#Camille Etienne

[cherusque]

Camille Étienne 🇫🇷

[happywebdesign]

https://www.pourquoionsebat.com/

[breathetoseethetruth]

Anyone else on here who is a fan of Camille Étienne?

[royalty-nobility]

The Coronation of Queen Victoria, 28 June 1838: The Queen Leaving Westminster Abbey

Artist: Camille-Joseph-Etienne Roqueplan (French, 1800-1855)

Date: c. 1838-1855

Medium: Oil on canvas with traces of pencil

Collection: Royal Collection Trust, United Kingdom

Description

This oil sketch depicts the closing moments of the Coronation ceremony. Queen Victoria is crowned and is carrying the Orb and Sceptre with the Cross, and is leaving Westminster Abbey followed by a procession of her Maids of Honour and courtiers.

[karokawwo]

the grind never stops

[arinewman7]

Camille Claudel

Photography by Etienne Carjat

1896

[lesser-known-composers]

Camille Saint-Saëns (1835-1921) - Etienne Marcel: Récit et air de Béatrix "Ah ! Laissez-moi, ma mère !" ·

Véronique Gens · Münchner Rundfunkorchester · Hervé Niquet

[revuetraversees]

Cécile A. HOLDBAN (et trente poètes), Machines, le Réalgar, mai 2024, 134 pages, 23€

Une chronique de Marc Wetzel Cécile A. HOLDBAN (et trente poètes), Machines, le Réalgar, mai 2024, 134 pages, 23€ La peintre-poète Cécile Holdban dessine (au lavis) une trentaine de “machines” – chacune légendée et reproduite – qu’elle propose à autant de camarades écrivains de prolonger-commenter d’un récit de leurs choix et façon. Ce que ces vingt-neuf hommes et une femme font (à la fois…

[le-mur-st-etienne]

Intervention de Camille Blandin, Janvier 2024

"Murassik Park"

des dinosaures ça peut faire penser à quoi? à Jurassic Park ( gros raccourci). Ils sont exposés sur quoi? Sur un mur. Murassik Park. Vous l'avez? Elle est pas évidente.

[k-star-holic]

Nathalie ... Portman husband and Affair 25-year-old woman, "activist for climate change and social justice"

Source: k-star-holic.blogspot.com

[thornilee013]

Also Etienne because I wanna know more about Andrew's Emotional Support dog's friend.

prev | Etienne | WW 31.7.2024

One minute, Jean had been given at least a dozen plush toys for Etienne to play with, and the next he'd watched her place them all along the edges of her bed and lay on top of them. He wasn't sure what to make of the situation, other than that she seemed to enjoy the toys. She simply didn't enjoy them like a typical dog would. 

It all started when he got a stuffed elephant from Camille and Amélie. Etienne had carried it everywhere with her for a month, including on walks, and was sure to show it off to everyone who went by.

“Where’s Albert?” Jean asked her, and without fail, Etienne dropped Albert the stuffed Elephant into his open palm. Time, and dog slobber, had not been kind to the poor elephant, and many parts of his motley body were the result of patchwork Jean had done to keep the elephant whole. 

MASTERPOST

BONUS: I commissioned @emry-stars-art for a glimpse into Jean's life with Etienne!

(THANK YOU SO MUCH AGAIN, @emry-stars-art !!!!!!!!)

[robinfrinjs]

Always There, Women in Motorsport: The fast women of la belle époque

Women's history in motorsport is rich, and that has always been the case. Most of these stories however aren’t well known and aren’t spoken about enough. Women have always been in motorsport and always will be.

Three French women, Hélène van Zuylen, Camille du Gast, and Anne de Rochechouart de Mortemart are some of the fastest women from France’s La Belle Epoque (circa 1880-1914).

