View allAll Photos Tagged RESENTFUL
Have you ever wondered if the food you eat is resentful of the eating? This green pepper made me a little nervous about adding it to my salad. In the end......it was delicious.
I follow Cryptid a bit, until he led me to a small campfire with two other soldiers sitting around it. he led me over to the one on the north side of the fire, and introduced me. "This is Mackenzie, but we call him 'Klip.' I shook his hand, and told him my name. I told him a bit about myself, being overwatch and all. Then, out of the blue, the other soldier piped up, rather resentfully, "What are you, some damned super-soldier? The perfect sniper, eh?"
A haunted look must have come to my eyes; I could see it reflected in the gaze of the kid, Klip. "No, I'm not perfect, or even close," I responded. Klip softly asked me to continue. So, I did.
"I wasn't that much of an excellent shot, up through a few years ago. I was still fresh meat then, near the beginnings of the war. I was responsible for covering my unit in a rather ugly section of a city. Twenty-three men had their lives depending on me to keep them covered, and to give them warning of any attacks. I stopped looking for a brief moment, and by the time I looked back, the screams had begun. The Urags had been laying in wait, for a hapless unit of Earthlings to slaughter. Twenty three men, who died because of my carelessness. I should have seen the signs, should have warned them. Ever since then, I have dedicated myself to being the best sniper I could be. Many of my exploits are exaggerated, but I can run and gun along with the rest of them."
The group had gone quiet for my tale. There were several moments of tense silence, until the offending soldier whispered, "I'm sorry. I had no idea."
I took it in silence. It hurt, hurt badly that these soldiers can look upon their own allies with resentment, could judge without knowledge. I needed to get out of where I was, needed a change of scenery. So, through some cosmic flip of a coin, a coin scarred and malformed through eons of abuse, I decided to go out on a limb and ask these men whom I did not know, did not know other than the wind in their step and the fire of their guns, to hold my future in their response. "I could join your team, if you'd have me. Sniping isn't all I'm good at."
My laptop screen just hit me square in the head. Not impressed.
&& this is my amazing school, where I live. & it's beautiful. & it is one of the reasons I think most other buildings, particularly modern ones, are spectacularly ugly. On the day I went out to take this, Hugh & his friends were watching me from one of the windows & I didn't realise. Hugh came home part way through the day & told me, & we pinpointed the window it was & we able to zoom in & see faces! The window they were in is further to the left than is on the photo.
Today was awful. I was angry and resentful and grumpy all day. I have a lot of issues coming to the surface, and boy, it is not pretty. I had this huge argument, & Hugh & I started shouting at each other, & I told him he was going to fail his exams and then I went to bed early. I refused to apologise until he did. He'd started it. He came into my room to apologise, so I did, & then I went & apologised to the parents too. I'd said things along the lines of how I was sick of being the parent around here & someone needed to actually get better control iver HUgh, & basically had a go at them. There was a bit of truth to what I was saying. I shouldn't have said it so unpleasantly though.
It's the lack of sleep pushing me to the edge, I swear. Usually I have a better hold over my self, & I just repress, repress, repress. Apparently lack of sleep means I've lost the cork & all of it's coming out. Which is unfair for everyone else, really.
Oh & Hugh's exam today was okay, I think.
267/365
Operation Barbarossa started on June 22nd, 1941, with the Germans rapidly invading the Soviet Union and decimating Soviet forces in virtually every battle. Hitler's plan was to conquer Eastern Europe for future German colonization called "Lebensraum". Ukraine was especially desired since at the time it was the breadbasket of Europe. When the Germans were conquering the Soviet Union, the Ukrainians and other peoples welcomed them as heroes because of the fact they "freed" them from communist oppression. The Holodomor was fresh in the average Ukrainians memory which was an artificial famine that killed millions and they were still resentful towards Stalin.
Two groups that wanted to take advantage of this moment was the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists (OUN) which was into Italian fascism, was led by Andriy Melnik and the younger more violent OUN-B, was National Socialist which was led by Stepan Bandera. They originally existed because they were angry that Poland was "occupying" the province of Galicia which is claimed by both Poles and Ukrainians (even to this day).
However, the Ukrainians would learn that the Nazis were replacing one form of oppression with another. Hitler hated Slavic peoples and wanted them enslaved, "transferred" (possibly to Siberia) or at worst exterminated. When the OUN declared an independent Ukrainian state, that was shut down as quickly as possible. The Nazis committed atrocities against the Ukrainians which soon led to the growth of more partisan groups and led to some joining the Soviet army by the time they started "liberating" it from the Nazis.
In a last ditch effort, the Nazis freed imprisoned Ukrainian nationalist leader, Stepan Bandera to inspire the Ukrainians but that ultimately failed. Even during his imprisonment all the OUN-B did was mass murder Poles in the provinces of Galicia and Volhynia. Today he's seen as a controversial figure as he is popular in Western Ukraine which is full of Catholic Ukrainians and hated in Eastern Ukraine which is full of Orthodox Russians.
A painful or resentful awareness of an advantage or possession enjoyed by another and the desire to possess the same thing.
Its not the equipment (gear) that makes a good photographer. The best gear just makes it easier to take a photograph. There a millions of "technically good" photographs that are soulless, boring and without a story.
I always look at an image (not just photographs) and consider - would I hang it on my wall and look at it everyday?
I suppose that's the difference between a good image and a great one.
Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice wrongdoings but with the truth... Love always wins.
This is an abandoned Albertsons in San Francisco. Due to limited land in San Francisco, it had rooftop parking. It was built in 2002 and closed in 2006. There were three Albertsons that opened in 2002 in San Francisco. Another new Albertsons opened in San Jose.
Albertsons had a policy where managers would get bonuses on how little labor their stores used. This meant that the stores ran with as few employees as possible. It led to severely overworked employees and understaffed stores. Morale at stores was low and employees were very resentful towards Albertsons and its corporate policies. Customer service suffered.
Save Mart revived the Lucky name and changed everything. They increased staffing levels and brought back friendly service. The days of Albertsons are now over.
"Stronger, calmer
Happier, quieter
Older, more resentful
More lonely, more tired..."
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Canon 5d mark IV
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Do not use my works without my written permission!!!
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A ghost light is a light that is left on stage when the theatre is not in use.
"A bare bulb atop a rudimentary pole, it stands at center stage, lit by the last person to leave the theatre each night and extinguished by the first person to arrive in the morning. Though stark in statue and artless in form, the ghost light fulfills many functions…some practical, some supernatural.”
--Jim Dougherty
No one knows for sure the origin of ghost lights but they have been used in theatres for centuries. A ghost light is a light that is left on in an unoccupied theatre. Without this light a theatre would be in complete darkness. The typical modern ghost light consists of an exposed incandescent light bulb, surrounded by a wire cage and mounted on a portable stand. This light is most often placed somewhere on center stage.
This dim glowing nightlight is left on in theatres for first and foremost a practical reason. A completely dark stage is a dangerous place, hazards like falling into an orchestra pit, tripping on set pieces or props pose a real threat to theatre workers but one superstition competes with these practical reasons. A prevailing superstition is that most theatres are haunted and the ghost light is kept on to appease ghosts.
Before electricity was invented theatre ghost lights were gas lamps. Each theatre had its own gas generator. Leaving a flame burning overnight was very important—this active flame would prevent pressure from building up in the lines, which could cause an explosion.
Considering this history a belief arose that a ghost light should be left burning in order to keep theatre ghosts happy.
This superstition continued after the invention of electricity. One theatre myth states that leaving a ghost light on overnight is protection from otherwise restless or resentful ghosts who would create havoc if they realized no one was in the theatre. Another superstition or belief is that if a ghost light is not left on bad luck will befall whatever production is being performed.
