The Four Roses and Lady of the Roses, 1901 by František Dvořák (Czech, 1862–1927)
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The Four Roses and Lady of the Roses, 1901 by František Dvořák (Czech, 1862–1927)

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Albert Bartholomé - The Artist's Wife (Périe, 1849–1887) Reading (1883)
Striker is settling his hat atop of her head as he flops next to her. Two glasses of amber liquid are in his hands-- one for the pair of them. He grins, his golden tooth glinting in the lowlight as he holds one out to her. "Lookin' thirsty, sugar."
the world shades itself in leather, leaves her laughing a lilt like a lopsided record as she tips her head this way and that - a doll dwarfed by the decisions of her damned handsome dressmaker. she blows a raspberry of itching delight, a happy drunk’s attempt at puffing air upwards as like to loft a feather rather than a full ten gallon.
she hums as her hand reaches out {fullness of cheek already finding his shoulder a sensible cradle on which to solidly crash} accepts, affords easy going touch. “born parched. ever present punishment,” she snickers into the liquor and sighs - going limp and languid against his side.
his suit is finest make one could martyr for in maintaining. it’s clear he does so with the constitution of a coroner {professional, clean-cut}and a conceit akin to altar’ed rite {the sober solemnity of a priest}. it’s but missing one touch he has not taken upon himself to fix.
he’s lucky his ticket in comes with a grab bag of genuine last minute gifts.
she produces the pocket square with a flourish, folding an intricate fusion of fabric and geometric blueprint as easily as a crisp greenback to a garter belt. pulling him in by the lapels without a lick of lasciviousness {only an earnest desire to do right by his attire} - she fits it in studiously, her only other stubbornness in smoothing the scene thereafter with the palm of her hand.
one pat, then two and she turns back to the speakeasy door.
mimzy is feeling a tad soft tonite.
like for some tranquility vibes from the tank engine.

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“But longing is momentum in disguise: It’s active, not passive; touched with the creative, the tender, and the divine. We long for something, or someone. We reach for it, move toward it. The word longing derives from the Old English langian, meaning ‘to grow long,’ and the German langen—to reach, to extend. The word yearning is linguistically associated with hunger and thirst, but also desire. In Hebrew, it comes from the same root as the word for passion. The place you suffer, in other words, is the same place you care profoundly—care enough to act.”
— Susan Cain, Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole
The Enchantress (c. 1901) by Arthur Wardle (British, 1864 – 1949), signed bottom right ‘Arthur Wardle’, oil on canvas, 62 x 43 in. (157.5 x 109.2 cm.), Private Collection
15th-century game board from Venice, Italy.
source / Haverst

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Clara Novello by Edward Petre Novello, 1833
National Portrait Gallery, London
The Property of a Noble Lady (Das Naschkaetzchen) (1862) - Wilhelm Amberg (1822–1899)
“A monster is not such a terrible thing to be. From the Latin root monstrum, a divine messenger of catastrophe, then adapted by the Old French to mean an animal of myriad origins: centaur, griffin, satyr. To be a monster is to be a hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once.”
— Ocean Vuong, from “A Letter To My Mother That She Will Never Read”, published in The New Yorker (via soracities)
Releasing Butterflies (c. 1894) by Emile Villa (French, 1836 – 1900), signed lower right ’E Villa’, oil on canvas, 46 x 33 in (116.8 x 83.8 cm), Private Collection

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Léon Bonvin (1834-1866, French) ~ Vase of Flowers Near an Open Window, 1864 / Vase of Wild Flowers, 1863
[Source: thewalters.org]
Ivan Kramskoy - A Girl with her hair unbraided (1873)