Here’s a little “Blast from the Past,” in honor of the 10th anniversary of “In The Eye of The Beholder.”
Greetings, My Literate Darlings!
Much has happened these past few weeks. Ah, 1890s Paris in the fall… tres magnifique! I must admit I tarried a bit longer than I should… So many things to do, so many sensational stories to set in motion…catching up with Kwazimodo over chocolate and croissants up on the gables of Notre Dame, scintillating literary conversation with Monsieur Verne over tea…but I digress.
The purpose of my using the Through Time Traveler’s Coat and Story Key was to seek out that elusive creature…the Opera Ghost of the Palais Garnier… Rakish good looks, tight pants, ooooo and the mask only covering half of that gorgeous face…but alas, it was not meant to be. I had assumed that, after the whole Angel of Music Debacle, the Phantom of the Opera might be free for coffee, but no, what I found was even more intriguing. The lovely, strong…
View original post 826 more words
As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, I primarily write historical fiction. This means researching not only social mores, foods, and events, but also fashion. When you are looking at the various women’s silhouettes that were en vogue throughout history, you have to also look at the underpinnings that created them.
Fashion Institute of Technology 
Fashion Institute…
Construction on the Palais Garnier was begun in 1861 and opened in 1875. The architect, Charles Garnier, was a young man who won a competition, from a field of 170; Napoleon III had a vision for redesigning the city by widening the streets and creating a new “look” for the City of Light, and this was part of it. Garnier’s opulent design reflected the Second Empire Beaux-Arts style, and presented ample opportunities to see and be seen. At this time in history, people did not go the the opera to look at the show, but to look at one another; the house lights were not even dimmed during the performance. Until 1881, when electricity was installed, the theatre used gaslight.
I looked down at my gloved hands, twisting in my lap. “I kissed him before they took him away, Erik. That was the last touch of a man’s lips that I felt, still warm because he hadn’t been gone for long. After that, my cousin François sold the house in Baincthun. He sold my jewels and my books. He sold everything but Josephine and my clothes. He made me come with him and his riding troupe, because my father had appointed him as my guardian unless and until I married. He still controls the income from the allowance my father left me; I see none of it.”
As you’ve gathered, I’m in Memphis this week. I’ve been doing research for the new short fiction collection, the working title of which is Bayou NonStandard Time (that is definitely going to change).