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gabrieldesilva·:
He left right after her performance, much to the dismay of those hoping to impress the notable critic, but Gabriel had no interest to be amazed that evening, he was there to be merely an audience, despite what others may believe. And so when Edith Poitiers quietly slipped away before anyone could shower her in adoration, the Spaniard followed unintentionally– he left his automobile parked at a cafe two streets down.
The sound his footsteps have caused the pianist aggravation, and Gabriel was soon faced with Edith’s questioning. “I already have what I came for, “ came the critic’s reply, and he emerged from the shadows to stand under the light post so the pianist could take a better view of her supposed threat.
“Ever the elusive one, aren’t you, Edith?” he teased.
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Edith relaxed at the sound of the critic’s familiar voice, shoulders easing back into a more natural posture. Gabriel posed no threat to her - well, none to her person at least - his words, however, were able to make or break entire careers. Not that this proved troublesome for Edie, who found the whole process somewhat distasteful, and had found something more akin to a friend in Gabriel. A comforting presence, at the very least. She begged no review from him, and he offered no criticism, and no praise either. Yet.
She smiled at his comment. Elusive, maybe, but it was through no desire of her own to be enigmatic. She wanted freedom from the expectation of her to coddle her audience. The show itself ought to be enough. Why was she expected to give a second, much more exhausting performance after she had stepped down from the piano?
“You would threaten me so, monsieur?” she murmured, the barest hint of a smile crossing her lips to warm her jest. “And deliver it in person, no less.”
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liesel-lotte·:
Le Bateau-Lavoir was a place for the creme de la creme- famous artists from all sorts of disciplines, from poetry to sculpting, had met there and put their art on display, developed it further, perfected it. Or at least that is what Lotte had read in the newspapers. In truth, she never imagined walking through the doors of the establishment, but here she was, welcoming the composer she had met at the Louvre with applause. 
The room fell into a moment of silence, before being encapsulated with the soft sound of the piano. It was far too easy for Lotte to get lost in the piece, to delve deeper into the emotions the notes were carrying. Sadness, loss, perhaps even mourning? The nurse averted her gaze from the piano to the pianist, only to see that she, too, had given herself to the piece. A familiar feeling, though long forgotten, flowed through Lotte. It was as if she was back in Berlin, in the Geissler home, pacing around in her room, just her and her violin. No sense of time, or duty, or responsibility. Now the piano piece resonated ever more as if it was describing her own mourning. Lotte’s fingers itched to feel the strings once again. 
As the song ended, so did her fantasy. Applauding the composer, Lotte took it upon herself to repeat her mantra of what a childish dream it had been. To think she could ever be like Edie. The woman in question approached, though slowly, and Lotte awaited her with a smile.
“The inquiries were very much sincere,” she assured. “Congratulations, it was an absolutely brilliant performance, though I’m sure my words have quite little value compared to those of the true masters.” Lotte glanced around the room, her sheepish demeanour apparent.
“Would you mind me asking about the piece? It seemed so…intimate.”
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A soft smile danced across her features, lasting only an instant. “Thank you,” she replied, surprising even herself with her earnestness. “But you must know that is nonsense. Why should your good opinion mean less than anybody else’s? We believe in the superiority of half the people in this room only because they themselves have convinced us it is so. Besides, I am not convinced that yours is not more valuable. I believe since you think so little of it, it seems that much more likely to be truthful.” Edie had spent almost her entire life having her opinions and thoughts devalued by those around her. It was this which inspired a fierce protection in her of them now, and anyone else who believed theirs lesser.
At Lotte’s question, she immediately tensed. She was used to having her work deconstructed by others, and felt little interest at the conclusions they drew. It was the brutal interrogation she occasionally faced by those who demanded to know what inspired her work that she truly abhorred. Was it not enough to listen to and enjoy her compositions? Why did people always demand context? “I believe we see fragments of ourselves and our own experience in the pieces we hear,” she said, deflecting the question. It is almost habitual now. “Perhaps you perceive some moment or experience of your own in the piece. Or intimacy where it was not intended.”
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There were very few people who were not aware of Edie’s general past, or her estrangement from her parents. Lotte needed only approach almost any person in that room, or read any review that delved slightly too far into the composer’s past, and she could have an outline of the entire sorry story in only a few minutes. Then she could draw her own conclusions. She gazed back at the other woman, trying to relax her guard slightly so that she not seem quite so cold as she felt. Lotte’s eyes, too, were full of untold history, deep and full of what looked like torment. Edie could sense an air of hesitance and secrecy about her, but whatever curiosity she felt she dismissed. It was not her place to chip away at somebody else’s defences when she protected her own so steadfastly.
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Matilda (1996)
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@mxmmon​
Hotel Montmartre was a grand venue, all glittering opulence, basking absolutely in its own lavishness. Though she had played there several times in the past few months and had grown up attending events hosted within its walls with her parents, she still felt somewhat out of place. She much preferred the smaller venues in which she gave performances, in part due to their intimacy, but more for their modesty - there was much less of an air of self-congratulation - and the much lower likelihood that she would cross paths with someone she knew from what felt like her former life. 
Edie curtsied as she took to the stage, as was expected, and a round of polite, reserved applause greeted her. She searched the crowd for a moment, before meeting the eye of Anthony Holst. She sent the barest smile in his direction, such a small gesture it would likely go unnoticed by anyone else, but knowing his eye would be sharp enough to pick up on it. She appreciated his presence, though she wasn’t quite able to put a name to their relationship. It had been months and months ago that she had met him after one of her first performances, at a small cafe she could not even recall the name of now. She hadn’t made a name for herself then, and yet he had approached her afterwards anyway. Perhaps that was why she felt something bordering on affection for him - unlike those she met now, who usually recognised her, he had offered his support when there was no obvious advantage in doing so. 
