#af.artist

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                           「THE MUSE 」

                   25+  •  ARTIST  •  OPEN - APPLY!

ABOUT:

You’ve always been beautiful, ever since you were a child. So very, very beautiful that, apparently, it was and is the most important thing about you - how your cheeks dimple when you laugh, the way your eyes sparkle, the gloss and tumble of your hair. But there’s so much more to you than that! Your education was refined, your travels wide and worldly. You could be anything you want to be, but what you crave, above all, is to be truly seen - to be recognized, at last, as every bit as fine an artist as those you sit for. It’s true! You know it. And so would they, if they just bothered to look.

Unfortunately, so far, the art you’ve made has gone unnoticed... even as the art you inspire graces the walls of chic salons and prestigious galleries, the globe over. These days, you hate to see them: the paintings, the sculptures, the prints plastered across the walls and billboards of Paris, all you, and not. Admired, bought, sold, while your pieces gather dust. It’s infuriating, but. Your artistic endeavors aren’t exactly cheap, and you’ve got bills to pay. So you draw that famous smile on, and strike a pose. This is just a placeholder. You won’t settle for a life spent as just another pretty face. One day, they’ll see you, and your creations - and then, you’ll change the world. 

CONNECTIONS:

The Poet: They remind you so much of yourself - once upon a time. So talented and eager, hopeful about the world around them. You hope the world doesn’t wring that out of them, and not only because you find them wonderfully refreshing.

The Benefactor: You two have run in the same social circles for a while now, and you have the talent they have always longed for. It was flattering at first, gratifying, the way they took interest in your work; but all of their direction, well-meant though it might be, is starting to get on your nerves.

The Noble: You know. Maybe less than they fear, but. Enough. The scandal they tried to leave behind could ruin them all over again - if you let the story slip. They’d better give you a good reason to keep it to yourself...

Possible faceclaims: Amber Rose Revah, Sonequa Martin-Green, Morena Baccarin, suggest more!

The Muse is currently open.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                  「JOHN "JACK" REUEL KERR LAMBTON 」

                   34  •  ARTIST  •  TAKEN BY LIL

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of death, war, homophobia

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

What can we say? Le Honorable John Reuel Kerr Lambton (ah choo!)’s reputation precedes him. Not whispers but roars. A supposed scholar who leaves ruined society women and ballerinas in his wake, a frequenter of both Le Clair de Lune and Le Ciel. His bestseller is called The Patient Man, but he seems to be the most impatient one we’ve ever seen. Rumor is his most recent literary effort is not so popular with the British War Office and is to be translated to be released here in the city of scandal instead. But will we take London’s cast offs? How long until mummy has to leave her latest benefit to clean up little Jack’s mess? Or will she call in the big guns with the war hero elder brother too? 

ABOUT:

Jack Lambton simply refused to grow up. He was too “soft” to go hunting with his father and older brother Cam, so he stayed at home with his mother, reading with her and to her, and sometimes, if he was lucky, she’d read to him right back. He loved stories and continued to love them all the way to Oxford. This bookishness was an allowed quirk of second son of the British gentry, especially when the oldest was already in the military. But Jack did love one more thing. Well, two things. 

It began at Eton. So very accomplished, his teachers said. But he and young Master Swinburne are just a bit too familiar. Do look into that, Lady Lambton, if you don’t mind. And she did and she fretted. Jack getting caught in flagrante with his childhood friend, a society lady-to-be, during the family Christmas party should have perhaps been a comfort. But the boy seemed to be choosing from both sides and continued to do so. Worse, he was almost puckish about it. Pushing limits as he always did. Telling tales.  

Uni certainly didn’t help on that front. His friends were artists and academics and he loved them in whatever way they allowed. Jack’s closest friend, Reginald Edwards, was a Welsh surgeon in training. He was a scientist, but he loved stories as much as Jack did. Sure they kissed sometimes, but the friendship was what mattered. Then came the war. 

Jack’s older brother was already high ranked, and Jack was technically exempt. Greatest minds of Britain, future professor of Anglo-Saxon poetry, etc. But Reg was going to go, and where Reg went, Jack went. Their friends followed suit. Jack was a Second Lieutenant by virtue of his pedigree, so he pulled some strings to get them stationed together. It was supposed to be easy. Quick.  