In 1898 Anne de Rochechouart de Mortemart (1847-1933) (also known as the Duchess of Uzes) became the first woman in France to obtain her driver’s license. While getting out of the car she announced with delight that woman had just overcome a new barrier. Not long after she also became the first to be caught speeding for which she had to pay a five franc fine.

in 1926 she founded the first female Automobile Club, L'Automobile Club féminin de France (ACFF)

The Duchess of Uzes in 1927

Hélène van Zuylen (pictured on the cover image) was a French author but also the first woman to compete in an international auto race. Baron Etienne van Zuylen, her husband, was the President of the Automobile Club de France

She entered the 1898 Paris–Amsterdam–Paris using the nickname Snail, while her husband used the nickname Escargot. She successfully competed the trail and entered the Paris-Berlin race in 1901 but was stopped by technical failure.

That year Hélène, a lesbian, would meet Renée Vivien with whom she would have an affair. Vivien's letters to a confidant revealed that she considered herself married to Hélène. Most of Vivien's work is dedicated to "H.L.C.B.," the initials of Zuylen's first names.

Just over a decade before she died, Hélène van Zuylen created the Renée Vivien Prize, Honoring the woman she loved and intending to give encouragement to female writers.

Hélène van Zuylen - Nouvelle Revue internationale illustrée, December 1908

Camille du Gast (1868-1942) finished 33rd (19th in class) out of 122 participants in the 1901 Paris-Berlin race. Du Gast, achieved the results despite driving her husband's 20CV Panhard-Levassor which was not designed for racing. She had to start the race in last because she was a woman. The race did mark 2 female competitors with du Gast and van Zuylen. She loved several extreme sports such as mountaineering, parachuting and frencing.

In 1902 she competed in the Paris-Vienna race and also wanted to compete in the New York-San Francisco but was refused entry because she was a woman.

In 1903 she would start the Paris-Madrid race. Which she would enter with a proper racing car, a works 5.7-litre de Dietrich car. It was a chaotic race with 207 competitors which unfortunately saw several deaths. Camille started in 29th and gained 9 positions in the first 120 km. She had climbed up to P8 before stopping to give medical aid to a fellow driver, Phil Stead (also driving a de Dietrich) involved in a near-fatal crash.

Camille du Gast in her 30 hp De Dietrich with starting number 29 during the 1903 Paris-Madrid Race

Later one of the leading drivers at that time, Charles Jarrot said that if Camille had not stopped Stead likely would have died. After an ambulance arrived she continued the race eventually finishing 44th or 45th in the shortened race.

The French government would stop the race at Bordeaux, as over half of the field (275 cars) had either crashed or retired and several drivers and spectators had died.

Open road racing was banned, so in 1904 Camille wanted to participate in the French elimination trial for the Gordon Bennett races, as the Benz factory team offered du Gast a race seat. But the Autosport Club France (ACF) banned women from racing. Du Gast published a letter in protest but the ban was defended as the ACF could not risk a woman getting injured or killed in a racing event.

Because of this she ventured to boat racing. One of those races was caught by a big storm which saw most competitors either abandon their ship or they sank. She was rescued and later declared the winner of that race.

Eventually she had to put a halt to her adventurous life when she survived an assassination attempt by her daughter. Nothing was ever the same for her after that. From that point she devoted herself to animals. She would serve as president of the 'French Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals'

NEXT UP > More female racing drivers from the early 1900s

[aroseyetbloomedwrites]

Reprieve - Etienne/Francel [ The Night of Occam's Razor ]

Having been provided it previously, a silver key rests in Francel’s open palm, looking down into it, his fingers, long and slender, pull forward and fold around it. There is a deep seated exhaustion taking root in his bones as his gaze glances off his fist, and upwards, to the bar, from where he sees Ambrose, and Yoan putting up their dirtied rags. The last of theirs, well—Occam’s guests having left, trickled out into the sweeping cold of the old night, to return from whence they came. He thinks, as he watches Ambrose come around the bar with Yoan, that perhaps he could call it his as well, the guests, the employee’s, the establishment, and not in any sense of ownership as a statement, no matter the gil he had provided, and the services rendered, but because of a different type of investment he has made. The emotional output. By no diminishing standards, the months he has come here, to do this, for and with Etienne, he—loved it, loved them. And so, ‘theirs’, in every sense of the word, he thinks, might just have a right to be imagined in his mind, as it would in Ambrose’s, or Yoan’s, or Etienne’s and Doctor Camille. 