Edie played her piece to the assembly. It was not one of her own pieces, but rather Concerto pour piano seul by Charles-Valentin Alkan, a Parisian of course. An unusual piece in itself, as it was be expected for a pianist to be accompanied by an orchestra in a concerto. It was also remarkably and famously difficult, and yet Edie had learned it well. It had been one of the pieces her parents would often implore her to play to impress notable guests with, though it never did much good in improving her standing with them, for obvious reasons. She threw herself wholeheartedly into the piece nevertheless, determined to play to perfection and to prove to any in the audience who had not yet heard her play, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was immeasurably talented.
At its end, she stood quickly, basking in the thunderous applause for a moment, trying to will it to mean something more. Trying to envisage her parents in the crowd, eyes full of tearful pride at all she had accomplished. 
Nothing. 
She curtsied again, unsmiling, and nodded her head in acknowledgement of her generous reception, before she was offered a hand to step down from the stage and mingle with the guests. She would return later to play again, but it would be her own compositions this time. Ignoring the congratulations that followed her as she manoeuvred through the crowd to Monsieur Holst’s table, she dipped her head in greeting. “I did not expect to see you here this evening, Monsieur,” she said, though she knew well enough that it was folly to attempt to predict anything about Anthony. “You ought to tell me when you will be attending.” A half-smile danced across her lips once again as she rounded the table and took the empty seat offered to her.
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@liesel-lotte​
The air felt thick and sickly sweet to Edie, almost claustrophobic. When her name was announced, she took to the piano regardless, and bowed her head in reception of the generous applause. Le Bateau-Lavoir was an intimate venue, albeit with a - relatively short - impressive history. It was a privilege to perform there, Edie knew. She appreciated that her talents opened such doors for her, and tried to be gracious in her newfound celebrity. 
She took her seat at the piano and spared a passing glance toward her audience - a motley assembly of various artists, musicians and literary figures of note. She was usually unconcerned with who her audience was. What difference was there truly between an esteemed artist and an ordinary person? Except perhaps the size of the former’s ego. 
WAfter a moment she took to the keys and began to play, her fingertips dancing over the ivory. Her fingers had always been long and slender, even as a child. When she had first been brought home with the Poitiers, her father had marvelled over them. “You are born to play, ma chere,” he would whisper to her. She closed her eyes, as though that might prohibit the memory’s invasion further. 
It was easy to lose herself in the piece, rather than the performance. It was one of her own compositions, full of mourning, a story of grief at stolen possibility. What could have been. Time seemed to come to a standstill. She almost could have been at home in her modest apartment, playing to the nameless cat that frequented her home in search of food. 
The piece came to an end and Edie grasped for the small, sweet moment between the last note and when the applause would slice through the appreciative silence. It was a moment of contemplation, of reflection. A time for her, and her alone. All too soon, the ovation began, and she was forced to stand and receive it with a curtsy. 
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As the audience were relieved of their rapture, Edie took a moment to search them for a familiar face. She happened upon the striking blue eyes almost instantly. She raised an eyebrow in pleasant surprise. She had arranged the invitation to be sent after their evening at the Louvre, of course, but had not imagined Lotte would even read it, much less attend. As she navigated her way through the gathering, attempting to be as gracious as possible in accepting congratulations from the throng of well-wishers whilst also diverting their attention, she kept her eyes on Lotte. When she finally reached her, she nodded once in greeting. “I must confess, I did not expect your presence. I thought it mere politeness which bade you enquire about my performances...” she trailed off for a moment. “How do I find you this evening?”
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Edie: A Moodboard
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‘The Sonata’ - Irving Ramsay Wiles
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Zoë Kravitz for Elle France (2018)
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Edith walked the narrow streets of Montmartre, the humble facade of Le Bateau-Lavoir melting into the background as her steady pace quickened. She had just given a perfomance, perhaps the peformance of her life thus far, but it failed to inspire her. She knew she was expected to entertain her audience post-performance, to receive their compliments with grace, to mingle amongst them with a drink in hand. That was precisely why she had slunk out of the side door shortly after leaving the stage. She wished to experience some sense of joy, of accomplishment, when she mulled over how much her means had improved in little more than twelve months, but was able to conjure up little pleasure. No matter who she impressed with her compositions, with her performances, and no matter what doors were opened for her as a consequence... it meant little, knowing that her parents - biological or adoptive - would never deign to see her play. What did praise mean, truly, when delivered by those from whom she did not seek it? Perhaps that was part of the art - the cold woman behind the keys offering up so much emotion that she herself could never express, barely seeming to care how her music was received - after all, why would she? It was her catharsis, it just so happened that it was a public performance piece that had attracted itself an audience.
As she walked, she tried to banish the familiar discontent. This was her lot in life, and at least now, finally, it was by her own design. No longer was she required to converse with and impress those who thought her so inferior, to practice her accomplishments only to secure a proposal from a match for her who did not exist. No. Edith owed nothing to anyone but herself.
As she walked, she became acutely aware of the soft footfalls behind her. When she turned, she met the eye of her follower, and arched a questioning eyebrow. She studied their face for a moment, taking in the lines and planes that made it unique - had they been at Le Bateau-Lavoir? She couldn’t be sure. “Oui? Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” she prompted.
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