#american in paris

[men-men-everywhere]

Gene Kelly

[100gayicons]

Walter Plunkett was an award winning costume designer, perhaps best known for for his work on “Gone with the Wind” (1939). In 1951, he was one of three credited designers on “American in Paris” (1951). His contribution was for Beaux Arts Ball sequence in the film. The three designers shared the Academy Award at the 24th Oscar ceremony in 1952.

As a young man, Plunkett studied law at University of California at Berkeley, but he discovered his true passion - acting. In 1923, his father bought him a ticket to New York and encouraged him to give Broadway a try.

Although Plunkett was cast in several productions, he found greater success in costume design. He was encouraged by friend and fellow designer Howard Greer to go to Hollywood, where Greer was already ensconced.

Many of the costume designers for the major studios were gay. Hollywood gave Plunkett the opportunity to openly live life as a gay man. Friend Don Bacardy (partner to Christopher Isherwood) once said of him:

“I'd say Walter Plunkett was very at ease with who he was.”

In the 1940 U.S. Census, Plunkett identified his then lover as another member of his household, Hal Richardson, as his “partner.”

Satch LaValley, another close friend described how Plunkett would put up bail for gay men arrested for cruising Pershing Square or Griffith Park.

"He'd often post bail for boys who were arrested. He didn't even have to known them. That was just part of his nature. He'd hear of some boy's story and go down and try to help."

After his retirement in 1966, Plunkett lived in Santa Monica with his longtime companion Lee.

In an era with no gay rights and the idea of gay marriage unthinkable, Plunkett made plans to ensure Lee would inherit his estate after he passed… he adopted Lee as his son.

Plunkett died in 1982 at the age of 79.

[abwwia]

Artwork: Woman with a Monkey, 1909, which may be a self-portrait

Listen to : https://app.smartify.org/en-GB/tours/brilliant-exiles-modern-art-and-modern-women?tourLanguage=en-GB

Ethel Mars (September 19, 1876 – March 23, 1959) was an American woodblock print artist, known for her white-line woodcut prints, also known as Provincetown Prints, and a children's book illustrator. She had a lifelong relationship with fellow artist Maud Hunt Squire, with whom she lived in Paris and Provincetown, Massachusetts.

“Woman with a Monkey” was featured in the April 1909 issue of Harper’s Weekly. This painting, possibly a self-portrait of Mars, now hangs at the Springfield Art Association source

Ethel Mars (center) with her mother and aunt c.1898, Department of Image Collections, National Gallery of Art Library, Washington, DC.

Maud Hunt Squire and Ethel Mars (right), Springfield, Illinois, c.1898, Department of Image Collections, National Gallery of Art Library, Washington, DC.

Maud Hunt Squire (January 30, 1873 – October 25, 1954) was an American painter and printmaker. She had a lifelong relationship with artist Ethel Mars, with whom she traveled and lived in the United States and France. Via W

Ethel Mars, Provincetown, c.1918, Department of Image Collections, National Gallery of Art Library, Washington, DC.

[lovelyballetandmore]

[somanywords]

watching a good musical really will have you out there breathing heavily. like yeah. men sure can dance

[thatnerdyqueer]

convincing my classical music brother that musical theatre is good by showing him all the classical musicians who contributed to it

(I'm both a theatre kid and classical musician so this is fun research for me)

Gerswin (American in Paris)

Leonard Bernstein (West Side Story)

Dudamel (West Side Story)

please reblog and if you have stuff to add to the list I'm trying to win an argument here

[persimmonlions]

watched a bunch of gene kelly film clips today and we need to bring back abstract backdrops in film

[aj-lenoire]

i’m really enjoying the olympics this year, there is some quality nonsense going on

for the first time in the modern olympics (possibly ever?) there’s an equal number of women competing to men, and included in that group we have icons like simone biles, kim yeji, imane khelif

and then over with the dudes we’ve got yusuf dikec who took up shooting after he got divorced, turns up in a t-shirt with no ear protection only to shoot near perfect rounds. we’ve got henrik christiansen who is taking tiktok by storm not for his swimming prowess but the fact he is obsessed with the olympic village chocolate muffins. we’ve got stephen nedoroscik, who is trained literally only in pommel horse so he kinda just sits around doing rubik’s cubes while everyone else does their thing (pommel goes last) and then they activate him like a fucking sleeper agent to crush the pommel routine, secure the usa a medal, and also he cannot fucking see the entire time bc he needs glasses

quality, quality nonsense

EDIT: okay so apparently the smoking thing wasn’t true, my bad guys! dikec has been competing in the olympics since 2008 and is ex-military (but his showing up in a t-shirt without any visual aids is still iconic!!)

