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Paris, France - 1991
Franchesca Evette Rossi did not attest to understanding Paris and its streets brimming with culture and artistry... but she certainly aimed to. Indeed, the young woman just on the cusp of twenty two felt out place in the city of love, and for far more reasons than just one. Seattle seemed so far away now as she woke, sunlight filtering through old white curtains and into her shoe box of a room, but homesickness was not enough to deter her from the opportunity before her.
Franchesca had gotten into Beaux Arts De Paris through an experimental exchange program back in Cornish, the single student out of twenty five to come out on top after series of rigorous judging and competition. She had to leave her whole life behind the moment she leaned she had been chosen, but only time would tell if ultimately it would be worth it. For now, it was simply just the first day of class. The young artist wasted no time, deep brown hair messy and tousled as she hurried to get ready.
The fine art course came in cycles, the first cycle just one year and paid fully by Cornish, while the second cycle conditonally offering two years depending on whether or not she impressed during her stay. Franchesca wasn't the one to typically care about appearances, but to study at Beaux Art was the opportunity of a lifetime and there were rumors on of her favorite artists growing up was starting his tenure there. For a moment she paused getting ready at the thought of getting a chance to study under the Wolfgang Reiter but Franchesca was quick to remove herself from her daydreams and just focus on getting to the opening exhibit on time.
Dressed in a light leather jacket and dark jeans Franchesca flew out the door of her room, only to run back in once she realized she had forgotten her walkman. With Stevie now singing Gypsy in her ears, Franchesca quickly stepped back out into the small hallway and down the stairs into the cafe she had worked at for the past two weeks since arriving. Café de Flore. A historical little spot and one owned by a dear friend of her aunt who was willing to let Franchesca stay in exchange for some free labor.
"Chesca, darling, please don't forget you're scheduled for a shift tonight! " Miss Evangeline Beaufort called out to her from the bar at the back, the younger woman too preoccupied weaving through busy tables and the rising steam of coffee to give the older, refined matriarch type a proper goodbye.
"I'll be here and all uniformed up by six thirty, Auntie Eve! Promise!" Franchesca called out as her leather boots stepped out the door and onto the sun painted streets of Paris. Franchesca was quick to toss her bag into the basket of her bicycle, painting tools poking out of the threshold of the sack as the artist rushed through the streets to the academy.
When she finally arrived around ten minutes later the entrance courtyard was already in full swing. Students, professors and visitors alike, roaming around and perusing an open exhibition of works from the college's finest. The school look nothing but intimidating as she approached, marble walls high and dignified, but Franchesca made a promise to herself that she would let nothing to doubt in herself and her abilities. That was the only way she was sure she'd survive this.
After securing her bike to the one of the many racks, Franchesca joined the rest of the crowd. The song transitioned to a favorite, She's A Rainbow, and as the forever familiar piano entrance found her ears did Franchesca finally allow herself to breath. She walked around for some time, curious and interested in all the art and characters surrounding her.
It was only when she came to a painting that had garnered and incredible amount of attention, the portrait being a picture of a middle eastern woman dressed in silks and jewelry with no other company than a flurry of doves, did Franchesca pause and find herself... unimpressed. There was nothing groundbreaking about the work, nothing daring, it was clear that whoever had created it was mechanically gifted but the only word that came to mind when Franchesca laid her eyes upon it was uninspired.
Her earphones, which had been blocking out most of the excitable buzz from the crowd surrounding it, then began to bug out and she cursed. Unhappy to not have the soundtrack of her life playing alongside her, she took them out and began to fiddle with the worn device, muttering all kinds of annoyances and obscenities as she tinkered.
École des Beaux-Arts.
Franchesca had gotten into Beaux Arts De Paris through an experimental exchange program back in Cornish, the single student out of twenty five to come out on top after series of rigorous judging and competition. She had to leave her whole life behind the moment she leaned she had been chosen, but only time would tell if ultimately it would be worth it. For now, it was simply just the first day of class. The young artist wasted no time, deep brown hair messy and tousled as she hurried to get ready.
The fine art course came in cycles, the first cycle just one year and paid fully by Cornish, while the second cycle conditonally offering two years depending on whether or not she impressed during her stay. Franchesca wasn't the one to typically care about appearances, but to study at Beaux Art was the opportunity of a lifetime and there were rumors on of her favorite artists growing up was starting his tenure there. For a moment she paused getting ready at the thought of getting a chance to study under the Wolfgang Reiter but Franchesca was quick to remove herself from her daydreams and just focus on getting to the opening exhibit on time.
Dressed in a light leather jacket and dark jeans Franchesca flew out the door of her room, only to run back in once she realized she had forgotten her walkman. With Stevie now singing Gypsy in her ears, Franchesca quickly stepped back out into the small hallway and down the stairs into the cafe she had worked at for the past two weeks since arriving. Café de Flore. A historical little spot and one owned by a dear friend of her aunt who was willing to let Franchesca stay in exchange for some free labor.
