#17th century french literature

[bones-ivy-breath]

The Affair of the Poisons: Murder, Infanticide and Satanism at the Court of Louis XIV by Anne Somerset

[mishkakagehishka]

I wanna rb that post i made ab "imagine criticising art without knowing basic french" but i'm still cross with you all for assigning me shu kinnie on it /lh

[elwoodallimann]

I just started reading Les Caractères by Jean de la Bruyère, and for those of you who are not familiar with 17th-18th centuries french literature, its a guy who was at the court of the king of France, and decided to write a book where he absolutely trash talked the living shit out of other rich people there by renaming them, and never in my life have I related to an author more

[infactforgetthepark]

[Free eBook] The Story of Sapho by Madeleine de Scudéry [17th C Greek Classics-Inspired French Literary Philosophical Story]

The Story of Sapho by Madeleine de Scudéry, a 17th century French writer and literary salon hostess now fallen into obscurity but a popular and bestselling novelist at the time, edited and translated by Karen Newman, a professor of comparative literature at Brown University, is a philosophical literary tale inspired by ancient Greek history and the classics, free for a limited time courtesy of publisher The University of Chicago Press.

This is their featured Free eBook of the Month offer for March, and is a new translation of a topical section from de Scudéry's lengthy novel Artamène ou le Grand Cyrus, which tells of Sapho, a woman modeled on the famous poet Sappho, whose love story with Phaon is interspersed with philosophical conversations discussing the nature of love, the education of women, proper conduct, etc. This edition includes an introduction by the translator, as well as another piece by de Scudéry extolling women's writing talents.

Offered worldwide through the month of March, available directly from the publisher's website.

Currently free @ the university's dedicated promo page (PDF available with download options for both Adobe Digital Editions and Readium DRM, follow instructions provided on download link page, requires newsletter signup with valid email address), and you can read more about the book on its regular catalogue page.

Description Ridiculed for her Saturday salon, her long romance novels, and her protofeminist ideas, Madeleine de Scudéry (1607-1701) has not been treated kindly by the literary establishment. Yet her multivolume novels were popular bestsellers in her time, translated almost immediately into English, German, Italian, Spanish, and even Arabic.

The Story of Sapho makes available for the first time in modern English a self-contained section from Scudéry’s novel Artamène ou le Grand Cyrus, best known today as the favored reading material of the would-be salonnières that Molière satirized in Les précieuses ridicules. The Story tells of Sapho, a woman writer modeled on the Greek Sappho, who deems marriage slavery. Interspersed in the love story of Sapho and Phaon are a series of conversations like those that took place in Scudéry’s own salon in which Sapho and her circle discuss the nature of love, the education of women, writing, and right conduct. This edition also includes a translation of an oration, or harangue, of Scudéry’s in which Sapho extols the talents and abilities of women in order to persuade them to write.

[pwlanier]

An extraordinary collection of fine and rare miniature books, published from the mid-17th-century to the modern day. It includes books printed in France, the Netherlands, England, Italy and Germany, on a diversity of themes ranging from histories to works of scripture, devotion, literature, almanacs, and natural history. The collection boasts three 17th-century works, with the earliest being a Dutch song book from 1650 preserved in a charming contemporary vellum wallet binding, as well as a French book of hours from 1684 and an English bible in contemporary morocco from 1693. Many of the books are attractively bound in contemporary gilt morocco, others in gilt and blindstamped calf, decorative paper wrappers, silver cases, while some are contained within miniature wooden boxes as part of a child’s sewing kit. Some books are housed in cases with their own miniature magnifying glasses, and others are arranged on miniature shelves or cabinets, including a miniature revolving bookcase constructed by Julian Stanley of High Wycombe, commissioned by Lord Wardington and presented by him to Nanni Israel.

Christie’s

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hey, so you seem to be the the All Knowing in terms of twst. With Glorious Masquerade getting a rerun soon, I was looking at the cards.

So what the heck is up with Jamil's freaking hat? I'm sorry but I can't look at it without laughing. It looks so stupid. The closest thing I can think of that matches it is the combined crowns of upper and lower Egypt, but this is the equivalent of France so that can't be it.

While I’m flattered that people come to me with their questions, I want to take a moment to remind everyone that I’m just another TWST fan like you are! ^^ It’s stressful to be considered “all knowing” or a fandom authority 💦 That puts a lot of pressure on me to speak on certain subjects or to interact in a certain way (since people might put too much stock into what I say), and then that ends up detracting from my enjoyment. I’d rather not be put on such a high pedestal, please and thank you.

Now, onto the question!

According to Rollo in 1-13 of Glorious Masquerade, the costumes the NRC students were gifted are “patterned after designs that are over 500 years old.”

If we extrapolate this to real life, the implication is that these costumes have roots in Renaissance era (14th century to 17th century) French fashion. Interestingly, Rollo’s own hat is similar to a tricorne, which was primarily worn in the 18th century… so technically, his hat is more “modern” than what the NRC students wear 😂

So I browsed through records of hats from the indicated period and guess what? I couldn’t find an exact match—though I did find a lot of hat designs that I found way sillier than what the NRC boys have. Like… sorry, what is THAT 😭

Some headwear which bears a vague similarity to Jamil’s hat are the Egyptian combined/double crown (the pschent), which Anon has already mentioned, and the French hood, which was worn by women in the 15th century.

The actual closest match I came across was the mitre, a liturgical headdresses worn by Roman Catholic officials. If you look at it from the front, it doesn’t look like much, but it definitely has the height of Jamil’s hat. But then look closer and you’ll realize the mitre does not have one single flap of fabric, but rather two.

If you take the front flap of a mitre and fold it back, you would probably get something very similar to what Jamil wears. (Note that the black part of the hat is NOT his hair, but is fabric that is part of the hat.)

Considering that Noble Bell College is styled like a cathedral and that the Renaissance era from which the Masquerade Dress clothing derives is characterized by the rediscovery of classical literature, art, and philosophy… perhaps it’s not so strange to see a hat borne of religious associations.

… Why did Jamil specifically get this hat? Not sure, I’m not religious myself so don’t ask me to psychoanalyze him from that angle 😂

The golden part securing the front is unusual and does not appear in French fashion of the time (at least not from what I could tell?). It’s styled like pschent but more likely is meant to be turban-like due to Jamil’s inspiration, Jafar, having the same feather sticking up in the middle of a bulbous hat. You’ll notice Jamil had a “feather” too, albeit metal:

To summarize, I think the design of Masquerade Dress Jamil’s hat borrows from multiple inspirations and not just one/old French fashion. Yana has stated before in a March 2023 interview with the Apple App Store that the cultures of Twisted Wonderland are unique and that the clothing that appears in the game are not “reinterpretations of existing costumes”. She seems to incorporate elements from both high fashion and from a variety of cultures to arrive at the final designs. For example, there are elements of many Nordic cultures in the Apple Pom outfits, and the Pomefiore uniform has a Japanese kimono-like silhouette despite the dorm being based on the the Evil Queen (originating from a German tale). I assume something similar happened when designing the Masquerade Dresses; Yana and co. wanted to combine elements and make something of their own.

Final comment I'll make, the shape of Jamil's hat looks like a kind of dumpling... It makes me hungry.

[hedgehog-moss]

Inspired by your last ask! What are the best French books you’ve read that have no English translation yet? I read Play Boy and Qui a tué mon père (really loved the latter) last year and it feels so fun to read something that other Americans can’t access yet

I'm too nervous to make any list of the Best XYZ Books because I don't want to raise your expectations too high! But okay, here's my No English Translation-themed list of books I've enjoyed in recent years. I tried to make it eclectic in terms of genre as I don't know what you prefer :)

Biographies

• Le dernier inventeur, Héloïse Guay de Bellissen: I just love prehistory and unusual narrators so I enjoyed this one; it's about the kids who discovered the cave of Lascaux, and some of the narration is written from the perspective of the cave <3 I posted a little excerpt here (in English).

• Ces femmes du Grand Siècle, Juliette Benzoni: Just a fun collection of portraits of notable noblewomen during the reign of Louis XIV, I really liked it. For people who like the 17th century. I think it was Emil Cioran who said his favourite historical periods were the Stone Age and the 17th century but tragically the age of salons led to the Reign of Terror and Prehistory led to History.