But it wasn’t.  

Jack lost people. Everyone, really, except Thomas Brannon, his new American friend, brothers bred in foxholes. He saw Reg when he could, but a man with Reg’s skills belonged at the field hospital not the front. Their time became more and more precious until eventually, Jack found himself quite despondent if he didn’t see him. When Jack and Thomas were pinned down together, he handed Thomas a letter to give to Reg. Words of almost-love from a man who loved words. 

After a tense exchange with his brother (and now commanding officer), Jack found himself sent away from Reg due to troop movements. Technically away from danger. But something felt punitive. Personal. He kept his head down. He did the bloody work and told his men fairy and ghost stories to keep their spirits up. One day he went over, and he didn’t come back. It was in the last push, and Thomas assured himself that if Jack was still alive, he would be recovered. But the Germans were routed and the armistice signed without word. 

Jack lay in the mud a long time, pinned by the weight of stone and barbed wire. When he woke, his right arm was gone below the bicep. Well, he said to the pretty nurse with a slightly pained smirk. I write with my left anyway. His brother Cam was not so lucky. They were both sent back to the ancestral estate to recover, where Jack found out that Reg had been killed by chlorine gas on the last day of the war. Jack insisted he was fine but his stump itched and so did his head. More and more he couldn’t stand the way his family talked about his mourning of his “friend.” He told them he’d loved Reg and then stormed off to Paris, supposedly to write a book. 

Instead, he met a soloist at the Palais Garnier named Nadja Babineaux. She loved stories too and he loved her profoundly. His very relieved mother gave him one of the lesser family jewels to propose with, and Jack had every intention. Then Nadja had her first starring role in Giselle, and he realized that much like inconstant Albrecht, he had promised himself to two people: one living, one dead. He knew that like Giselle, Nadja would forgive him. But he didn’t deserve it. So he left. 

He holed up in Edinburgh and did write the book. It had adventure and romance and just the slightest bit of magic. It went to print and did well. Well enough to garner a French translation, which Jack stubbornly handled himself. It was a good break from his magnum opus, an angry, frightening and more than slightly queer little fantasy horror novel that was a clear indictment of the war. 

Which Cam and the British high command didn’t appreciate. Publication was quashed. Jack was devastated. Until his French publisher told him Paris was so lovely in spring…

CONNECTIONS:

The Savior: Even if you’re not sure why they put up with you and your tumbling moods, you’re grateful they do. You often find yourself hovering around their commissariat at the end of the night, hoping they’ll be free to dally over a quiet drink.

The Hammer: Many forget the service of such as she - you certainly can’t. You worry for her, working so hard. And you appreciate her aid, when you find yourself in need. Honestly, a good friend can be a kind of medicine all its own.

The Poet: Their work touched you, more than anything you’d read in years; there’s such hope there, and humanity. You’ve heard they’re in Paris, these days, and it would be such an honour to make their acquaintance. 

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Jamie Bell, he/him

The Novelist is taken by Lil, they/them.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                           「THE POET 」

                   25+  •  ARTIST  •  OPEN - APPLY!

ABOUT:

It wouldn't be exaggerating - too much - to say you've stolen half the world's breath away, and have yet to give it back. Your poetry astonishes and astounds, summoning sunlight with a stanza, unfolding galaxies between the pages of your many illustrious collections. Sure, not everyone understands your work. But that's to be expected; you're the avant-garde, after all. Here in Paris you've found everything you need to live happily and well, spinning the everyday into stardust among like-minded spirits. 

And yet. Said spirits seem to be going stale, lately. These comrades made you believe in all that art was capable of, the power of creativity to elevate and transform. But they've become addled by the hazy delights of the age, pretentious and purposeless. The last thing you want is to fall out of love with the world at large, but it's getting harder and harder to see the splendor you used to find down every street.

CONNECTIONS:

The Unionist: Now that's a voice for the times, for the people. You were riveted, the first time you heard them speak. It's dangerous to listen, you know. But you can't help yourself.

