Among the (many) challenges of writing historicals, is the lack of photographs. What did people really look like? Our best sources are portraits and, let’s face it, they can look strange and unattractive to modern eyes.

The painter’s art can also come into a story, evoking emotions or providing a plot point: a miniature of an absent loved one or a portrait of a parent, perhaps. Remember when Elizabeth visits Pemberley in Pride and Prejudice?

Darcy’s portrait is a definite “moment,” a turning point in her view of him.

Elizabeth walked in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested her–and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery.

I’ve been thinking about another book. Not, mind you, the book I’m actually writing. Heaven forbid! I’m chasing plot bunnies for a book to be named (and hopefully written) later. I have this idea about a man falling in love with the portrait of an unknown lady and I’ve been looking for inspiration. Here are some of the candidates I’ve found.

Which lady do you like? Can you imagine one of them inspiring a grand passion?

Don’t tell Lady B, but I’ve been cheating on the Ballroom with other time periods.

I zoomed way ahead of our timeline to spend some time in World War I England and 1920s Kenya for The Ashford Affair (coming out April 9th!) before coming back to 1805 for a bit for my latest Pink book.

Right now, I’m hanging out smack in the middle of those, in 1849 London, dipping into both high culture and low, looking into how people entertained themselves in London in the mid-19th century. You can tell a lot about a society by its leisure activities.

The book I’m currently writing (working title: The Victorian Book) revolves around the early days of the Preraphaelite movement so my first stop, on the high culture junket, was the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition of 1849, where the Preraphaelites launched their revolutionary new style. John Everett Millais exhibited his Lorenzo and Isabella (above) and William Holman Hunt showed his epic painting Rienzi, about the Roman folk hero.

(Dante Gabriel Rossetti was not represented there. He had infuriated his Preraph buddies by breaking ranks and showing his Girlhood of Mary Virgin, shown below, at the Free Exhibition in Hyde Park instead.)

What really fascinated me, though, was just how madly popular this exhibition was. The Queen got first crack, on the Thursday, followed by the Private View on the Friday, attended by anyone who was anyone in London Society– one of “the” events of the Season. Once the private showings were done, the exhibition officially opened the first Monday in May.

To give you an idea of the popularity of this show, you’d have to compare it to opening day of Skyfall or a new Harry Potter movie: in 1849, over a six week span, over 100,000 people attended the exhibition, paying their admission fee, and, if they had the tin, another shilling for the exhibition catalog, which listed all the paintings, their hanging spots, and, in many cases, explanations and snippets of poetry.

I was lucky enough to get my hands on a copy of the 1849 exhibition catalog, the exact same one my heroine would have held in her (gloved) hands. Here’s what it looked like:

Just to give you an idea of how crowded the Exhbition would be, here’s a picture of the 1883 Private View, below. Just picture the ladies in there wearing the far wider skirts of 1849, and you’ll have an idea of how jammed– and warm!– it would have been in there in 1849!

Although I’m looking at a later period, Lady B would also have been acquainted with the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition. It began in the 1760s, and, as the Royal Academy literature puts it: “At that time an art show was still a novelty in England and this densely packed, higgledy-piggledy parade was among the great spectacles of Georgian and Regency London.” Over 60,000 attended the first exhibition in 1769 and the numbers went up from there, with record crowds in the early 1820s. The odds are high that Lady B and her lorgnette would have paid a call to the Exhibition at its then home, Somerset House.

The exhibition did some moving around. My early Victorian heroine would have seen the show in its later location in a wing of the National Gallery; the show settled in its current home at Burlington House in 1867.

But I also promised you some low culture, didn’t I?

Just a few streets away from the Royal Academy exhibition, you could find a form of entertainment called a “penny gaff”– a cheap, theatrical performance in the back room of a pub, aimed at servants and errand boys. According to contemporary accounts, there was generally little more than a platform and a piano, with a pit for the cheap seats and a rough gallery of benches above, where, interestingly, the men and the women were segregated by sex, women on one side and men on the other– a surprising delicacy for an entertainment that was reputed to be vulgar in the extreme, with bawdy jokes, dance routines, and short, theatrical sketches focusing on topics like “Highwaymen We Have Known and Loved” (okay, I made up that title, but, yes, famous highwaymen were a popular topic) and particularly sensational murders.