Not all theatre ghost superstitions cast ghosts in a negative light. It is often believed these ghosts were former actors and that a ghost light gives these spirits the opportunity to perform on stage, which keeps them happy-- it is also stated that this is the reason theatres close one day a week.
As mentioned above one superstition that surrounds ghost lights is that a “dark” stage creates sadness or bad luck. Because a dark stage often denotes no show is running due to a lack of funding, or even worse because an unsuccessful production has closed down. Not wanting to upset any ghosts that might be around some theatre workers keep this light on.
flickr....destroyed this. im so mad. view it in LARGE and it looks a ton better.. i realized i like it alot now:)
“Love is always patient and kind; it is never jealous, love is never boastful or conceited; it is never rude or selfish; it does not take offense, and is not resentful.”
^first person to say what movie it is from gets and electronic high-five!
im actually proud of this. this is the first photo in a while that ive been proud of.. ive been slacking big time on my 365 because ive put school first.. before last week i put photography ahead of my school work but now ive realized that i might not want to go into photography during college or any art for that matter.. i need to focus on school and i promise ill try harder.. i just need modivation and inspiration to keep me going.
Don’t become so caught up in the effort itself that you lose sight of the reason for it. Always remember that there is a living, feeling, knowing person inside of you.
Don’t become so overwhelmed by the consequences of your mistakes that you fail to learn their valuable lessons. Always remember that there are plenty of positive aspects to any living experience.
Don’t become so angry or bitter or resentful that you bring darkness to the world in which you live. Always remember that you are connected to all you see and know.
Don’t be too quick to pass judgment on the people and situations that come your way. Always remember that they are more than they first appear.
Don’t use anything that has happened as an excuse to give up. Always remember that you can make a difference in this moment, and move positively forward from any setback.
Always remember that life is magical, miraculous, with possibilities that have no limit. And you are here now to live it fully.
Taken: Reload of Hussaini Bridge, Passu, Gojal, Upper Hunza Valley, Pakistan
"My ghost
Where'd you go?
I can't find you in the body sleeping next to me
My ghost
Where'd you go?
What happened to the soul, that you used, to be?"
-HALSEY
This originally started out as a photo for my photography class. The assignment was to photograph inanimate objects, which I resentfully didn't want to do since I enjoy photographing people. People are interesting, they always have a story. I find objects, on the other hand, to be incredibly boring things to photograph. So I tried to find a loop hole, or at least some way to justify photographing people, and came up with the idea of dressing individuals up as sculptures and photographing them as if they were objects. So a tulle skirt, white wig, and a tub of face paint later, I had my "sculpture" (and a couple of curious looks).
After editing it, though, the person in this photograph looks more ghostlike to me, hence the Halsey lyrics (whose album I was listening to as I edited). I really do think I subconsciously respond to the music I hear while editing...it definitely affects my work, but I always think its for the better :)
I think today has been the final day of the golden autumn in Bucovina, as the other autumn, the one of wet, gray cotton, cranky and grumpy like an old hag, is already rolling down about. Holiday. Naturally, no one was expected to be wandering the woods, except for a resentful photographer maybe, angling for a purple leaf or a backlighting obese spider, for a pool in which were mirrored the quivering coppered reflexions of the oak branches guarding there, or even the cluster of spruce trees on the right side of the road. I was envisioning the red and the yellow, the green and the blue, the stillness and the spring yearning coming from Gaëtan Bourque’s autumns. He left a couple of days ago to charm the angels with the other Heaven’s sights, the one beyond the haze. And swiftly, the white-horse- drawn cart made its appearance without any introduction, except for the echo of the voices and the springy trot into the stiff dust. To place my camera onto my eye took long moments. I could’t say for sure whether it was a dream or what... I meant... no cart had any reason to be there in the woods, in the very St. Parascheva’s Day, right where I was wondering myself why autumns came during the autumn time, why leaves would float down the bluish slide of the ice-like sun rays, in a time when there was so much stillness and yearning around, and the only move you could imagine was that of the thought that autumn had come again. Sometimes, one autumn happened to be the last one...
Poate că asta a fost ultima zi de toamnă aurie prin Bucovina , că deja se rostogoleşte pe-aici cealaltă toamnă, aceea din vată udă, gri, ţâfnoasă şi ursuză ca o bufniţă bătrână. Era zi de sărbătoare şi, prin urmare, era de aşteptat să nu găseşti pe nimeni hălăduind prin pădure în afara vreunui fotograf frustrat, poate, în căutarea unei frunze mov, a unui păianjen obez în contré-jour sau a unei bălţi cu reflexele arămii, tremurate, ale crengilor stejarului de colo, ori ale pâlcului de fagi din dreapta drumului. Mă gândeam la roşul, şi la galbenul, şi la verdele, şi la albastrul, şi la liniştea, şi la dorul de primăvară din toamnele lui Gaëtan Bourque, plecat de câteva zile să încânte îngerii cu peisaje din celălalt Rai, acela de dincolo de ceaţă. Şi, deodată, fără mare introducere, doar în ecoul vocilor şi-al trapului săltat prin colbul inert, a apărut din umbra pădurii... căruţa cu cal alb. Până am dus aparatul la ochi mi-a luat o veşnicie, că nu ştiam sigur dacă nu-i un vis. Asta spuneam, că n-avea ce căuta o căruţă în pădure, în zi de Sfânta Paraschiva, exact în locul în care mă-ntrebam eu de ce e toamnă când e toamnă şi de ce alunecă frunzele pe funicularul albăstriu al razelor ca de gheaţă, când e atât de linişte şi de dor în jur, că singura mişcare pe care ţi-ai imagina-o e cea a gândului că iar e toamnă şi că iată, uneori, toamna se întâmplă să fie ultima toamnă...
EXPLORE: 24 October 2008
Sunsets should be beautiful. Sadly, for many people who are beginning to see the sun of their life move slowly but surely toward sunset, their sunset isn't very beautiful. In the years when you have so much to give, when every day should count more than ever, too many of us actually become uglier as we get older.
Oh, we've all seen it - the older person who is often complaining, self-pitying, demanding. It's not very pretty. We hear so many older parents repeatedly criticizing how their children are living their lives or how they're treating their parents. The older some of us get, the more we can - if we let ourselves - become people who are bitter, picky, resentful, irritable, mean-spirited. Self-absorbed - that's the word that describes some folks as their sun moves toward sunset. And self-absorption ... it's ugly at any age.
Yes, our later years can have their share of physical pain, disappointed dreams, financial strain, grievous losses, frustrating limitations, and even hurtful neglect. We can't choose our circumstances, but we can, whatever our age, choose our attitude. We can choose what kind of climate we're going to bring with us wherever we are: selfish or unselfish, gentle or harsh, praising or griping, critical or encouraging.
Our word for today from the Word of God in Psalm 71, beginning with verse 17, is an exciting perspective as the sun of your life drifts toward the western sky. It's how later life can be when you focus on the faithful God who has been your anchor through it all. "Since my youth, O God, you have taught me, and to this day I declare your marvelous deeds. Even when I am old and gray, do not forsake me, O God, till I declare your power to the next generation, your might to all who are to come."
That's why you can say "no" to the darkness of the sunset years. That's why your sunset can be what a sunset ought to be - unforgettably beautiful.
-gospel.com
The fresco decoration of the Hall of Justice of the fortress of Angera constitutes one of the main figurative testimonies of the development phase of the Gothic pictorial language in the Lombard territory; it also proposes a rare and early example of painting with profane themes, of historical-political and celebratory significance.
The room, on the second floor of the Visconti wing of the building, has a rectangular plan, divided into two parts by a pointed arch. The ceiling, formed by cross vaults, is covered by a lively decoration with geometric motifs, with squares and rounds interwoven to form a sort of sumptuous painted fabric. The six bays of the walls, illuminated by large windows with two lights, host the pictorial decoration, which is divided into three superimposed registers within large arches defined by ornamental borders with stylized stars and flowers: the narrative scenes, in the center, are surmounted by a high band with astrological-astronomical subjects, while the lowest register is formed by a lozenge decoration that supported an elegant painted veil, now almost completely disappeared.