Francel feels a hand touch his shoulder, and having traced the path Ambrose marked across the way from bartop to stairwell, of which he leaned against the banister, knew for whom it belonged to. There is strength in that grip, and if the musculature that the professor boasted of spoke to anything, it was that grip. Francel’s shoulder felt the weight of it. Yoan had held back, and for a time, looking towards the door as if he waited for that final permission to leave. 

“Make sure to tuck in that Etienne, aye?”

The hand leaves his narrow shoulder, and Francel turns his head to follow the pathway Ambrose carved towards the door, Francel trails behind, gripping the key Etienne had given him last time tightly in his hand. He pockets it. Puffs up his chest mid step, and with a familiar, fond curl to his lips, sees them out with a —

“Of course I will! Be warm, Fury keep you safe in your travels.”

At the doorstep, left wide open, a cold wind blows in, chilling Francel’s bare fingers, and his lengthsome ears, Ambrose turns to regard him, Yoan a few steps ahead, not bothering to pull his gait as he walks away, leaving Ambrose at the stop, looking into Francel’s smiling face. There is a tiredness beneath bright blue eyes, but a redness in his cheeks, and the ends of his smile might nearly meet those blue depths, in a way that showed Francel’s satisfaction, and his contentedness. Ambrose seemed to consider this expression for a brief moment, but he does not look overlong, for the footsteps of his companion have grown distant, and Francel’s nose was turning a delightful shade of red, he merely laughs aloud, and steps back and down the curb. 

“Do not let the door hit my ass on the way out.” He turns away, waving a hand over his shoulder.

The parting note leaves Francel slightly confused, he will watch for a moment, as Ambrose breaks into a jog over the pathway to catch up to Yoan, a crystalline snowflake or few blow in, sticking to the brocade of Francel’s vest, he can feel the chill of the wind sneak beneath the cuffs of his sleeves, and pour down the buttoned collar of his shirt. Like tendrils of ice sneaking in to cool his sternum, and the way his heart heats and beats in his breast. Spooling hot blood also, in the pit of his stomach as he leans back, pulls the doors closed, and… flips the lock with a decisive ‘click’. Barring the establishment for all that were already readily within it, and, without.

Etienne is nearby, he is just a room away, and has been, having escaped as things were winding down, and no more bodies were trickling in, to sort what had been paid, and what needed to be ordered for the following weeks. Francel will pace from the front double doors of the Razor, across wood floorboards, past tables and benches, to the far side of the entryway floor where a single door stands. It was not locked when he tries the handle, and he had, after all, promised to see Etienne before leaving, as is what he always does. The door gives when he presses in on it, leading him to a lengthy wing with doors aligning either side, he follows it to its end and takes some stairs, a quick jaunt upwards, and then he is opening another door, which parts into a bigger room with a narrow pointed ceiling lined with skylights gone dark and cold. The far side of the room boasts a few windows which are curtainless, but considering they were up a floor, there was no need for them. A desk was facing away from the windows, littered with paper, books, a scale, letters needing to be sent out—an old cup of coffee that must have been there for a few days. It was the kind of thing that elicits a smile from Francel. But, what really drew his gaze, seeing as the desk, where his eyes had flitted to first, was empty, they ghost instead, to the chair positioned a few steps in front of it, the back of it turned towards the door, as it is angled towards a crackling fireplace, he can see arms on the armrests of the plush chair, and know for whom occupies it. But there is silence, he was not greeted upon entrance, and the body in the chair does not move to come retrieve him. To come hold him. Unperturbed, Francel will find fondness curl in his belly, and curl at his lips, even if he cannot rightly see Etienne, but, to know the busy, energetic man, to be asleep where he sits. 