[prose2passion]

interesting. hadn't heard of this one before:

In The French Style (1963)

[bellabaxter2023]

cunty american dad mood board

[soranatus]

léon marchand doing the breaststroke and the crowd timing their cheers every time he surfaces is so 🥹

[profecional-dreamer]

I don’t mean to be elitist but I just don’t think ballets should be designed by abstract artists

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

More of Stanley's sketchbook because he makes me sick /pos

(Just imagine he was looking in a mirror at the subway to draw this anshfhwj. The london bus ticket is unrelated, it's just a random knick knack he had lying around<3)

People weren't the only ones Stan met on the streets.

------

+ this is an absolute fucking batshit WILD oneshot I initially wrote for these drawings that got WAY out of hand, if you feel like reading that.

The oneshot below is a stand-alone now, and in no way is related to the drawings above, but I just wanted to show you guys because Jesus Christ

------

Winter of 1981, at a subway station Stan doesn't remember the name of-

The sorry excuse of a transport system that this hellhole of a city called a functioning subway was hardly anyone's first choice of a warm place to stay the night. And yet, here Stanley was; standing like an idiot in the middle of a small bustling stairwell that led down to the full screeching chaos of a train stop on a Tuesday evening. A rowdy crowd of exhausted office workers streamed out like a tidal wave from the entrance of the station, the bustle of their footsteps all too eager to go home and relax after a long day of work.

The faint, stuffy stench of old piss and sweat followed the crowd to the surface from the deep depths of a less than sanitary and overcrowded train station. The pungent smell intermingled with the crisp stinging winter air in a cocktail of shitty city gloom often associated with this time of the year; when the holidays were too far away and the sun seemed to come and go with practically the same 9 to 5 schedule as the workers had, leaving them going to work in the pitch dark and coming back out in the inky black as well.

He might have looked like he belonged there, depending on how one would want to look at it. He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the sea of prim, pressed suits and neart uniforms. His ratty old jacket and generally unwashed appearance certainly didn’t help his case, but he also knew that stations like these also tended to shelter quite a number of homeless wanderers like him, especially during the winter. So, it wasn't exactly uncommon to see other sore thumbs seeking reprieve from the biting cold and the dangerous likelihood of frostbite from within the enclosed walls of the subway station.

Heck, if most of these underground kingdoms didn't also happen to be a breeding ground for several illicit activities, he might even have followed their lead. But, believe it or not, Stanley's already had enough experience with illegal activities to last him a last time, and he isn't looking for a new fill. He was satisfied with what meager shelter his trusty car offered him, as little a difference it might make in terms of safety.

Stanley's obstruction of the already narrow stairs with his loitering went unappreciated, as shoulders roughly shoved past him and swinging briefcases repeatedly bumped into his sides, usually coupled with a nasty glare and a snide comment or two. He paid them no mind, however. He wasn't here to start a fight with some random bum with a dead end job, as much as he thought it would probably do them both some good to duke their stresses out on one another.

The hours ticked by with wave after wave of new crowds being dropped off by a train and left to pour out of the station into the streets. By the time the streetlights turned on and the pale pink in the sky slowly faded to make way for the stark glittery black of the night sky, the tide of people had slowed to a trickle and rush hour was long since over. He was now the stairs’ sole occupier, with a few occasional stragglers stumbling up the steps and hurrying past him without a second glance.

Stanley did not move from his spot, however. He stood resolutely in the middle of the stairway, fervently rubbing his arms and stamping his feet in a futile attempt to try and regain feeling in his extremities as he waited. Rocking on his heels, he titled his head backwards to let his eyes roam the constellations that carpeted the endless expanse of the sky stretched out above his head, almost losing himself in the scintillating canvas of stars.