• La Comtesse Greffulhe, Laure Hillerin: I've mentioned this one before, it's about the fascinating Belle Époque French socialite who was (among other things) the inspiration for Proust's Duchess of Guermantes. I initially picked it up because I will read anything that's even vaguely about Proust but it was also a nice aperçu of the Belle Époque which I didn't know much about.

• Nous les filles, Marie Rouanet: I've also recommended this one before but it's such a sweet little viennoiserie of a book. The author talks about her 1950s childhood in a town in the South of France in the most detailed, colourful, earnest way—she mentions everything, describes all the daft little games children invent like she wants ageless aliens to grasp the concept of human childhood, it's great.

I'll add Trésors d'enfance by Christian SIgnol and La Maison by Madeleine Chapsal which are slightly less great but also sweet short nostalgic books about childhood that I enjoyed.

Fantasy

• Mers mortes, Aurélie Wellenstein: I read this one last year and I found the characters a bit underwhelming / underexplored but I always enjoy SFF books that do interesting things with oceans (like Solaris with its sentient ocean-planet), so I liked the atmosphere here, with the characters trying to navigate a ghost ship in ghost seas...

• Janua Vera, Jean-Philippe Jaworski: Not much to say about it other than they're short stories set in a mediaeval fantasy world and no part of this description is usually my cup of tea, but I really enjoyed this read!

Essays / literary criticism / philosophy

• Eloge du temps perdu, Frank Lanot: I thought this was going to be about idleness, as the title suggests, and I love books about idleness. But it's actually a collection of short essays about (French) literature and some of them made me appreciate new things about authors and books I thought I knew by heart, so I enjoyed it

• Le Pont flottant des rêves, Corinne Atlan: Poetic musings about translation <3 that's all

• Sisyphe est une femme, Geneviève Brisac: Reflections about the works of female writers (Natalia Ginzburg, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Townsend Warner, etc) that systematically made me want to go read the author in question, even when I'd already read & disliked said author. That's how you know it's good literary criticism

Let's add L'Esprit de solitude by Jacqueline Kelen which as the title suggests, ponders the notion of solitude, and Le Roman du monde by Henri Peña-Ruiz which was so lovely to read in terms of literary style I don't even care what it was about (it's philosophy of foundational myths & stories) (probably difficult to read if you're not fully fluent in French though)

Did not fit in the above categories:

• Entre deux mondes by Olivier Norek—it's been translated in half a dozen languages, I was surprised to find no English translation! It's a crime novel and a pretty bleak read on account of the setting (the Calais migrant camp) but I'd recommend it

• Saga, Tonino Benacquista: Also seems to have been translated in a whole bunch of languages but not English? :( I read it ages ago but I remember it as a really fun read. It's a group of loser screenwriters who get hired to write a TV series, their budget is 15 francs and a stale croissant and it's going to air at 4am so they can do whatever they want seeing as no one will watch it. So they start writing this intentionally ridiculous unhinged show, and of course it acquires Devoted Fans

Books that I didn't think existed in English translation but they do! but you can still read them in French if you want

• Scrabble: A Chadian Childhood, Michaël Ferrier: What it says on the tin! It's a short and well-written account of the author's childhood in Chad just before the civil war. I read it a few days ago and it was a good read, but then again I just love bittersweet stories of childhood

• On the Line, Joseph Ponthus: A short diary-like account of the author's assembly line work in a fish factory. I liked the contrast between the robotic aspect of the job and the poetic nature of the text; how the author used free verse / repetition / scansion to give a very immediate sense of the monotony and rhythm of his work (I don't know if it's good in English)

• The End of Eddy, Edouard Louis: The memoir of a gay man growing up in a poor industrial town in Northern France—pretty brutal but really good

• And There Was Light, Jacques Lusseyran: Yet another memoir sorry, I love people's lives! Jacques Lusseyran lost his sight as a child, and was in the Resistance during WWII despite being blind. It's a great story, both for the historical aspects and for the descriptions of how the author experiences his blindness

• The Adversary: A True Story of Monstrous Deception, Emmanuel Carrère: an account of the Jean-Claude Romand case—a French man who murdered his whole family to avoid being discovered as a fraud, after spending his entire adult life pretending to be a doctor working at the WHO and fooling everyone he knew. Just morbidly fascinating, if you like true crime stuff

[fatehbaz]

when the British Empire's researchers realized that the cause of the ecological devastation was the British Empire:

much to consider.

on the motives and origins of some forms of imperial "environmentalism".

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Since the material resources of colonies were vital to the metropolitan centers of empire, some of the earliest conservation practices were established outside of Europe [but established for the purpose of protecting the natural resources desired by metropolitan Europe]. [...] [T]ropical island colonies were crucial laboratories of empire, as garden incubators for the transplantation of peoples [slaves, laborers] and plants [cash crops] and for generating the European revival of Edenic discourse. Eighteenth-century environmentalism derived from colonial island contexts in which limited space and an ideological model of utopia contributed to new models of conservation [...]. [T]ropical island colonies were at the vanguard of establishing forest reserves and environmental legislation [...]. These forest reserves, like those established in New England and South Africa, did not necessarily represent "an atavistic interest in preserving the 'natural' [...]" but rather a "more manipulative and power-conscious interest in constructing a new landscape by planting trees [in monoculture or otherwise modified plantations] [...]" [...].

Text by: Elizabeth DeLoughrey and George B. Handley. "Introduction: Toward an Aesthetics of the Earth". Postcolonial Ecologies: Literatures of the Environment, edited by DeLoughrey and Handley. 2011.

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It is no accident that the earliest writers to comment specifically on rapid environmental change in the context of empires were scientists who were themselves often actors in the process of colonially stimulated environmental change. [...] As early as the mid-17th century [...] natural philosophers [...] in Bermuda, [...] in Barbados and [...] on St Helena [all British colonies] were all already well aware of characteristically high rates of soil erosion and deforestation in the colonial tropics [...]. On St Helena and Bermuda this early conservationism led, by 1715, to the gazetting of the first colonial forest reserves and forest protection laws. On French colonial Mauritius [...], Poivre and Philibert Commerson framed pioneering forest conservation [...] in the 1760s. In India William Roxburgh, Edward Balfour [...] ([...] Scottish medical scientists) wrote alarmist narratives relating deforestation to the danger of climate change. [...] East India Company scientists were also well aware of French experience in trying to prevent deforestation [...] [in] Mauritius. [...] Roxburgh [...] went on to further observe the incidence of global drought events which we know today were globally tele-connected El Nino events. [...] The writings of Edward Balfour and Hugh Cleghorn in the late 1840s in particular illustrate the extent of the permeation of a global environmental consciousness [...]. [T]he 1860s [were] a period which we could appropriately name the "first environmental decade", and which embodies a convergence of thinking about ecological change on a world scale [...]. It was in the particular circumstances of environmental change at the colonial periphery that what we would now term "environmentalism" first made itself felt [...]. Victorian texts such as [...] Ribbentrop's Forestry in the British Empire, Brown's Hydrology of South Africa, Cleghorn's Forests and Gardens of South India [...] were [...] vital to the onset of environmentalism [...]. One preoccupation stands out in them above all. This was a growing interest in the potential human impact on climate change [...] [and] global dessication. This fear grew steadily in the wake of colonial expansion [...]. Particularly after the 1860s, and even more after the great Indian famines of 1876 [...] these connections encouraged and stimulated the idea that human history and environmental change might be firmly linked.

Text by: Richard Grove and Vinita Damodaran. "Imperialism, Intellectual Networks, and Environmental Change: Origins and Evolution of Global Environmental History, 1676-2000: Part I". Economic and Political Weekly Vol. 41, No. 41. 14 October 2006.