The heyday of the penny gaff was from the 1830s to 70s, but you find some interesting echoes of earlier time periods. While the murderers might be more current, the highwaymen tended to be eighteenth century figures, like the notorious Jack Sheppard. Then there’s my personal favorite: in an account of a gaff from 1851, the viewer reports that the highlight of the program was a sketch featuring the routing of Napoleon!

As you can imagine, the critics took a dim view of these entertainments, calling them sodden gin dens and an incitement to crime and loose morals with their glamorization of villainy.

One of the things I found most fascinating about these penny gaffs? The primary viewership reputedly consisted of (lower class) women under the age of twenty. And this at an era where, among the middle class, the whole idea of women as sheltered little flowers was really getting going….

It provides an intriguing contrast, doesn’t it?

Of the two events, which would you rather attend: the Royal Academy Exhibition or the penny gaff?

The blogger Limecello does an annual fundraiser for a good cause. She researches charities and finds the ones that really do succeed and don’t waste money on fundraising and whatnot. This year she’s raising money for charity:water, an organization dedicated to bringing sufficient and clean water to people all over the world. Water isn’t just about being clean. It’s a matter of life and death. I urge you to go over to her blog and read about the importance of clean water. You don’t even have to donate (though it would be nice if you did!) Various people have pledged donations if comments reach a certain number. I pledge $100 if I can drive at least 25 comments to the blog via The Ballroom. So please, go on over and comment and mention that Lady B sent you! The goal is 1000 comments by the end of November so get over there. There are also prizes. [I'm told some people don't recognize the link to Limecello's blog. Click here!]

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
In the eighteenth century the English upper classes collected antiquities, pictures and sculpture with an avidity that filled the country houses, and later the museums, of Britain with extraordinary riches. Until the French Revolution spoiled the party, a Grand Tour of Europe, complete with art shopping, was as essential part of a gentleman’s education.

Art shopping often included a portrait, perhaps by Pompeo Batoni, who painted dozens of Grand Tourists, surrounding them with symbols of classical culture.Then they went home and became English country gentlemen with a passion for horses and dogs. George Stubbs was perhaps the most famous portraitist of the British animal, but he had lots of company. Men, women and children were all painted in company with their pets.

 

The Wild Quartet, my new series that debuts later this month, is based around a group of young men with a passion for art. Caro, the heroine of The Importance of Being Wicked, is the widow of one of the art collectors. Thomas, Duke of Castleton is a horse and dog man. Can you say major conflict? What’s worse, Caro owns a cat.

I love pets in books. What do you think? And what are some of your favorites? Also, feel free to share your favorite dog pictures!

Though it is the middle of a warm August afternoon, I have dragged Lady B. out for a constitutional…

She is not altogether sure what’s going on, and frankly it’s a wonder that she trusts me after my last date as Ballroom hostess – Villains Day, you might recall.But she is well recovered from all that and since she has several hours before she must welcome the evening’s guests, she is intrigued by the ritual of a writer’s walk. I’ve agreed to take her along.

Lady B: So this is what you romantic, artsy types get up to in the middle of the afternoon, then, is it?

It is, say I.

We look the part. Regency ladies out for a stroll. Wide-brimmed straw bonnets. Printed muslin downs in pastel colors. (How did Regency people stay cool, anyway? Painted fans, linen underclothes, and drinks like Barley Water…read on for the recipe.)

All I know is that I am determined to enjoy every last drop of summer while it lasts. The slower pace of life. The tranquility of an afternoon in the shady green woods. It’s refreshing to the spirit, rejuvenating to the soul. It also happens to be wonderful for the creative faculties of the mind.

Lady B: How fortunate that writers can legitimately count relaxation among their daily duties. It’s almost as good as being the daughter of a duke.

It does help make up for all the years of rejection, I admit. *g*

But it’s true. This idle walking…or some other languid practice that my colleagues find useful (jogging, crafting, shopping?) is as important to the art as the historical research, the plotting, the revision.

Writers do have a grand tradition of taking walks, from the Bronte sisters striding across the windy moors, to Thoreau (or was it Emerson?) making his in-depth study of ant colonies at war.

There is a secret in it, I wager, though I’ll be dashed if I know what it is.