The cycle narrates the deeds of Ottone Visconti, archbishop and lord of Milan from 1277 after the victory obtained in Desio over the opposing Torriani family. Since a long time, studies have linked the frescoes to a precise literary source, the Liber de gestis in civitate Mediolani, a work in praise of the Visconti family written by the monk Stefanardo da Vimercate probably in the last decade of the thirteenth century; the tituli that accompany the scenes are inspired by it, while other Latin inscriptions report, to complete the upper decorative band, some verses of the astrological treatise De Sphaera.
From a stylistic point of view, the author of the paintings shows a marked taste for the complex layout of the scenes, while neglecting the coherence of the figure-architecture relationship; the forms are simplified and the faces, lacking in individual characterization, derive strong consistency from the resentful linear definition and the thick dark outlines; these elements constitute an evident link with the thirteenth-century pictorial tradition of Byzantine matrix, probably filtered through the knowledge of works from the Veneto area. Moreover, the attention that will be typically Lombardy for the realistic definition of details or for the description of costumes is already present and alive.
The brilliant overall effect of the room is enhanced by the whirlwind of colors of the vault, a real explosion of chromatic happiness that finds immediate comparisons in the vault of S. Bassiano in Lodi Vecchio, also decorated with joyful secular subjects.
The representations of the planets and the signs of the zodiac are still linked to those astrological-astronomical themes that had an enormous development since the beginning of the Christian Middle Ages and in particular in the Romanesque period; connected to the scansion of time and of the different working activities - in particular agricultural and pastoral -, they had multiple ethical, civil and religious implications. Situated in the courtroom of the Rocca, the cycle must have had the value of an exemplum for those who were called to judge, through the underlining of motifs such as the clemency of the winner on the vanquished enemy or the subjection of earthly power to the stars and to Fortune, and with precise indications on the virtues that should accompany the exercise of power.
As for the dating of the paintings, critics have expressed themselves in various ways, with wide oscillations between 1277 of the battle of Desio and 1314, the year in which Matteo Visconti definitively acquired possession of the fortress after a period of domination by the Torriani and other families.
Ramble warning.
TLDR: It's mental health awareness month. If you're not okay, talk to someone. If you're okay, check on the people in your life because they might not be okay. If this bothers you, whatever - nobody's forcing you to read. Gets personal from here on out, and shit's inelegant. You've been warned.
I’m tired.
I may not be responsive or decently communicative. I may not be eloquent or even capable of properly expressing or extending support. Hell, half the time I’m struggling to respond to comments here because I’ll have used up what little pellets of energy I can scrape together on expressing admiration for the creations of other people, provided I don’t want to say something more complex – in which case I will simply clam up and scroll down. On a good day, I’m a violently introverted misanthrope, and it’s been a while since my last good day.
Here’s the thing.
It’s been 15 months of this BS – 15 months of WFH, restrictions, lockdowns, and some people showing immense disrespect for the lives of fellow humans, to where life simply cannot return to normal yet. 15 months of things I had taken for granted my entire life – travel, physical activity, all the way down to complaining about traffic on the way to the office or going to pick up groceries after work and hating the 18:00 queues at the supermarket– without some kind of existential crisis. 15 months of change I did not sign for and change that at times feels enforced upon me through the sheer inconsideration of others when they neglect to adhere to basic instructions on social distancing. I am angry, I am resentful. I am bitter, I am…a lot of very negative, if not downright hateful things towards a fair percentage of the population.
Half the time I spend the day reminding myself that I am fortunate, on the hope of combatting those suffocating feelings. I have stability. My life wasn’t somehow destroyed or toppled over. My partner, family and friends are all safe and sound. Life could have been worse – this could have been so much worse. 15 months of trying to focus on the full half of this glass. But it’s been 15 months, and I’m reaching that point where dogged optimism no longer touches those infernal, ever-present corners – the ones the light never seems to reach. 15 months of those shadows taking a life of their own, now looming age-old specters, risen to reclaim something that would likely be forever theirs. Something I thought was over, while deep down knowing it’s never really gone.
A 15-month slide back into depression that I am trying to pull myself out of by the bootstraps at this point. Trying to stay productively busy, positive, zen, or whatever other bullshit we tell ourselves is good for our brains. Now it’s down to just keeping my head above the water and trying to keep kicking.
I’m putting this out here because this is Mental Health Awareness Month – and the pandemic has been hitting a lot of people hard. Even those who smile at you and seem to function well may be struggling in some capacity. So take a moment and ask the people in your life how they’re doing – ask them if they need help, if they need an ear, if they need support. Simply ask them if they’re okay. Let them know you’re there for them, because not everybody is fortunate to have support, same as not everybody knows how to ask for it.
This is my proverbial flip-off- fuck that stigma. Fuck pretending life is all sunshine and rainbows and Skittles-scented unicorn glitter farts or whatever. I don’t really want anything other than to say that this shit is real, and to remind you to go ask the people in your life how they’re coping because they might not feel like they can admit this – they might feel ashamed of feeling this way, just because nothing is outwardly wrong . To tell you that if you’re experiencing this too, you’re not alone and there’s nothing shameful about it – seek help, and tell those around you what you need from them.
Yeah. That was kind of it.
Thanks for coming to my TedTalk, you know where to unsubscribe.
Cleo with the stone owl in the garden. Who would have thought that an owl, especially a stone owl, can be such an incredible chatterbox. Poor Cleo seems to look for a possibility to escape without being too rude. It's never wise to offend an owl. They can be terribly resentful sometimes .....:)
Slightly embarrassing tripod-and-self-timer shot taken in the yard of Lawrence Hill depot on Monday 5th January 1976. Instinctively hostile ...even at this tender age... to any form of change, I had clung to my black Tilling Group uniform until it had almost disintegrated into tatters about me. By now I had, most resentfully, espoused the graceless, Americanised NBC issue. Albeit that the occasion was a night of midwinter, I was wearing the bum-freezer summer jacket. Perhaps I didn't feel the cold as much in those days.
The days of the leathern satchel and Setright backplate were numbered. OMO was coming in fast and, with its perpetual staff shortage, the company was eager to train up conductors as drivers, even complete novices like myself, who had never ventured onto the public highway except on a bicycle. Not long after this my District Traffic Superintendent, Albert Bratchell, a nice, mild-mannered company man of the old school, came up to me as I was paying in my takings and said, "When're you going up the driving school, then?" The rest is history. By April I was "up the school" and I think I "passed out" early in May. Life was full of new impressions and, for a while, I enjoyed the rare and fugitive experience of liking my job. I think this is why my mind retains so few impressions of the "summer of the century", which was then just beginning. I never had to pay for driving lessons and I avoided the six-month waiting list for a test to which ordinary mortals were subjected at the time.
The bus was one of the first production batch of FLFs, no. C7004. The FLF type was still intact, but five months later this vehicle would be among the first withdrawn. Actually all that early batch, the HHYs, were sheds, and I was glad to see them go. Note the Littlewoods ad. The National Lottery killed the pools stone dead.
Embalse Gossan&Cobre:::Sunset.
Cuando cae el Sol Empieza a caer la Noche, se esconde y le da con sus Reflejos a la Presa, dandole brillo a lo que parecen Monigotes en el Agua, pero no son Monigotes, son Arboles resentidos del Agua Mineralizada. Album (Retales de una Vida)..
Gossan & Cobre Reservoir ::: Sunset.