On quiet feet, leather soles against solid wood, he sidles his way gently to the loft bed in the farthest corner of the room, the space and table beneath it is filled with boxes, and bags of all sorts, he does not disturb these as he leans on quiet toes to lift himself marginally higher to seize a blanket corner and pull it from the edges of the lofted bed. And when he pads back, to pace around the chair fully, he will be given pause, to finally look upon this resting Etienne, pale skin aglow in the light of the fire, and Francel will find his heart stuttering. White hair will be swept across one eye, but the back is slightly sticking up from when it had been pressed against the back of the chair, creating a facade which is open, endearing, and addled with sleep. His eyes are closed, and while there is an underlying edge of darkness beneath them, Francel will wonder if this rare moment of respite would be enough to lift the shadow, even marginally. And yet, Etienne is always so energetic. Francel cants a hip, shifting his weight onto another foot, and leaning down at the waist as he gazes longingly at Etienne. Whose mouth is slightly ajar, wisps of air easing past in little breathes he can almost hear. Lips which kiss him with such passion, and longing, oscillating between a chasteness he never imagined would be his, and a need he never thought possible to be in his grasp, to bend to him, to be his to express. 

There are papers on Etienne’s lap, gone a little askew as they slowly begin to slide from his lap. Francel catches them before they can make streaks of white on the dark floor and sets them on the side table. He does not read what they are, but were Etienne to ever need help with them, he hopes the half-wolf would know for whom he could call upon, but then—doctor Camille, and Etienne, they have been doing this for some time by themselves, Francel could never make an imposition or presume he would be needed in that manner. Papers safely aside, Francel stretches out the blanket, from corner to corner, and drapes it gently over Etienne’s body, very carefully needling the corners of the blanket over his shoulders to cover the majority of him. The blanket is large, and settles warmly against the front of the man, folding into the crease made where lap turns into upright waist. Francel tucks him in, making sure the blanket covers Etienne’s front, in the fullest, and then, as he is leant in, he will turn his head, crane down his neck, and press soft, full lips against a high cheek bone, but then suddenly, jutting out from the edge of a blanket, a hand grabs his wrist just as Francel were pulling away. Eyes go slightly wide, as Etienne meets his gaze, there is a sudden alertness to them, a clarity which demonstrates that underlying layer of having been a soldier, or—it just had to do with Francel being about to make his escape, and Etienne was having none of that.

“You weren’t bout’a leave without saying bye, were you?”

There is still a layer of grogginess to Etienne’s voice, a sleepiness which made his voice pleasantly rough and gravely. Francel has butterflies in the pit of his stomach. Etienne’s hand is large, and warm, where it grasps around the tender bone of his wrist. Francel turns his hand, and Etienne lets him, their fingers come together, folding against one another. 

“I was saying my goodbyes just now, but you slept so peacefully, for, how could I wake you?”

Etienne gives one of his lopsided smiles, and white lashes lower over the glow of his eyes in the firelight, Etienne tugs on Francel’s hand, and the young lord tentatively acquiesces by way of stepping between the sag of the blanket between the taller’s legs. And will lower himself into the others lap, turning sideways, that he might hook his legs over Etienne’s and slide an arm around his shoulders. Hands relink, and rest on one of Francel’s thighs. The position itself is a strange one to the young lord, whom has not done something of this variety before. Etienne puts an arm around his back, his hand strokes down Francel’s spine, and then curves around his waist to hold his hip, and suddenly, it clicks in Francel’s mind, that he need not be so stiff, Etienne will hold him steady, he will not be upended, he will not slide off. He relaxes, as Etienne leans back against the chair again, and there is a naturalness to the way Francel will lean forward, shoulder to Etienne’s chest, turning his face inwards to tuck it against the fine lines of Etienne’s neck. And it suddenly hits him full force, the warmth of the fire against his side, a blanket tucked around Etienne’s chest for his fingers to pull down, that he can drag his hands over Etienne’s front, and into the opening of his shirt to press his fingertips against warm skin. Tickled gently by the hair that peppers his front. Francel runs his nails over this, and Etienne tucks his chin atop Francel’s head, and sighs through his nose.