Perhaps it’s simply the sheer, decadent luxury of thinking of nothing at all—such bliss for the modern mind, especially the overactive imagination, the questing, ever-puzzling, insomniac, writer’s mind. Maybe no one knows exactly how it works, but watching the sky, smelling the scent of rich turf and the spring water, hearing the babbling brook and the birds—being wholly in the present moment—seems to be the best refreshment for that place inside of a writer that the story comes from.

For me, this is my renewal. I savor the restfulness, the stillness.

The gravel of the easy path crunches under my feet, as I escape the beating sun in the coolness and languor of thick woods. A hundred shades of green fill my eyes, countless textures. Birds twitter, unseen amid the branches.

A hawk soars against the clouds shapes glimpsed amid in the trees. I note the shelf moss growing off the sides of their weathered trunks here and there and half expect see a fairy standing atop one of these little horizontal outposts, midway down a towering poplar or an elm.

At my feet, meanwhile, a beetle trundles across the path ahead, steady and direct, carrying its shiny black shell. On both sides, the way is starred with tiny purple tiny flowers on tall stalks. Yellow bursts of tiny trumpets.

A bee inspects a ragged white daisy with a yellow center. I go in search of some comfortable, unexpected garden seat, a mossy boulder near the babbling brook, or the crook of a big old tree-trunk where I could wedge myself and find a place to write, or read, or journal, or dream.

It’s more than picturesque. The peacefulness of this setting seeps into me, becomes me, and I do my best to pass it onto you. The lulling drone of crickets rises and falls on the heavy, humid air.

Butterflies in resplendent colors go crashing past, impossible creatures weaving feckless paths. The dragonfly zooms by much more purposefully and hovers, gone again in the blink of an eye, a whirring flash of blue. Here and there, a pale moth waits for evening.

Crunch, crunch, go my steps. I focus on the steady sound as my thoughts fade.

Then I notice the curious, smooth, brown dome of a beehive hung up high in the branches of a crabapple tree. Almost like parchment paper, wrapped and wrapped, desiccated. The ground at the feet of the tree is littered with hard, green fruit too sour for anyone but squirrels. Down the path fifty yards ahead, a deer glides by silently on long-legged steps, delicate as a whisper, it’s tapered ears twitching off flies. Its dappled hide helps it melt into the shadows and it’s gone.

There’s a rabbit that doesn’t bother running from me as it busily chews a blade of grass. Oddly, I take that as a compliment: I’m no threat.

I idle my way over a footbridge, the stream below strewn with gray rocks cloaked in luxurious green moss. Pussy willows cluster at the banks; water bugs skate across the surface. The gurgling stream is too inviting. I walk down to trail my fingers in the current, then all the more enchanted, step out of my flip-flops and kick up a small splash with my toes.

I take a deep, slow breath, reveling in the sense of well being. Wholeness. Then suddenly a snippet of dialogue unfurls across my mind like a banner. Plain as day it’s written. What my hero really feels, the thing he needs to say. It fills the hole in my tapestry where I didn’t even know something was still missing.

Where did that come from? Not from me. I was too busy over-thinking it. Sometimes the best thing you can do is get out of your own way. It’s times like these when you need to take a walk. Then these little puzzles have a way of simply solving themselves.

Thanks for coming along on our walk. But I don’t imagine these kinds of experiences belong only to writers. Where do you go, what do you do when you need to clear your head? What helps? We’re taking suggestions to expand our own repertoire. Thanks for joining us today. Here, have a glass of chilled Barley Water, and here’s the recipe while we’re at it!

Barley Water, the Regency answer to lemonade, from REGENCY RECIPES by Marie-Pierre Moine and Antonia Williams, Arundel Press, 1995.

MAKE 2 PINTS

Juice and grated zest of two juicy unwaxed lemons

4 oz. pearl barley

2 oz. sugar

Bring to the boil two pints of water with the grated zest of lemons. Add the barley, sugar, and lemon juice and return to the boil. Reduce the heat a little and simmer for about 10 minutes.

Take off the heat, leave until cold, then strain through a muslin-lined sieve. Chill until needed and drink very cold.

(Note: Cheesecloth or even a sturdy coffee filter might suffice if you don’t have a muslin sieve.) I’m going to try this! Let me know if you do, too, and what you think of it!