When the Sun Falls The Night begins to fall, it hides and gives its Reflections to the Prey, giving brightness to what look like Monigotes in the Water, but they are not Monigotes, they are Trees resentful of the Mineralized Water. Album (Scraps of a Life) ..
of·fend·ed
əˈfendid/
adjective
resentful or annoyed, typically as a result of a perceived insult.
"after his picture was taken, his appearance of being slightly offended is an understatement"
synonyms: upset, insulted, affronted, aggrieved, displeased, hurt, wounded, disgruntled, put out, annoyed, angry, cross, exasperated, indignant, irritated, piqued, vexed, irked, stung, galled, nettled, resentful, in a huff, huffy, in high dudgeon; informal riled, miffed, peeved, aggravated, sore, teed off, ticked off; vulgar slang pissed off
"he was offended because she had burned the toast"
Gallery www.justanobserver.com/
Blog www.juzno.com/
# #offended #street #streetphotography #blackandwhite #portrait #candid #anger #pissoff #maninthestreet
Elgin, Illinois, USA - Near 42.0109, -88.3477
June 27, 2024
COPYRIGHT 2024 by JimFrazier All Rights Reserved. This may NOT be used for ANY reason without written consent from Jim Frazier.
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As in: be prepared to stop polluting and damaging our shared environment. (The most popular pollution concern these days is atmospheric carbon dioxide, but there is a long list of other concerns, including microplastics.)
Too bad that most people, businesses, and governments, all around the world, are not really willing or prepared to do this. Despite many recent warnings (from scientists and others, some of whom get dismissed as "climate alarmists"), our lifestyles and economies continue as if there is no urgent threat; humans seem to prefer short-term thinking and self-interest over long-term thinking and altruism. Government regulations would probably be required to force changes in behaviour, which raises obvious problems: governments would actually have to enforce the restrictions; resentful people might vote out such governments; some other countries (with other governments) would not do their share in solving problems (and would refuse pressure to do so); and so on.
I could write a long essay on this topic, but not enough people here on Flickr would read it. If I'm going to do the hard work of writing such an essay, I would like to be paid thousands of dollars for it and see it published (in a magazine, perhaps) where a large number of people (millions, perhaps?) would read it.
Copyright J.R. Devaney
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Regret stuff. Accept being lied to. Stay in the wrong partnership. Succumb to addictions. Dream without taking action. Sleep more than you need. Play the guilt card. Victimize yourself. Avoid introspection. Work harder than you can. Don’t play. Stop learning. Gossip. Aim to be famous. Follow the money. Don’t make friends. Fight your enemies. Be lazy. Don’t take risks. Be selfish. Gamble. Be stuck in a job you hate. Don’t listen. Lie to people. Lie to yourself. Don’t ask for help. Don’t exercise. Eat junk. Don’t spend time in nature. Don’t clean up your house. Procrastinate. Spend more than you can afford. Limit your social life. Choose a career instead of a lifestyle. Treat people like assets. Choose (and stay in) the wrong friendships. Reject criticism. Buy your relationships. Follow the rules. Don’t manage your money. Promise more than you can do. Don’t keep your promises. Overdo. Quit. Say only yes. Say only no. Be a control freak. Walk your life in somebody else’s shoes. Be cheap. Abuse others. Accept to be abused. Try to please everybody. Feed the trolls. Don’t look people in the eyes. Don’t believe in signs. Don’t travel. Don’t read books. Live by assumptions. Be shy. Live by habit. Avoid mistakes. Pay yourself last. Hate. Be a perfectionist. Sabotage yourself. Waste your power on useless stuff. Be ungrateful. Think badly about yourself. Fake it till you make it. Don’t manage your time. Solve the wrong problems. Be judgmental. Complain. Accept crap. Take it personally. Don’t laugh. Envy. Leave the passion out. Be a follower. React instead of act on things. Live outside the present moment. Be average. Be revengeful. Be resentful. Don’t create value. Avoid confrontation. When going through hell, stop walking. Don’t clean up your lenses. Fall for ‘free stuff’. Race against others. Be an information junkie. Talk more than you have to. Be late. Accept frustration. Reject joy. Give in to pain. Be jealous. Think happiness is a goal. Panic. Don’t love.
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We can let the circumstances of our lives harden us so that we become increasingly
resentful and afraid, or we can let them soften us, and make us kinder.
We always have the choice.
Dalai Lama
Lake Powell, Glen Canyon National Recreation Area, Arizona. 26-5-1995.
It has been more than thirteen years since I stood alongside Highway 89 that connects Page and Kanab, and watched the stormy clouds over Lake Powell. I have always been somewhat resentful towards this artificial body of water for all the Anasazi cliff dwellings and all the canyons lost as a result of the Glen Canyon Dam construction. It has represented man's insatiable desire to dominate nature, and at what expense?
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Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife, Arabella. Lettice has been summoned to her old family home after an abrupt morning telephone call from her father, following the publication of an article in the publication, Country Life* featuring her interior designs for friends Margot and Dickie Channon’s Cornwall Regency country house ‘Chi an Treth’.
As Lettice elegantly alighted from the London train at Glynes village railway station, there on the platform amid the dissipating steam of the departing train and the smattering of visitors or return travellers to the village, stood Harris, the Chetwynd’s family chauffer. Dressed in his smart grey uniform, he took Lettice’s portmanteau, hastily packed in London by Edith her maid, and umbrella and walked out through the station’s small waiting room and booking office, leading Lettice to where the Chetwynd’s 1912 Daimler awaited her on the village’s main thoroughfare. As they drove through the centre of the village, Harris told Lettice through the glass partition from the front seat, that her article in Country Life* had caused quite a sensation below stairs. Quietly, Lettice smiled proudly to herself as she settled back more comfortably into the car’s maroon upholstery. Lettice is undeniably her father’s favourite child, but she has a strained relationship with her mother at the best of times as the two have differing views about the world and the role that women have to play in it. She only hopes as she nears her family home, that Lady Sadie, who does not particularly approve of her venture into interior design, will be proud of her achievement this time.
As the Daimler purrs up the gravel driveway and stops out the front of Glynes, Bramley, the Chetwynd’s butler, steps through the front door followed by Marsen, the liveried first footman. Marsden silently opens the door of the Daimler for Lettice and helps her step out before fetching her luggage.
“Welcome home, My Lady,” Bramley greets her with an open smile. “What a pleasure it is to see you looking so well.”
“Thank you Bramley,” she replies with a satisfied smile as she looks up at the classical columned portico of her beloved childhood home basking in the spring sunshine. “It’s always good to be home.”
“How was the train journey from London, My Lady?” Bramley asks Lettice as he falls in step a few paces behind her.
“Oh, quite pleasant, thank you Bramley. I have my novel to while away the time.”
“We were all pleased and proud to see your name in print in Her Ladyship’s copy of Country Life.”
“Oh, thank you, Bramley. That’s very kind of you to say. I take it that is why I have been summoned here today.”
The butler clears his throat a little awkwardly and looks seriously at Lettice. “I couldn’t say, My Lady, however they are expecting you, in the drawing room.” The statement is said with the gravitas that befits one of the country house’s finest rooms.
Lettice’s face falls. “Do I have time to refresh myself.” She peels off her gloves as she walks through the marble floored vestibule and into the lofty Adam style hall of Glynes. The familiar scent of old wood, tapestries and carpets welcomes her home.
“I was asked to show you into the drawing room immediately upon your arrival, My Lady,” Bramley says as Marsden closes the front doors and then the vestibule doors behind them. “Her Ladyship insisted, and His Lordship didn’t contradict her.”
“Oh. Do I sense an air of disquiet, Bramley?” Lettice asks, handing the butler her red fox collar and then shrugging off her russet three quarter length coat into his waiting white glove clad hands.
“Well My Lady, may I just say that your article caused somewhat of a stir both above and below stairs.” He accepts Lettice’s elegant picture hat of russet felt ornamented with pheasant feathers.
