#Art américain

[justsomepaintingsforyou]

Angel, Abbott Handerson Thayer | 1887

[vagabondageautourdesoi]

Les cathédrales dans le monde

Mathieu Lours Entre religion, nation et pouvoir Bien sûr, les cathédrales ne sont pas uniquement un témoignage culturel européen. Néanmoins, en prenant une autre échelle, celle du monde, Mathieu Lours, permet à ses lecteurs d’en aborder la portée universelle. En effet, nos regards ne gardent souvent de ces monuments visités de façon recueillie et admirative qu’une image tronquée. Véritable…

[fidjiefidjie]

👨‍🌾 "Boy's Best Friend" 🐶

Aquarelle 🎨 de Elginia McCrary

Bel après-midi 👋

[bearbench-img]

アメリカンドッグ

アメリカンドッグは、人気のあるスナック フードの一種で、ホットドッグをパン生地やビスケット生地で包み、油で揚げたものです。その結果、サクサクとした食感と風味豊かな味わいになります。

アメリカンドッグを作る伝統的な方法は次のとおりです。まず、ホットドッグを串に刺します。次に、ホットドッグをパン生地で包み、油で揚げます。パン生地は揚げると黄金色になり、サクサクとした食感になります。アメリカンドッグは通常、ケチャップ、マスタード、レリッシュなどのさまざまなトッピングとともに提供されます。

手抜きイラスト集

[philoursmars]

Troisième étape de mon périple dans l'Ouest pour retrouver des ami(e)s lointain(e)s : Christian en Bretagne, près de Brest, il y a un mois déjà.

Une visite de Brest. Vers le Mémorial Américain et les Escaliers du Cours Dajot.

[actu-alite]

[vertigoartgore]

Comic Box Noir Cover (2007) by cover artist Frank Quitely. Source

[hcdahlem]

La fille de Lake Placid

Le nouveau roman de Marie Charrel imagine la rencontre de Lana del Rey et Joan Baez et le talent persuasif de la première pour persuader la seconde à remonter sur scène à ses côtés. Une exploration très réussie de deux figures emblématiques de la chanson.

En lice pour le Prix Evok 2024 En deux mots Lana del Rey rend visite à son idole Joan Baez afin de lui proposer de remonter sur scène à ses côtés. Mais cette dernière se consacre désormais à la peinture et refuse. Pourtant après découvert les textes et la personnalité de la fille de Lake Placid, elle va changer d’avis. Ma note ★★★ (bien aimé) Ma chronique Lana del Rey et Joan Baez en concert Le…

[processusmonomaniak]

Il faut bien que jeunesse se passe...

Les œuvres sur cette période charnière qu’est l’adolescence abondent et offrent de multiples points de vue. Que ce soit sous un angle humoristique, dramatique, superficiel ou angoissant, l’adolescence a été traité au cinéma et en littérature sous bien des aspects. Et si l’on dénombre nombre de navets (particulièrement au cinéma), on peut aussi se perdre dans le labyrinthe de références…

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 2 -  La Valse de Paris

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1.7k

AuthorsNote: Chapter 2 of new multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This details our reader settling into Paris and the outbreak of war. Benedict turns up next chapter. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy! <3

Paris, September 1939

Your first few weeks in Paris are a delightful blur. 

Spending late summer exploring the city - with Solène as your occasional guide and Eloise when she is not at work. You soak up every moment, from the windswept magnificence of standing atop the Eiffel Tower, your words being stolen by the wind, to the monastic silence of the Louvre on a quiet Monday morning. And everything in between - from Notre Dame's atmospheric incense-laden gothic darkness to the airy, resplendent glass dome of Galeries Lafayette that glitters like a prismatic jewel even on cloudy days. 

But perhaps your favourites are the little slices of city life: sitting watching the world go by at a corner cafe, the crunch and warm, pillowy softness of the first bite of freshly baked baguette as you wander back from the boulangerie, the lingering fragrance of the rose garden at the Château de Bagatelle in Bois de Boulogne... It's all pieces of a puzzle that fill your heart in ways that make your life before now seem drab, almost in black and white, like a photograph.

You have written to Stanley once since you arrived, effusive in your praise, a homily to your new home, however temporary. While proclaiming his happiness for you, his response tempered, a touch dismissive of your wonderment. I can scarcely believe any city could truly live up to the praise you so readily heap upon Paris, my love, he wrote back. That was a week ago, and your urge to reply has been muted. 

It's during an idle lunchtime by the Seine, eating a sandwich as you dangle your feet over the river wall, that you genuinely feel a local. An elderly French couple, likely visiting from the provinces, approaches you and asks you for directions to the Musée de l'Homme. Part of you aglow they think you sophisticated enough to look Parisian, and French. And you are able to help them, giving them the information in French, not fluent but sufficient that they are surprised when you confess “je suis américaine”.

In your third week, you secure the art gallery job Eloise had seen posted. An opportunity to meet many new people, primarily British and American, who share your love of art of all persuasions. You spend many a happy hour answering questions and building your knowledge of art, not just in your gallery but across the city. Part of you is wistful to study the subject in even greater depth than the books you borrow in copious quantities from the library where Eloise works.

