#1930s

[yesterdaysprint]

The San Francisco Examiner, California, September 29, 1932

[spacefinch]

Making this poll again so I can vote in it

1930s “i’m the guy that” pinbacks, part 2

[yeoldenews]

(source: The Klamath Falls (OR) Evening Herald, December 10, 1930.)

[allebasimaianunes]

"the boxer" ✴︎ drew starkey

one-short | fluffy & semi-smut

sumary: Drew is the model of a rising artist. He is not only her muse, but also her most passionate lover of her works.

autor's note: so, i saw this twitter here and i got kind of obsessed with the whole concept. i have this painting engraved in my mind, so i decided to write a little text with the scene that came to my mind, really quickly. it's not a big deal :) the painting is "the boxer" by russian painter kostantin andreevich somov (1869-1939).

warning contend: it's quite romantic to be honest. there's a hint of sex at the end, but i wanted to keep it light, erotic, and sentimental! english isn't my first language, so i apologize for the mistakes. oh, and here the reader is in the third person, with no description of physical characteristics. enjoy the reading! <3

word count: 1795

language: eng.

soundtrank inspo: give you my love, mazzy star

“Please, be quiet.”

She asked with one of the brushes between her teeth, watching him intently. The blonde man, with tanned skin and a defined body, chuckled, amused by the painter's impatience, adjusting his position once again. It was exhausting to pose nude for hours on end, in the same exact pose, unable to move a single muscle so as not to disturb the meticulous painting the woman was creating.

Drew sighed, extending one of his hands forward as his gaze landed on the artist.

She was adding yellow paint to the details outlining the curves of his body. The room they were in was both her little bedroom, her studio, and her kitchen – a small cubicle painted in a sandy yellow, with a few rustic wooden furniture pieces she scavenged from shops here and there. The bed was nothing more than a single mattress on the floor, and her wardrobe consisted of large, square trunks typically used for train travel. Books on human anatomy were scattered alongside Walter Benjamin, Gramsci, Virginia Woolf, and Jean-Paul Sartre – books he devoured during idle moments. And there was an overwhelming amount of painting supplies – truly impressive. Paint tubes stacked in crates she collected from the market, brushes drying on the balcony, blank canvases leaning against the walls.

She spent more on art supplies than on food.

The man’s blue eyes fixed on the woman’s face: beautiful, angular, like a unique work of art. She looked exceptionally stunning when she was deeply focused on painting. In a swift motion, she removed the brush from between her teeth and used it to add the final blend to the painted face. She smiled, stepping back with measured steps from the canvas, placing her hands on her hips, satisfied with the result. Drew grew curious, wanting to leave his pose but knowing he had to stay still until she gave him instructions.

“This one is beautiful. Wow, I can’t believe I painted it!”

“If only I could look at it and give my opinion…” the man said sarcastically, glancing at her with pleading eyes, desperate to move. She rolled her eyes and nodded, signaling him to come see the result of five hours of posing. Naturally comfortable in his nude form, the man walked to the easel holding the canvas, briefly glancing at the window and noticing the sun setting on the horizon, casting warm orange and red hues across the sky.

He positioned himself behind the woman, his height making it easy to see the portrait. His eyes filled with pride and an overwhelming emotion as he saw himself depicted on the canvas. The way she captured the details of his relaxed expression, the movement in the outstretched hand, the defined body exposed in golden tones – it touched him deeply. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he felt an odd urge to cry.

“Wow… This is perfect! You’re incredible.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked hesitantly, looking at him over her shoulder. The man moved closer, placing his hands on her tense shoulders, whispering, “I’m sure that when we sell this painting, buyers and curators will climax with excitement.”

“Drew…” she laughed, turning to face him, her eyes sparkling with joy at his praise. Smiling, he cupped her face tenderly, resting his forehead against hers. “I know I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again: you’re the best artist in this city! Actually, in the entire world!”

“Stop, you’re going to make me vain!”

“And rightfully so!” he retorted, both laughing. With gentle fingers, he tucked strands of her hair behind her ears, his gaze turning soft, studying every little detail of her.

He felt love consuming his chest like flames, recalling the moment she first approached him dressed in a suit and tie – several sizes too big for her – with a beret to hold her hair back, pretending to be a male gambler at his underground fights. She casually asked if he would accept a job in exchange for money. Of course, he agreed, assuming it would be some intimate encounter or collecting a debt with violence. When they arrived at her small sixth-floor apartment, he was surprised by its simplicity and the casual way she revealed herself to him.