The Muse: You work together like a lock and key, two creative souls who collaborate with wondrous ease. But you're at the height of your powers, celebrated and awarded, and they're still frustrated, stifled, dismissed. Will envy turn the sweetness sour?

The Fugitive: You may not understand why they left that (seemingly) simple high-society life behind, but you're happy for them all the same - in a pitying sort of way. Honestly, you don't think they're going to make it. But you reassure them all the same. Who knows?

Possible faceclaims: Brandon P. Bell, Alfonso Herrera, Laura Harrier, suggest more!

The Poet is open.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                           「THE ARTIFICER 」

                   35+  •  ARTIST  •  OPEN - APPLY!

ABOUT:

You only ever had your imagination for comfort, in the dark and lonely days of your younger years - and there, safe from all the trouble in the world, you found a place to flourish, wonder, and play. Eventually, you realized that your dreams weren’t so far away at all. No, with papier-mâché, plaster, and paint, you could make those marvels tangible, and share them with the world. And so, you became an architect of dreams, a purveyor of fantasies, a master illusionist, sweeping your audiences off to Nagasaki, Verona, Seville, the Harz, and beyond. Then, as the film industry took off, you leapt aboard, and your journeys into the spectacular became all the more extravagant. You brought your magic to every project, summoning up the bowels of Hell itself, the vault of the stars, the depths of the ocean, the splendors of ancient Egypt and Rome. The only limit was the size of the stage.

Then came the accident. 

That’s all it was - an accident. A star, horribly injured on one of your sets. You sent flowers and such, of course; but you made no apologies, because it wasn’t your fault. Obviously. Your employers and crewmates agreed. At first. The show went on. Not well, though. Things just... kept going wrong, and, in the end, everyone involved had to agree with the critics: the production had been a disaster, from start to finish. Was that fair? Or even accurate? No, but that didn’t matter. The superstitious side of show business had sunk its claws in, and, suddenly, every mishap on any set of yours meant so much more than it should have. Blown out of proportion by the gullible and jealous, your spot of bad luck turned into a streak, into a curse, into a legend. The kind that kept those companies from courting your talents, lest their cast and crew protest that they were inviting a hex into the studio. 

Reduced to working for whoever dares to employ you, you’ve been languishing, bitterly, behind the scenes. Of vaudeville shows, of nightclubs. How wretched! You long for a return to the golden glow of the Palais Garnier, to the shimmer of the silver screen. But, even as you hope, you find yourself dreading the possibility - ridiculous as it is - that they might have been right. Having such a splendid imagination can be a curse all its own, when it starts to get the better of you...

CONNECTIONS:

The Playboy: They’re a perfect distraction. When your weary heart grows too heavy, you can count on them to take you for drinks, cigars, dancing... whatever it takes, to forget your worn-down woes. 

The Angel: So demanding! You’ve worked in cinema, in theatre. And she expects you to worry about some cabaret stage? It’s so beneath your talents, and yet, here you are - putting up with her fancies and quibbling complaints. You’re not paid enough for this. It’s not like anybody’s coming around Le Ciel to appreciate the set design, anyway!

The Agelastic: They’ve always been a fan of your work, and never paid any mind to all that irrational nonsense that pushed you off your pedestal. Whenever they pass by, you happily soak up their compliments - and their knowledge. Their worldliness makes you wistful, and makes its way into the details of your designs. 

Possible faceclaims: Jameela Jamil, Natalie Dormer, Donald Glover, suggest more!

The Artificer is open.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                           「THE PUBLISHER 」

                   30+  •  ARTIST  •  OPEN - APPLY!

ABOUT:

You are the envy of the literary world, though they’re too blinded by intimidation and inadequacy to tell you so. It all began in your youth – you shocked the world with not one, not two, but three novels that reinvented the form – and all before the age of 25. In no time, there were poets, essayists and other eccentrics beating down your door, always with their hearts wrapped up in parchment and ink. Perhaps one of them wore you down, or perhaps you just needed a new diversion – however it happened, one day a printing press sailed through your front door, and you had entered into the world of publishing. Now, alongside your own avant-garde experiments, scouting talent is what gets you up in the morning, a critical eye gleaming and ready for whatever might come your way.