You grow so close to Eloise so quickly that it’s as if you have known her your whole life. A sense of kinship, a near familial bond. You know, on some instinctive level, she will always be a part of your life somehow. Your evenings are often spent in lounge bars together—venues awash with art deco splendour as you listen to jazz through a cigarette haze and flirt aimlessly with a carousel of handsome men. Life seems so full of potential, a hum in your very being.

“What do you think the purpose of life is, y/n?” Eloise sighs as she flops onto your bed after returning from one such decadent night out.

“Aaaand we are done with the brandy…” you declare, taking the bottle of Martell cognac from her grip and placing it pointedly on the dresser, your high-handed point only mildly undermined by your own unsteady gait.

You collapse down next to her, the intricate ceiling rose around your light fixture swirling slightly before your very eyes.

“Love?” you hazard in answer to her question.

“Boo! Cliché!” she jeers, elbowing you good-naturedly.

“I don’t just mean romantic love,” you protest, “the love of family… friends…”

“Ah, yes, family. Endlessly large family. Don’t suppose you want an extra sibling or two, do you? I could be persuaded to let a couple go,” she squints comically.

“Depends… can I have the artist?” you jest.

“You have to stop staring at that painting; it's getting weird,” she opines with her typical bluntness, “and no, you can’t. You know he’s my favourite,” she pouts.

“I think he’s my favourite too,” you opine over a stifled yawn, any embarrassment about being called out for your unbridled admiration overridden by the sleepy state your comfortable bed lulls you into.

“If you end up being attracted to my brother, I will have to disown you, you know,” she pats your hand drowsily.

“Hmm, good thing he’s so far away…” you trail off with a lazy giggle, eyes drooping heavily.

It’s the last words you exchange before you both fall asleep on your bed.

–

Perhaps, as with all things that are too good, the idyll is temporary. It's the news you wake up to that following morning, September 4th, which throws everything into uncertainty. Solène knocks on your door early with an uncharacteristically sombre expression, wordlessly handing you the morning paper and flicking on the wireless on your mantelpiece, the fine lines on her face deeper etched, furrowed with worry.

‘La Guerre!’ the headline screams from the newspaper. And the voice on the airwaves, your ear more attuned to the language now, details how Britain and France have jointly declared war against Germany for their invasion of Poland a few days prior.

At the sound of the radio, Eloise emerges from your room, blinking and hair asunder, a little delicate from your previous night's revelry. You sip coffee at a loss for what to think or do. It’s an odd cognitive dissonance when life at once seems identical but also changed by an invisible shape - an undercurrent of fear, of the unknown, a punch to the pit of your stomach that you don’t know how to acknowledge - even as you go through the motions of your daily routine and head to work.

By the evening you are more phlegmatic about the situation. Your spirit dampened, yes, but not crushed. You feel an immense sense of privilege that conflict is not yet at your doorstep, but equally knowing being in the capital city of a nation that just declared war against a neighbouring country is not exactly safe.

You and Eloise splash out on dinner at an upscale brassiere that night, one you have both passed and commented you’d love to dine in some time. Both of you seized by the unspoken “what if”, the previous reluctance to treat yourselves entirely absent.

Talk on all the tables around you as you dine - on heavenly butter-soft steak - is about the war. What it could mean for Paris, fear of another major European conflict so soon after the last, the economic concerns - the bite of the early 30s depression just relinquishing its hostile grip on the somewhat bruised denizens.

Afterwards, you wander the cobbled streets back to your apartment, arms looped, bellies full, occasionally staring up at the starry night sky in mostly contemplative, sober silence. It’s a beautiful evening, but something in the warm breeze feels melancholic.

When you open the door to your building, Solène is waiting, rocking on her heels.

“Eloise, a telegram has come for you!” she announces, shoving a piece of paper into her hand. “And a telephone call from England earlier,” she adds, gesturing to the black rotary phone outside her place—the only one in the building.

Eloise gives you a brief glance and then opens the message. You watch her eyes ping across the text before her shoulders slump.

“My mother,” she sighs in explanation, “it appears she is summoning me back home.”

“What?!” the selfish reflex of not wanting to be left alone is the first thing flaring in you.

“It’s not fair!” she whines in a flash of child-like defiance before continuing in a more subdued tone. “She is sending my brother to come get me. She doesn’t specify which, but seeing as Anthony is a Lieutenant General in the Army and has likely been called to Churchill’s side, I'm presuming Benedict,” Eloise surmises. 

Your thoughts instantly fly to that painting hanging in your apartment upstairs. A strange flutter under your ribs at the idea you could be about to meet its creator. Quickly followed by a wash of guilt that you could even focus on such a frivolous thing.

“What will I do without you?’’ You fret aloud, grasping her arm tighter.

“There was a call for you too, y/n,” Solène pipes up. “Your father wants you to exchange your return ticket for a sailing home as soon as possible,” she relays.

