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sissa-arrows · 2 months ago

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Americans who plan on voting for Kamala thinking the lesser of two evils is a solution need to take a serious look at France.

Macron was the “lesser of two evils” the first time. By the second time we knew the solution was to kick him out because he was NOT the lesser of two evils but too many white people kept believing in his lesser of two evils bullshit.

You know what’s happening now? The left won the election in the beginning of July. Macron chose to ignore it.

Macron chose a prime minister from the party that got the 4th place at the election. That party is a far right party labeled just right wing. Yesterday we got the new government chosen by that prime minister.

The Home Secretary believes that colonialism had great positive aspects (on the indigenous population) and that “Africans want for France to not repent and to accept that there was positive aspects and to take back its leadership in Africa”. He is also against making “forced conversion therapy” illegal against LGBT+ people.

The Higher education and Research Secretary, believes that “Islamoleftism” is a problem and a threat in higher education and that it must be fought against (Judeo-Bolshevism is so 1917-1945 so France switched things up a couple years ago). He also voted against putting abortion right in the French constitution and against gay marriage.

The Secretary of State against Discrimination was going to change its name to include the protection of secularism (which in France means the protection of Islamophobia and even supporting and being an islamophobe) after a pushback it looks like it wasn’t included in the name BUT it will still be one of his jobs. So the guy chosen supported Stanislas a private catholic schools who was involved in a scandal about favoring students but also about encouraging homophobia, Islamophobia and sexism in the school. He also believes that racism and homophobia exist in France like everywhere else but that very few people are racists or homophobes and that the real problem for minorities is the left who accuses people of being racists and/or homophobes. He thinks that there’s a problem with immigrants and immigration in France and that mass immigration must be stopped (for the record if you respect the Tumblr rules every single one of you was born before he got his French citizenship). But hey he is Moroccan so apparently it automatically means he ain’t racist and anti immigrants. (Say whatever you want about France but this country is hella good at finding the sell outs in each community)

I could go on and on about these three and about the rest of the government. Some of them want to go back on the legalization of gay marriage, how some of them want to make the access to universities and any public space to women with a hijab which will quickly turn into a ban for Arab and Black women to wear baggy clothes as a whole in public spaces…. But I will stop here.

All I have to say is that voting for the lesser of two evils even when people were saying that the lesser of two evils was still a danger for People of color and LGBT+ people turned France into Germany before WW2 except the targets are Muslims and people indentified as Muslims instead of Jews. But go on and vote for Kamala if you want but don’t say that nobody warned you and don’t pretend to be all righteous.

#france #French politics #lesser of two evils #anti kamala harris #racism #white supremacy #fascism

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captain-price-unofficially · 1 month ago

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Renault D1s on parade in Place Stanislas, Nancy, 1936. The D1 was quickly phased out in 1937 because of its mechanical unreliability and relegated to colonial units in North Africa.

#Char D1 #tanks #french armor #french tanks #interwar period

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rpirquet · 1 month ago

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🖌️ Street art, Nancy, France — ©️Jef Aérosol

JEF AÉROSOL

Stan. 2016 . RUE SAINTE CATHERINE, NANCY

Légende de l'art urbain français, Jef Aérosol a réalisé une fresque éphémère monumentale en pochoir, sur une façade donnant sur le jardin Godron. Transposition de la statue de la place Stanislas en peinture, elle interroge le rendu du relief, de la lumière et de la matière. Par son œuvre l'artiste réactive le patrimoine ancien et s'inscrit dans une continuité.

Commande artistique Ville de Nancy en collaboration avec la Galerie Mathgoth.

#streetart #street art #art #arts #artiste #urban art #photo #photography #original photographers #photographers on tumblr

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shugs1801 · 2 months ago

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------------"The Last Exploration"-------------

Summary: Nineteen-year-old Stanislas, a passionate urbex photographer, is always on the hunt for abandoned places to explore. When he ventures into a crumbling psychiatric hospital, he expects to capture hauntingly beautiful decay. Instead, he finds himself caught in a deadly game of survival. As eerie sounds and shadows close in, Stanislas realizes he’s not alone.

TW: Graphic violence and gore; Scenes of torture and mutilation; Themes of cannibalism; Psychological horror and intense suspense; Claustrophobia and feelings of entrapment; Depictions of fear, panic, and chase sequences; Death and dismemberment. Please let me know if I miss a warning.

