#gibson boy

[modernmanblues]

he’s so bloody gorgeous it’s sickening

[rmelster]

—Gibson boy.

PRELUDE: FROM THE PERSONAL ANNOTATIONS OF MR. HARRY ELLIOTT (1879 - 1933), PHOTOGRAPHER, FOUND POSTHUMOUSLY.

>>Allow me to make you bearer of a truth that shall burden me to the grave.

My first confession: I loved a man.

My second confession: I killed a man.

Neither of such incidents could be understood without the other; admiration led to passion, as passion was tinged with peril, and as peril was inevitably followed death. A chain of unfortunate tragedies that still bounds me to this day, as the rope of the gallows surrounds a man’s neck. It happened decades ago, and yet, the ghosts of those who died by my action refuse to let go of me.

At the time in question, the world that I inhabited was at an imprecise point between two very different times; one was the already old Victorian era, which agonised alongside its aching queen Victoria, and in which, more than the old queen, the rigid manners and strict rules that she had laid down in the middle of the past century reigned; in the other hand, there was the Edwardian era, a period of peace, prosperity and pleasure, which was not devoid of the most beautiful delights and the most execrable vices. But I didn't knew about the latter until much later. I had grown up in a peaceful home, with a well-to-do position and good studies. Loved by my parents and protected from the hostilities of the world, I had never imagined that there would be such a thing as grief, suffering and illness. But that inevitable and ugly face of life was quickly revealed to me. By the end of 1896, my parents were dead, and I was irretrievably exposed to the horrors of orphanhood and death.

It was cholera, or “the Blue Death”, as some called it. A sickness that came from the putrid waters and that did not forgive paupers nor kings; it was doom at first symptom. The ailings were terrible, and there had not been a single moment I had hoped that either of them would survive the ordeal; my faith was broken, and my family was lost. I was seventeen years old when I first put a mourning bracelet in my sleeve and, with a heart heavy of grief and a shoulder heavy with the weight of a sealed coffin, I buried those I dearly loved.

Yet, I was not entirely left alone in the world. To this day, I owe all that remains mine to a man of legendary generosity who I was lucky to call uncle. Contrary to my father, who had been bound since birth with the innumerable expectations of the older son, my uncle Cecil had been the youngest of the litter and, free from such responsibilities, had traveled and thrived far from England, as a widely acclaimed photographer. He had only seen me twice, and neither of them did he remembered; yet, what he did not forget was universal oath that bounds families together through thick and thin: Loyalty to the blood. He was quick to come to England, where I had languished, worn out by the constant fights for my inheritance and an anguish that was born out of my newfound realisation of the fragility of life. After fighting on my behalf against a vast retinue of treacherous executors and ambitious relatives, my uncle didn’t lost a moment to suggest me to follow him back to his home in Philadelphia, where I could find far more solace and peace than in that lonely house that I inhabited. I joined him.

Almost four years later, I was a new man. The Philadelphia of the late nineteenth century was a breath of fresh hair for someone who had been constricted by the unforgiving Victorian society. People in America had abandoned the strict standards of their English counterparts and embraced a charming sense of freedom; in a land where men could either enjoy their idle times in gentlemen clubs or travelling horseback through inhospitable lands in the very same country was as romantic as many of the books I used to read back in England. The old forms of art —painting, music and literature— started to mix up with more recent ones. Men started to paint for magazines and gazettes, no longer influenced by the English model of beauty —a fair and posh woman of a fragile build and firm morals, the same woman that artists like Gainsborough, Lawrence and Winterhalter had painted through the eras—, but by their own thoughts; and the standard for American beauties was finally sealed by a young and skilled illustrator, by the name of Charles Dana Gibson: His vision was woman of large eyes and lustrous hair, witty, elegant and profoundly romantic; a bewitching dream. But I was not inclined to such form of art; it was photography interested me. Of that much my uncle was the wisest among the men, because he had made himself through the photography; he had photographed presidents and their women, national and foreign women of renowned, his own family, and now, the women that Gibson had first dreamt of: The Gibson girls.

Fascinated as I was with his works, I spent my idle times in his studio, seeing how the subject languidly posed among flowers, fruits or silks, while my uncle readied his inseparable camera and his assistants busied around. Seeing in my eyes the same illusion he had seen in his own years ago, he chose to be my mentor, and guided me to become the photographer I was known. He called brilliant; to this day, I doubt my own abilities. My uncle always knew how to bring that imprecise light that lived inside his subjects to the photo, a rare skill that I lacked; but I had a passion for my art, and there was some charming quality in the lightness and innocence of my works. Perhaps because of that, I soon followed his steps and, contrary to many others —perhaps better— that followed the same path, I became fairly successful in what I did. My photographies ended up hang on the houses of my patrons, or in the front of renowned fashion magazines. And, as the time required, my main subjects were what people deemed the most beautiful: The Gibson girls. I was twenty one, and my life was peaceful.

Until I met Ellis Sydney.

@aneurinallday / your Ladyship @tommi-art

[themaninthelighthouse]

Gibson Boy Dreams

The last month has been filled with bizarre events that I could never have imagined. I've gone to places where I've felt totally miserable, befuddled, unsure, and more human. I met a few new folks with whom I feel unexpectedly more at ease.

“Are you alive?” I’d be a millionaire if getting asked about this would equate to money. And yes, I’ve never felt so alive. 19 is for sure a crazy roller coaster to ride in; now I know why I feel more connected to songs written by “youngsters”, to which, for the most part, I have been denying hahaha. I’ve never even cared about my teenage life, but for some reason, I’ve always longed for it.

I clearly wasn’t even thinking about what it felt like to be a teenager.

I recently checked my lastfm account, and Everytime by Ethel Cain was my most played track for the month of March. That song is insane, man! I swear to God, I've never heard a song so lovely that I listen to it on repeat while we go to areas I've never seen before. It's about leveraging relationships to cope with what's been going on, and boy, can I relate to that. I've always been the type to prefer remaining in my room for 90% of my whole life, which I probably don't regret. Without it, I would never have known how much I needed those connections I've built this year, and I'm not just talking about people I've been picking roses with; I'm talking about people I never thought I'd be able to feel my blood running with.

I didn’t even know I’ve constantly been going out till someone messaged me thru my DMS saying, “I love that you’re flourishing, pls continue sharing them on your stories” for a sec, I thought this was a reach about me going out every day, well maybe it is. Still, it’s just funny because I didn’t even think about it. I hated being outside, but staying in my room has rarely happened nowadays. It’s either I’m in a different city, or I’m on a beach I didn’t even know existed.