CONNECTIONS:

The Novelist: You had the pleasure of reading some of their work a while back, and were impressed; there was talent, there, and a willingness to traipse across some of the usual literary lines. When a friend in the industry told you they were cooking up something new, you offered your services. Now that you have their drafts in hand, you're wondering if that was a mistake - or, perhaps, the most exciting artistic choice you've made in ages. Only time, and editing, will tell...

The Artificer: You’re fairly confident that you don’t “get” their work, but that’s what gets you so excited. You’ve found yourself in a position known to many, many others but foreign to you . . .for the first time in years, you’re a fan of someone else, and it’s positively thrilling.

The Critic: The two of you go back a way. They’re sharp enough as to avoid boring you like most normal beings seem to do these days. Even when you go a while without speaking to them, you’re always sure to check their columns to look for a bitter laugh or two, or a tip about any stars-to-be that you should scoop up.

Possible faceclaims: Gina Torres, Gemma Arterton, Anna Chancellor, suggest more!

The Publisher is open.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                           「THE NOVELIST 」

                   30+  •  ARTIST  •  RESERVED FOR LIL

ABOUT:

Even as a child, you collected words. Others your age gathered blown shells, marbles, beetles; you were happy with your books. Perhaps because you knew your iron-fisted family would destroy a hobby so easily crushed as a robin’s egg, scorning and sneering at you and your fragile things. But your books, at least, were safe from harm. So were you, sheltered between their pages.

As you grew into ever grander volumes, ever higher shelves, ever more expansive libraries, you began to put those words to use for yourself; haltingly, at first. But it wasn’t merely a hobby. That much you knew. The wonder of pinning thought and feeling to the page was unlike anything you’d ever known, before. In fiction, you found freedom, and purpose. Unfortunately, that’s also what would make your new passion entirely unbecoming. Who, of your stature, would presume to do more than dabble in literature?

So you kept your aspirations close, hidden. Easy enough to do, when your parents, your siblings, were so uninterested to start with. They hardly blinked when you packed for university. But you heaved a sigh of relief, and in those hallowed halls, you found friends who understood your love - of language, and of life, richer for their brilliant company. Together, you shared late nights and long drafts. The quest of the author could be as maddening as it was marvellous, but in those hours, all your fictions felt so very, very real.

Until the war came. Soon enough, you were leaving your books and pens behind, exchanging examination schedules for enlistment papers. Your family couldn’t have been prouder; had they ever been proud of you, before? You weren’t fighting for them, though. Those schoolmates were right there alongside, signing the same paperwork. Together, again, you’d fight for all those lofty ideals you’d bandied about over brandy. Then you’d return to your writing desks. Together. The fighting would be over by Christmas, anyway.

Except, it wasn’t. You heard of the armistice from your hospital bed, torn limb from limb and heart from chest. Alone. It’s been years, but time doesn’t heal all wounds. Can words? You believe they can, they must - for what else is left?

CONNECTIONS:

The Savior: Even if you’re not sure why they put up with you and your tumbling moods, you’re grateful they do. You often find yourself hovering around their commissariat at the end of the night, hoping they’ll be free to dally over a quiet drink.

The Hammer: Many forget the service of such as she - you certainly can’t. You worry for her, working so hard. And you appreciate her aid, when you find yourself in need. Honestly, a good friend can be a kind of medicine all its own.

The Poet: Their work touched you, more than anything you’d read in years; there’s such hope there, and humanity. You’ve heard they’re in Paris, these days, and it would be such an honour to make their acquaintance.

Possible faceclaims: Jamie Bell, Diego Luna, Ben Mendelsohn, suggest more!