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Stanislas, a nineteen-year-old young man, was a talented and passionate photography student. His curiosity and desire to capture unique moments had led him to a practice that became a true ritual for him: urbex, or urban exploration. Every weekend, he set out in search of abandoned places, locations where time seemed to have stood still. He roamed through derelict factories, dilapidated mansions, and deserted amusement parks, each having a story to tell through its ruins. On that day, an abandoned psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of the city caught his attention.

The hospital, imposing and gloomy, stood amidst overgrown vegetation, its decrepit facades still marked by the ravages of time. Most of the windows were broken, revealing an interior shrouded in darkness. Stanislas, with his camera slung over his shoulder, moved cautiously, his heart racing with excitement at the thought of what he might discover behind those silent walls. He slipped through the rusty gate with ease, as he had done many times before. However, this time, something in the air felt different. A strange odor lingered, an unpleasant scent, but he chose to ignore it, preferring to focus on his mission.

Inside the hospital, the scene was both fascinating and unsettling. The walls crumbled, overtaken by mold and ivy, and old medical equipment lay abandoned as if waiting to be used again. Stanislas, alert to the details, captured the scene from various angles. He photographed rusty old stretchers, wheelchairs left behind, and long corridors lined with rooms whose doors stood wide open. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the click of his camera. After a while, he noticed a detail that sent a shiver down his spine: some doors, which had been open when he arrived, were now closed.

He forced himself to stay calm, although his instinct whispered that he might be watched. The young explorer ventured deeper into the labyrinth of the building, descending a staircase that led to what seemed to be the basement. The place was even darker, the air heavy and saturated with humidity. As he moved forward, a strange noise echoed in his ears. At first, it was faint, like a rustling, then more distinct, a creaking sound... the slow closing of a door. His steps grew more hesitant. He stopped, straining to listen. Other sounds layered on top: scratching, muffled movements, almost imperceptible.

Doubt crept into his mind. He knew he was no longer alone. A cold sweat trickled down his neck. Panicked, he turned to find the exit, but the hallways all seemed to look alike. He quickened his pace, hoping to get his bearings, but with every turn, he delved deeper into this underground labyrinth. The doors he tried to open were now all locked, and those that remained accessible were blocked by heavy boards nailed across them. The sound of his boots against the floor echoed ominously, amplifying his fear.

In his frantic flight, he stumbled against a door. It swung open abruptly under the impact, revealing a room darker than the others. An unbearable stench of earth and decomposing flesh rushed out, assailing him violently. Despite the nausea rising within him, Stanislas had no choice but to enter, hoping to find an emergency exit or at least temporary shelter. When he turned on his flashlight, the light revealed a sight that would make any rational mind tremble.

In the center of the room stood a large metal table, rusted but not what immediately caught his attention. It was the human body parts scattered throughout the room. Some limbs were piled in metal boxes, others floated in jars filled with yellowish liquids. The walls were lined with shelves holding jars containing eyes, hearts, and brains. In one corner, several freezers were ajar, revealing heaps of organs carefully stacked with human limbs, as if someone had harvested them with surgical precision.

Stanislas felt his legs buckle. The reality of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks. He was trapped in a true charnel house, and the one who had amassed these horrors might still be lurking nearby. But it was what he saw on the table that plunged him into even deeper terror: a plate, casually placed there, as in an ordinary domestic scene. On this plate lay a human arm, half-eaten, revealing the true nature of the monster haunting this place. The owner was not merely a morbid collector; he was engaging in an even more abominable act: cannibalism.

Terrified, Stanislas felt his breath shorten, his breathing becoming labored. Each beat of his heart seemed to echo in his chest, making him more vulnerable with every passing moment. The question that haunted him was now simple yet brutal: how to escape this hell? If he stayed there, it was certain he would become just another piece of this macabre collection. He had to act quickly before the unknown returned.

Gathering himself as best as he could, he began to frantically search for an exit. The only entrance led into the maze of corridors where he had already become lost. As he was about to continue his search, a dull sound echoed behind him. A shadow emerged from the darkness. The unknown was approaching.