Today I’m redecorating the ballroom in the spirit of the London Summer Olympics! At first I considered just posting a lot of photos of the US men’s diving and water polo teams, but I figured Lady B would wonder how I came to be in possession of all those “portraits”. So I’m going rather more traditional instead.

We all know Brits of the 18^th and 19^th centuries were simply wild about collecting antiquities. Since their empire stretched far and wide, they had plenty of opportunities to collect (Read: “abscond with”) fabulous works of art from ancient Rome, Greece, and Egypt. Recall Miranda’s delightfully provocative discussion of the Elgin Marbles. We ladies of The Ballroom aren’t above capitalizing on England’s obsession with antiquities in our novels. In the Arms of a Marquess features a gallery full of naked marbles that makes Tavy remarkably agitated. And of course Sarah’s Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord is all about ancient sculptures. In one scene Isabel is even stood against a statue of a goddess and… ahem… worshipped.

A pair of huge men enters the ballroom pulling a wheeled dolly upon which is strapped a bronze statue. 

Oh, terrific, gentlemen! You can place that one right over there. I point to an empty nook along one wall that looks like it needs filling. (No potted plant!) It’s early yet and there are few guests in the ballroom, so the men head straight across. 

Miss Ashe, I will eat my hat if those persons are in fact gentlemen.

I swing around to greet our hostess, Lady B. She’s in all her Monday ball splendor: peacock colored gloves, draping violet lace, and a rather fabulous turban.

“They aren’t!” I reply cheerily, because I’m redecorating and when I redecorate or clean or organize or arrange or write love scenes I’m always cheerful. “They’re dock workers. I borrowed them from How To Be a Proper Lady. And anyway I call everybody a gentleman because, well, after writing a hero like Jin, one never really knows, does one? Anyway, aren’t these men ideal for my project today?”

It’s a rhetorical question and Lady B — Queen of Rhetorical Questions — recognizes that. She surveys the next group of lumpers who are carrying into the ballroom a massive piece of carved white marble. 

“This one is gorgeous! Lady B, just look at all the expression the artist was able to convey even in the fragment that we have remaining.”

And what a fragment it is indeed.

Secretly I knew she’d love this.

“Indeed! It’s called Torso of a Kneeling Athlete, and it’s from around 300 BC.”

Excellent legs. Yet I have yet to be informed as to the reason for this invasion of nudity into my house, Miss Ashe.

The dock workers pass by with another piece. I cross my arms and survey the landscape. It’s looking very good in here, downright locker-room-esque.

“Well, you see, my lady, I’ve been appreciating athletes lately, especially the sorts that the ancient Greeks held in such high esteem. So I decided to spruce up the ballroom today with a bit of antiquity. And I do love ancient art, you know.”

You authoresses and your pet projects.

“Oh, look at that one. It’s a cista handle. Cistae were containers to hold precious objects. Doesn’t he look incredibly uncomfortable?”

And impressively flexible.

“True. But lest the Greeks be accused of favoring the male form (which actually they did, but who’s in the mood to blame these guys, huh?), here’s a cista in the shape of a woman.”

Lord Montague: “Very nice.”

Hello, Monty. Nice of you to show up today. How’s the head wound?

Monty: Better since you tended it with your angelic hands.

SNORT! 

Nephew, your flatteries will not work on my authoresses.

Why don’t more modern Olypians tie their sandals similarly garbed? It’s a shame, really.

Monty: (surveying the ballroom) I see I have- er- stiff competition.He casts me a wink and a naughty smile. Or at least it looks like a smile. His lip is still a little puffy from the row he got into last week, and the black and yellow discoloration around his eye makes him look like a half-baked raccoon. But we all know there’s a handsome cad underneath all those bruises and cuts nobly won in defense of the ladies. Lady B wouldn’t have him in the ballroom otherwise. And I particularly know this because I’ve seen his—

Miss Ashe, for once you have outdone yourself.

My mouth drops open. “For once?” But now I’ve seen what our hostess and her nephew and everybody else in the ballroom is staring at. The piece de resistance of my Olympics-inspired redecoration: the famous Roman marble copy of the Greek bronze discus thrower.

Well done, indeed, Miss Ashe.

