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artthatgivesmefeelings · 1 year

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Charles François Jalabert (French, 1818-1901) Galatée

#Galatée #Charles François Jalabert #charles francois jalabert #french art #french #france #mediterranean #classical art #fine art #woman #fine arts #oil painting #european art #female portrait #female #portrait #women in art #1800s

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thequietabsolute · 8 months

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Charles François Jalabert // Galatée

#Charles François Jalabert #charles jalabert #galatée #fine art #art

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galatee-mediation · 1 year

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Gustave Courbet - L’Atelier du peintre (détail), 1855

Musée d’Orsay, Paris

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Qui connaît l’histoire de la belle Galatée ? Ou celle de Pinocchio devenu enfant ? Dans l’histoire de l’art, on parle souvent du mythe de Pygmalion, et pour cause : ce n’est pas tous les jours que l’on voit des sculpteurs tomber amoureux de leur statue, et encore moins les statues se transformer en être de chair ! C’est pourtant ce qui arrive quand on prend le temps de poser son regard sur une œuvre d’art... Vous vous souvenez ?

Chez Galatée, on vous propose des outils de médiation pour découvrir l'art : en regardant... et en dessinant ! Retrouvez nos livrets et nos dispositifs de médiation dans les expositions des musées et des fondations d'art avec lesquels nous collaborons.

#galatée

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philoursmars · 2 years

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Je reviens à mon projet de présenter la plupart de mes 53065 photos (nouveau compte !)

2011. Une journée d’automne à Paris.

Les jardins du Luxembourg, avec la Fontaine Marie de Médicis (”Polyphème surprenant Galatée dans les bras d’Acis), une rhubarbe (?) et le Sénat.

#souvenirs #paris #automne #jardins du luxembourg #luxembourg #bacchus #satyre #ménade #rhubarbe #sénat #fontaine #fontaine marie de médicis #cyclope #polyphème #galatée #acis

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relationsdevoyages · 2 years

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#Neptune #james webb update #Galatée #Naïade #Thalassa #Despina #Protée #Larissa #Triton

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countryimages · 2 years

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Pygmalion et Galatée by Anne-Louis Girodet de Roussy

#Anne-Louis Girodet de Roussy #Pygmalion #Galatée

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frogshunnedshadows · 6 months

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Long-ignored personal letters from the Seven Years' War re-discovered, transcribed and published.

#history #seven years war #france #galatée #naval warfare #french #letters #correspondence #uk #archives

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savannah1eddie · 7 months

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J'obtiendrais ton sourire le seul temoins de ma victoire 💗

#galatée #Spotify

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daniellutzlucien · 1 year

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Galatée, DLL? 1995

#sulpture #Corps #dos #polyphème #galatée #mythologie #photography #photonoiretblanc #néréides

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jaguarys · 1 month

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The first few weeks, the new one moves on autopilot.

Halcyon has seen it before. He's used to it, the ways in which their body moves while their brain is still waking up.

This one hadn't been dead for long. It made it easier, he was sure, to readjust.

He hadn't grown attached, not in the way Galatée had. He was all too used to following a lead their mother had set for them, only to abandon it once the timeline had changed too much, once it was no longer deemed important. Their mother's interest was like the sun and just as all-consuming, but as soon as it was pulled away it wouldn't return. And it had been centuries, after all. People didn't live that long, and points of interest didn't either.

Galatée was pleased to finally see results. She was glad to have another, or at least in the selfish ways they both were for company other than each other.

Halcyon couldn't quite say. In some small ways, he did find himself drawn to the newcomer.

They'd followed him so long. Halcyon was well past feeling in any small way guilty for interfering, pulling strings here and there to make sure this person was there, that person said that. If it led to Mother's goals, if it helped her, it was worth it.

And even still... Danaël was theirs. Perhaps he had not known them, but they knew him. It was a small reward, after all this, for him to know them.

Slowly, the newcomer woke. Slowly, he started to take it in.

>>

Halcyon had been in their mother's service for so long, now, these thousands of years. He didn't remember what it had been like, to wake. He could hardly remember his death, after so much time.

He doesn’t know when he realized. When the fog cleared from his head enough to realize he didn’t quite know why this was so important, why Mother was so important, why he was following her at all.

The fog comes and goes. There are moments when it recedes, when it really and truly disappears and he hates it all. He had earned his death; he was, in the end, angry it had been taken from him.

Mother was an all-consuming force. She was their sun. They rotated around her like moons around a planet. Hiding anything from her, even just his own thoughts, felt blasphemous.

But he did. In some small corner of his mind, he hid the truth: that he still had thoughts at all.

He didn’t remember who he’d been. He wasn’t sure if any vestige, any tidbit of personality, any memory belonged to the man who’d died, or if like clay he’d been reshaped by his mother’s hands.

Suns can’t always shine. And so, slowly, over the centuries, he shaped his own clay and scraped together pieces of his mind.

