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strechanadi · 2 years

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Fanny Gorse, Yannick Bittencourt

Don Quichotte

photo: Julien Benhamou

#ballet #ballerina #Paris Opera Ballet #don q #don quijote #fanny gorse #yannick bittencourt

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galina-ulanova · 5 years

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Fanny Gorse in Allister Madin’s Kaleidoscope (Paris Opera Ballet, 2013)

#ballet #fanny gorse #paris opera ballet #kaleidoscope

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kameliendame · 5 years

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Dancers of the Paris Opera Ballet in rehearsal for Nureyev’s Cinderella (click on images for names)

ph. Yonathan Kellerman

#paris opera ballet #valentine colasante #Myriam Ould Braham #mathias heymann #Fanny Gorse #marion barbeau #alice renavand #francois alu #dorothee gilbert #hugo marchand #mob

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tanaquilleclercq · 6 years

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Fanny Gorse.

Photos: Svetlana Loboff.

#ballet #opera national de paris #paris opera ballet #fanny gorse #ballerina

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chaosscroissant · 4 years

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A genderbent and racebent AU in which Rosamund (Ross) Poldark, the biracial cousin of the well-off Poldarks of Trenwith, comes back to Nampara from America-- betrayed, bereft, and determined to survive.

Tags include: Racebending, Genderbending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, extremely mild but period-typical racism, Period-Typical Racism, Romance

Excerpt from Chapter 1

The wind swept straight down Bodmin moor, smelling of the sea, and of gorse and heather. Rosamund breathed in deep. It was the same as it ever was; it had been three years since she’d last breathed it. The sky above was the same, dark gray billowing cloud, and the sea was unchanged, still strange, still moody. It had borne her a long way, from Nampara to Boston and back, and still everything was the same. Everything, it seemed, but her.

The carriage she’d just climbed down from lumbered off as the driver cracked his whip. Rosamund picked up her bag and stepped out of the road and into the brush of the moor, and made her way toward Trenwith.

She was sure her father would like to see her soon, but the sun still shone, and it had been so long since she’d seen her Elliot. Tall, dark-haired, proud Elliot, handsome Elliot. Her father would surely forgive her if she made a slight detour to see him.

At least, she hoped he’d be there. He had been so often at the house three years ago, whenever she visited her cousin Fanny. Even as she and Fanny were meant to be conversing by the fire, reading collections of sermons and parables, playing the pianoforte, taking a turn in the garden, Elliot was never far away, exchanging a stolen glance across the table, a touch of the hand in the corridor, a near-kiss amongst the wildflowers far from prying eyes, whispered promises among the dunes at Hendrawna. As Rosamund walked through those very same wildflowers, she fingered the chain of the necklace that she kept tucked into her bodice from which hung a miniature bearing his likeness, set in copper mined from under the very ground on which she stood.

Her breath caught in her throat as the gabled roofs of Trenwith became visible above the trees. Yes, a slight detour to Trenwith to call on family on her return from America, as much as it set the butterflies in her stomach to fluttering, could not be a mistake. She would say hello to her uncle and great aunt, her cousins Fanny and Virgil, and if she was lucky, Elliot would be present. She could not help but hope with every vibrating nerve in her being that his feelings had not changed. Hers certainly had not.

Light shone in the tall mullioned windows. She did not even bother knocking. They were neighbors after all, and family, and the looks on their faces would be worth the slight lapse in decorum. The sound of utensils on china, and of glass clinking and voices speaking told her they were at supper. She grinned to herself, her heart in her throat as she threw wide the door--

There was a sudden hush as she entered the room. Her uncle Charles sat at the head of the table, as portly as ever in a bright waistcoat, and beside him Rosamund’s elderly great-aunt Agatha. Across from her sat Fanny, her fair hair curled into lagging ringlets, her blue eyes watery, though bright. She was no longer the stringy youth Rosamund remembered, for she’d become a woman. Beside Agatha sat cousin Virgil, his dark hair swept back, and his features arranged in an awkward, solemn demeanor. And across from him, sitting beside his mother, and exuding more light than the candelabra on the table, was Elliot Chynoweth.

“Surprised to see me?” Rosamund asked cheekily in the dead silence before shocked looks became gasps of delight, slack jaws became laughter, and the sound of chairs scraping filled the room as Fanny, Virgil, and Uncle Charles stood and made their way to Rosamund, who flicked her cloak to the side. She kissed their faces genially, though she noted still the gazes that flicked askance over her countenance. They always did. For everyone felt, ever since she’d been a little girl, that she did not truly belong to the family, not in the same way Fanny or Virgil did. She simply did not fit in. She did not look the part of the Poldark and never would. Well, Rosamund couldn’t help that. So she stood up straight and cleared her throat.