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Policing the interior [of British colonial land] following the Naning War gave Newbold the opportunity for exploring the people and landscape around Melaka […]. Newbold took his knowledge of the tropical environment in the Straits Settlements [British Malaya] to Madras [British India], where he earned a reputation as a naturalist and an Orientalist of some eminence. He was later elected Fellow of the Royal Society. Familiar with the barren landscape of the tin mines of Negeri Sembilan, Newbold made a seminal link between deforestation and the sand dune formations and siltation […]. The observation, published in 1839 […], alerted […] Balfour about the potential threat of erosion to local climate and agriculture. […] Logan brought his Peninsular experience [in the British colonies of Malaya] directly within the focus of the deforestation debate in India […]. His lecture to the Bengal Asiatic Society in 1846 […] was hugely influential and put the Peninsula at the heart of the emerging discourse on tropical ecology. Penang, the perceived tropical paradise of abundance and stability, soon revealed its vulnerability to human [colonial] despoilment […].

Text by: Jeyamalar Kathirithamby-Wells. "Peninsular Malaysia in the Context of Natural History and Colonial Science". New Zealand Journal of Asian Studies 11, 1. June 2009.

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British colonial forestry was arguably one of the most extensive imperial frameworks of scientific natural resource management anywhere [...]. [T]he roots of conservation [...] lay in the role played by scientific communities in the colonial periphery [...]. In India,[...] in 1805 [...] the court of directors of the East India Company sent a dispatch enquiring [...] [about] the Royal Navy [and its potential use of wood from Malabar's forests] [...]. This enquiry led to the appointment of a forest committee which reported that extensive deforestation had taken place and recommended the protection of the Malabar forests on grounds that they were valuable property. [...] [T]o step up the extraction of teak to augment the strength of the Royal Navy [...] [b]etween 1806 and 1823, the forests of Malabar were protected by means of this monopoly [...]. The history of British colonial forestry, however, took a decisive turn in the post-1860 period [...]. Following the revolt of 1857, the government of India sought to pursue active interventionist policies [...]. Experts were deployed as 'scientific soldiers' and new agencies established. [...] The paradigm [...] was articulated explicitly in the first conference [Empire Forestry Conference] by R.S. Troup, a former Indian forest service officer and then the professor of forestry at Oxford. Troup began by sketching a linear model of the development of human relationship with forests, arguing that the human-forest interaction in civilized societies usually went through three distinct phases - destruction, conservation, and economic management. Conservation was a ‘wise and necessary measure’ but it was ‘only a stage towards the problem of how best to utilise the forest resources of the empire’. The ultimate ideal was economic management, [...] to exploit 'to the full [...]' and provide regular supplies [...] to industry.

Text by: Ravi Rajan. "Modernizing Nature: Tropical Forestry and the Contested Legacy of British Colonial Eco-Development, 1800-2000". Oxford Historical Monographs series, Oxford University Press. January 2006.

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The “planetary consciousness” produced by this systemizing of nature [during the rise of Linnaean taxonomy classification in eighteenth-century European science] […] increased the mobility of paradise discourse [...]. As European colonial expansion accelerated, the homogenizing transformation of people, economy and nature which it catalyzed also gave rise to a myth of lost paradise, which served as a register […] for obliterated cultures, peoples, and environments [devastated by that same European colonization], and as a measure of the rapid ecological changes, frequently deforestation and desiccation, generated by colonizing capital. On one hand, this myth served to suppress dissent by submerging it in melancholy, but on the other, it promoted the emergence of an imperialist environmental critique which would motivate the later establishment of colonial botanical gardens, potential Edens in which nature could be re-made. However, the subversive potential of the “green” critique voiced through the myth of endangered paradise was defused by the extent to which growing environmental sensibilities enabled imperialism to function more efficiently by appropriating botanical knowledge and indigenous conservation methods, thus continuing to serve the purposes of European capital.

Text by: Sharae Deckard. Paradise Discourse, Imperialism, and Globalization: Exploiting Eden. 2010.

[cy-lindric]

Hey! I'm a big fan of your historical work (especially your sewing!) and thumbed through your pinterest awhile ago (thank you for linking it at some point) and was wondering if you have any reference books for period fashion that you like! Not any period in specifics, just any literature or media that you've found helpful, or return to often! Thank yeww

Hello ! I've listed a few books that were useful to me to understand construction on historical clothing in this post, but I've used those books more in my little historical costuming hobbies than for design.

When it come to character design historical references, my main sources are portraiture and contemporary illustration and I find most of it on archives or museum's online ressources. The only physical book of that type I sometimes use is Racinet's Costume History. I have a few books for napoleonic uniforms that sometimes come in handy including a few from the Men-at-Arms series of Osprey.

I think my main hubs for design references are probably the online collection of the V&A and Gallica BNF (the online ressource of the french national library).

For medieval stuff, I like to look at digitized versions of heavily illuminated manuscript like Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry in the collection of the castle of Chantilly ( loads of colourful XVth century fashion) or the lovely Manesse Codex on the website of the Heidelberg University Library (14th century, some of these are the cutest stuff you've ever seen).

These days, for my revolutionary calendar project, I'm using a lot of illustrations from the Gallica digitizations of several "Cris de Paris " street studies, esp the ones by Vernet and Poisson, for reference of commonfolk clothing from the late 18th century and early 19th.

For 16th-17th century stuff, it's even earsier ; paintings from the early modern era depict garments very realistically both in upperclass portraiture and in scenes that represent lower class people like tavern scenes and the like. For these I honestly just rely on wikisource for high res files of classic european masters stuff.

To be fair I usually hang out on Pinterest, try to find stuff that looks credible and matches the vibe of whichever project I'm working on and work backwards looking for the sources if I don't know them already. A lot of old fashion plate books and manuscript can be found fully digitized online, no need for an expensive library and acres of shelf space ! Hope this helps !

[stirringwinds]

While I feel that hws France is hard to portray I do wonder what headcanons you have for him. Care to tell a few that come to mind?

a lot of my headcanons of francis/françois are from the british imperial + sea/east asian perspective, so with that in mind, these are some thoughts i've had:

a. françois' strengths are that he can be very charming and good at putting people at ease. he is somebody, if you ran into him somewhere, just comes off as a really interesting person. he can talk for ages about his passion for philosophy, art, literature, science and cooking without it getting boring to the listener.

b. he can be a really good lover too and is that sort of person who considers it a point of pride to make his partners enjoy his company. the sort of person who will make dinner and probably also a good breakfast for you. but one of his flaws is that he can also be pretty self-centred at times, and sometimes he uses his charisma to get out of things or simply dodge issues in his personal relationships.

c. françois, much like arthur, is in the Bad Parent club vis a vis matthew in the 17—18th centuries. where they differ however, is i feel that arthur was controlling but more...present, whereas françois was more...dismissive. matthew would get letters from arthur instructing him to do this and that, which for matthew at least acknowledged him, whereas françois might just not even write to him much at all, especially after matthew came under arthur's control.

d. françois really clicked with alfred during the revolutionary war. it helped that alfred was punching arthur in the dick, but i think that françois for all his flaws, genuinely possesses a somewhat more idealistic streak (than say, arthur imo) so that gelled well with alfred spouting all kinds of enlightenment thoughts (especially since he was also reading french writers like Montesquieu).

e. françois and lien (vietnam) have a complicated (to say the least) relationship due to the history of french imperialism over vietnam; i see francis being much younger than her (she and yao are peers in age!), so lien fitted him very much into her prior experience as an older female nation being forced to deal with 'boys playing at being empires'. lien probably shot him in the face at least once during the first indochina war, that tried to re-establish colonial rule over vietnam in the 1950s. however, i do think they can talk more cordially in more recent decades, with normalisation of ties. cooking is perhaps one topic that is a common interest—vietnamese banh mi is a kind of sandwich originating from french baguettes that incorporates local ingredients, and it's a really tasty and popular streetfood. there's also a big french-vietnamese population in paris today.

f. kiku was absolutely not impressed by monet's la japonaise, nor 'madame chrysanthème', the wildly racist and orientalist mess that Madame Butterfly was based on. it was exoticising, not flattering to him—he was however, more amenable to those of françois' artists that incorporated japanese artistic techniques in more genuine ways, or with françois' own view of aesthetics and his knowledge and interest in engineering.

g. yao, much like kiku later, was someone françois was very interested in culturally—as seen from the boom in chinoiserie when trade with china began back in the 17th century. i think french is probably one of the first european languages yao learns (besides portuguese). it's a fairly functional trading relationship—until of course, french imperialist interests began expanding in yao's sphere of influence and the opium wars.

h. i'm a fruk fan so naturally i think his love-hate relationship with arthur is one of his most significant r/ships—arthur has been a neighbour, friend, enemy, lover and everything in between. but! scotfra is another very, very long-term relationship important to him (auld alliance!). also on an EU level well, there's him and ludwig too.

i. naturally, he's also fairly fashionable, and i feel like he'll always eye himself critically even if he's going out casually, compared to way i can see arthur being fairly chill about strolling out in that questionable, ill-fitting acid green christmas sweater alfred sent him as a joke once. i also think françois probably smokes a fair bit, compared to how arthur's gotten a kick in the arse to cut back after WWII. and nowadays, he'll often just be relaxing with a cigarette on the balcony of his apartment with a book, or enjoying a day out in one of his museums.

