Post by rainy on Jul 19, 2011 13:50:54 GMT -5
IC
Character Name: Francis Bonnefoy
Nationality: French
Gender: Male
Birthday: 07/14
Age:31
Education:
[/researched the crap out of this lmao sob /in chronological order]
Diplôme d’études supérieures en conservation-restauration d’œuvres peinte (Conservation and Restoration of Paintings) from École d’art d’Avignon, Avignon, France
Diplôme national supérieur d’arts Plastiques (DNSAP) (BAC + 5; roughly equivalent to a Master of Arts/Master of Fine Arts as of 2006) from École nationale supérieure des beaux-arts (ENSB-A), Paris, France
Ph.D., Art History from Northwestern University, Weinburg College of Arts and Sciences; Evanston, Illinois, USA (concentration: 18th and Early 19th Century French Overseas Empire, Colonialism, and Trade)
Master of Arts Management (MAM), Carnegie Mellon University, Heinz College; Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA
Occupation: Contemporary art curator for alternative art spaces, moonlights as an art-house dealer, art critic, and freelance painter
Family: Marianne Moreau - mother, Gérard Bonnefoy - father; PMing Mathieu for Uncle status if accepted, which would make him Alfred's uncle in turn; Seychelles, Monaco, Vietnam -- nations in the Francophonie are welcome to PM for family status. I'd love to PM Feliciano and Lovino for cousin status.
Hometown: Paris, France; travels frequently for work (and pleasure), and often goes overseas for business - has a flat in West London, England.
Starting Town: New York City, USA
Brief History: Francis arrived on a hot but breezy July evening, smack dab in the middle of the Paris metropolis during the crazy festivities of La Fête Nationale. A single child, born relatively young and affluent parents, he was spoiled rotten as a child--which has greatly influenced his boisterous but demanding personality.
Due to the nature of his mother's work--a top-tier costume designer and lecturer--and that of his father's--a senior manager at Yves Saint Laurent--, Francis was swept across the globe when he was younger (until he entered primary school--but even then, during the infamously long Autumn breaks and vacations), hitting fashion hot-spots from Milan to Tokyo to New York City in addition to developing cities and nations in their quests to find the latest inspirations. By adolescence, he'd managed to pick up several other languages, develop an eye for authenticity and patterns through attending high-to-low end art shows and galas, and grew increasingly wary of large conglomerates like PPR.
In other words, a charmed hipster upbringing.
When his parents were away, Francis was sent to live with his grandmother's out in Brittany--more quaint, less rushed, a small house with a large garden--and he developed an equal affinity with the countryside and with the small, eclectic library "Mamie" put together. In addition to gaining artistic sensibilities, he grew fond of painting landscapes and people, reading, playing pranks on the English families who came to summer in Northern France, cooking and cleaning with Mamie, and wandering off on his own to study the local plants and animals and sleep in the fields.
Both of these worked to create a tendency for him to be happy and at ease both in social situations and in solitude. He was a good enough student throughout secondary--with an especially high interest in the arts, maths, and history, and eventually submitted portfolios to national colleges, getting accepted into a conservation program down in Southern France soon after. Not knowing exactly what part of the arts he was interested in, he polished up and applied to the prestigious ENSB-A, squeaking into their holistic approach (as opposed to direct coursework with DNAP/DNAT/DNSEP diplomas) and thereafter working his ass off for the next five years, becoming increasingly excited by art theory and critique and "inter-studio relations." In all senses. Playboy status is go. With beautiful things.
During that period of intense study, he'd already moved out--much to his mother's protest; most university students tended to stay at home --and lived around campus in a shared flat, experimenting with the idea of independence. (Although, he visited both his parents and Mamie quite often. Financial ties were still there, in addition to the emotional ones.) If he hadn't managed to snag a job as a bartender to pay the bills, he would've been a full-blown bohemian.
It was only after a friend who'd moved overseas convinced him to study abroad that he hesitantly dropped protests with local galleries to apply to Northwestern--not because he was particularly thrilled about Illinois, more due to researching their background and grudgingly accepting their program as one of the best. And also because he couldn't help the nose-wrinkle from imagining himself at an American Ivy League school (mon dieu) and dealing with all that Old and New Money business.