Lady B is studying the discus thrower closely. I don’t think I’ll mention to her that Miranda came up with this one for my show. For now I’ll just bask in the rare gold medal glow of a mission accomplished

Have the Olympics inspired you to any special projects or extraordinary feats of athleticism? Are you watching them faithfully? What’s your favorite event? And if you could take any Olympic summer sport that wasn’t already around in the Regency era and make it all the rage with noblemen, what would it be? 

My sister recently returned from a trip to England, Scotland and Ireland. The first part of her trip was a walking tour in Yorkshire, which, for those of you who don’t know yet, is where the majority of The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe takes place.

My sister is also the first person to read anything I write, from first page to first kiss, to the end. Thus, as she knew that a sketchbook is featured prominently in the novella, she sent me this little bit of artwork created during her travels.

Then she sent me a photograph of what she was attempting to draw.

Speaking of inspirations, she also walked past the idyllic landscape which Ruskin said was an inspiration and certainly was for Turner and other artists.

Inspired by Captain Martin, the hero of my new novella, she sent me this photograph of Knaresborough Castle, which could certainly use a dark and brooding hero.

She also brought back these charming stuffed animals, which of course made me think of Tessa’s books.

Apparently the Duke of Argyll was signing keepsakes in the gift shop when she happened to visit Inveraray Castle. Thus, I have my very own book signed with “Argyll.”

Now, I am trying to imagine the titled descendents of my heroes and heroines sitting in a gift shop doing the same.

We all know from Jane Austen, that a woman must be highly accomplished. According to Darcy, “the word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen.” According to Miss Bingley, “a woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word…”

After her intrepid journey through the Pennines and the Dales, I believe one could say of my sister “she is a great walker.” She certainly showed off some of Miss Bingley’s qualifications: drawing (on her iPad), singing (Karaoke), dancing (on a cruise at the end of her trip), and proficiency in foreign languages (using her high school French when visiting Normandy). (To the despair of our matchmaking mother, she didn’t come affianced.) While journeying, my sister read (at my behest) the entire 50 shades trilogy. Do you think this is what Darcy had in mind by extensive reading? Regardless, what accomplishments do you think a modern woman should possess?

Oh, I just adore this painting.  Just adore it.  From the moment I saw it hanging in the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena, I adored it, and so I brought a print and hung it my office, and I look at it all the time.

Adoringly.

To begin with, it’s gorgeous.  I want that outfit.  That bright coral-pink against white and leaf green is one of my favorite color combinations, and I love a plunging neckline.   The fabric textures are rendered in such lush detail, and that green ribbon around her neck is sweetness itself.  Le Sigh.

Then we have all her writing implements on the table.  The airy, delicate quill.  The rather stodgier inkwell furtively ducking behind the chair–not wanting to be implicated, perhaps.  The sealing wax is ready and waiting, bright as a lipstick.  (You know this letter is going to be sealed fast and well, so as to protect its sensitive contents.)  Lastly, I adore that there are at least three or four sheets of paper.  Because everyone knows, no Young Girl can write a proper Love Letter with less than three or four sheets of paper.

But mostly, I adore this painting for Young Girl herself.  The look on her face… Dreamy, mischievous, conspiratorial, sweet, coy, hopeful all at once.   She makes me remember exactly what it felt like to be In Love as a young girl myself–the heady, all-consuming rush of infatuation.   When I was a teenager, I kept a diary – but I only ever wrote in it when I had a mad crush on a boy.  I should have known then I’d end up writing romance novels!

Perhaps in the comments, we can try our hand at transcribing the contents of the Young Girl’s letter.  What exactly is she writing, and to whom?  Probably it’s just my Little Women fixation talking, but I’m convinced her lover’s name is Rodrigo. 

Or if creative writing isn’t your thing on Saturdays, we can discuss memorable love letters in our lives, or in novels.  Or do you have any favorite novels that are written entirely  in letters?

One of my own favorites is Sorcery and Cecila, or The Enchanted Chocolate Pot, by Patricia Wrede and Caroline Stevermer.  It’s one part YA fantasy, one part Regency romance, entirely written in letters, and it is in all ways delightful.  In fact, I enjoy it so much, I’d like to give away one copy to a lucky commenter (print or digital, your choice).

Enter by midnight Pacific, and I’ll announce a winner on Sunday!