His heart raced as she removed the beret, letting her long hair fall, and took off the blazer and trousers, leaving her in an oversized dress shirt. She lit a cigarette from her silver case, walked across the room to grab a canvas, and set up the easel near a chair facing the open balcony door. She gestured toward the chair. Still puzzled, he walked over, feeling self-conscious about his sweat, the bruises on his brow, and the cut on his lower lip-yet more so about his naïveté for not suspecting the stranger was, in fact, a woman.

While setting up to paint, it was Drew who broke the silence, his voice curious. “Why did you pretend to be a man? Wouldn’t it have been easier to approach me as… yourself?”

She glanced at him from behind the canvas, the cigarette dangling from her lips. “I wanted a fighter. And there are a lot of ignorant men in those places… I’ve always wanted to walk into a room full of men dressed as one of them, approach someone, and bring them back to my place to paint them. So I combined business with pleasure, and here you are.”

Drew raised an eyebrow, crossing his legs, intrigued by this strange, half-naked woman in front of him. “And you’re not afraid? Especially dressed like that in front of me… I’m a fighter. I’m strong,” she stepped out from behind the canvas-not backing away but moving closer to him. Her eyes locked with his as she finished his thought: “I could overpower you. Or something like that.”

“No. I’m not afraid of you, and you wouldn’t overpower me,” she said defiantly, smiling. Drew frowned, studying her intently as she pulled a pair of oval-framed glasses from his shirt pocket, placing them on his face. She crouched to pick up a book by the chair and handed it to him. “I watched you for weeks, considering you as my potential model, and I couldn’t help but notice how fake you are!” she laughed, lighting another cigarette.

Drew’s face twisted in offense. “Excuse me!? I don’t even know you, and you’re calling me out like this!? Who do you think you are? I swear, I’ll walk out and tell the first person I see that you’re insane-” He began to rise, but she casually extended a cigarette toward him.

Her gaze was calm and confident. That nonchalant, informal act caught him off guard. It disarmed him. Accepting the cigarette, he allowed her soft voice to explain: “Don’t be offended or mad. I did what anyone desperate for a chance in this world full of jerks would do: I took unconventional measures to make my mark. I needed a model with your features, someone unique and unknown. That way, if I could convince you to be my model, I could pose as you to sell my work. Because, ever since I left my studies, I’ve had zero validation as a woman artist. You get it?”

Drew took a drag, his eyes fixed on hers. Thoughts swirled in his mind – it was an unexpected proposal. After a decade of his mediocre life as a boxer, competing in small matches for meager earnings with blood, sweat, and pain, her offer lit a spark in his mind. Intrigued, he asked, “So, how would this work… you pretending to be me?”

She smiled, satisfied – a smile he would come to know intimately over the months that followed, as they sealed their deal with a handshake, a gaze filled with mutual ambition, and cigarettes smoked into the evening as she sketched a new canvas.

Their partnership flourished. She had the talent, and he had the image coveted by curators and collectors. While she worked from the shadows, he basked in the spotlight.

Their inevitable closeness culminated in a private celebration after a major sale – a stunning bust of Drew with his torso exposed and a vacant, majestic expression. That night, in her cramped apartment, amid whiskey and wine, their bodies intertwined, the lines between them blurred, and passion erupted in a tangle of sweat and ecstasy.

Drew was hopelessly in love with her, and he wanted her to know. Yet, he hadn’t found the right words – until that sublime moment, gazing at the portrait of himself as he turned to her and whispered: “I’m losing my mind over you, woman!”

“Oh, my God…” she said, surprised, her paint-stained hands holding his. He didn’t mind—in fact, he felt her touch was akin to being painted into her masterpieces. Drew smiled sincerely, kissing her tenderly.

The kiss was returned with a sublime tenderness and love. Their bodies moved through the room in a dance, his firm hands guiding her to the mattress, gently pushing her onto it. Standing over her in his unashamed nudity, bathed in the warm glow of the sunset, her gaze shifted with a mix of carnal desire and passion. She whispered, “Darling, you truly are a masterpiece. My masterpiece.”