With an adrenaline rush, Stanislas rushed towards a closet at the back of the room. He took refuge inside, holding his breath, trying to make as little noise as possible. Through the gaps in the wood, he glimpsed a figure sliding into the room. A tall man, dressed in a dirty lab coat, entered. He slowly approached the table where the half-eaten arm lay. His raspy breathing filled the room. Time seemed to suspend.

Stanislas, paralyzed by fear, didn’t know what to do.

Hidden in the closet, Stanislas felt his heart race as the unknown man drew closer. The massive silhouette of the man, likely in his forties, exuded an air of menace. He wore a stained coat that betrayed the atrocities he had surely committed. The darkness made it difficult to discern his features, but his eyes glinted with a sadistic gleam, revealing a perverse pleasure in stalking his prey.

As Stanislas held his breath, he watched the man approach the table where the human arm rested. The stranger caressed the pieces of flesh with unsettling fascination, murmuring incomprehensible words. This macabre scene only heightened the urgency of his situation. The young man knew he had to act quickly.

After what felt like an eternity, the stranger began rummaging through the room, his heavy footsteps echoing on the floor, and Stanislas realized he had little time left. He cracked open the closet door, his heart racing, and stole a furtive glance. The man had now turned to the other side, his attention diverted. Seizing this distraction, Stanislas slipped out of the closet and stealthily made his way to the door through which he had entered, but the unknown seemed omnipresent, every movement calculated, every noise amplified in the silence of the hospital.

Once in the hallway, he took a deep breath and started to run, his feet sinking into the dusty floor. Each step echoed like a drum in his ears. He headed toward the staircase he had initially taken, hoping to find the exit. But as soon as he had taken a few steps, a mocking laugh rang out behind him. The stranger had noticed his absence and seemed to take sadistic pleasure in pursuing him.

“Where do you think you’re going, kid?” the man called, his deep voice reverberating in the empty corridors. Stanislas shivered. This game of cat and mouse had only just begun.

Desperate, he dashed down a side corridor, plunging into the darkness. Each step was heavy with dread as he desperately searched for a place to hide. He stumbled upon an examination room, his heart pounding. The room was filled with old medical equipment, instruments with unsettling shapes, but he had no time to linger. He slid under a table, praying the stranger wouldn’t find him.

The footsteps grew closer. The unknown was now in the hallway, his laughter echoing like a death knell. “Do you think you can hide from me?” he said with a chilling amusement. Stanislas could hear the man rummaging in the adjacent room, his raspy breath betraying his excitement.

Crushed by fear, the young man didn’t know how long he could remain motionless. Each second felt like an eternity. Suddenly, the unknown approached the examination room. He crouched down, just beside the table under which Stanislas was hiding. “Come on, don’t be shy. I know you’re there. Honestly, you didn’t pick the best hiding spot. How foolish...” he whispered.

Stanislas held his breath, his heart racing. The stranger stood up and stepped back slightly, as if he had decided to give him a bit of respite. Stanislas took the opportunity to silently slip out of his hiding spot, watching the man as he moved to escape the room. He had to get out of this hospital, he had to find daylight. He quickly headed toward another exit, hoping to find an unlocked window or door.

Stanislas, panic rising within him, realized he had to flee. He rushed down another hallway, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the decrepit walls. He had barely covered a few meters when a massive hand grabbed his shoulder. With a sudden jerk, the stranger pulled him towards him, lifting him off the ground.

In a desperate move, Stanislas managed to break free by elbowing the man. He quickly turned, his instincts sharpened by fear, and started running into the darkness. Every heartbeat echoed in his ears, but he couldn't afford to slow down.

However, he heard the stranger's breath just behind him. "You really are a fool, but entertaining." the man murmured, his voice dripping with menace. A shiver ran down Stanislas' spine, but he couldn’t give up.

He turned right, hoping to throw his pursuer off balance, the darkness seeming to envelop him. He slipped into a room, desperately searching for a place to hide.

Stanislas silently squeezed behind an old machine, his heart pounding wildly. The stranger entered the room, his footsteps echoing on the dusty floor. Stanislas held his breath, hoping his assailant wouldn’t find him. Yet the predator seemed to savor every second of this chase.

When the man left the room, Stanislas took the chance to slip out of his hiding spot. He started running again, but fatigue was beginning to weigh on his legs. Every step was harder than the last, and though adrenaline still coursed through him, it was tempered by exhaustion.