“Yes, so Harris told me. Good or bad above stairs, Bramley?”
“I think,” the older manservant contemplates. “Mixed, might be the best answer to that, My Lady.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, His Lordship, and Master Leslie were thrilled, as was the young Mrs. Chetwynd. However, as you know, My Lady, Her Ladyship has particular ideas as to your future.” He cocks an eyebrow and gives her a knowing look. “She’s had them planned since the day you were born, and you know she dislikes it when her plans go awry.”
“Oh.” Lettice says with a disappointed lilt in her answer. “Well, thank you Bramley,” she gives him a sad, yet grateful smile. “You are a brick for warning me.” She brushes down the front of her flounced floral sprigged spring frock, sighs and says with a sigh, “Then I best get this over with, hadn’t I?”
“I don’t see an alternative, My Lady.”
“Then don’t worry, I’ll show myself into the drawing room. I should imagine this will only be an overnight stay.”
Without waiting for a reply, Lettice turns on her heel and walks down the corridor, her louis heels clicking along the parquetry flooring, echoing off the walls decorated with gilt framed portraits of the Chetwynd ancestors, their dogs, horses and paintings of views of the estate. She stops before the pair of beautiful walnut double doors that open onto the drawing room, grasps one of the gilded foliate handles, turns it and steps in.
The very grand and elegant drawing room of Glynes with its grand dimensions, high ceiling and gilt Louis and Palladian style furnishings has always been one of Lettice’s favourite rooms in the house. It is from here that she developed her love for collecting fine Limoges porcelain to emulate the collection amassed by her great, great paternal grandmother Lady Georgiana Chetwynd. No matter what time of day, the room is always light and airy thanks to its large full-length windows and beautiful golden yellow Georgian wallpaper decorated in a pattern of delicate blossoms and paper lanterns which seems almost to exude warmth and golden illumination. Whilst decorated with many generations of conspicuous consumption, it is not overly cluttered and it does not have the suffocating feel of Lady Sadie’s morning room, which she loathes, and it smells familiarly of a mixture of fresh air, bees wax polish and just a waft of roses. Glancing around, Lettice can see the latter comes from two vases of roses – one white bunch and one golden yellow cluster – both in elegant porcelain vases. The room is silent, save for the quiet ticking of several clocks set about polished surfaces, the hiss of dusty wood as it burns and the muffled twitter of birds in the bushes outside the drawing room windows. And there, by the grand crackling fire, her parents sit in what she hopes to be companionable silence.
Lady Sadie sits in her usual armchair next to the fire, dressed in a grey woollen skirt, a burnt orange silk blouse and a matching cardigan with her everyday double strand pearls about her neck. With her wavy white hair framing her face in an old fashioned style she looks not unlike Queen Mary, as she sips tea from one of the floral tea cups from her favourite Royal Doulton set, lost in her own thoughts as she stares out through the satin brocade curtain framed windows. The Viscount on the other hand is sitting opposite his wife in the high backed gilded salon chair embroidered in petit point tapestry by his mother. Dressed in his usual country tweeds worn when going about the estate, Lettice notices that he is immersed in the very copy of Country Life that her interiors feature. Between them, tea and coffee in silver pots stand on a small black japanned chinoiserie occasional table along with the round silver biscuit sachet that has once been Lady Sadie’s mother’s.
“Well, here I am.” Lettice announces with false joviality, alerting both her parents to her presence as she closes the door behind her.
“Lettice!” the Viscount exclaims, jumping up from his seat, slightly crumpling the pages of the Country Life between his right fingers as he lets his hands fall to his side. “My dear girl!” He beams at her proudly. Thrusting out the magazine in front of him as if trying to prove a point, he continues. “What a surprise, eh?” He indicates to the article about ‘Chai an Treth’, which he was reading, as Lettice suspected.
“Pappa!”
Lettice hurries into the room, steps between the gilt upholstered chairs that are part of the Louis Quartzose salon suite that had been included in her mother’s dowery when she married her father and falls happily into the loving arms of the Viscount who smells comfortingly of fresh air and grass as he envelopes her.
“Don’t gush, Cosmo!” Lady Sadie chides, giving her husband a withering look of distain as she sips her tea with a crispness, passing judgement like usual over her husband and youngest daughter’s emotional relationship, which she unable to fathom.
“Hullo Mamma.” Lettice reluctantly removes herself from her father’s welcoming embrace and walks over to her mother, who places her teacup aside and tilts her head so that Lettice can give her an air kiss on both cheeks, their skin barely touching in the transaction.
“Help yourself to tea and biscuits.” Lady Sadie pronounces, indicating with a sharp nod to the low tea table upon which sits a third, unused, teacup and saucer nestled amongst the other tea things. “Mrs. Casterton has made her custard creams this week.”
“Thank you, Mamma.” Lettice sees a selection of vanilla and chocolate cream biscuits on a plate already as she helps herself to tea from the small round sterling silver pot, polished to a gleaming sheen by Bramley or the head parlour maid. She takes up one each of the two varieties of custard creams, ignoring the look of criticism from her mother by doing so, depositing them onto her saucer. She then settles down on the settee, closest to her father and puts her cup on the table next to her.
“My dear girl! My dear girl!” the Viscount repeats in a delighted voice as he tosses the copy of Country Life with the crumpling sound of paper onto the top of a pile of newspapers and periodicals atop a petite point footstool. “Exemplifying a comfortable mixture of old and new to create a welcoming and contemporary room, sympathetic to the original features.” he paraphrases one of Lettice’s favourite lines in Henry Tipping’s** article, giving away that this was hardly the first time he has read the article since the magazine arrived at Glynes. “What wonderful praise from Mr. Tipping.”
“Oh, do stop, Cosmo!” pleads Lady Sadie from her seat on the other side of the fireplace, toying with the pearls at her throat. “Gushing is so unbecoming,” She glares critically at her husband. “Especially from a man of your age. It’s emasculating.”
Lettice gives her mother a wounded glance before quickly looking at her father, however he bares a steeliness in his jaw.
“Why shouldn’t I gush, Sadie?” he replies in defence of himself and his daughter, looking over his shoulder at Lady Sadie, determination giving his voice strength. “This is our child we are talking about,” He turns back and smiles with unbridled delight at Lettice, his eyes glittering with pride. “And I’m damn proud that Lettice has her name in print in a periodical such as Country Life, even if you are less so.”
“I don’t know whether I am pleased at all, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie eyes her daughter. “I’d rather see your name printed in the society pages next to a certain eligible duke’s son’s name, Lettice.” she adds dryly as she picks up a custard cream and gingerly nibbles at it as though it might contain rat bait. “Then, I’d gush.”
“Mamma!” Lettice manages to utter in a strangulated fashion as disappointment at her mother’s reaction to the article grips her like a cold pair of hands around her throat.
“It’s your duty to marry, Lettice, and marry well. You know this.” Lady Sadie lectures in reply haughtily. “We’ve had this conversation time and time again. You don’t want to be a burden on poor Leslie when your father dies, do you?” She nibbles some more at the biscuit clutched between her fingers.
“Oh Sadie!” the Viscount gasps. “Don’t be crabby. You must concede that you are proud that one of the leading authorities on architecture and interior design in Britain has spoken so highly of our daughter’s work.”
The older woman pulls a face, cleaning mushy biscuit remains from her gums, but doesn’t dignify the statement with an answer.
“Can’t you be just a little happy for me, Mamma?” Lettice pleads as she reaches out and grasps her father’s bigger hand for comfort and support. “Just this once?”
“I’ll be happy when I see you married off.” She picks up her cup and saucer and takes a sip of tea. “Is it not bad enough that I have one wayward child? Perhaps I had better pack you off to British East Africa too.”