"Chesca, darling, please don't forget you're scheduled for a shift tonight! " Miss Evangeline Beaufort called out to her from the bar at the back, the younger woman too preoccupied weaving through busy tables and the rising steam of coffee to give the older, refined matriarch type a proper goodbye.
"I'll be here and all uniformed up by six thirty, Auntie Eve! Promise!" Franchesca called out as her leather boots stepped out the door and onto the sun painted streets of Paris. Franchesca was quick to toss her bag into the basket of her bicycle, painting tools poking out of the threshold of the sack as the artist rushed through the streets to the academy.
When she finally arrived around ten minutes later the entrance courtyard was already in full swing. Students, professors and visitors alike, roaming around and perusing an open exhibition of works from the college's finest. The school look nothing but intimidating as she approached, marble walls high and dignified, but Franchesca made a promise to herself that she would let nothing to doubt in herself and her abilities. That was the only way she was sure she'd survive this.
After securing her bike to the one of the many racks, Franchesca joined the rest of the crowd. The song transitioned to a favorite, She's A Rainbow, and as the forever familiar piano entrance found her ears did Franchesca finally allow herself to breath. She walked around for some time, curious and interested in all the art and characters surrounding her.
It was only when she came to a painting that had garnered and incredible amount of attention, the portrait being a picture of a middle eastern woman dressed in silks and jewelry with no other company than a flurry of doves, did Franchesca pause and find herself... unimpressed. There was nothing groundbreaking about the work, nothing daring, it was clear that whoever had created it was mechanically gifted but the only word that came to mind when Franchesca laid her eyes upon it was uninspired.
Her earphones, which had been blocking out most of the excitable buzz from the crowd surrounding it, then began to bug out and she cursed. Unhappy to not have the soundtrack of her life playing alongside her, she took them out and began to fiddle with the worn device, muttering all kinds of annoyances and obscenities as she tinkered.
Last edited:
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How things had changed in just a few short weeks. The wintertime had passed in its somber majesty, breathing new life into the rolling hills and gardens of Paris. It was a lovely first day of classes, and the first of all the days of Spring, with crocuses and wall-flowers in the cottage-lined fields, and pigeons cooing in quiet hamlet. Wolfgang Reiter might have enjoyed the performed morning stroll to his office had it not been riddled with such perfection. Apathy towards the green pastures, little patissier shoppes, and two years of uninspired student artwork had left him with apathy washing over him like a heavy rain. It wasn't depression. No, he didn't mind puttering around his little home, cooking, reading… none of that was a bother, but he lacked any sense of purpose since arriving in Paris.
When the job offer had been put on the table, he thought it would be the perfect opportunity to meet the best of the upcoming generation of artists. Be that as it may, professing had milked him of any creative shred he'd once possessed. Technically, he could put paint on canvas. He knew how to apply the oils to make the arch of a beautiful woman's face or the snout of a dog. It wasn't even a lack of inspiration, or self-loathing, or anger, or anything. No, it was like the emotion was being milked out of him day after day after day.
And no one in all of Paris enervated him quicker than Professor Brown. Wolfgang tucked his nose against his scarf and sighed, pretending he hadn't heard that gravely voice calling out for him across the campus lawn. If he could get into the Travers Building and slide straight into his office, he could avoid another unfortunate interaction with the plump as a plum Professor Brown. Fate was not so kind. Professor Brown jogged ahead, his sides jiggling underneath his sweater with the effort as he caught up to Wolfgang's left hip and kept a furious pace with him.
"Morning," he said, sliding into his native English, accent smothered by his British roots. "Excited for first day of classes?"
"Oh, yes, nothing quite excites me in life like Oil 101 with a bunch of underclassman either trying to suck up or do the absolute minimum to make a passing mark. I cannot wait." Wolfgang's expression was serious but not unkind. Next to Professor Brown, he was tall and lean, hands shoved into the pockets of his black spring overcoat. On either side of his straight nose were two hazel eyes fringed with smooth green, scrunched ever so slightly by his brow furrowed into a frown. Wolfgang ran a frustrated hand through his hair, shoving the salt and pepper curls away from his forehead.
"You're such a nark," Professor Brown threw back his head into an open-mouthed laugh that was more like baring teeth than smiling. He stepped ahead and ripped open the doors to the Travers Building and waving Wolfgang inside. He obliged with a muttered thank you and shook off his coat as the blast of heat smacked him in the face. "My first class is at eight, so why don't we grab a coffee quick?"