It reminded him of old times; of the sparkling beach sand twinkling in the dim moonlight, and the soft sound of lilting waves hovering in the background as he lay back on the cold wooden deck of his ship and watched the stars dance.

He still remembered every name his brother had once recited to him time and time again as he pointed out each star and galaxy from the night sky.

Then, like clockwork, he was broken out of his reveries by a telltale meow coming from below. The sound was a familiar blanket that immediately melted away the tension that had begun to build in his chest as he practically sagged with relief.

His body moved almost automatically as he leaned down to detach the frail tabby cat that was attempting to literally fuse with his legs, purring up a storm and rubbing her head against his pants as though her life depended on it. The cat gave a soft chirrup of dissatisfaction at being manhandled, which Stanley absentmindedly replied with a chiding click of his tongue as he lifted her up his chest and gently tucked her into his jacket in a practiced motion.

She thankfully remained blissfully limp in his grasp as he shifted around some more so that she was nestled comfortably inside the dark pocket of warmth inside his ratty jacket. The tiny warm lump that rumbled contently against his front radiated with heat, and his fingers finally began to feel like actual fingers rather than useless stiff frigid lumps of meat and bone attached to his palms.

A pointed cough startled him from his clumsy wriggling to get the cat to settle down. An oddly familiar security guard stood at the entrance of the station at the bottom of the stairs, leveling Stanley an unimpressed look with the metal gate in his grip already halfway closed, ready to seal the subway for the night. He must have been a comical sight; caught awkwardly bent over while trying to get his newly acquired cat to stop kneading biscuits on his stomach, with said cat peeking out from the gap between his collars.

Stanley faintly recognized the guard. He was a much older man, with a shock of thinning white hair neatly tucked underneath a dark blue cap and a strange depth in his eyes that reminded Stanley of the sea; with countless unspoken truths lurking far beneath the surface, but no less grand and knowing of all that the universe had to offer, as though he had already lived a thousand lives before this one.

He had seen the man around before, at another station, doing the opposite of his job by ushering stray buskers and homeless stragglers from the streets and into the (relatively) safe walls of the subway, instead of doing what any other law-abiding security guard would do and kick them out into the elements. He wasn't sure what the older man was doing here, of all places, since all the previous stations he'd seen the man at had been several states over, practically on the other side of the country.

A brief spark of panic shot through his spine at the thought that this man could be following him, but he quickly discarded the ridiculous notion as soon as it entered his mind. He had never even seen him before, and hardly ever even interacted with him; there was no reason for there to be any sort of bad blood between them. Unless he happened to be related to one of Stanley's many, many enemies, then perhaps his fear was a little warranted.

However, the old guard made no move to attack or do anything other than stare judgmentally, almost expectantly. For the first time in a long time, Stanley felt like a child being caught doing something he wasn't supposed to do. He tried his best to keep his uncomfortable squirming to a minimum under the unrelenting gaze, stubbornly returning the man's gaze with his own wary glare. His cat’s muffled whining came from inside his jacket. The traitor, she was leaving him to deal with the old man on his own.

With an exasperated jerk of his head, the security guard gestured towards the inside of the station. For a moment, Stanley stared dumbly, uncomprehending of what the old man could possibly want from him. Rolling his eyes, this time the man gestured more insistently at the small gap that still remained between the metal gate and the entrance, his arm sweeping the air in a low arc as he dramatically urged Stanley inside. Suddenly, it clicked, and Stanley shook his head.

“I have a car,” he said plainly, his voice echoing loudly in the desolate silence of the winter night that surrounded the unlikely pair.

He wasn't sure why he was so nervous, it wasn't as though he was lying. He did have a car, his trusty Stanley-mobile was parked safely away in the corner of an unassuming alley that wasn't often frequented by anyone. There was no way he was reaching it tonight, though; it was practically on the other side of the city, much too far away for him to arrive at a reasonable time. His nightly excursions to meet his small friend unfortunately left him with no other choice than to leave his car behind, the hunk of metal far too unwieldy and noticeable to drive around openly on the streets. He never knew who could be watching, after all.