“Tipping said Lettice is a very capable interior designer.” the Viscount defends his favourite child. “And the photos prove that.”
“Capable!” Lady Sadie scoffs with a nod of disgusted acknowledgement of the magazine lying beyond the tea table. “The room looks barren – positively starved of furnishings and character. How can that be capable interior design? There is practically nothing in it, to design!”
“But paired back is the new style now, Mamma. People don’t want…”
“What?” Lady Sadie snaps, the fine bone china cup clattering in its saucer.
“Well they don’t necessarily want all this.” Lettice gesticulates around her, almost apologetically, to the furnishings around them. “People want cleaner lines these days, to better reflect their more modern lives.”
“So your father and I are old hat?” Lady Sadie quips. “Is that what you’re saying, Lettice?”
“No, of course not Mamma. I love you and Pappa, and Glynes is classically beautiful. You do a wonderful job at maintaining the elegance of the house. I did retain some of the original décor of Margot and Dickie’s house as part of my refurbishment, even though Margot told me to fling it all out. Mr. Tipping calls it ‘Modern Classical Revival Style’. You and Pappa taught me to always respect a house’s history, and that is what I did, whilst giving Margot the more modern look she wants.”
“Pshaw! That girl hasn’t an ounce of taste. Her family have always been new money.” remarks Lady Sadie dismissively. “You can always tell the difference between the old and the new. True breeding will always win out.”
“Margot is my friend Mamma! Please don’t say such hurtful things.”
“Well, whatever you may think of Lettice’s choice in friends, Sadie, you cannot deny the credit she has brought to the family name by being associated with the Marquis of Taunton.” retorts the Viscount.
“Only by association with this interior design folly nonsense of hers, Cosmo.” She flaps her bejewelled hand at her daughter, the lace trimmed handkerchief partially stuffed up the left sleeve of her knitted silk cardigan dancing about wildly with every movement. “At least you were good enough to have your name and business published in a respectable periodical, Lettice.” she concedes begrudgingly.
“Well, I’m proud of you, Lettice my girl, and there’s a fact.” He turns again and stares with a hard look at his wife before pronouncing, “And so too is your brother and Arabella, and the Tyrwhitts. Your mother is just bitter because she wasn’t the one who was able to announce the news to the whole village.”
“You had no right not to tell me about this article, Lettice!” Lady Sadie grumbles as she cradles her cup and saucer in her lap in a wounded fashion, whilst foisting angry and resentful looks at her daughter. “None at all! I hadn’t even had an opportunity to open the magazine and peruse it before I had the Miss Evanses up here, unannounced, crowing about your name in print in Country Life and how proud I must feel.”
Lettice cannot help but smile at the thought of her mother being assailed by the two twittering spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house in the village. The pair are known for their love of gossip, and even more for their voracity at spreading it, as they attempt to fill their lives which they obviously feel are lacking in drama and excitement. The chagrin Lady Sadie must have felt would have been palpable.
“Don’t you dare smile at my humiliation, you wicked girl! I had to pretend, Lettice! Pretend to those two awful old women, fawning and toadying the way they do, that I had read the article, and there it sat, unopened on my bonheur de jour***, completely untouched.”
“I only wanted it to be a surprise, Mamma.”
“Well, it certainly was that.” The woman’s eyes flame with anger. “I had feign that I was only being a tease when I showed such surprise to the Miss Evanses about your name in that article. Luckily the two were more interested in their own delight at their association to you than my genuine surprise that they believed me.” She turns her head away from her husband and daughter and adds uncharitably, “Stupid creatures.”
“Now don’t be bitter, Sadie.” the Viscount chides his wife. “Bitterness doesn’t become a lady of any age.”
“I’m not bitter!” spits Lady Sadie hotly with a harsh laugh of disbelief.
“Yes, you are.” her husband retorts with a gentle laugh of his own. “The more you defend yourself, the more evident it is, Sadie. You are just upset that the Miss Evanses had done a successful job of spreading the news through the village before you had the chance to do so yourself. They took the wind out of your sails. Lettice meant it to be a delightful surprise, and it was, my dear girl.”
“She didn’t consider the consequences.”
“The petty rivalry between her somewhat misguided mother, who should know better, and two old village crones, should hardly be a concern of one of London’s newest and brightest interior designers, Sadie.”
“Well, shouldn’t I have the opportunity to boast about my own daughter, Cosmo?”
“Aha! There!” the Viscount crows triumphantly. “So, you are proud of Lettice then.”
Lady Sadie thrusts her cup noisily onto the side table and stands up, brushing biscuit crumbs from her lap with angry sweeps onto the Chinese silk carpet at her feet. “You do talk a lot of nonsense, Cosmo.” She mutters brittlely. “I need to go and attend to something. So, if you will please excuse me.” She prepares to leave, but then adds as an afterthought, “But when I come back, I hope you two will have finished your character assassination of me.”
Lettice and her father watch Lady Sadie stalk towards the door with her nose in the air.
“I just hope that the Duchess doesn’t read that article, Lettice.” Lady Sadie says with a meanness in her angry voice. “I very much doubt she would like a daughter in trade. I hope you realise that this little stunt of yours could have ruined the best match you’ll ever get.”
The older woman opens the door and walks out into the corridor.
“Just ignore your mother.” the Viscount waves his hand before his wife as if erasing her presence as the door slams behind her, making both he and his youngest daughter wince. “She really is just jealous of those two silly old spinsters because they were gossiping about you in the village before she was able to do so.”
“I just wanted it to be a lovely surprise for you and her, Pappa.” Lettice pleads with wide and concerned eyes welling with tears.
“I know, my girl. I know.” He takes his handkerchief from his inside pocket and passes it to Lettice, who dabs at her eyes.
“I even organised with Mr. Tipping for Mamma to get her edition early,” Lettice sniffs. “But I suppose the mail delivery let me down.”
“Well,” her father shrugs. “Any general worth his wait in salt**** will tell you that the very best laid plans can go awry.” He smiles at her consolingly. “Your mother is contrary at the best of times. She’ll never admit that she is happy with any success that isn’t of her own making. Why on earth you seek her approval, I don’t know.” he adds in exasperation. “Do you deliberately wish to punish yourself, dear girl?”
Lettice sighs and sniffs. “I just hope that one day she will be proud of me. I feel like I’ve always disappointed her.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three, Pappa.”
“Then you are old enough to know that no matter how hard you try, your mother will never admit to you that she is proud of you. If you do end up marring young Spencely, I doubt even then that she will willingly admit to being proud of you.”
“You’re right, Pappa. I should know better. You know that Lally told me the Christmas before last that Mamma lords the perfection of her married life over me, whilst lording the glamour of my life over her.”
“Quite so.” the Viscount admits. “I always told your mother that playing that game would do her no god in the end.” He laughs sadly. “But you know your mother. She won’t be told anything. I’m glad that your sister told you what’s what. Sadie hasn’t that power over you any more, now that you know the truth, Lettice.”
“But why does she do it?”
“Like I said, your mother is sadly misguided. Whether you believe me or not, it isn’t done out of spite.”
“Then what?”
“She does it to try and get you to both emulate the good things in the other. She wants Lally to be ambitious like you. The truth is I don’t think she ever really approved of the match between Lally and Lanchenbury.”
“But Lally and Charles are very happy together.”
“I know, Lettice. I know.” He pats her hands. “I think she considers him to be a little below the expectations she had for her eldest daughter, coming from a good and wealthy, but relatively socially insignificant family. That’s why she aspires for you through the marriage bed, dear girl.”
“But marriage isn’t all I aspire to, Pappa.”