Without much investment in any romantic relationship beyond friends with benefits and casual sex, he plowed through the studies, decided he could afford a quick track into art management, and popped out again without much angst. Naturally, after diving into grants and teacher-ships and contests to ward off student debts, and only casually working with the local art scene and interning at a handful of museums, he ended up without fantastic employment options.
Through a little luck, the black book, a lot of bribery, a good dose of charm, and making others double-take at his C.V., Francis has found a relatively steady job as a curator based in Paris but with extensions the world-round. He's hooked back with his old Alma maters to write academically and critically in his spare time, and has been thinking of doing extended research or going back eventually for courses in engineering and chemistry (which he still had a fondness for, from secondary school), but his current life has been satisfying enough--not to mention being in school for the better part of his life has put him somewhat out-of-touch with the real world. When he's not discussing prospects or attending seminars, he's usually on the lookout for interesting artists--mostly wandering by the artists' quarters of any city or town he's in--, sketching or painting outside, cooking for and with friends and acquaintances (he prefers eating and drinking with others), playing bass and dancing at the local jazz haunt, running, and talking politics with his parents on the phone and via the Internet and snail-mail--at the very least, it keeps his mother from spamming him with demands for grandchildren to spoil.
Personality: The one word that defines Francis best on the outside is: charismatic. The one word that defines him best on the inside: whimsical. Charming, intelligent, laid-back, he also has a tendency to manipulate and bully those around him--intended or not. He's used to getting his way, and often feels quite entitled. He's been branded as narcissistic, but hey, sheesh, have you seen the man? While a bit flighty, he does hold true to his word, and will often offer aid to those who need it (in actuality or in his imagination). It might take a night in his bed to effectively persuade them, but he's not so cruel as to withhold resources.
He can be quite aggressive--he's got a fiery temper stored deep beneath his smiling exterior, but since he rarely gets into confrontations (he brushes off negative reactions like water off a duck's back), he's still unused to the concept of a "fair fight." With the exception of politics, backlash against France, his family, hot-button global issues (he's a lover of non-profit initiatives), and a select few people, he pushes the verbal zingers but keeps from getting physical. In a manner of speaking.
Still, despite his love of repartee and sharp wit--he has a penchant for thinly veiled sarcasm--, he's generally a sweet guy. A little touchy-feely, sure, but it should be an honour to touch him in the first place. As an artist (and a Frenchman), he finds beauty in many things, and rarely hesitates to give a compliment where it is deserved. Oddly enough, despite being from the self-proclaimed "pays d'amour," he has no real concern about being attached to anyone, instead reveling in romance and companionship. This doesn't mean that he wouldn't take someone for a whirl if they caught his eye long enough to elevate their existence.
Very distinct characteristics are, however: alternating perfectionism (he can be somewhat anal-retentive when it comes to things like food or clothing and, of course, calling a work of art a 'piece' of art) and the complete absence of it (slacking off and saving all his work for two or three nights of the week, for instance), being highly conscious of developments in the art and fashion scenes and thus a particular about his appearance, having the gift of gab, unabashedly carefree, being a voracious flirt, over-thinking things, and unafraid to speak his mind.
He loves surprises and surprising, however, so showing off another facet of himself will come along sooner or later.
Appearance: Slim--but with more muscle than fat (sex makes magic. As does running. And walking and biking)--and clean-cut, Francis stands at 175 cm, long legs and slightly broad shoulders typically emphasized by his wardrobe. He has gently--purposefully--tousled silk-like hair (the colour of cornsilk) that curls into soft waves toward the base of his neck. You know. Adonis. (Admittedly, some part of him does wish he was a bit taller.) His eyes, coloured a mix of cerulean blue and lavender, are generally very warm--and he often wears a teasing, sly expression as if he knew something you didn't.
While his skin tone is more pale than tan (he still gets sunburned fairly frequently, much to his irritation), he's out and about year-round, and has something close enough to a tan that makes him look and feel healthy. Again with the hair--well groomed. He keeps a barely-there stubble because he thinks it makes him look more mature.