Drew’s smile brimmed with passion as he lay over her, planting kisses full of emotion. Through their intimacy, he felt her unspoken love, her hands painting his body with her touch, just as she would a canvas. Drew smiled passionately, lying on top of her and distributing kisses full of feelings, feeling in her mouth the words of love and passion that she did not say to him verbally, feeling in the way she slid her hands over his body as she drew it, exploring her body like a picture critic captures every detail in a painting. Eyes, nose, lips, neck, chest, breasts, abdomen, mons pubis, thighs. Returning to between her legs, the wet and sensitive intimacy. The moans mixing with the noise of the city outside, the pleading whispers, the peak that made her shiver. With his breathing so heavy, almost unable to contain himself, losing himself in her was a delirium in itself. Penetrating as if he could dye her soul with himself, the man crossed his hands before cumming, dragging out a deep, lazy “I love you.”, full of honey and golden colors in her ear.

As night fell, cloaking the drying canvas on the balcony in an indigo veil, they lay entwined on the mattress, bodies glistening and breaths heavy. Drew smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her beautiful face and murmured, “If I’m your masterpiece, then let me be eternally etched in your eyes. My creator.”

He leaned in, sealing the words I love you onto her soul with a kiss.

[aheathen-conceivably]

The tip of Violette’s foot was perfectly upturned as she hopped into the first square of the crudely drawn hopscotch board. And five, six, seven, eight… Her other foot reached the final square, pirouetting exactly in the center before she spun back toward the start and hopped lightly onto her other foot. Nine, eight, seven, six… She reached the middle of the board easily, her balance never faltering even as she bent down to pick up the stone in the fifth square.

She held it up triumphantly, jumping out of the final square with a bit too much flair for someone who already knew they had won. The girl keeping score across the way called out loudly. “Violette wins again!”

Violette set the stone back on the ground, mindful of the boys at the end of the yard who had been cheering her on. She gave them a small bow, watching Will’s cheeks grow pink like he was embarrassed she was drawing so much attention to herself. When she turned she saw her friend Daisy, arms crossed and eyes to the ground. Violette didn’t need anyone to keep track of the score. She never lost track of the count, or at least she very rarely did. She had picked up the stone from each square without losing her balance once. A perfect ten out of ten. Daisy, who came in second almost every time, still only had five out of ten. 

Sometimes Violette considered letting herself fall, just so that she wouldn’t look so defeated. But then, in the moment, with everyone’s eyes on her, her arms soared higher and her posture even straighter, so that she leapt off the final square forgetting she had ever felt bad at all. But now, seeing her again, a small pit of guilt rose in her stomach. She walked toward her, gesturing to the monkey bars, “Want to race across? See who can make it to the top?”

Daisy readily shook her head, glancing over to the table where the boys were seated before she ran to the monkey bars. Violette stood still for a moment, counting in her mind before she ran off to join her. Five, six, seven, eight….

By the time Zelda walked up to the schoolyard a choir of girlish giggles was raining down from the monkey bars. She stood unnoticed near the fence, watching the childish energy surge through the schoolyard like hummingbirds in Spring. It was heartening to see her daughter this way, so lively and comfortable amongst her peers when she herself had been so withdrawn as a child. It made her feel as though there was so much excitement ahead of her in life, and the path would present itself at her feet through her sheer will and magnetism.

But here, she was simply reminded of how much promise lay ahead for all of them, a new generation enjoying what was left of their childhoods - still yet to see what the world would hold for them or how the years would go by. It was so hopeful that it brought tears to her eyes.

“Mrs. Duplanchier!” The words had come from the schoolhouse porch, and Zelda had been so lost in her own thoughts that it took her a moment to realize they had been spoken by Violette’s teacher Mrs. Sullivan. “I’m glad to have caught you. Do you have a moment to speak before the bell rings?” 

Zelda fiddled her hands, nodding her head in nervous agreement. It took only a few seconds for the woman to walk down from the porch, but it was long enough to convince Zelda that her daughter was in trouble. She would have to reprimand her at least, or more likely, punish her. She began to panic, but before the fear could take hold Mrs. Sullivan stopped on the other side of the fence.

“I thought it might be beneficial for the children to try and get some sort of after school activity going. I know a number of the their fathers are either away on the road or out in California, as Violette’s is, and mother’s like yourself are overwhelmed in their absence. I was hoping an additional class may help ease the burden. A dance class, in particular, for the girls only, of course.”

Excited butterflies rose in Zelda's stomach, joining the chorus of hummingbirds in the schoolyard. “Dance? Do you - do you mean like ballet?”