He had simply been hoping to find himself a dark corner to tuck himself into with his cat, just for the night, but it seemed as though the universe had other plans. Or rather, this strange old man had other plans.

Although, if Stanley thought about it, the subway wasn't such a bad suggestion. This was one of the safer stations in the city; and with the rich neighborhoods being so close by, no rogue criminal or dealers dared to come near this area unless they wanted to be slapped with a hefty fine or face a higher potential to be arrested. And of course, there was the obvious shelter from the unrelenting cold that now seemed to permeate his bones, even with the purring warmth that was nestled inside his jacket.

So, that was how he found himself hunkering down for the night inside a shabby old subway station, with a satisfied cat still rumbling away against his chest and a strange old security guard locking down the gates behind him. The man said nothing as he hooked his keys back onto his belt and gave a firm pat on Stanley's shoulders as he walked past him, pausing to scratch his cat behind her ears before moving away. His footsteps bounced off of the grimy tiled walls with an odd reverb as he turned a corner.

“You'll be safe in here,” the man said, voice sage and gravelly. The words had a weight to them, and seemed to hang in the air with such a presence it was as though the old man had never even left his side.

The subway was empty, quiet. It was such a stark contrast to the loud rowdiness of the rush hour crowd these halls once held. Stanley hadn't yet registered the utter silence of the station as he aimlessly made his way down the winding, deserted halls of the ancient station. He mindlessly walked past the aged and peeling advertising posters plastered on the walls, his nose becoming accustomed to the stinging stench of the subway. The quiet seemed to swallow the sound of his steps as he explored the branching paths and endless tunnels. They were almost kaleidoscopic, dizzying, nonsensical. There were doors where there shouldn't be, and deadends where it didn't make sense.

The silence only began to truly settle in his bones the more he walked. He suddenly wished that he would head the telltale footsteps of the old security guard again, just to hear another sign of life in this underground hellscape other than himself. The ghostly memories of screeching trains and bustling crowds haunted the halls; now, only nothingness reigned supreme. He glanced down at his small feline companion, who slumbered away against his chest, blissfully unaware of his jackrabbiting heartbeat threatening to burst out of his ribs. The silence seemed to permeate every inch of space and crush the air out of his lungs. He couldn't breathe.

Stanley’s steps grew faster, more frantic as the walls and ceilings seemed to close in on him. They grew smaller, tighter; squeezing, trapping. He hardly even registered his cat's complaints as she was jostled around in his grasp, breaking into a full out run. His breathing sounded loud, too loud, and the world was collapsing around him.

When he finally broke out into a large, open platform, he could finally breathe again. He had arrived at the tracks, the empty tunnel where the trains would pass an empty, gaping maw in the wall that seemed to swallow all light around it and beckon him closer. He felt his cat wriggle out from within his jacket and hop out with a displeasured yowl, scampering away and disappearing behind a corner much like the old man had. True silence pierced his ears and thrummed like a deafening pressure in his temples. He was alone.

Stanley was stuck in that subway station for years.

[rhera]

"Why do flowers have to be for anything? Isn't it enough that they have colour and form, and that they make you feel good?"

— directed by Vincente Minnelli; THE COBWEB (1955) MEET ME IN ST. LOUIS (1944) FATHER'S LITTLE DIVIDEND (1951) LUST FOR LIFE (1956) CABIN IN THE SKY (1943) AN AMERICAN IN PARIS (1951) THE CLOCK (1945) ON A CLEAR DAY YOU CAN SEE FOREVER (1970) ZIEGFELD FOLLIES (1945) TEA AND SYMPATHY (1956)

[zoe-oneesama]

Some "Special" Girls! And the late girls.

Ko-fi | Patreon

[a-very-zilly-gooze]

normally, i am not proud to call myself an american (for all the expected reasons). especially with this upcoming election season and all the shit going on in the government, supreme court, etc., my patriotism levels are at an all-time low.

but the SECOND that you put Kathleen Genevieve Ledecky in a pool, i am a feral red-blooded american. my pronouns are U/S/A!!! i kiss eagles as i watch her glide through the water. she is the greatest woman and i am proud to be from the same country as her.