Just as he thought he might have a chance, the stranger appeared behind him like a ghost. Stanislas felt a firm hand close around his arm, pulling him back with crushing force. "Why are you in such a hurry?" the man murmured, his voice filled with disdain.

Stanislas tried to fight back, but the fatigue was catching up with him. The stranger grabbed him with an iron grip, immobilizing his movements. Terror mingled with weariness, and he realized he was trapped. Despite his efforts, he couldn’t break free, his body refusing to obey his will.

"You're mine now" the man declared with a satisfied smile. Stanislas, overwhelmed by fear and exhaustion, understood that the real danger wasn’t just being captured, but also the sadistic pleasure the stranger took in prolonging his suffering.

Stanislas felt crushed by the strength of the stranger's grip. Every movement, every attempt to free himself only deepened his exhaustion. His arms were held firmly, his legs unable to bear his weight.

The stranger, savoring his victory, leaned close to Stanislas’ ear. "Even if you manage to run again, I'll keep hunting you, you know. Until your death, which I’ll be the one to cause." His voice was almost a whisper, but laden with a palpable threat. He loosened his grip slightly, as if to give the young man false hope, before tightening his hold once more.

Stanislas, on the verge of collapse, felt his strength waning. The stranger, aware of his prey’s exhaustion, continued to toy with him, gradually increasing the pressure. Every breath had become a struggle, and it was clear the young man no longer had the strength to fight back.

Feeling the growing pressure, Stanislas realized the situation was hopeless. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts as he sobbed, petrified. The hope of escape faded as he grasped the full extent of the threat looming over him.

The stranger watched Stanislas with a cold gaze, savoring the moment he would break his prey. Slowly, he drew out a sickle, its curved blade rusted with time, but still razor-sharp. Without a word, he leaped forward, driving the sickle violently into Stanislas's thigh. The metal sliced through the flesh with a dull, wet sound. Stanislas screamed in agony, a desperate cry that echoed through the abandoned hospital.

The stranger, ruthless, yanked the sickle back violently. The hooked metal tore further into the young man's leg, ripping away skin and muscle. Stanislas collapsed to the floor, his body writhing in pain. He tried to crawl, his breath ragged, but all he managed was to leave a trail of blood behind him. Each movement, every contraction of his muscles, sent waves of pain shooting through his body.

Before he could comprehend what was happening, the stranger knelt on top of him, gripping a dagger. With a quick, precise motion, he plunged it deep into Stanislas's abdomen. The young man felt the cold blade pierce his insides, but it was only the beginning of his torment. The stranger, eyes filled with sadism, began to slowly twist the blade. The metal shredded Stanislas’s internal organs, each rotation intensifying the agony. The young man writhed in pain, his trembling hands grasping at the air, searching for an escape from the unbearable torture.

Tears of pain streamed down his pale face as his body weakened. His throat emitted faint, muffled groans, his strength gradually abandoning him. But the stranger was far from done. He withdrew the blood-soaked dagger with a sinister crack, only to plunge it one last time, this time into Stanislas's throat.

The sharp metal sank into the soft flesh of his neck, and the stranger pulled downward violently, creating a deep, gaping wound. Blood spurted out in a crimson fountain, soaking Stanislas's chest. His eyes widened, staring into the darkness with a mix of terror and resignation. Air escaped from his shredded throat in a chilling gurgle, and his internal organs were partially visible through the gaping wound.

But even in death, Stanislas found no peace. The enraged stranger continued to brutalize his body. He brought the dagger down again and again, striking the already lifeless flesh, cracking ribs, exposing viscera. Bones splintered under the furious blows. Stanislas's face, once marked by fear, had become a frozen mask, while the stranger persisted in his relentless butchery.

Finally, silence fell. The stranger, drenched in blood, stood up, surveying the broken and unrecognizable body at his feet. What remained of Stanislas lay in a pool of blood, his entrails half-torn out, his neck gaping open, his eyes emptied of all life.

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anotherhumaninthisworld · 1 year ago

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Is there a list of frev figures who claimed to be at the storming of the Bastille? The people I know who said they at least witnessed it is pretty eclectic like Herault, Léon and Saint-Just.