[slut4calum]

Hasanabi: Teacher's Assistant

Halfway through junior year, and the finish line was starting to shimmer in the distance. Just push through this final year, the mountain of exams, the stress-fueled ramen nights, and then it would be freedom. Freedom from textbooks, freedom from professors' drone-like lectures, freedom from the constant pressure to prove yourself. But for now, there was only the present, the slightly stale air of lecture hall B-12, and the prospect of three more hours grappling with the intricacies of 17th-century French literature.

My first class, European Romanticism, was familiar territory. Professor Dubois, with his tweed jacket and perpetually surprised eyebrows, was practically an old friend after two semesters of dissecting Byron's angst and Wordsworth's musings on daffodils. The next two classes, however, were uncharted waters: Medieval Art History, where I desperately hoped the professor wouldn't quiz us on the difference between Romanesque and Gothic arches, and Advanced Genetics, where the potential for complex Punnett squares already had my head spinning.

By the time I stumbled into my fourth class, PSC 419: The Political Effects of Globalization, I was ready for a nap. But the exhaustion evaporated the moment I saw Dr. Kemp. He was tiny, a sprite of a man with twinkling eyes and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. As he outlined the syllabus, his voice was a warm rumble, like well-aged whiskey swirling in a glass. And then, the door creaked open, and my heart did a triple flip.

"Ah, Mr. Piker," Dr. Kemp welcomed, "Nice of you to join us. Class, this is your TA, Hasan. Hasan is working on his PhD in political science here, Hasan, what are your office hours this semester?"

The man who walked in was…well, breathtaking. Dark hair tousled by invisible hands, eyes that held the glint of mischief and intelligence, and a smile that could charm the sunrise. He cleared his throat.

"Uh, yeah, pretty packed schedule this semester, so just email me if you need to meet up, and we'll find a time."

That was it? No booming baritone introductions, no grand plans for interactive seminars? Just a mumbled email address and an evasion of office hours? Disappointment flickered across my face, quickly masked by a cough. Dr. Kemp chuckled.

"First day and already zoning out, Ms. Y/N? We have a lot to cover this semester, globalization is a tangled web, isn't it?"

He launched into a whirlwind explanation of the coursework, detailing everything from intricate trade agreements to the rise of populist movements. I tried to focus, tried to decipher the complexities of cultural homogenization and international power struggles, but Hasan kept drifting into my vision. His hand resting on the lectern, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the playful glint in his eyes as he met Dr. Kemp's gaze. My mind was a chaotic dance floor, Professor Kemp's words mere background music to the silent symphony of possibilities playing out in my head.

The rest of the class passed in a blur. Charts of global trade flows morphed into Hasan's sculpted jawline, intricate political maps became sketches of his smile. Finally, the class ended, the sweet release from academia and its alluring distractions. As everyone shuffled out, I lingered, hoping for a chance encounter, a stolen glance, anything to break the spell before it consumed me whole. But Hasan was already gone, swallowed by the labyrinthine corridors of the university, leaving behind only the faint echo of his name and the intoxicating image of him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes holding mine for a single, lingering moment.

My legs finally stumbled out of lecture hall B-12, the weight of the day settling on my shoulders like a damp backpack. My notebooks bulged with scribbled notes and half-formed insights, remnants of the academic marathon I'd just run. Exhaustion tugged at my eyelids, urging them shut, but the phantom heat of Hasan's gaze still pulsed beneath my skin. Could his name become a mantra tonight, a whispered incantation against the inevitable sleep that beckoned? Would I dream of power dynamics and trade imbalances, or would his face, framed by that dark, tousled hair, be the only image etched in my subconscious mind?

Dinner in the cafeteria was a blur of lukewarm pasta and whispered gossip about the new TA. My roommates peppered me with questions, but my answers were mumbled monosyllables, my attention already caught in the web of possibilities Hasan had woven around me. Even the rhythmic thrum of the washing machine sounded like a heartbeat, my chest pounding a primal rhythm against my ribs.

Finally, curled up in my bed, surrounded by the familiar chaos of textbooks and half-eaten candy wrappers, I felt a strange mix of exhilaration and trepidation. Junior year might be about finishing lines, but with Hasan lurking on the horizon, the only finish line I could see was the one blurring the edges of my consciousness, pulling me toward a dream where textbooks and exams dissolved into the intoxicating haze of his smile. One thing was certain – this semester, at least, was going to be anything but smooth sailing.

The Tuesday morning sun peeked through my blinds, but the usual jolt of caffeine-fueled urgency was missing. Today, with only CJ 290: Criminal Theories on my schedule, the pressure valve hissed a sigh of relief. Professor Evans, a woman with a penchant for dissecting motives and questioning morals, was never one for early morning torture sessions. I lingered in bed, savoring the luxury of stolen minutes, my mind a tangled mess of globalization, trade agreements, and, more persistently, Hasan's captivating eyes.

My day unfolded in a leisurely waltz, devoid of the usual academic frenzied pace. I drifted through a bookstore, getting lost in the labyrinth of dusty spines and the promise of new worlds, then indulged in a leisurely lunch in the park, watching squirrels chase each other across the sun-dappled grass. But even the chirping birds and rustling leaves couldn't drown out the persistent hum of his name in my head. He was a phantom presence, whispering possibilities around every corner, making the mundane seem vibrant with anticipation.

As dusk began to paint the sky in hues of orange and purple, I found myself drawn to the familiar warmth of the campus dining hall. My heart did a somersault when my gaze landed on a familiar figure seated at a corner table. It was Hasan, his head bent over a book, his brows furrowed in concentration. My breath hitched, and I instinctively ducked behind a towering stack of trays, my heart pounding a frantic tattoo against my ribs. Should I approach him? Strike up a conversation about trade agreements or political philosophers? But the words caught in my throat, choked by the sudden shyness that bloomed in my chest. I watched him from the shadows, a voyeur to his book-filled world, content with simply stealing glances of his coffee-sipping lips and the way the light played on his dark hair.

He was gone by the time I gathered the courage to emerge from my self-imposed exile. The dining hall was bustling, the hum of conversation washing away the quiet intimacy of my stolen observation

. I left with a pang of disappointment, the taste of his unspoken presence lingering on my tongue, a sweet-sour mystery I couldn't quite decipher. As I lay in my bed, I couldn't help but think of him. His tall, muscular body, piercing brown eyes, and the way his voice commanded attention in the lecture hall. I had been his student for the past semester and every time I saw him, I couldn't help but feel a surge of desire.

I know it's wrong. He's my TA, someone in a position of authority. But the more I tried to suppress my thoughts, the more they consumed me. I finally gave in to my fantasies. I closed my eyes and imagined him in my bed, his hands roaming my body, his lips on mine. I could feel the heat between my thighs as I thought of him undressing me, his touch igniting every nerve in my body. I ran my hands over my breasts, imagining his lips on them, sucking and flicking my nipples. My breathing became more rapid as I thought of him trailing kisses down my stomach, until he reached the place I craved him the most. I could practically feel his tongue teasing me, his fingers exploring every inch of me. My own fingers moved faster as I imagined him entering me, making me moan his name.