“How ‘bout you jus’ don’t leave.”

Francel closes his eyes, squeezing his knees together over Etienne’s legs and the side of the chair they sit in, Etienne, holding him firmly, Etienne, kissing the top of his head, Etienne, the smell of him in his nose. Warmth against his body… 

“Now, how could I?” 

Francel intones, and his voice dips in such a way that belies his tiredness, now that he has been bidden to relax in his lover's embrace. How could he, when Etienne’s voice growls gently in his long ears, with his large hand holding to his thigh, his own hand trapped beneath, a hand curled around his hip… How could he, when they share a warmth, and their hearts beat together, and Francel’s lips move, as though he were to say something, but nothing comes out, just a rush of air, as his lungs and heart squeeze. 

“Etienne…”

But, Francel is met with silence, he cranes his neck back, moving as minutely as possible, only to find in his silence, and in his thoughts, Etienne had closed his eyes again, leant his head back against the grand chair, and was currently breathing soft and deep, with Francel in his arms, a familiar and desired weight and warmth against his front. There was no greater sense of calm and quiet than this. Francel tucks himself close again, a smile playing at his lips as his nose brushes the tendon in Etienne’s neck, he kisses the warm skin gently, curls his fingers against Etienne’s chest where he holds, and breathes in long, deep, and steady. Let him be surrounded by Etienne, and he will know no greater contentedness than this.

Francel does not return home, that night. 

[gogmstuff]

More pre-Victorian 1830s (from top to bottom) -

ca. 1830 Evening or wedding dress (location ?). From tumblr.com/andrayblue 1080X1350.

1831 Marquise Chasseloup-Laubat (probably Marie Augustine Antoinette Le Boucher des Fontaines) by Joseph-Désiré Court (Musée des Beaux-Arts de Rouen - Rouen, Normandie, France). From their Web site' enlarged by half 845X1181.

1830-1832 María Cristina de Borbón, Queen of Spain by José de Madrazo y Aguado (Prado). From their Web site 1280X1745.

1832 Marie Franziska von Freytag by ? (Salzburg Museum  - Salzburg, Salzburgland, Austria). From tumblr.com/history-of-fashion 766X963.

1832 Amalie Klein by Friedrich von Amerling (Österreichische Galerie Belvedere - Wien, Austria). From tumblr.com/history-of-fashion; fixed spots & cracks throughout w Pshop 2893X3508.

1835 Illustration from La Mode by Paul Gavarni. From tumblr.com/clove-pinks 1650X2048.

1836 Marriage Portrait of Charlotte de Rothschild by Moritz Daniel Oppenheim (Israel Museum - Jerusalem, Jerusalem District, Israel). From Google Art Project.

Lady with Pink Sash by Camille Joseph Etienne Roqueplan (Sotheby's - 29Jan22 auction Lot 703) 1583X2000.

[royalty-nobility]

The Coronation of Queen Victoria 28 June 1838. The Queen Leaving Westminster Abbey

Artist: Camille-Joseph-Etienne Roqueplan (French, 1800-55)

Date: c. 1838-1855

Medium: Oil on Canvas with Traces of Pencil

Collection: Royal Collection Trust

Description

This oil sketch depicts the closing moments of the Coronation ceremony. Queen Victoria is crowned and is carrying the Orb and Sceptre with the Cross, and is leaving Westminster Abbey followed by a procession of her Maids of Honour and courtiers.