For scars, he has a few permanent scrapes on his hands from mishandling kitchen and painting tools when younger, and a faint line on the side of his neck from a close call with a kitchen knife. (Never let it be said that Francis isn't a tiny bit clumsy. He's learned to focus since then.) He's broken bones before, but it's hadn't left a lasting mark on the exterior.
He's double pierced in both ears, but only wears earrings on occasion. There's a small tattoo of an English rose on his left foot, an a small musical note composed of the words "non, je ne regrette rien" just below his clavicle.
He's never had any insecurities about his appearance--despite being teased for his effeminate looks, especially when he was younger, which he never understood, since the women he met were almost always better dressed. Pity men didn't understand how to highlight their assets. (He's always admired his mother and grandmother's attitude and dress, and linked that to their successes.)
[/DIES FROM LAUGHING /PERSONAL AD]
Fashion Style: Not quite hipster. He's a bit past the age and desire to wear skinny jeans, although boot-cuts are still acceptable. For him, he pulls a Frenchman and goes chic and sophisticated, with only the occasional glasses-for-glasses's-sake.
The BEST way of illustrating, visually, how he dresses is near anything you'd see on kinowear.com. This board seems to have some trouble linking to images, so a salute to that site.
Basics: everything he wears--formal or casual (e.g., a loosened tie, the top few buttons of his shirt unbuttoned)--is tailored to fit. (See: www.kinowear.com/blog/bfd-bad-fit-disease/)
He's especially fond of layering solid colour dress shirts with vests and jackets or blazers, and experiments with the entire Crayola box. (While he doesn't wear them as often, he finds sweatervests and cardigans very cute. /hint)
Trousers are a favourite, although he wears jeans when he feels like he can style them up to his liking. (The same with collared shirts and shorts. If it's a very casual event or if he's on his own, out in the park or whatnot, he'll dress-down.)
He's a fan of scarfs and sunglasses, fedoras/berets/ivy-caps (Kangol, Borsalino, and Goorin are his favourite brands), and prefers Venetian-style (loafers), oxfords, monks, dress/desert boots. Bacco Bucci and Crockett & Jones are his turn-to brands, there. Sometimes Ferrini. (He'd love John Lobb's or Edward Green, but he's an art curator, not a stock broker.)
Other accessories he likes are simple belts and ties. The first--bucklers are for cowboys, and the second--he likes them there for the other party to tug on flirtatiously.
(Other Reference: iamradneyhernandez.files.wordpress.com/2011/07/19romantics-slide21.jpg, Kinowear, and the John Varvatos collections)
And this is casual.
Goals: There are BOATLOADS of art competitions he loves to, well, compete in. He's thought about trying for CAPES/(French) professorship examination just for the challenge, since he's easily bored.
On the serious side, he does want to make a name for himself within the art scene, soon. He loves his current job--it suits him and his personality--but eventually he wants to have a career that will tie him to art institutions of prestige--the Louvre, MoMA, the Met, for example. If he remains in arthouses, he'd love a connection with Sotheby's. He's thought about one day becoming an art professor--teaching or doing within the academic community or the non-profit community. And, as previously mentioned, he's thinking of studying something more "practical" in the future--maths or engineering or chemistry. Art has always been his mistress, is the problem.
Right now, he's fairly content, and is mostly enjoying the first two years of fresh air he's gotten since Carnegie Mellon. Maybe, one day, he'll think of settling down.
Secret: He keeps his insecurities buried beneath both genuine and faked confidence. He's all over the place with his interests; and despite all his accomplishments and schooling, he doesn't really know what he wants: to do, in life, from others. Part of the reason why he's consciously sated is that he's afraid of analyzing the possible superficiality (real or false) of his lifestyle and future. His expectations of himself are off the charts, and he won't know what to do if he can't accomplish them all. He overangsts and is terribly melodramatic, and it's tough for others to handle him at both his worst and his best, so he wonders about his ability to manage relationships. Secretly, he wants to fall in love.