As I reached my peak, I couldn't help but scream out his name. I collapsed back onto my bed, panting and flushed. But my mind couldn't stop there. I needed more, I needed him. I imagined him holding me close, whispering dirty words in my ear as he continued to pleasure me. I wanted him to be rough, to dominate me. And in my mind, he did just that. That night, as I drifted off to sleep, the shadows behind my eyelids danced with the image of his smile, a silent promise of encounters to come, of a semester forever teetering between textbooks and stolen glances, between academic pursuits and the intoxicating allure of a TA with a name that was becoming my own personal forbidden fruit.

The Wednesday morning sun rose, casting a golden hue over the campus as I made my way to my first class of the day, EN 370: European Romanticism. Professor Dubois, with his tweed jacket and perpetually surprised eyebrows, greeted us with his usual enthusiasm, diving into the depths of Shelley and Keats with fervor. But my mind wandered, drifting back to Hasan and the tantalizing possibilities he represented. HY 346: Medieval Art History followed, the lecture hall echoing with the professor's passionate discourse on the intricacies of cathedral architecture. Yet, as I scribbled notes on flying buttresses and pointed arches, my thoughts strayed once more to the enigmatic figure of Hasan, his presence a magnetic pull that defied the boundaries of the classroom. BIO 243: Advanced Genetics brought with it the complexities of Punnett squares and genetic inheritance, but even as I grappled with alleles and phenotypes, Hasan's image lingered in the recesses of my mind, a persistent whisper of distraction amidst the academic clamor.

Finally, the moment I had been waiting for arrived as I stepped into PSC 419: The Political Effects of Globalization. Dr. Kemp's warm rumble filled the room, a soothing undertone that hinted at the depth of knowledge and experience lying just beneath the surface. "Good morning, everyone," he began, his voice carrying the weight of years spent navigating the intricate web of global politics. "Today marks the beginning of a journey into the heart of one of the most pressing issues of our time: globalization."

As he spoke, each word seemed to carry with it a sense of urgency, a call to action in the face of a rapidly changing world. "Globalization," he continued, "has reshaped the political landscape in ways we are only beginning to comprehend. From the rise of transnational corporations to the erosion of national sovereignty, its effects are far-reaching and profound." His words hung in the air, a silent invitation to delve deeper into the complexities of this modern-day phenomenon.

But even as Dr. Kemp expounded on the intricacies of trade agreements and cultural exchange, my attention was inexorably drawn to Hasan. His presence at the front of the room was like a magnet, pulling my gaze away from the professor's lecture and into a world of tantalizing possibilities. I found myself captivated by the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lips curved into a half-smile as he listened to Dr. Kemp's words. I couldn't stop staring at Mr. Piker, wondering if he knew what I had done the night before. I tried to focus on the lecture, but my mind kept drifting back to the thoughts from the previous night.

"Hasan," Dr. Kemp's voice broke through my reverie, bringing me back to the present moment. "Would you care to share your thoughts on the role of globalization in shaping political ideologies?" Hasan's eyes met mine for a fleeting moment, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken connection that crackled between us. "Uh, yes, of course," he replied, his voice steady despite the hint of surprise that flickered across his features. "Globalization has undoubtedly had a profound impact on political ideologies," he began, his gaze sweeping across the room. "It has facilitated the spread of ideas and information on an unprecedented scale, challenging traditional notions of sovereignty and identity." His words were measured, his tone confident as he delved into the complexities of the topic at hand. And yet, despite his obvious expertise, there was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, a fleeting glimpse of the man behind the TA facade.

As Hasan spoke, I found myself hanging on his every word, caught in the magnetic pull of his presence. His voice was like a siren's song, drawing me deeper into the labyrinth of his thoughts and ideas. I couldn't tear my gaze away, couldn't shake the feeling that we were connected in some inexplicable way, bound together by the invisible threads of fate.

The rest of the class passed in a blur, the minutes slipping by unnoticed as Hasan and Dr. Kemp dissected the nuances of globalization and its political ramifications. I scribbled notes furiously, my mind racing to keep pace with the torrent of information flooding the room. But amidst the chaos of academia, one thing remained constant: Hasan's presence, a beacon of light in the murky depths of my subconscious.

As the class ended, I felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment wash over me. Relief that I could finally escape the confines of the lecture hall, but disappointment that I would have to wait until next week to see Hasan again. I lingered for a moment, watching as he gathered his belongings and made his way to the front of the room. Our eyes met briefly, a silent exchange that spoke volumes without a single word being uttered. And then, just like that, he was gone, leaving me to navigate the swirling currents of my thoughts alone.

As I made my way back to my dorm, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted, that a door had been opened to a world of possibilities I had never dared to explore. Hasan had awakened something within me, a hunger for knowledge and connection that transcended the boundaries of the classroom. And as I lay in bed that night, the echo of his voice still ringing in my ears, I knew that this semester would be unlike any other, a journey into the unknown with Hasan as my guide.

Two weeks passed in a whirlwind of lectures, study sessions, and stolen glances. Despite my best efforts to focus on my studies, Hasan's enigmatic presence continued to linger in the back of my mind, a constant distraction amidst the academic chaos. But as the days flew by, the impending exam in PSC 419 loomed larger and larger on the horizon, a stark reminder of the need to buckle down and prepare.

The next time the class met, the atmosphere crackled with nervous energy. Dr. Kemp's warm rumble filled the room as he handed out the exam papers, his eyes flickering with a mixture of anticipation and gravity. "Alright, class, you’ll have 50 minutes to complete this exam," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "You may begin."

As the minutes ticked by, the rustle of papers and the scratch of pencils on paper filled the air, each stroke a testament to weeks of diligent preparation and late-night cramming sessions. I kept getting distracted by Hasan sitting at the front of the room, his gaze flicking across the rows of students, no doubt looking for any signs of cheating. Every time our eyes met, I felt a blush creep up my cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and excitement swirling in my chest.

Despite my nerves, I managed to focus on the exam, my mind racing to recall the intricacies of globalization and its political effects. But as I flipped through the pages, answering each question to the best of my ability, doubt crept in. Had I studied enough? Had I missed any crucial details? The uncertainty gnawed at me, a constant companion as the seconds ticked by.

As I gathered my belongings and made my way out of the lecture hall, a sense of unease settled in the pit of my stomach. The weight of Hasan's gaze lingered on me, a silent reminder of the unspoken tension that simmered between us.

Friday came, and I anxiously awaited the exam results, a knot of apprehension tightening in my stomach. When Dr. Kemp finally handed back the papers, my heart sank as I saw the red mark glaring back at me. Hasan had failed me. Confusion and frustration swirled in my mind as I scanned through my answers, unable to comprehend where I had gone wrong.

Desperate for answers, I sought out a classmate to compare notes. To my disbelief, our answers aligned perfectly. Each question meticulously answered, every concept grasped with precision. With newfound resolve, I confronted Hasan, armed with evidence of my innocence.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I made my way to Hasan's office hours, determined to confront him about the unjust grade. As I entered his office, the air seemed charged with tension, the weight of our unspoken conflict hanging heavy between us. Hasan's eyes met mine, but there was no warmth in his gaze, only a guarded wariness that sent a chill down my spine.

I launched into my argument, laying out the evidence of my innocence with a conviction born of righteous indignation. But instead of engaging in a rational discourse, Hasan's demeanor grew increasingly defensive, his rebuttals growing more vehement with each passing moment. It was as if he were grasping at straws, desperate to deflect blame and avoid accountability for his actions.

As the minutes ticked by, it became painfully clear that Hasan had no intention of acknowledging his mistake, let alone rectifying it. His refusal to even entertain the possibility of an error left me feeling helpless and betrayed, a pawn in his reckless game of academic manipulation.

But then, as I prepared to leave, Hasan's tone shifted, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent shivers down my spine. "There might be another way to resolve this," he said, his eyes locking with mine in a knowing gaze. My heart raced as I realized the implication of his words, the sudden surge of desire mingling with the lingering anger and frustration.

In that moment, I saw an opportunity to turn the tables, to reclaim control over the situation and emerge victorious. The thought of using my newfound leverage to secure a better grade both thrilled and terrified me, the line between right and wrong blurring in the heat of the moment.

With a tentative nod, I accepted Hasan's proposition, a rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins as I realized the power I held in my hands. As we drew closer, the air crackling with anticipation, I knew that this was a gamble I was willing to take, consequences be damned. For in that fleeting moment of forbidden desire, I saw not only a chance to right a wrong but also a glimpse of the intoxicating allure of surrendering to temptation.