The woman laughed quietly “One could call it that. Mostly ballet, mixed with what I’ve picked up from here and there over the years. I danced a bit before coming to teach here. Nothing professional by any stretch, but it will be nice to have reason to do it again.”

“Of course! She - she would be delighted. As would I.”

A bell sounded from above, prompting a dozen playing children to scurry from their posts to the ground below. The woman in front of her looked over her shoulder and smiled. "My apologies, Mrs. Duplanchier. I should help the children gather their belongings. And please, feel free to tell Violette. You were the last mother I needed to speak with so if she’s interested we can meet thrice a week starting next Monday.”

The bell overhead continued to ring, sounding in time to her heels as they walked away. Zelda watched her go, her own question gnawing at her mind as she bit her nails.

She gazed over her shoulder, looking at the courthouse reflecting the late afternoon sun. She tried to walk by it most days, admiring its stately columns and remembering the welcome it had given them when they arrived. It never seemed to change, despite all that had come and gone since then.

"Mrs. - Mrs. Sullivan?" The woman turned quickly, slowing her footsteps just long enough to allow Zelda to speak. "Has the book truck been by yet?"

"Why, yes. Did Violette mention it?"

Zelda kept her hands behind her back, hoping the other woman couldn't sense her nerves. "She did. But I - I was wondering if you had a chance to speak to the man who drives the truck? Goes by Mr. Barnes, I believe."

Mrs. Sullivan slowed to a stop and raised a curious eyebrow. "We didn't have much time to speak, what with the children's questions and excitement, but he mentioned that he was working out of the courthouse. Something about a government contract? But I couldn't tell you much more, my apologies."

As the sound of running children disappeared inside the schoolhouse, Zelda turned where she stood, taking a few timid steps across the sidewalk as she looked at the courthouse. Alexander Barnes, Librarian. Surely it wouldn’t be any harm for her to speak with him, just to see what this contract was or to understand more about the truck itself. Why was she putting so much hope onto this? Turning it into something it probably wouldn’t never be. It was foolish. Like any other daydream.

"Momma?" Zelda spun around, dropping down to Violette's level as soon as she realized she had been lost in her own thoughts again. "Hello, little flower. How was school?"

Violette rolled back and forth on the balls of her feet, like she was impatient to ask what was really on her mind. "It was fine. I won at hopscotch again."

"Did you! Well that's very - "

"It was." Her response was short, sending cold, quiet daggers into Zelda's heart. "It's - it's two weeks until Poppa comes home, right?"

"Oh, my love. Not quite." Violette looked down as her mother spoke, frustration and disappointment darkening her young face; because almost without realizing, she had lost the count. "I told you not to count the days. It only makes them go by slower. Trust me, okay? Besides, I think I have something that may help..."

Zelda rose to her feet, putting her arm around her daughter's shoulder and turning her full attention away from the courthouse just across the street. As they made their way home Zelda explained what Mrs. Sullivan had proposed, Violette’s face brightening every step of the way.

[alexa-santi-author]

Trivia time: This bit of dialogue is generally considered to be the first time in a Hollywood film that “gay” was used to mean “homosexual.”

Bringing Up Baby 1938 | dir. Howard Hawks

[historical-fashion-polls]

submitted by @edwardian-girl-next-door 💛🤍

[kitsunetsuki]

Man Ray - Schiaparelli Cape, Harper's Bazaar, Jan. 1937, from Man Ray, Bazaar Years by John Esten (1988)

[summertimenoir]

Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable in Gone With the Wind (1939)

[john-wi]

Beautiful winter scene

Honmon Temple at Ikegami, 1931. Kawase Hasui. Woodblock print.

[vintagehomeplans]

United States, c. 1935: No. 798-B

A 1.5-story English cottage style house with a prominent front chimney and window seat.

Colorful Homes by National Plan Service, c. 1935. (Chicago, IL, USA)

[yesterdaysprint]

The San Francisco Examiner, California, September 29, 1932

[sovietpostcards]

Cover of Murzilka, Nov-Dec 1939

[arte-e-homoerotismo]

Tyrone Power curtindo o verão dos anos 1930 em Hollywood, e eu não tenho o menor problema com isso.

Tyrone Power enjoying a 1930s summer in Hollywood, and I don’t have the slightest problem with it.

[danskjavlarna]

Source details and larger version.

My favorite owls that I've encountered are roosting here.