The idea for hashtagreporter came from the wish to be able to follow events as they occur from the viewpoint of local journalists, activists and citizens on the ground. We created a system so that you can: Mark your local reports so that they are easier to find. Search for local reports from people who might not have a huge international following of their own and aren't as easy to find in the content jungle online. To create the hashtag: Use the first three letters of the COU ntry you are reporting from, followed by the first three letters in the CIT y followed by R for report.
Contact lovisa governessfilms. Lisa Russell brought some amazing poets to the United Nations to perform as isellthedhadow which aims to create more meaningful partnerships between artists and UN and NGO communities. Lovisa Inserra helped produce an exhibition in Burma that Aung San Suu Kyi opened with photographs of the ethnic tribes in the region. After the exhibition the images were donated to The National Museum in Yangon, for preservation of the photographs for generations to come. In May the exhibition toured to Stockholm and Oslo. The film is part of the critics week in Venice this year.
Swedish artist Anna Odell invites us to a grim class reunion with a twist. What happens when old hierarchies and truths are questioned from an unexpected voice? This film investigates how far, too far reality is. It traverses the border between fiction and reality with Odell playing the main character, using her own identity and life story to go into unspoken and invisible hierarchical structure. By processing the story in multiple layers, the complexity of power and exclusion is revealed and the dynamics of the group is exposed.
Its blood brews the coffee at your table. Its ghosts wander your darkness; children whose bones were ground into sugar pound on the wet glass. You can shred their hands on the broken panes, but it will not keep them out—some of them are already inside. The governess feels chilled, though she does not know why. Mason, the newest houseguest, is brought below stairs, his shirt soaked with blood, his pale eyes rolling. The words stagger down the halls, leaving bloody handprints on the yellow wallpaper.
The changeling is all for going to the attic herself, candlestick in hand, to do. She does not know what to call the strange power seething under her skin, but something dreadful seems to be called for. The young woman shakes her head silently. There is blood seeping into the floorboards, crawling into the bones of the past. The housekeeper is on her knees, trying to prevent a stain. The governess resumes her correspondence with the attic. This time her note contains a single word: Why? A few days later, she receives a reply, left on her pillow as though by an evil fairy.
Her master begins subtly, he thinks , by asking Jane what she thinks of the house. Of course she must approve of the house: Despite its Gothic appearance, the ghost in the attic, the alleged homicidal impulses of its servants, it is the only home she has. From here it is a short step to approving of the man himself, or so he hopes. The governess, to her credit, is skeptical.
She is in love with him, yes: but he is older than she, richer than she, and is a gentleman. Also, there is the matter of the attic. She is astute enough not to mention the attic aloud, but she looks meaningfully in the direction of the house. Rochester chooses to ignore her gaze. Her master has answers for her: His wealth and age are usually considered good things, and he hates parties, so she will not have to mix much in society.
On the morning of the wedding, the governess wakes with a mound of salt in her mouth. She spits out the white powder—her mouth is dry, so dry—and kicks away the iron horseshoe that someone has left at the foot of her bed. She sits up trembling, enraged. Her fey self is housed in human flesh, and such weak tricks will not work on her.
But the changeling knows she has been threatened. Someone in this house does not wish her well. She glances askance at the servants who help her with the veil. One of them, perhaps?
One of the laughing kitchen girls she called a friend? Or the housekeeper? She looks like a ghost in her bridal gown, a feathery concoction of silk and lace. Her master chose it for her, and who is Jane to argue? She owns no clothes but those that are handed to her. Rubbing the glitter of salt from her lips, she tells herself that all will be well.
It is only a dress, after all. Uncertainly, Adele twists her tiny hands in front of her. The wedding will start soon. As the flowergirl, Adele is expected to perform, and yet she is still imperfect, still flawed. Desperation makes her bold. It sounds like dead leaves scraping together. Adele shakes her head. There are so many things she wishes she could say, but her perfect mouth cannot form the words. The wedding guests shuffle as Jane walks in. The priest speaks and the governess tries to listen.