Other: THERE WILL PROBABLY BE SOMETHING
RP Sample: Something I Totally WriterBlocked Out On The Spot Because I Have No Former Literate RP Examples
He leans back against the edge of his desk--ignoring the soft jab of a notebook against his side--and crosses his arms while his newest client jerks around to stab him with a look of consternation. At the very least, she didn't take off the stilettos to hurl at his throat. "I will not pay a single cent-" a harsh snap at the end, "-for something that looks straight out of Kinko's. I asked for the originals!"
A bit of an overreaction.
Americans. Honestly. Francis measures a sigh, light enough to express indirect discontent but subtle enough to avoid accusation and disgruntlement."Z'ey are z'e original prints, mademoiselle. You asked f'er a compilation of Leo Fontan's illustration prints, ouai?" A lilt at the end, stressing the French accent. They always liked that, those confusing Anglophones. A quick gesture to the easels, where said prints were delicately displayed in protective wrappings. "I can pull up z'e contract."
Business was business, but he can't help the cold chill running down his spine at the thought of leaving a priceless collection of Art Deco in this woman's hands, even if the majority of it was scantily clad flappers. Fontan had good taste.
"Please. I believe I asked for the oils." Clipped, but less vitriolic. There was a step.
Would flipping her off be considered unprofessional?
A few seconds of rifling through his briefcase, and he's allowing her to step into him, gauging her mood as she begins to flush in mortification at her mistake--and what a mistake, paying for a specialist to gather art that she never intended to buy--, a pinched look on her face tightening ever so gradually as he elaborates on the various works of Leo Fontan.
Embarrassment. There were only so many different reactions that would follow.
"Mademoiselle," the tone gets softer, more comforting, and when she looks at him she won't see his face, but the one she needs to see. "I will be 'appy to find z'e landscapes for you." Final touch. "Z'at is why I am 'ere."
She twists her gloved hands into one another, bright eyes flickering toward his before darting back to the window behind him. She couldn't have been more than thirty, herself. "That won't be possible. I... these aren't for me, Mr. Bonnefoy."
Resigned. Check.
"Ah?" Look curious, but don't say a word.
A bitten lip. "They're for my husband. It's our anniversary next week."
There was a minor choke in her voice at the reminder. Discord, then?
"Ah... 'e is an admirer of Leo Fontan?"
"He's a fan of naked women, for sure."
Perhaps...
He tilts his palm upwards, vocalizing a melodramatic sigh. "Men."
There. The reluctant but inevitable lip twist of amusement. "...Yes." And then, a suddenly sheepish expression. "I do apologize for my outburst earlier. That was truly unladylike."
A little more.
"De rien, Madam Marshell; you must be stressed."
Scoff. "Oh, just call me Judith. I hate that last name." A handwave. "And he'll just have to suck it up, so to speak." A tired smile. "I'll see how much he begs for the landscapes. It's such an oxymoron."
A slow drawl of a laugh, tinged with the slightest underlining of empathy. "Oui."
And there. There. The slight duck of the head, the hat brim momentarily covering her eyes, the smallest hint of a flush bridging her nose.
Checkmate. Francis heaves a mental sigh. This one wasn't so difficult, but three insecure buyers beating down his door before lunch hour? Manhattan was thick with stress; he was surprised people could still breathe around him, sometimes.
He straightens up and verbally cleanses the air with a little teasing, loosening up the stiff upper-lips of the upper-uppers that ran rampant around this town. Forms, signed. Confirmation, done. Delivery, in the works.
By the time she's easing into his presence and giving up a smile, he's halfway through explaining Fontan's portraits during the second half of The Great War; she departs with dew-coloured eyes and a warm farewell, giving him a quick appraisal over her shoulder before clicking her heels--far more calm, now--on the marble floor, toward the lobby and away from the showroom.
Now, to payroll, to ask for a bloody raise.
OOC
Name: rainy
Age: 21
Contact Info: Skype: latinized/email: drawhigteon@msn.com/LJ: pliash.
Website: Eh, let's just stick to Contact Info for now.
Other: I AM VERY VERBOSE and new to RPing. AND I AM SORRY I ACCIDENTALLY WROTE FRANCIS AS A MARY SUE. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I GO WITHOUT SLEEP TO WRITE AND RESEARCH A PROFILE APP. /sobs at application fail D|
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