With a sense of both trepidation and excitement, I agreed to Hasan's proposition, feeling a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. As we drew closer, the air between us crackled with anticipation, the tension palpable as we stood on the precipice of a decision that would alter the course of our academic and personal lives.

Hasan's gaze bore into mine, dark and intense, as if searching for any hint of hesitation or doubt. But all I could feel was a fierce determination, a resolve to seize control of the situation and emerge victorious, no matter the cost. The lines between right and wrong blurred in the heat of the moment, overshadowed by the intoxicating allure of forbidden desire.

Without a word, Hasan closed the distance between us, his touch sending shivers down my spine as he brushed his fingers against my cheek. In that moment, the world fell away, leaving only the two of us locked in a silent dance of longing and anticipation.

His lips met mine in a searing kiss, igniting a firestorm of passion that threatened to consume us both. With each touch, each caress, the boundaries that had once separated us melted away, leaving only the raw intensity of our desire.

As our bodies entwined, the air around us crackled with electricity, charged with the urgency of our shared longing. Hasan's hands roamed my body with a hunger that matched my own, igniting a wildfire of sensation that blazed through every nerve ending.

In that moment, all thoughts of exams and grades faded into obscurity, replaced by the primal need to surrender to the irresistible pull of desire. As Hasan's lips trailed down my neck, his touch setting my skin ablaze, I knew that there was no turning back.

With each passing moment, the intensity grew, building like a tidal wave ready to crash over us both. And when it finally hit, the sheer force of our passion left us breathless, tangled together in a web of tangled limbs and whispered promises.

Hasan's fingers found their way between my legs, trailing along the wetness that had welled up there. A gasp escaped my lips as his thumb circled around my clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through every nerve ending.

"You like that?" he growled in a low murmur against my ear.

I nodded eagerly, unable to form any coherent words as desire consumed every fiber of my being. The intensity grew with each passing second, building like a pressure cooker ready to explode.

Hasan's fingers explored my depths with a skill and finesse that left me breathless. The way he teased and pushed against my gates of pleasure, driving me to the edge of madness, was exquisite. My body clenched around his fingers, begging for release, but he held back just enough to keep me teetering on the precipice.

"Just like that," he taunted, a smirk playing on his lips. "You want me to fuck you so badly, don't you?"

I moaned in response, unable to form coherent words as desire coursed through my veins. The urgency within me grew with each passing moment, demanding satisfaction. But Hasan knew exactly how to wield power over me, to keep me desperate for him.

"No," he replied with a mocking tone. "You're not going to come yet." A flicker of frustration crossed my face as I struggled against his firm grip. He chuckled at my futile attempts to break free from his hold.

"Don't worry," he continued, his voice dripping with seduction. "I'll make you scream my name when I give you what you crave." His touch intensified, fingers pressing deeper inside me as if testing the strength of my walls.

The anticipation was unbearable, my body trembling with a mixture of impatience and ecstasy. "Fuck," I moaned, frustration coursing through my veins like wildfire.

Hasan smirked, his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. "Not just yet," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he slowly pulled his fingers out of me. My breath hitched in disappointment as I felt the ache deepen between my legs. "You're going to have to beg for it properly."

My hesitation mingled with defiance as I locked eyes with Hasan. He knew exactly how to push all of my buttons - the power he held over me was intoxicatingly dangerous. But even amidst the haze of desire, there was a flicker of reluctance deep within me.

"Please," I whispered hoarsely, barely able to form the words amidst the overwhelming need coursing through every inch of my body. Hasan chuckled darkly at my plea before pressing his lips against mine in a searing kiss.

With a swift movement, he lifted me up effortlessly and threw me over his desk. Sharp and dirty furniture scraped against my skin as I landed with a thud. The air crackled with anticipation as Hasan positioned himself at the entrance of my wetness.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked, his voice dripping with seduction. My heart raced in response, a mix of excitement and apprehension coursing through me like electricity.

I nodded eagerly, unable to form coherent words amidst the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume me. The uncertainty mingled with desire as Hasan pressed against the entrance of my core.

"Fuck," he growled lowly, gripping my hips tightly. "You want it rough, don't you? You want me to fuck you hard and fast?"

My breath hitched in response as I nodded frantically, unable to resist the magnetic pull that drew me towards him. He began to thrust into me with a force that made the desk move forward with each thrust.

"You like that, huh?" Hasan taunted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You like how I'm taking you so fucking hard?"

My mind was consumed by a mix of pleasure and frustration, but I couldn't deny the raw hunger between us. With each powerful thrust, my walls clenched around him tightly, desperately begging for more.

Hasan's eyes locked onto mine as he picked up the pace, his grip on my hips growing tighter with each passing second. The air in the room was thick with anticipation, filled with moans and curses that echoed off the walls.

I could feel myself teetering on the edge once again, desperate to surrender to the overwhelming pleasure coursing through my veins. But Hasan knew exactly what he was doing to me - he chased my sweet spot relentlessly, and I could feel myself edging closer and closer to the brink once again.

And then it happened. The intensity intensified until I exploded in ecstasy, crying out Hasan's name as waves of pleasure crashed over me like a tidal wave.

Hasan's thrusts grew more intense, his grip on my hips tightening as he fucked me harder and faster. The friction between us was unbearably intense, sending shockwaves of pleasure cascading through every inch of my body.

My mind spiraled with a mix of guilt and desire, torn between the forbidden desires that consumed me and the rational thoughts screaming for moderation.

"Fuck," I moaned, unable to contain myself. "You're so fucking good at this."

Hasan's eyes smoldered with dark amusement as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against mine in a hungry kiss. "That's right," he whispered huskily. "You love being fucked. You love how I use you for my pleasure. God youre such a whore, letting your TA do this to you, all for a good grade. You're my little slut, aren't you?"

He growled, his voice low and husky. I moaned and came again, my pussy clenching around his cock.

"Yes! Yes! I'm your little slut!" I cried out as he pounded into me hard and fast.

I moaned and writhed beneath him, my body responding to his dominance. "Yes! Yes! Fuck me harder!" I cried out as he pounded into me with a force that made the desk creak and squeak.

The door to the office was locked, but it didn't matter. The sound of our bodies slapping together was loud enough to be heard outside. Hasan's hands gripped my hips, pulling me back onto his cock with each thrust. I could feel his balls slapping against my clit, sending waves of pleasure through me.

"Fuck, Hasan," I moaned. "You feel so good inside me." Hasan grunted in response, his eyes locked on mine as he continued to pound into me. His grip on my hips tightened, and I could feel him starting to lose control.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groaned. "Where do you want it?" I bit my lip, considering. "Inside me," I finally said. "I want to feel you fill me up." Hasan grunted again, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he neared his climax.

He thrust one last time, burying himself deep inside me as he came. I could feel his hot cum filling me up, and the sensation sent me over the edge as well.

I came hard, my pussy clenching around his cock as he continued to thrust into me. I was panting and shaking as he slowly pulled out of me. He sat back on his heels, looking down at me with a satisfied smile. "That was amazing," he said, stroking my hair gently.

I smiled back at him, feeling a sense of satisfaction and contentment. "Thank you," I said, my voice still shaky from the intensity of the orgasm. He leaned down and kissed me gently on the forehead. "You're welcome," he said, his voice low and husky with desire. “I think someone earned themselves a 105%,” he winked at me as we left the building.

[bones-ivy-breath]

The Affair of the Poisons: Murder, Infanticide and Satanism at the Court of Louis XIV by Anne Somerset

[literaryvein-reblogs]

More Art-Related Vocabulary

Abstract Expressionist: An artistic movement of the mid-20th century emphasizing an artist’s freedom to express attitudes and emotions, usually through nonrealistic means.

Age of Exploration (also, Age of Discovery): From the early 15th century to the early 17th century, European ships traveled around the world in search of new trading routes, lands, and partners to supply an ever-growing European market.

Albumen silver print: A photograph made using a process that was prevalent until the 1890s. The paper is coated with albumen (egg whites), and the image is created using a solution of silver salts.

