jo could still see it even when she was meant to rest - the freshly paved black asphalt shivering in the ever present sun, stretching out all the way to the Pacific Ocean. It was impossible to ignore, not when she knew what was waiting for her just outside.

So she would tell Antoine that she would be home soon, a quick nod telling her that he had barely heard her. Moments later, she had left the hotel in her rearview mirror. Then, without fail, the feeling of freedom rushed over her as the wind roared past her ears and deafened her to every noise swirling around her, even those coming from inside her own head. She never wanted to stop the car once it got going, the asphalt burning hot under the incessant movement of the tires and the charged touch of the accelerator as it gave way under her heel, finally meeting the metal below as the car groaned under her.

But eventually, begrudgingly, she would realize that she had gone too far to be back home by sunrise, or to know where the nearest gas station was, so she would turn around back to the hotel that she called home for only a few nights at a time.

Sometimes when she returned, he would be asleep, run ragged by the driving and shows that only made her more energized than she had ever been in her life. Other times he was still sitting exactly where she left him, guitar clutched in his hand and seemingly surprised that hours had gone by while she was away. Those nights it was like they had both caught the one another in a daydream, Jo’s mind still racing as fast as the car had been and Antoine’s numbed to the outside world by the lyrics that flowed from it like whiskey.

Only when they met each other's eyes did they realize another day awaited them - one filled with the promise or dread of yet another faceless room and a cheering crowd. Then there was little left to do but sleep with the hope that you had the energy to face it.

When the sun broke through the curtains, it brought with it another drive, another hotel, and another show - another day of the movement that had carried them along like waves for weeks at a time. So Antoine would brush the sleep from his eyes, only half aware even as Jo clasped the pearls behind each ear. Then he would rustle up his papers, slow to fit each shirt back into his suitcase as though it shrank with each stop.

By the time they were back in Val's car, the wind took over for the silence of a long drive, grown more poignant by the fact that part of her knew that he didn’t want to be there, and part of him saw that she would push them forward nonetheless.

Except at the end of every drive was yet another show, softening the tension between them with his lyrics that reinforced to her that this was where he was meant to be all along. He never faltered as he played, reminded that despite whatever had kept him awake the night before, this was always waiting for him. Every song and every note like an outlet for his pain, his feelings free to roam through him and escape from him like nothing else.

All their lives, Jo had watched him hide the words he had wanted to say, or the frustrations he felt. She was proud, and even more deeply, joyful that she had gotten him here. Finally, singing on a stage where people listened to him and appreciated him for the artist he was, even if it was in the corner of some dusty bar in the middle of some desert state. She was smart enough to see that if he just allowed it for himself, this was only the beginning. So when Hosa caught up to them on the last leg of their tour and offered her not one but two more tours, she didn’t even hesitate before saying yes.