The last thing Wolfgang was in the mood for was coffee with the chipper Professor Brown, who took over-enthusiastic to an inappropriate level. He did screw a small smile on to his face and gave a slight shake of his head. "I fear not, I need to—" he needed an excuse, any excuse. From the corner of his eye, he caught the edge of the campus gallery and nodded his head in its general direction. "Take care of a few things at the gallery, is all."
"Lunch then?"
"Noon class, apologies," Wolfgang rolled his wrist to glance at his watch. The time was not as important as he was leading on. His first class of the day wasn't until noon. "I best be off. We will catch up soon, I am confident." Though not if he could have anything to say in the matter. It wasn't that he didn't like Professor Brown— or anyone else, for that matter. It was just that, after his name being so big, for so long, people had treated him like they'd known him their whole lives. They'd read articles or interviews, read his autobiography… perhaps they did know him in a way, but such intimacy with his life made him uncomfortable, especially when he hardly knew anything about anyone else.
Growing up, fame had been all he ever wanted. Now, he might have given up an arm to shirk it. There was a great deal of honor in a great number of people admiring his work— from the awards, to the most famed museums in the world, to the general public— but there was also a great deal of loneliness and self-loathing inherent to it. Taking a teaching career was intended to mitigate those feelings. Yet, if anything, they only amplified them.
Passing through the gallery to look as honest to his words as possible, the sounds of cussing caused him to pause. He switched his gaze from the young brunette woman to his own piece of art. "If you intend to swear at the artwork," he began idly, "be advised it very rarely talks back."
When the job offer had been put on the table, he thought it would be the perfect opportunity to meet the best of the upcoming generation of artists. Be that as it may, professing had milked him of any creative shred he'd once possessed. Technically, he could put paint on canvas. He knew how to apply the oils to make the arch of a beautiful woman's face or the snout of a dog. It wasn't even a lack of inspiration, or self-loathing, or anger, or anything. No, it was like the emotion was being milked out of him day after day after day.
And no one in all of Paris enervated him quicker than Professor Brown. Wolfgang tucked his nose against his scarf and sighed, pretending he hadn't heard that gravely voice calling out for him across the campus lawn. If he could get into the Travers Building and slide straight into his office, he could avoid another unfortunate interaction with the plump as a plum Professor Brown. Fate was not so kind. Professor Brown jogged ahead, his sides jiggling underneath his sweater with the effort as he caught up to Wolfgang's left hip and kept a furious pace with him.
"Morning," he said, sliding into his native English, accent smothered by his British roots. "Excited for first day of classes?"
"Oh, yes, nothing quite excites me in life like Oil 101 with a bunch of underclassman either trying to suck up or do the absolute minimum to make a passing mark. I cannot wait." Wolfgang's expression was serious but not unkind. Next to Professor Brown, he was tall and lean, hands shoved into the pockets of his black spring overcoat. On either side of his straight nose were two hazel eyes fringed with smooth green, scrunched ever so slightly by his brow furrowed into a frown. Wolfgang ran a frustrated hand through his hair, shoving the salt and pepper curls away from his forehead.
"You're such a nark," Professor Brown threw back his head into an open-mouthed laugh that was more like baring teeth than smiling. He stepped ahead and ripped open the doors to the Travers Building and waving Wolfgang inside. He obliged with a muttered thank you and shook off his coat as the blast of heat smacked him in the face. "My first class is at eight, so why don't we grab a coffee quick?"
The last thing Wolfgang was in the mood for was coffee with the chipper Professor Brown, who took over-enthusiastic to an inappropriate level. He did screw a small smile on to his face and gave a slight shake of his head. "I fear not, I need to—" he needed an excuse, any excuse. From the corner of his eye, he caught the edge of the campus gallery and nodded his head in its general direction. "Take care of a few things at the gallery, is all."
"Lunch then?"
"Noon class, apologies," Wolfgang rolled his wrist to glance at his watch. The time was not as important as he was leading on. His first class of the day wasn't until noon. "I best be off. We will catch up soon, I am confident." Though not if he could have anything to say in the matter. It wasn't that he didn't like Professor Brown— or anyone else, for that matter. It was just that, after his name being so big, for so long, people had treated him like they'd known him their whole lives. They'd read articles or interviews, read his autobiography… perhaps they did know him in a way, but such intimacy with his life made him uncomfortable, especially when he hardly knew anything about anyone else.
Growing up, fame had been all he ever wanted. Now, he might have given up an arm to shirk it. There was a great deal of honor in a great number of people admiring his work— from the awards, to the most famed museums in the world, to the general public— but there was also a great deal of loneliness and self-loathing inherent to it. Taking a teaching career was intended to mitigate those feelings. Yet, if anything, they only amplified them.
Passing through the gallery to look as honest to his words as possible, the sounds of cussing caused him to pause. He switched his gaze from the young brunette woman to his own piece of art. "If you intend to swear at the artwork," he began idly, "be advised it very rarely talks back."