Brayer: A hand roller used for applying ink to relief printing blocks or occasionally for the direct application of paint or ink to a surface.

Caricature: A representation in either literature or visual art that includes a ridiculous distortion or exaggeration of body parts or physical characteristics to create a comic or gross imitation.

Ceramics: Vessels of clay made by using a variety of shaping techniques and then hardening or firing the clay with heat at a high temperature.

Chasing: A term encompassing two processes in metalworking: (a) modeling decorative patterns on a hand-shaped sheet-metal surface using punches applied to the front, and (b) finishing and refining a cast sculpture.

Classical: Describes a prime example of quality or “ideal” beauty. It often refers to the culture, art, literature, or ideals of the ancient Greek or Roman world, especially that of Greece in the 4th and 5th centuries B.C.

Collage: An art form and technique in which pre-existing materials or objects are arranged and attached as part of a two-dimensional surface.

Color palette: (a) A set of colors that makes up an image or animation, and (b) the group of colors available to be used to create an image.

Composition: The process of arranging artistic elements into specific relationships to create an art object.

Daguerreotype: An early method of photography produced on a silver plate or a silver-covered copper plate made sensitive to light.

Exoticism: Fascination with and exploration and representation of unfamiliar cultures and customs through the lens of a European way of thinking, especially in the 19th century.

Expressionism: A style of art inspired by an artist’s subjective feelings rather than objective or realistic depictions based on observation. Expressionism as a movement is mainly associated with early 20th century German artists interested in exploring the spiritual and emotional aspects of human existence.

Gelatin silver print: A photograph made through a chemical process in which a negative is printed on a surface coated with an emulsion of gelatin (an animal protein) containing light-sensitive silver salts.

Illuminated manuscript: Comes from the Latin words illuminare (to throw light upon, lighten, or brighten), manus (hand), and scriptus from the verb scribere (to write). A handwritten book, usually made from specially prepared animal skins, in which richly colored and sometimes gilded decorations, such as borders and illustrations, accompany the text.

Illuminator: A craftsman or artist who specializes in the art of painting and adorning manuscripts with decorations.

Impressionist: Referring to the style or theories of Impressionism, a theory or practice in painting in which objects are depicted by applying dabs or strokes of primary unmixed colors in order to evoke reflected light. Impressionism was developed by French painters in the late 19th century.

Inking plate: A flat surface used for rolling ink out in preparation for applying ink to a plate or block.

Inscription: A historical, religious, or other kind of record that is cut, impressed, painted, or written on stone, brick, metal, or other hard surface.

Source Art Vocabulary pt. 1

More: Word Lists

[harley-sunday]

Renaissance

Renaissance [noun]

re·​nais·​sance ˌren-ə-ˈsän(t)s  -ˈzän(t)s 

1. capitalized : the period of European history between the 14th and 17th centuries marked by a flourishing of art and literature inspired by ancient times and by the beginnings of modern science 2. often capitalized : a movement or period of great activity (as in literature, science, and the arts) 3. literal translation from French : re-birth

Summary: Charles wins the Monaco Grand Prix.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader

Warnings: None.

Word count: 765 (a short one, I know)

AN: You know I had to come out of retirement after Charles winning his home Grand Prix. Hope you enjoy this little drabble. Please come yell at me in the comments ♥

Part of Rituals

Charles Leclerc, in 2021, when asked if he has any race rituals: “At every start of the season, until F2, my grandmother used to take my race suits, remove one of the sponsor logos and sew a little cross instead of it. Now grandma is gone, I can’t sew and the ritual is over. I was thinking about keeping a lucky charm in my pocket but then I thought to myself: if you need an object [to feel better], then you are missing something on the mental aspect, so I let it go.”

[Angel of God, my guardian dear,]

The ritual is not over.

You can sew and the ritual is not over. 

Charles took pole today, you can sew, and the ritual is not over.

[To whom God's love commits me here,]

It’s late. It’s late and with the rest of the world asleep you are wide awake, hunched over in a chair, with the red of the Ferrari race suit draped across your legs, and the floor lamp casting a golden glow over your lone figure. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the window earlier, the scene eerily reminiscent of a renaissance painting you saw in the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Nice last year. 

Freddy is sleeping at your feet, tired after spending yet another day barking at race cars from the safety of the balcony. The gray hairs around his nose are becoming more and more prominent, a cruel reminder of his upcoming sixth birthday next month. Except for Freddy’s soft snores, the house is quiet, and it almost feels like a sanctuary. 

[Ever this day, be at my side,]

Modern Formula One suits don’t have sponsor patches, everything is printed on, and so instead of having to decide which patch to remove, you try to find a piece of thread that matches the yellow of the Ferrari logo. There’s no exact match, everything you have is a slightly different shade, and after a few minutes you give up and take out a bobbin with black thread instead. 

It’s been years since you’ve last sewn something but your muscle memory makes feeding the thread through the eye of the needle easy. You pick up the fabric and set to work, using a simple back stitch to sew a cross in the black of the Ferrari horse. No one will even know it’s there, not unless they look closely, and people hardly ever do. It only takes a couple of minutes to finish and once you’re done you run your fingers over the stitches, while you say a quiet prayer. 

Careful not to disturb Freddy, you get up then and drape the suit back over the chair, making sure it looks untouched. You leave the light on, it’s almost morning anyway, and make your way back to the bedroom. 

Charles stirs when you lay down next to him and when you settle into him you can feel him press a kiss to your forehead, “Lucie is back to sleep?” 

For a moment you’re confused, not sure what he means, but then you remember you told him you’d go check on your daughter earlier. You nod and tilt your head back so he can let his lips ghost over yours, “She is. You should be as well, chéri. You’ve got a race to win tomorrow.” 

[To light and guard, Rule and guide.]

Charles takes it all in from the top step of the podium, lets his eyes wander over the sea of people below him, the water in Port Hercule glistening in the distance. He can feel his smile growing wider when he finds his family in the cheering crowd - his mom and his brothers looking at him with watery eyes and soft smiles, and her, with their daughter perched on her hip, biting her lip to keep from crying. He wants nothing more than to hug them, hold them close, and celebrate with them, but he knows that will come later, in the quiet hours after the public celebrations, back in the sanctity of their home.

It’s time for the national anthem and so Charles takes his cap off and places his hand over his heart. When his fingers graze over what he quickly realizes is a cross, embroidered onto the Ferrari horse, he has to swallow back tears. He didn’t see it before the race, doubt anyone has, but now that he knows it’s there he never wants to race without it ever again. 

The ritual is not over and Charles Leclerc is a Monaco Grand Prix race winner.

[film-in-my-soul]

The Death of Translation | 10,968 | landwriter / @landwriter

Summary: One day, in spring, he comes to the Inn. Hob looks up and he’s there, and the relief is blinding. He thinks tu m’as manqué, fuck, because you were missing from me feels more true than I missed you ever has. English missing was ruined for him the moment he learned the French way of it. Longing is meant to be a reflexive verb. It would be a bad faith translation, even for him. He tells himself this is why he doesn’t say it. He thinks at last, and that’s a doable one. So he smiles, says, “You’re late.”

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Summary: The New Inn is as close to a church as Hob can build, a monument to stories, a tribute to dreams. He has a baseball bat, 600 years of fighting experience, and an anthropomorphic representation of dreaming to impress. In other words, no neonazis allowed.

Dream of a thousand kisses | 6,335 | fellshish / @fellshish

Summary: Dream wants his reunion with Hob to go perfectly after their big fight so he visits Hob’s dreams to rehearse the moment. During one of those practice dreams, Hob suddenly kisses him.

an immortal's guide to contrition | 6,619 | trellomonkey

Summary: “I’ll win him over,” he says, resolute. “I’ll woo him.” In 1889, Hob Gadling has a falling out with his friend. He spends the next century coming up with a way to make it up to him.