I found all the (official?) ”vainqueurs de la Bastille” listed in alfabethical order here (1889). However, according to Michael J. Sydenham’s Léonard Bourdon: The Career of a Revolutionary, 1754-1807, who’s subject of study claimed to belong to this group, simply holding this title was not a guarantee that you had actually taken part in the storming itself:

The only people found on the list that I myself recognized were those of the dantonist Louis Legendre, the girondin Claude Fauchet and the general Antoine Joseph Santerre. I therefore don’t know if the people claiming to have participated in the storming here below are just lying (saying you played a role in it after all being something that would easily better your patriotic reputation) or if their participation just wasn’t recorded (which doesn’t sound particulary hard to be true either):

Stanislas Fréron claims in a letter to Lucile Desmoulins dated October 18 1793, that both he, Barras and La Poype ”besieged” the Bastille.

Pierre Nicolas Berryer wrote in his memoirs that the Convention deputy Bourdon d’Oise participated in the storming of the Bastille, and still kept the blood stained coat he had worn during it five years later:

At the same time, and as if he felt the need to convince me even more of the strength of his mind, [Bourdon] took out from under his bed an oblong casket, in which was tucked the coat he had worn on the day of the storming of the Bastille… […] He took great care to point out to me that his coat was still covered with stains from the blood he had spilled at the Bastille.

Albert Mathiez summarized in the article La vie de Héron racontée par lui-même (1925) a memoir the Committee of General Security spy François Héron wrote while imprisoned after thermidor. In it, he would have claimed to have participated in the storming of the Bastille, as well as the women’s march on Versailles, the demonstration of June 20 and the Insurrection of August 10.

According to Dictionnaire des parlementaires français (…) de 1789 à 1889, Jacques-Alexis Thuriot took part in the storming.

Regarding some more well known guys and their Bastille activities, Desmoulins, in a letter written to his father written July 16, leaves a rather detailed description of the storming. Through the following part, he does however indicate that he himself missed it:

Then, the cannon of the French Guards made a breach. Bourgeois, soldiers, everyone rushes forward. An engraver climbs up first, they throw him down and break his legs. A luckier French guard followed him, seized a gunner, defended himself, and the place was stormed in half an hour. I started running at the first cannon shot, but the Bastille was already taken, in two and a half hours, a miracle that is.

Camille also adds that, on July 15, he was among the people who scaled the ruins of the stormed Bastille:

However, I felt even more joy the day before, when I climbed into the breach (montai sur la brèche) of the surrendered Bastille, and the flag of the Guards and the bourgeois militias was raised there. The most zealous patriots were there. We embraced each other, we kissed the hands of the French guards, crying with joy and intoxication.

On July 23 1789, Robespierre wrote a letter to Antoine Buissart telling him he had gotten to see the ”liberated” Bastille, but he had of course not participated in the storming himself:

I’ve seen the Bastille, I was taken there by a detachment of the brave bourgeois militia that had taken it; because after leaving town hall, on the day of the king's trip, the armed citizens took pleasure in escorting out of honor the deputies they met, and they could only march among acclamations from the people. What a delightful abode the Bastille has been since it came into the power of the people, its dungeons are empty and a multitude of workers work tirelessly to demolish this odious monument to tyranny! I could not tear myself away from this place, the sight of which only gives sensations of pleasure and ideas of liberty to all good citizens.

According to Danton: le mythe et l’histoire (2016), Danton did not take part in the actual storming of the Bastille, however, the following day he went to the abandoned prison and took the provisional governor hostage:

Absent from the storming of the Bastille, it was on the night of July 15 to 16 that Danton took action. At the head of a patrol of the bourgeois guard of his district, of which he proclaimed himself captain, he claimed, we do not know in what capacity, to enter the "castle of the Bastille,” placed under the control of the elector Soulès, as provisional governor. Without worrying about his powers, Danton has him kidnapped and taken to City Hall, surrounded by a threatening crowd. But Soulès was released the next day upon the intervention of La Fayette; Danton's initiative was openly disavowed and blamed by the assembly of electors.

According to Clifford D. Connor, Marat wrote the following about his activities on July 14 1789 in number 36 of l’Ami du peuple (12 November 1789):

#lots of thermidorians who were involved in the storming…#french revolution #frev #bastille #danton was really unhinged here…

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