He forgot much, after thousands of years. He always remembered Galatée, always remembered the thrill at having another. It was easier once she joined, pulled out of her grave same as he was his. Not just because Mother’s attention was divided—though that counted for plenty.

It took nearly a hundred years for her to pull out of her fugue. It took even longer for the two of them to realize they were the same.

Fighting their own brains was difficult enough, the compulsion to submit, follow, love. Mother was as much themselves as they were, pouring into each nerve and orifice and pulsing in their blood. There was hardly any space for each other, but they carved it out of themselves.

It was exchanged near silently, hideous, blasphemous words whispered against cold, undead skin. Lips pressed to cheeks in moments stolen between missions. Promises their minds were, in some small way, their own and each other’s as much as they were Mother’s. Promises her love was not all-consuming.

Slowly, in their orbits, they circled one another as much as their sun.

>>

Galatée never gave up hope they would find a way out. She never said as such—that was much too far. But he knew, much as anything real they knew was silent.

Maybe that was why she took such a shine to Danaël. Maybe she hoped if he was the answer to Mother, he could be the answer to them, too.

He’d had thousands of years to hope, and he wasn’t the type for it, anyways. He didn’t dare. He didn’t dare think Danaëlwas the answer to anything at all.

>>

Asgaroth was always different from the rest. That does not mean Halcyon didn't love him, much as he loved Galatée, much as he would come to love Danaël.

Maybe some part of him always knew Asgaroth was not real. He never truly knew, not logically, not as such. But his instincts knew.

Halcyon never spoke with Asgaroth in the ways he did with Galatée. He never trusted him in the same ways. He never bared his matching soul.

He never spoke the truth.

Maybe he knew. Maybe he just wanted to pretend he didn’t. It was much easier to love someone who wasn’t there than admit they weren’t.

>>

It takes nearly a year until Halcyon is sure Danaëlis really, truly awake.

It’s new. It’s exciting. It’s been centuries since they’ve had another. No matter that skin is cold, clammy, undead. No matter the eyes are only just starting to feel like they belong to a real person. No matter Mother’s hold is stronger on their newest. He still belongs to them.

He hadn’t realized, the way that lack had grated. It had been the same, with Galatée, with Asgaroth. He never really notices how much he hates the absence until it's gone, like a leftover sort of pain, like an old wound.

The Dynaméis are limbs of a body, Mother's hands. They're parts of an entity. Their minds are facets of her own.

Halcyon stretches into Danaël like exploring a newly healed limb.

>>

And he’s different. From the very beginning, he’s different. Or so Galatée says, anyways. Halcyon thinks it may just be confirmation bias and more of that damned hope.

At the corners of Halcyon's mind, he feels shiny, smooth, like the gold of their weapons and the glow of the halos above their heads.

He feels like surfacing after a dive, like suddenly clear vision after thousands of years. He feels like seaglass. He feels like polished marble.

Mother's influence feels even more stifling in comparison, newly suffocating in ways it already was before.

And maybe they grow too bold. Soon after they're sure he's fully there, Galatée starts pressing.

At first, it’s ignored. For nearly too long, nearly long enough that Halcyon’s almost convinced her to give it up before she catches Mother’s attention.

And then it's there. Then, Halcyon feels it, the subtle brush across his mind, Danaël's cold and gentle hand.

Danaël is theirs, much as anything can be theirs and not Mother's. Slowly, thought by thought, they steal him away.

>>

They tell Danaël, in stops and starts and whispers shared between them in every hidden moment, about it all. About Mother’s hands woven in the tapestry of his life.

It is, of course, hard. Their minds are not meant to accept anything against her. None of them want to remember the truth.

And so they repeat it. Over and over. Through hands in hands, through interlocked fingers, through whispers murmured in the night, they repeat it.

Touch is theirs. Touch belongs to them. Even when their thoughts are stolen, when their hands are stolen, when their lives and deaths are stolen. And they give it.

>>

Then comes the exodus.

As they get closer, Halcyon feels the tendrils curl tighter and tighter, feels Mother’s influence creep in even more. He feels his mind slipping away from him, devotion, love, obedience replacing any rational thought.

Halcyon is under no naïveté that it's anything than the last pieces sliding into the puzzle. He wishes they had any puzzle at all. He wishes they weren't pieces on Mother's game of chess. He wishes he wasn't merely a pawn cast off the board as soon as he was no longer of use.

He wishes, paradoxically, that they’d had more time. He wishes it weren’t nearing the end, now that it is.

#DYNAMÉIS FIC COME GET YOUR DYNAMÉIS FIC #did you want 1.5k words of halcyon musing and my hcs on kalandre's influence? no? too bad #type: fanfic #fandom: les légendaires #les légendaires #les legendaires #halcyon les légendaires #dynaméis les légendaires #galatée les légendaires #kalandre les légendaires #asgaroth les légendaires #danaël les légendaires #fanfics #fanfiction #fanfic

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leslegendairestextposts · 17 days

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