Make Me Immortal With A Kiss | 8,611 | WyvernQuill / @wyvernquill

Summary: He doesn’t know why he does it. It’s perhaps the biggest mistake of all his 500 years on God’s green earth. But in that strange, treacle-slow moment on the wet street with the rain falling around him, with His Stranger’s arm shaking under his fingers - God, has he ever even laid hands on him before? Hob can’t recall - it seems like the only obvious course of action. Hob grabs him by the lapels of his black coat and drags him into a desperate, needy kiss.

the Endless marginalia | 11,210 | LydeNicoKITE / @nicolodigenovas

Summary: Dream was… different than what he’d expected. Sure, he was eloquent, a bit standoffish, slightly snobbish, endlessly knowledgeable about literature and history and, not surprisingly, dead languages. This all fit the image Dream conveyed in interviews and public appearances. But he also had a weird passion for unusual pets —he once kept a raven as personal companion, then was too heartbroken by her passing to find a worthy successor—, wrote down his dreams because ‘that’s where ideas come from’, tended to trust horoscopes too much, and was so competitive when playing cards he did not hesitate to cheat his way to victory.

sweet devotion, gentle hope | 12,369 | winterbucky (WinterLadyy)

Summary: When a strange woman sometime in the 17th century tells Hob he's a High Priest, it doesn't take him all that long to figure out which God he serves - what else could his Stranger be but a God? That settled, he spends the next decades making sure their temple (the White Horse) is perfect, that his God knows Hob is devoted. So when his Stranger doesn't show up for their 1989 meeting, Hob doesn't take it laying down. Instead, he uses all the knowledge he collected over the years to summon his God into his temple - thus, saving Dream from Burgess, albeit unknowingly. What follows is a series of adventures as Hob joins Dream on his quest to find his tools. They may even discover something new about their relationship on the way.

the gift of hindsight | 13,733 | itsthechocopuff

Summary: What if, when they meet in the twenty-first century, Hob is a little more human, a little slower to forgive, and Dream a little more cognizant of how one should treat centuries-old friends, though no more socially competent?

Inspire in Me, the Desire in Me | 14,850 | ElloPoppet

Summary: It’s the right day, but the year is all wrong, and Dream suspects that there’s something else not quite right even before he finds himself standing in front of the shuttered remains of the White Horse Tavern. Still, he’s chilled in a way he’s not accustomed to feeling, reminiscent of the hopeless, free-falling frost that climbed up his spine and inside his gut the day he was meant to meet Hob when he was imprisoned. And that’s what it is, he realizes, this cold feeling. Hopelessness. Should Dream seek him out, would Hob welcome him as a friend, or turn his shoulder as he would on an intruder? It’s what he would deserve, Dream muses as he’s preparing to turn heel from the tavern’s closed gates, even though as he’s resigning himself to shame he’s also gearing up to make this his next mission, his next purpose: to find Hob Gadling.

Black Coffee | 17,133 | Darci

Summary: He almost misses the table in the back corner. Far from the front windows and veiled by a thin curtain of ivy, a single table calls to Hob from across the cafe. It's only when he approaches the corner that Hob realises that table is occupied. Small wonder he missed this detail the first time; the man seated at the table is dressed entirely in black, and he's looking down at an open book so Hob can only see a shock of black hair. Still, there's nowhere else to sit, and apparently none of the students are inclined to share a table with a man who looks like a raven in human form. Hob clears his throat and puts on his best smile. "Excuse me, would you mind if I shared your table?"

Radio Silence | 17,151 | Moorishflower / @moorishflower

Summary: Ten years ago, the world ended all at once. It ended in flour. In rye. In the sound of pancake mix being opened in the morning, and the beep of the rice cooker, and the scent of fresh bread. And on the afternoon of June 13th, 2013, former novelist Dream Endeles finds a still-working portable radio and intercepts a distress call.

For Want of Caution | 20,663 | mayanpaw

Summary: Hob Gadling was not by nature a cautious man but even he knew the value of keeping track of those who would be too… intrigued by his condition. In 1926, a chance conversation in a bar alerts Hob to the fact that Roderick Burgess has captured another immortal, one that sounds eerily similar to his friend.

the space that’s in between (every page, every chord, every screen) | 26,293 | im_not_corrupted / @im-not-corrupted

Summary: Before, Hob Gadling never believed he’d be unfortunate enough to love someone who’d never love him back. He’s never coughed up flowers before, and he’s willing to bet he never will. After 1789, Hob Gadling dreams of his Stranger, realises a few things about himself, and coughs up his first flower petal.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy | 55,441 | Xx_vergil_xX

Summary: December 19th, 1334 – Sir Morpheus Oneiros Endelēas and his sister, Teleute de Morte Endelēas, participate in the King's annual Christmas hawking competition. Sir Morpheus, scouring the woods in pursuit, comes across three women – a maiden, a mother, and an old crone – who offer him a strange ruby amulet, a journey to the future, and a Christmas quest whose details are a little fuzzy. With only a warning that his failure will doom him to a lifetime in the future, Sir Morpheus is suddenly thrown smack into Nottingham, 2022. December 19th, 2022 – Hob Gadling, a high school history teacher in Nottingham, driving his son, Robyn, and family friends Rose and Jed Walker, to the opening of the town's Christmas castle, hits a medieval knight with his car. Hijinks ensue.

nurse my pride, throw in a please | 58,371 | OrangeChickenPillow

Summary: Hob is a patient man, and Dream is a stubborn one. Or a stubborn something, considering Hob still doesn't quite understand what exactly he is. In fact, there isn't much he does know about his stranger, and even less about his stranger's family -- so Hob certainly hadn't expected his friend's sister to waltz on into The New Inn asking if he had any apples and telling him that she was in town for work that "luckily" didn't involve him. And, naturally, he also hadn't seen it coming when she told him that his stranger needed his help. But if Hob had learned anything in his unnaturally long life, it was that things never went quite how you were expecting them to -- and sometimes you wound up breaking into a rich magician's basement to get your friend back.

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French Facts:

International Language: French is spoken in over 29 countries across five continents. It is the official language in countries like France, Canada (Quebec), Belgium, Switzerland, and many African nations.

Global Influence: French was the dominant international language in diplomacy, science, literature, and art from the 17th to the mid-20th century. Even today, it's one of the working languages of the United Nations and the European Union.

Words and Phrases in English: English has borrowed many words and phrases from French. Some examples include "rendezvous," "fiancé," "déjà vu," "cul-de-sac," and "sauté."

Gendered Nouns: French nouns have genders; they are either masculine or feminine. For example, "le livre" (the book) is masculine, and "la table" (the table) is feminine. This can be a challenge for learners, as the gender affects the article and adjective forms.

Accents: French uses five different accents: acute (é), grave (è, à, ù), circumflex (â, ê, î, ô, û), diaeresis (ë, ï, ü), and cedilla (ç). These accents can change the pronunciation and meaning of words.

The Longest French Word: The longest officially recognized French word is "anticonstitutionnellement," which means "in an unconstitutional manner." It has 25 letters.

Silent Letters: French has many silent letters, especially at the end of words. For example, in "vous" (you) and "frais" (fresh), the final "s" is silent.

Tongue Twisters: French has its own set of tongue twisters, like "Un chasseur sachant chasser doit savoir chasser sans son chien" (A hunter knowing how to hunt must know how to hunt without his dog).

Cultural Expressions: French is rich in idiomatic expressions that often don't translate directly into English. For example, "avoir le cafard" literally means "to have the cockroach" but actually means "to feel down."

Learning French: French is considered one of the easier languages for English speakers to learn due to its significant lexical similarities with English. However, mastering pronunciation and grammar can still be challenging.

Verlan: This is a type of French slang where syllables of words are reversed. For example, "fou" (crazy) becomes "ouf." It's especially popular among younger speakers.

French Academy: The Académie Française is an institution founded in 1635 tasked with preserving the French language. It regulates French grammar, spelling, and literature.

Multiple Dialects: Besides standard French (le français standard), there are many regional dialects and languages in France, including Breton, Occitan, and Alsatian.

French in Space: French is one of the official languages of the International Space Station (ISS), alongside English and Russian.

Rich Literary Tradition: French has a rich literary tradition with renowned authors like Victor Hugo, Marcel Proust, and Albert Camus contributing to world literature.

Homophones: French has many homophones (words that sound the same but have different meanings), such as "mer" (sea), "mère" (mother), and "maire" (mayor). This can make listening comprehension tricky.

Loanwords: French continues to borrow words from other languages. For example, "le week-end" and "le parking" are borrowed from English.