“I know that too, and both your mother and I know how decimated the options are for young ladies in the wake of the war, your mother probably far better than I. But you must forgive us for wanting you to fill the role we expect you to fill, and for us hoping that it is a financial and socially ambitious match you make.” He sighs wearily. “Although with the way the world is changing, that seems to be becoming a less likely thing. I’m only grateful your brother made me modernise the estate. Goodness knows if we would have survived this post-war world of ours, and even now, I wonder whether we actually will.”
“Don’t say that Pappa.”
“Whatever happens, don’t let your mother upset you, and don’t let her spoil your triumph. I repeat, your brother, Arabella, the whole district is so proud of you, and I’m sure that all your friends, and young Spencely are equally proud to know you.”
“Alright Pappa,” Lettice sighs as her father places a consoling hand on her shoulder and rubs it lovingly. “I won’t.”
“That’s my girl. Now, I’m sure your mother has gone to arrange luncheon for Lady Edgar, the vicar and any number of other members of the great and good of the county, all of whom she will be singing your praises to – not that she will tell you that.” The Viscount winks conspiratorially at Lettice. “So, what’s say you and I go and have luncheon at the Dower House with Leslie and Arabella? I know they would love to see you and congratulate you.”
“Thank you Pappa!”
Lettice and her father embrace, and the pair remain in position for a few minutes, enjoying the intimacy without the criticism of Lady Sadie.
*Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.
**Henry Tipping (1855 – 1933) was a French-born British writer on country houses and gardens, garden designer in his own right, and Architectural Editor of the British periodical Country Life for seventeen years between 1907 and 1910 and 1916 and 1933. After his appointment to that position in 1907, he became recognised as one of the leading authorities on the history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Britain. In 1927, he became a member of the first committee of the Gardens of England and Wales Scheme, later known as the National Gardens Scheme.
***A bonheur de jour is a type of lady's writing desk. It was introduced in Paris by one of the interior decorators and purveyors of fashionable novelties called marchands-merciers around 1760, and speedily became intensely fashionable. Decorated on all sides, it was designed to sit in the middle of a room so that it could be admired from any angle.
****Although these days we commonly say that someone is worth their weight in gold, to say that someone is “worth one’s salt,” is the more traditional saying. Its meaning is the same. It’s a statement that acknowledges that they are competent, deserving, and – to put it simply – worthwhile. The phrase itself is thought to be rooted in Ancient Rome where soldiers were sometimes paid with salt or given an allowance to purchase salt. Similarly, if a person uses the phrase “worth its weight in salt,” to describe an object, they are expressing that they think the item is worth the price they paid or that it otherwise holds immense value to them.
This grand Georgian interior may appear like something out of a historical stately country house, but it is in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection and includes items from my childhood, as well as those I have collected as an adult.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The gilt Louis Quatorze chair and sofa, the black japanned chinoiserie tea table and the gilt swan round tables table are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.
The gilt high backed salon chair is also made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, but what is particularly special about it is that it has been covered in antique Austrian floral micro petite point by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, which makes this a one-of-a-kind piece. The artisan who made this says that as one of her hobbies, she enjoys visiting old National Trust Houses in the hope of getting some inspiration to help her create new and exciting miniatures. She saw some beautiful petit point chairs a few years ago in one of the big houses in Derbyshire and then found exquisitely detailed petit point that was fine enough for 1:12 scale projects.
The Palladian console tables at the back to either side of the fireplace, with their golden caryatids and marble was commissioned by me from American miniature artisan Peter Cluff. Peter specialises in making authentic and very realistic high quality 1:12 miniatures that reflect his interest in Georgian interior design. His work is highly sought after by miniature collectors worldwide. This pair of tables are one-of-a-kind and very special to me.
The elegant ornaments that decorate the surfaces of the Chetwynd’s palatial drawing room very much reflect the Eighteenth Century spirit of the room.
On the centre of the mantlepiece stands a Rococo carriage clock that has been hand painted and gilded with incredible attention to detail by British 1:12 miniature artisan, Victoria Fasken. The clock is flanked by a porcelain pots of yellow, white and blue petunias which have been hand made and painted by 1:12 miniature ceramicist Ann Dalton. At either end of mantle stand a pair of Staffordshire sheep which have been hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. If you look closely, you will see that the sheep actually have smiles on their faces!
Two more larger example of Ann Dalton’s petunia posies stand on the Peter Cluff Palladian console tables. The one on the left is flanked by two mid Victorian (circa 1850) hand painted child’s tea set pieces. The sugar bowl and milk jug have been painted to imitate Sèvres porcelain. The right table features examples of pieces from a 1950s Limoges miniature tea set which I have had since I was a teenager. Each piece is individually stamped on its base with a green Limoges stamp. The vase containing the yellow roses is also a Limoges miniature from the 1950s.
The silver tea and coffee set and silver biscuit sachet on the central chinoiserie tea table, have been made with great attention to detail, and come from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The wonderful selection of biscuits on offer were made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
The gilt edged floral teacups and plate on the table come from a miniatures specialist stockist on E-Bay. The blue and white vase the white roses stand in comes from Melody Jane’s Dolls House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.
The white and yellow roses are also made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
The copy of Country Life sitting on the footstool which is a lynchpin of this chapter was made by me to scale using the cover of a real 1923 edition of Country Life. The 1:12 miniature copy of ‘The Mirror’ beneath it is made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
The hand embroidered pedestal fire screen may be adjusted up or down and was acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.
All the paintings around the Glynes drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States, and the wallpaper is an authentic copy of hand-painted Georgian wallpaper of Chinese lanterns from the 1770s.
The Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster.
The Persian rug on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.
I came upon this scene when the performance was over; some sort of Irish cowgirl routine, I imagine. The perfomers look exhausted, not to say resentful.
Image made for non-commercial purposes at a public event (St. Patrick's day, San Francisco), and the kids depicted are adults by now, but it there's any objection to showing it on Flickr, I'll remove it immediately.
The middle-aged trophy wife. Resentful of the fact her husband has had a successful career while she has remained dutifully at his side. She has only strayed just the once; a guilt filled night in a motel with a man young enough to be her son, an irrational moment of needing to feel young and attractive again.
“The miraculous intimacy we shared did not have the time to generate into resentful emotional bondage”
― Josephine Hart,
Today WAH are visiting I Found This
I found this today on our dog walk.. Apparently it's a thing here that if you are upset, angry, irate, annoyed, vexed, exasperated, irked, piqued, resentful , incensed, fuming or just just pissed off with someone you write down all your gripes about them on a plate and then go and smash it somewhere. What pisses me off is that they smash it and leave the pieces for someone else to clear up........ I won't be writing anything on a plate.
The fresco decoration of the Hall of Justice of the fortress of Angera constitutes one of the main figurative testimonies of the development phase of the Gothic pictorial language in the Lombard territory; it also proposes a rare and early example of painting with profane themes, of historical-political and celebratory significance.
The room, on the second floor of the Visconti wing of the building, has a rectangular plan, divided into two parts by a pointed arch. The ceiling, formed by cross vaults, is covered by a lively decoration with geometric motifs, with squares and rounds interwoven to form a sort of sumptuous painted fabric. The six bays of the walls, illuminated by large windows with two lights, host the pictorial decoration, which is divided into three superimposed registers within large arches defined by ornamental borders with stylized stars and flowers: the narrative scenes, in the center, are surmounted by a high band with astrological-astronomical subjects, while the lowest register is formed by a lozenge decoration that supported an elegant painted veil, now almost completely disappeared.
The cycle narrates the deeds of Ottone Visconti, archbishop and lord of Milan from 1277 after the victory obtained in Desio over the opposing Torriani family. Since a long time, studies have linked the frescoes to a precise literary source, the Liber de gestis in civitate Mediolani, a work in praise of the Visconti family written by the monk Stefanardo da Vimercate probably in the last decade of the thirteenth century; the tituli that accompany the scenes are inspired by it, while other Latin inscriptions report, to complete the upper decorative band, some verses of the astrological treatise De Sphaera.