Normally, we save our writerly inspirations for the Saturday Salon, but it’s been a while since I’ve talked about Captain Martin and his meddling mother. And since a novella featuring these two will be releasing this summer, I thought maybe I’d mention him again. After all, the story was entirely inspired by Lady Beaufetheringstone’s ballroom.

(For a recap visit: In which Sabrina Darby drags yet another man into Lady B’s home.)

Lady B: Inspired by my ballroom? How lovely!

Sabrina: Well, I hear that your ballroom and gardens will be featured in many of the Authoresses’ new novels.

Lady B: And so my home should be immortalized. That is the purpose of art, naturally.

Sabrina: Naturally. And art plays a role in my little novella, too.

Lady B: What is it called?

Sabrina: Amazing, Lady B! You are on tonight. Almost as if you had played wingman before.

Albert: << squawk >> Wingman! << squawk >>

Sabrina: In any event, the story is titled The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe.

Lady B: So that is the actresses’ name!

Sabrina: Ah! You remember that bit of rumor. Well, I won’t substantiate if it’s true or not…at least not yet. My cousin asked me to be discreet, and while I know in just two and a half months, no one will be able to contain the scandal…the least I can do is give her a bit more time to prepare.

Lady B: Miss Darby, we have all been around the Ballroom long enough to know how this works. Time is irrelevant. I want you to invite Miss Whitcombe to the Ballroom, especially before she heads north for Yorkshire.

Sabrina: I most definitely will. I assure you Lady B, that the next time I help host one of your balls, Miss Whitcombe will attend. In the meantime, speaking of Yorkshire, my sister is heading there next week for a walking tour. (I’m totally jealous!) Which reminds me, Lady B…in advance, I can tell you this much about Miss Whitcombe. When I asked her for packing advice for my sister, she gave me the following list:

• sturdy shoes
• warm outerwear
• a sketch book, to record the many picturesque sights

While I’m certain my sister will trade a sketchbook for a camera, I know she has the first two items on the list. I’ve been trying to tell her that, if she insists on copying Angelina, she’d best be open to meeting a completely ineligible but perfect for her alpha male. She steadfastly contends that she is not the heroine of a romance book. Of course, we know better, do we not Lady B?

Lady B: Every young lady is a romance heroine waiting to happen.

Sabrina: Exactly!

Albert: << squawk >> Wingman! << squawk >>

In any event, I’ve asked her to spy on John and Angelina and give us all the juicy details as they get to know each other in that ruin of a castle. But aside from that somewhat difficult task for a 21st century real woman, what advice would you give a young woman travelling alone in Yorkshire? And does anyone have travel plans for the summer?

Dear guests, I bring you now — for the first time anywhere — the cover of How To Be a Proper Lady, coming June 26.

 

 

This glorious cover — so completely perfect for Jin and Viola — inspires me today to wax eloquent on The History of Man Chest Art.

Man Chest Art goes back to “the dawn of time.” (That quote is from my history class undergraduates, by the way, for which I give them very poor grades.) Take this cave painting discovered in Altamira, Spain, for instance:

Just look at those fantastic four packs! (Back in the Ice Age they didn’t have those little plastic six-pack holders, because, well, plastic. Anyway, a man could only reasonably carry two cans of beer in each hand at a time. Thus, four-pack abs instead of six-pack abs.)

[Note: I am a Professional Historian. I know these things.]

Then there were the Greeks, of course (because the Greeks always come into every conversation if you chat for long enough. Go ahead. Try it some time. Start with some really innocuous topic — like breakfast cereal. Mark my words, within an hour someone will mention the Greeks. Or is that Kevin Bacon?) And speaking of meat, the ancient Greeks adored Man Chest Art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Greeks made lots and lots and lots of Man Chest Art that the Romans then copied because there was only one thing Romans loved more than Man Chest Art: the Greeks. (See? Back to the Greeks. I told you.)

Actually, I made that up. The Romans were insanely jealous of the Greeks so they conquered them then copied all their best art and pantheon and empire and Other Important Things Like That.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Incidentally, like the Greeks, the Romans also liked heaving bosom art. But really incidentally, because this post isn’t about heaving bosoms [which is why this bit is in parentheses, obviously]. So refocus, kay? Here’s some inspiration to help with that.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More recently (roughly five hundred years ago, so not exactly recent, though in geological terms it was just this morning), Michelangelo Buonarroti simply adored creating Man Chest Art.