“But.. I just got here!” your lament as defiant as Eloise’s. A frustrating sense you are losing a fleeting opportunity you already hold so precious - like a new toy being ripped from the meaty fist of a truculent toddler.

“Mes amis, what can I say?” that trademark Gallic shrug seizing Solène’s shoulders. “While Paris is safe for now, we do not know how much longer that will hold true… it is likely best you return home. Perhaps this will be over in weeks, and you can return?”

You know your parents have paid your rent upfront for a whole year, likely similar for Eloise, your landlady not impacted financially by your leaving, merely a wish for you to enjoy your Parisian adventures.

As you unlock the door to your apartment and wander in, both of you sigh; the illumination from the Eiffel Tower that refracts upon your window pane just adds to your melancholia, a sight that before had never failed to warm your heart.

“When will your brother get here?” your inflection dull.

“Tomorrow, most likely. It only takes a couple of hours to cross the Channel, and as you know, the train ride from the coast is just a few more. I expect he’ll be waiting for me right here when I return from work,” her tone is just as flat as yours.

You want to ask if she will pack tonight, but you stop yourself, seeing the flame that usually burns so bright behind her blue eyes dimmed. Wordlessly, you draw closer and pull her into a firm hug.

“I will miss you like a sister,” she whispers into your hair, returning the embrace just as fiercely, “maybe moreso.”

You nod and band your arms tighter briefly before letting go, bone-deep exhaustion overtaking anything else you see in her mirrored stance.

The last thing that captures your eye as Eloise turns to her room is that painting of her childhood home and, strangely, how it feels closer now than ever before.

Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

[justsomepaintingsforyou]

Fidelia Bridges

Calla Lily

[vagabondageautourdesoi]

Stéphanie Perez - Le gardien...

Le gardien de Téhéran C’est au cours d’un reportage pour France Télévision que Stéphanie Perez fait la connaissance d’un petit gardien de musée. Dans Le gardien de Téhéran elle raconte l’histoire étonnante d’un homme que rien ne le destinait à devenir le conservateur d’œuvres artistiques modernes, rarement vues, souvent cachées. Brins d’histoire Pour son premier emploi, à Téhéran, Cyrus Farzadi…

[fidjiefidjie]

🗞"Sunday Morning"📰

Huile sur toile 🎨 Elginia McCrary

Bel après-midi 👋

[bearbench-img]

ベーナス

米ナス（こめなす）は、ナス科の野菜であるナスの品種の一つで、その形と色から「米ナス」と呼ばれています。一般的なナスに比べて小ぶりで、卵形や楕円形をしており、表面は光沢のある美しい紫黒色をしています。果皮が薄く、肉質が緻密でやわらかいため、煮崩れしにくく、加熱調理に向いているのが特徴です。主に夏から秋にかけて収穫され、炒め物や煮物、揚げ物など、さまざまな料理に使われます。煮物や揚げ物にすると、とろけるような食感になり、味がしみ込みやすいため、和食だけでなく、中華料理や洋食などでも幅広く使われています。

手抜きイラスト集

[vinylespassion]

Ann Magnuson est une actrice, chanteuse et artiste performeuse américaine, née le 4 janvier 1956 à Charleston, en Virginie-Occidentale. Connue pour son style excentrique et sa grande polyvalence, elle a mené une carrière éclectique allant du cinéma et de la télévision à la musique et aux arts de la scène.

Dans les années 1980, elle devient une figure emblématique de la scène artistique new-yorkaise, notamment au sein du Club 57, un lieu d’avant-garde où elle organise et participe à des performances expérimentales et des happenings artistiques. Comme chanteuse, elle a fait partie de Bongwater, un groupe de rock alternatif qui a marqué la fin des années 1980 et le début des années 1990.

En tant qu'actrice, Ann Magnuson a joué dans de nombreux films et séries télévisées, tels que « Desperately Seeking Susan » (1985), « Making Mr. Right » (1987) et « Clear and Present Danger » (1994). Elle a également fait des apparitions remarquées dans des séries comme « Star Trek: Voyager » et « Frasier ».

Ann est également reconnue pour son sens de l’humour et sa capacité à incarner des personnages excentriques et mémorables, cultivant ainsi une carrière unique à la croisée du théâtre, de la musique et de la performance artistique. Elle continue d’évoluer dans le monde du spectacle et des arts, explorant sans cesse de nouvelles formes d’expression artistique.

[plaidetchocolatchaud]

Donc le RN sort aujourd'hui qu'arrivé au pouvoir le truc qu'ils feront c'est de privatiser les chaînes de télévision publiques.

Oui, mais oui, ça fait vraiment sens avec leur idéologie. Voilà, on transforme France 5 et Arte et faute de qualité ça devient au niveau de M6 et TF1. Aller, fini La Grande Librairie, Place au Cinéma, les documentaires, là tous ces trucs de gauchistes. Ces deux chaînes qui sont les seules à proposer du cinéma français, avec un nouveau patron type Bolloré, elles diffuseront de la télé réalité et des blockbusters américain. Ça c'est des vrais patriotes qui défendent la culture française 💪 bravo le RN 🙃!