The Novelist is reserved for Lil.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                             「MAELIE BRINDAMOUR 」

                   32  •  ARTIST  •  TAKEN BY TASHA

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

She is Paris’ most sought-after florist and wedding planner, so how apt is it that amour lies in her name? With stars in her eyes, she brings her visions to Earth in heavenly floral décor. Even in the chaos of a wedding, Mademoiselle Brindamour handles any issue with grace, poise, and a contagious smile. Tout en Fleur has grown from being a small flower shop on the edge of Montmartre to being the site of the most sought-after florist and event planner in Paris. However, without a ring on her finger, we at Le Petit Journal are beginning to wonder: with all the time she spends around love, will she ever find it herself? 

ABOUT:

A personal library, a grand dining room, and a garden full of any flower a child could possibly dream up. Yes, the Brindamour children were certainly among the lucky ones, although not all of them saw it that way. No - for the youngest daughter, the silver spoon was shoved down her throat so far, it felt suffocating. As a child, she attended her lessons like her siblings, but her attention was drawn by the rainbow of colours she could see from the window. Her nana, although she passed when Maelie was only ten years old, fostered Maelie’s love for nature, and often encouraged her to help in the garden. 

Through the years, the tension between Maelie and her parents slowly grew. She was their doll, someone to be dressed up and paraded around, but she pushed back. Showing up late to parties, making friends with the wrong people… Her siblings often insisted she got away with it because she was the baby, which Maelie didn’t doubt. It wasn’t until her mother caught her kissing another girl that it suddenly became time for her to settle down. Before long, her parents found a suitor, and he proposed within months of their meeting.  

Maelie was never opposed to marrying a man – however, the man her parents chose was dull, lifeless, and yet, everything he said provoked her. She felt infuriated with every conversation, and while her mother insisted she would warm up to him, Maelie couldn’t bring herself to do it. Feeling like there was no other option, only two weeks before the wedding, Maelie packed a bag and left in the night. 

The years that followed were more difficult than she could have ever imagined, and although she had a family friend in Paris who supported her for a while, Maelie knew she couldn’t stay with them forever. She took whatever job she could get, as a young woman with no work experience, but she learned quickly. Between the crude comments from patrons, and the minimal pay, it certainly wasn’t the best job, but the owner took a liking to her. After about a year, she was promoted to be his assistant, and her pay was raised accordingly.  

Maelie was eager to break out and start something for herself, but she knew she had to keep saving before that could become a reality. The more she worked as his assistant, the seedier the owner of the club became to her, but she needed the money. So, Maelie grit her teeth through her employer’s poor treatment, and continued saving for her own business. Finally, she had earned enough to rent a small shop. She refurbished it as much as she could on her own, stocked it with flowers, and Tout en Fleur opened. 

With her shop bringing in a relatively steady income, Maelie was able to support herself modestly. She happily provided the flowers, and some recommendations on décor, for any event that anyone asked for. She gave men advice when they were arguing with their wives, comforted those who had lost loved ones, and, the thing she enjoyed the most, she carefully crafted bouquets for brides on their wedding days. It was only in 1921 when a friend asked her to help plan her wedding, that she began doing more than just providing flowers. It seemed that her friend knew people in high places, because as soon as it got out that she had organized the wedding, she was getting appointments left and right to organize events. 

There is nothing Maelie enjoys more than seeing the love in a couple’s eyes, as they see each other from down the aisle. Despite the mayhem that can ensue during a wedding, much of it being her responsibility to solve, she often finds that she can’t stop smiling until she leaves at the end of the night. She walks through the door to her little home, her cheeks still aching from the joy and laughter… but that aching is always matched by the panging in her chest, as she wonders: will her eyes ever sparkle with love, or is she destined only to watch?  

CONNECTIONS:

The Smuggler: They’re your go-to whenever a client requests something very, very special. Whether your customers are hoping to see green fairies flit by on their wedding day, a bit of snow to get a stag started, or fine Russian vodka and a spot of caviar to impress friends from the office, you can rely on your friend from the quais.

The Heiress: You used to be a part of their world, once upon a time. Sometimes, you regret leaving it all behind... they remind you of the best of it, and now and then, you enjoy the chance to share a drink and reminisce about the good old days. Over plans for their next soirée, but still.

The Scourge:They can be gruff, intimidating, even. But they’ve been nothing but polite to you, and keep the neighborhood around your shop well patrolled, your bright windows and delicate blooms and cash box comfortably protected. In thanks, you make sure their desk is never without one of your fresh flower arrangements; a small token of your gratitude. 