Here’s another Michelangelo, this one from 1505, shifting us from stone to a softer medium, though I will venture to note the obvious: THERE IS NOTHING SOFT ABOUT THIS MAN.

 

Finally, just a bit later (the aforementioned five hundred years-or-so-ish), romance novel publishers started producing Man Chest Art with vim and vigor. And what vim! What vigor! A few cases in point, beginning with our lovely Sarah’s St. John.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And since men with ink are my secret weakness (though I suppose it’s not so secret anymore… now… er…), I bring you Maya Rodale’s Sebastian, the Duke of Wycliff.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lest we ignore the flip side — literally — I invite you to feast your eyes on my favorite Man Back cover of all time, featuring Miranda’s delectable Cain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

So there you have it. Man Chests are an old and venerable artistic tradition. I hope your Saturday is now as inspired as mine.

And speaking of man chests, the first chapters of How To Be a Proper Lady are now posted on my website. There’s nothing like a gorgeously ripped sailor… in the rain… tied up… to inspire a lady to undress him. Enjoy!

What is your favorite example of Man Chest Art — from any century?

Happy Weekend, Everyone! Lady B is not at-home today, I’m afraid. Albert flew off with the earring she was about to put on, and Her Ladyship and the staff are chasing that naughty bird all over her (very grand) Town mansion. It’s quite a row out there, so I thought I might sit down safely here in the parlor and chat with you all today about one of my favorite subjects: writing. 

I know we don’t talk about writing-craft subjects much at the Ballroom, but as I’ve been getting to know our visitors, I’ve noticed there are quite a few writers out there. So I wanted to show you a cool thing I made to help me get myself quickly into the Regency mindset when I sit down to write.

Basically, it’s just a simple collage covered with Regency images. Now, any of you scrapbooking girls out there could go way more elaborate than this. I did some image searches online, and then when I saw pictures that capture the “Regency” feel, I copied them into a Pictures folder on my computer. You could keep yours digital, but I printed them out on matte-finish photo paper, and then assembled them into a collage, below. Just trailing my gaze over all these Regency images instantly puts my head into “Writing Historical Romance” mode… 

(Note: Of course, you just can’t take the images and use them publicly, for copyright reasons. I’m sharing them here so you get the idea, but I believe this falls under educational use, anyway. A lot of my pics came from Wikipedia, which allows people to use images under Creative Commons.) 

Visual cues are really helpful, but more auditory people could get the same boost from Regency music. Some of my Regency-ish CD’s that I keep at the reader are:

          * Piano Classics from the World of Jane Austen, played by Karlyn Bond.

          * English Country Dances From Playford’s Dancing Master, 1651-1703, played by The Broadside Band. (This music is much earlier than Regency, but it’s very traditional and a part of everyday life, the kind of thing our heroes would hear in a pub. Note the Colonial America type sound.) 

          * Boccherini, played by Europa Galante.

If anyone has additional suggestions for Regency music, please do share them with us! I could always use more recommendations! 

Another interesting senory trigger that I learned about from an Australian author, Melissa James, at her RWA workship one year, was to also use a scented candle (or other scented thing) as an additional cue to pop your brain right back into the story. Smell is a very powerful trigger for evoking memories. So if you anchor yourself to a particular smell that goes with one story, then anytime you smell it, it would work to bring the whole story of your W-I-P (work-in-progress) flooding back to the forefront of your mind, the same way that, for example, the smell of gingerbread cookies baking might trigger someone to remember being back at their grandma’s house in childhood, if that was the setting that you associated with that smell.

Ms. James suggested this was particuarly useful if somebody is writing more than one story; it would help to keep the different stories straight, by cueing with the different smells. Make sense?

These kinds of triggering tactics can really be applied to anything someone has to do. I think it kind of relates to “State Dependent Learning.” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/State-dependent_learning if you’ve never heard of that. It’s a very cool and useful thing! I think I first heard about it from motivational guru Tony Robbins, aka “Banana Hands” as Jack Black called him in Shallow Hal.)

It’s always fun to have an excuse to make a little craft project, anyway, especially when it’s something useful. Do you guys have any tips for how you get your head into the story when you sit down to write?

And btw, any scrapbookers out there? I wonder how my simple, plain collage could be prettied up…

Gaelen