“Is this a party for me, celebrating my return?” she joked, and the laughter turned ever so slightly in their mouths, like butter souring in the sun. Elliot stood, suddenly, his mouth open as if to say something. Rosamund felt her whole body turn in his direction.

“Elliot,” said Mrs. Chynoweth. “Would you be a dear and fetch my fan, it’s upstairs.”

“Mother, I--” Elliot began. Mrs. Chynoweth cut him off.

“Now, Elliot, dear.”

Elliot stepped away from the table and, with a glance at Rosamund, walked through the drawing room doors and climbed the stairs. Uncle Charles motioned to the table.

“Come, Rosamund, sit. You must join us in our celebration. Virgil, bring Rosamund a chair, would you.”

“Certainly,” said Virgil. As he passed Rosamund on his way to the drawing room, he gave her a genuine smile. “Glad you’re back,” he said. Rosamund grinned his way.

She looked around at the fine clothing, Fanny’s new dress of blue silk, the champagne on the table, fresh beeswax tapers, and the arrangement of vivid spring flowers.

“What is it you are celebrating, again,” she asked, bemused, as Virgil returned with a chair that he placed at the table. She took a seat as Mrs. Chynoweth looked up brightly at Rosamund.

“Why, we’re celebrating Fanny’s betrothal--”

Rosamund beamed at Fanny, who looked sheepishly down into her flute of champagne.

“--to Elliot. They’ll be married in a fortnight’s time. After all, it is only natural such ancient and distinguished families should be joined...”

Rosamund felt the breath leave her lungs. Mrs. Chynoweth sounded very far away, muffled by the sound of Rosamund’s own beating heart, so perhaps she’d been mistaken. It was only when she’d turned around to see Elliot on the bottom stair, clutching his mother’s fan apologetically, his face flushed and his red lips agape in a look of suppressed horror, that Rosamund realized she’d heard quite correctly. She took a deep, steadying breath as her senses returned to her. She cleared her throat as her uncle, blissfully ignorant of the torrid exchange of embarrassed looks that crossed his dining room, poured her a glass of champagne. Rosamund took it automatically.

She watched its bubbles rise for a moment before she let her face split into a gaudy smile.

“To the happy couple,” she said. She felt a slightly sadistic pleasure in toasting Fanny and Elliot as they looked on in utter mortification. Rosamund tipped the glass to her lips and drained it in a few gulps. Coarse, she knew, but her actions did not feel her own. The champagne went straight to her head, mercifully dulling the sharpness of her own heartbreak.

“Well, I mustn’t keep you from your festivities,” she said flatly, standing to adjust her cloak. “I must go home to greet my father.”

She was sure of it now, the look that went round the table at the sound of her words was too uncomfortable to ignore. Elliot sat down slowly. The only person who didn’t look like they’d seen a ghost was Mrs. Chynoweth. Rather, she smiled mischievously.

“You haven’t heard?” she said in a voice as light as fresh milk.

“Mother--” Elliot chastened quietly.

“Why, we thought you must have received word in Boston when Mr. Poldark died last year.”

Rosamund felt the air leave her body once more. Her head swam. She looked down at the floor-- still it was under her feet, so the world had not ended. She tried to reconcile this fact with how she felt.

“My father is dead,” she said quietly, trying the words in her mouth. They did not seem real.

“Rosamund,” said Virgil quietly, laying a gentle hand on her arm before she pulled away.

Rosamund straightened her posture in an attempt at composure. She made a decision quickly. “I must borrow your horse, uncle,” she said quickly to Uncle Charles. He nodded, his jowls quivering, his brow furrowed.

“But you must stay,” he spluttered in a half-hearted attempt at hospitality. Rosamund glanced around at the party she’d ruined, the faces of every guest aghast at the intrusion. She thought she ought to be used to it by now.

“Good night,” she said, and she turned on her heel and walked quickly out to the front path where a servant was stepping forward with a black mare. How fitting, she thought bitterly.

She did not look back once as she mounted the saddle and set off at a full gallop. As she quickly put distance between her and Trenwith, between her and Elliot, she felt she could finally let the tears fly freely in the wind that came off the sea and rushed down the moor. She was riding away from everything, and riding directly toward nothing, but she knew not what else to do. Nothing was all she had.

#poldark #racebending #genderbending #romance #Angst #race #gender #18th century #poldark TV (2015)#Alternate Universe #AU #AO3 #Archive Of Our Own #Fanfiction #Poldark Fanfiction

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spinmelikeyoumeanit · 7 years

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