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Sarah Gadon, she/her

The Effervescent is taken by Tasha, she/her.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                                           「THE CINEPHILE 」

                   30+  •  ARTIST  •  OPEN - APPLY!

ABOUT:

All the world’s a stage, as they say. That’s certainly true, in your case. After magical beginnings in the early days of European cinema, you were whisked away to America - to Hollywood. From there, well. Anything was possible, wasn’t it? All in all, you’ve spent most of your life under the lights and in front of the camera, creating villains and heroes and lovers and laughers, dabbling in just about every genre and role out there. You’ve even done a few radio specials, and dropped by Broadway for a musical or two. Why not? They’d practically begged you, eager to add a bit of star power to their projects. And you enjoyed the chance to experiment, to try something new. But you always came back to California, to those backlots you knew and loved. There’s been flops, and box office smashes, and entirely average pictures along the way, but film remains your truest passion. Just, not in the way everybody thought.

It wasn’t like you grew to hate the thespian’s art. But, the longer you spent taking direction, the more you longed to give it - to see the other side of the silver screen, and take the helm of a production of your own. You’d spent so many years telling someone else’s story, scribbling your own screenplays onto bits of scrap paper, imagining what it would be like to bring them to life. Why shouldn’t you try? Anything was possible. Right? Well, your agent had a few thoughts on that. You told them to relax, and took the plunge. The waters, as it turned out, were awfully chilly. One studio after another replied with very polite, delicately worded statements; all to the effect that while they loved your work, they just couldn’t quite see your feature fitting into their schedule. For the foreseeable future. However! They would be overjoyed to see you drop by some of their casting calls. You’d make a splendid lead in their next romance, their newest historical epic, this lovely comedy…

All those eager invitations went unanswered, of course. No, you were set on it, now. Your search took you to ever smaller studios, as your agent fretted about all the opportunities you were passing up. Acting opportunities, you enunciated. You wanted to be a damn director! And you got your chance, finally. Sinking your fortune into the venture, you forged ahead, giddy with the possibilities. There was fussing, and fretting, blood, sweat, and tears. (The blood, at least, was fake.) But the hard work was very real, and very, very satisfying. This was everything you’d wanted! Only, as it turned out, this - your debut - wasn’t what audiences wanted. Not in America, your beleaguered agent said, trying to be some comfort. You listened, between miserable gulps of champagne, trying to forget that opening nightmare - and how much money you’d burnt through, trying to send your dreams soaring across the silver screen. Perhaps a more… adventurous crowd would appreciate your vision. Yes; you’d try your luck among the bohemians, the artists, the aesthetes. They’d understand, and their brilliant reviews would revitalize your prospects. First, Paris. Then, the world! You’d teach them all to take you seriously.

CONNECTIONS:

The Diva:  It’s lovely to see an old friend again, even though it’s been so very long. It’d be lovelier if they wanted to hear about anything but the marvels of moving picture stardom, and the rest of the life you’re trying to leave behind. Can’t they see that your heart isn’t in it anymore?

The Seamstress: They do lovely work, but you can’t help poking and prodding. Everything has to be just so! Is it really sequins and seams that you’re so worried about, though? Or is your nitpicking just nerves getting the better of you? Can’t be. Those rhinestones really are too big. Or too small. They’re too something, anyway, and you’ve never had stagefright a day in your life. You’re not about to start now that you’re behind the camera. Are you?

The Heiress: It’s not usual for you to find yourself short of funds. After that debacle stateside, though, your ambitions are rather over-budget. Thankfully, you’re a deft hand at making acquaintances - and this one would love to help. She’s a fan of your work. At least, of the films you’ve starred in. Anyway, she’d be happy to introduce her new friend, the famous actor, to all those moneyed pals of hers. That kind of support could be all you need to do your next project justice, but… you feel like you’re playing another part, somehow. Oh, well. The show must go on.

Possible faceclaims: Constance Wu, Karla Souza, Charlie Cox, suggest more!

The Cinephile is open.