From a stylistic point of view, the author of the paintings shows a marked taste for the complex layout of the scenes, while neglecting the coherence of the figure-architecture relationship; the forms are simplified and the faces, lacking in individual characterization, derive strong consistency from the resentful linear definition and the thick dark outlines; these elements constitute an evident link with the thirteenth-century pictorial tradition of Byzantine matrix, probably filtered through the knowledge of works from the Veneto area. Moreover, the attention that will be typically Lombardy for the realistic definition of details or for the description of costumes is already present and alive.
The brilliant overall effect of the room is enhanced by the whirlwind of colors of the vault, a real explosion of chromatic happiness that finds immediate comparisons in the vault of S. Bassiano in Lodi Vecchio, also decorated with joyful secular subjects.
The representations of the planets and the signs of the zodiac are still linked to those astrological-astronomical themes that had an enormous development since the beginning of the Christian Middle Ages and in particular in the Romanesque period; connected to the scansion of time and of the different working activities - in particular agricultural and pastoral -, they had multiple ethical, civil and religious implications. Situated in the courtroom of the Rocca, the cycle must have had the value of an exemplum for those who were called to judge, through the underlining of motifs such as the clemency of the winner on the vanquished enemy or the subjection of earthly power to the stars and to Fortune, and with precise indications on the virtues that should accompany the exercise of power.
As for the dating of the paintings, critics have expressed themselves in various ways, with wide oscillations between 1277 of the battle of Desio and 1314, the year in which Matteo Visconti definitively acquired possession of the fortress after a period of domination by the Torriani and other families.
Magnanimous - generous in forgiving an insult or injury; free from petty resentfulness or vindictiveness. KitKat is the most forgiving and kind cat I've ever known. No matter what I do to torture her (her words, not mine) she never holds a grudge or tries to bite or scratch even when all she wants is to get down.
"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;
And therefore is wingled Cupid painted blind."
- William Shakespeare
1564 - 1616
"Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends."
1 Corinthians 13:4-13
Ghost sign for Henry George Cigars, painted atop one end of a Bull Durham ghost sign, in Galesburg, Illinois. Henry George Cigars were named after the famous populist economist and author of "Progress and Poverty", who was immensely popular with a working class increasingly resentful over the growing economic inequality in the last couple of decades of the 1800s. At just $.05 each Henry George Cigars were, appropriately, among the cheapest available.
Built in 1212. Domus Dei (Hospital of Saint Nicholas and Saint John the Baptist) was an alms-house and hospice at Old Portsmouth, Hampshire, United Kingdom. It is now also known as the Royal Garrison Church and is an English Heritage property and a Grade II listed building.
The hospice was established by Peter des Roches (sometimes incorrectly named as de Rupibus), Bishop of Winchester and William of Wrotham in around 1212 A.D.
In 1450 an unpopular advisor to the king, Bishop Adam Moleyns of Chichester was conducting a service at the chapel of Domus Dei when a number of naval seamen (resentful of being only partially paid and only provided with limited provisions) burst into the church, dragged out the bishop and murdered him.
As a result of this the entire city of Portsmouth was placed under the Greater Excommunication, an interdict which lasted until 1508, removed at the request of Bishop Foxe of Winchester.
In 1540, like many other chantry buildings, it was seized by King Henry VIII and until 1560 was used as an armoury. After 1560, a mansion built close by the south-side became the home of the local military governor.
In 1662 the mansion hosted the wedding of King Charles II and Princess Catherine of Braganza.
Towards the end of the seventeenth century it fell into disrepair until it was restored in 1767 to become the Garrison church. Once again, the Church fell into disrepair and in 1865 a new restoration project began under the direction of G. E. Street which lasted ten years.
On 10 January 1941 the buildings of Domus Dei were partially destroyed in an attack by German bombers, when all the stained glass windows were blown out and the nave was rendered roofless by incendiary bombs and a single high explosive bomb. New glazing was subsequently fitted. Apart from the East window with its traditional design, all the other windows show much of the British Army's relationship to the Church and the City of Portsmouth. The chancel is intact, but the nave remains roofless.
The aisles but not the central nave were re-roofed in 1995. In October 2021, the building was one of 142 sites across England to receive part of a £35-million grant from the government's Culture Recovery Fund.
"Love is always patient and kind; it is never jealous, love is never boastful or conceited; it is never rude or selfish; it does not take offense, and is not resentful. Love takes no pleasure in other people’s sins but delights in the truth; it is always ready to excuse, to trust, to hope, and to endure whatever comes."
-In other news, I got Lucy's blurb book and my blurb book in the mail! :)
Don’t talk to me of love. I’ve had an earful
And I get tearful when I’ve downed a drink or two.
I’m one of your talking wounded.
I’m a hostage. I’m maroonded.
But I’m in Paris with you.
Yes I’m angry at the way I’ve been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I’ve been through.
I admit I’m on the rebound
And I don’t care where are we bound.
I’m in Paris with you.
Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.
Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There’s that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I’m in Paris with you.
Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris.
I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I’m in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I’m in Paris with… all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I’m in Paris with you.
- James Fenton — in Paris, France.
Love is always patient and kind, it is never jealous. Love is never boastful nor conceded, it is never rude or selfish. It does not take offense and it is not resentful. Love takes no pleasure in other people's sin, it delights in the truth. It is always ready to excuse, to trust, to hope, and to endure whatever comes.
^_^
Huw's birthday today and this is my card to him . 'Cariad' is the Welsh word for 'Love' Today I feel is the most appopriate day for me to stop 13 + years of my Photo a Day on Flickr although I left the Group 5 days ago. I digress because, he and I live by this tenet
"Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never ends. "
Baldassarre Franceschini called the Volterrano (Volterra, 1611 - Florence, 7 January 1690) - One of Father Arlotto's Tricks (1640-49) oil on canvas 107 x 150 cm. - Palatine Gallery - Pitti Palace, Florence
Il protagonista della scena, raffigurato in piedi alla destra della tavola, è Arlotto Mainardi (1396 -1484), pievano della chiesa di San Cresci a Maciuoli nei pressi di Pratolino, noto per il suo spirito faceto e per le sue burle, rese proverbiali grazie alla tradizione novellistica toscana. La vicenda è ambientata nei pressi di Firenze, non lontano dalla Villa della Mula (riconoscibile sullo sfondo), dove Arlotto, ad un pranzo con altri giovani preti, viene invitato dal padrone di casa a scendere in cantina per spillare del vino dalla botte. Risentitosi per aver dovuto affrontare lui la fatica delle scale, al posto dei più giovani, decise di vendicarsi da burlone quale era. La scena immortala il momento culminante del bonario scherzo: Arlotto, ritornato a tavola con la caraffa riempita, rivela di avere dimenticato la botte di vino aperta, procurando la scomposta reazione del padrone di casa che vediamo saltare dalla seggiola per correre a precipizio a riparare il danno, tra lo stupore e il divertimento dei commensali.
The main character in the scene, the figure stood to the right of the table, is Arlotto Mainardi (1396-1484), a priest of the church of San Cresci a Maciuoli in Pratolino who was well-known for his wit and penchant for jokes, many of which were recorded thanks to the Tuscan tradition of storytelling. The episode is set in Florence, a short distance away from Villa della Mula (visible in the background). In the scene, at a meal with other young priests Arlotto is invited by the host to go to the cellar to tap wine from the cask. Resentful of being chosen to tackle the stairs rather than the younger men, the practical joker decides to take his revenge. The scene captures the climax of the good-natured joke. Arlotto returns to the table with a full carafe of wine and claims to have forgotten to close the tap on the keg, provoking the agitated reaction of the host who can be seen leaping from his chair to run down to repair the damage while his companions look on in astonishment and amusement.