Tension is gathering around her. It looks like Mason. Someone must have said something. Rochester turns to look at Mason. Adele is standing perfectly poised, one graceful hand cupped to her face in a perfect mimicry of shock. Rochester is furious. He would kill Mason if he could, but this is England, and the wedding guests would be positively shocked. The governess follows behind, wondering if this is the worst Blanche can do to her.
Then she sees they are to go into the attic. She pauses at the top of the stairs, her skin prickling. Things are about to change. She can feel it. The governess hears the woman before she sees her. Snarls, thick and guttural, the sounds life makes when it refuses to be stamped out. A lurching, scrabbling figure on the floor, all hair and fingernails. Its look is hateful.
Jane recognizes that look, and the ring of salt that surrounds the woman. She recognizes the horseshoes nailed to the wall. They have kept her here, this fey thing, safely away from their white table cloths and dining sets. The attic rattles with her fury. Grace Pool, that whispering servant, warns them to take care. It is not in mortal discretion to fathom her craft. Lured, perhaps, by the abjection of the groveling shadow, the gentlemen draw closer, staring the way people do through the bars of a cage. One of them disturbs the salt with the toe of his boot. Instantly the fairy is at them, desperate for a chance to inflict damage.
The magic that curls at her fingertips still blazes power. Her bared teeth are yellow. They draw blood. They wrestle her down, pin her to the floorboards. Her magic is too tattered to stop them. She moans and hisses into the veins of wood, her bare feet kicking vaguely at the air. The changeling has never seen one of the pure fey before. There were images, to be sure, memories lurking in her blood, but none of them prepared her for this once-proud creature clawing at floorboards, eyes empty of reason.
Jane shudders, almost shrugs the hand off. One of the gentlemen asks a question. With her master distracted, Jane turns away from the madwoman on the floor, and the cluster of spectators. Unnoticed, she slips down the stairs, each step creaking familiarly in a house she no longer feels at home in. She does not take much. There is no time: They will be downstairs soon, and someone might run after her with pleas and reasonable explanations. It is cold, bitterly cold, and the changeling is not dressed for the weather. Her flesh suffers the elements as severely as any human, though her fey nature sings on the wind.
Home, she thinks bitterly. At some point she sleeps, or tries to, huddling on a muddy bank under the shelter of a wind-beaten tree. At dawn she rises, scraping away the frost that has formed on her skin. She follows paths no humans could walk, under hills and through stones, through the abandoned tunnels and empty barrows that mark the deserted cities of the fey. No friendly fires welcome her. Wearily she directs her path out of the earth. She is almost at the end of her magic now; even her fey self cannot keep walking much longer.
And yet she sets one foot in front of the other, stubborn to the end. Her path takes her to the house at Marsh End, a lonely hermitage of a building.
Teaser Book Review: The Governess of Penwythe Hall By Sarah E. Ladd – Read Write Breathe
The servant who answers gives this wandering beggar a crust of bread before sending her off. The changeling accepts it numbly. She no longer has the strength for gratitude. She does not eat the bread. With her last strength, she draws a splayed cross on the dust of the road and lays the bread on top of the symbol. The clockwork girl sits in her room, counting the beats of her imperfect heart. Nobody cares if she studies penmanship, or asks her hard questions about the kings of England. I need you to do something for me, the attic says.
This time Adele claps her hands over her ears. The changeling comes back to life slowly. Her mind is in pieces and every piece of it hurts. She hears voices, sees fragments of faces. Some of them are there, some are elsewhere, some are long ago.
The quintessential Regency novel mixed with a hint of a Gothic Tragedy.
The grace and harmony of beauty are quite wanting in those features. The changeling groans. She wants to tell them that she knows she is plain; she has never had any pretensions to beauty. Whatever wild looks run in the blood of the fey passed her by. What is left is a dull composite of dreams unfulfilled.
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Where are your people? What is your name? I have no people. There was a governess who worked in a house of thorns. She fell in love with a man but discovered his past locked in an attic. She ran away, like a madwoman broken free. She was adopted by a family. They lived in the house at Marsh End, and all ended happily ever after. The alias is easy to answer to. Jane nods and smiles. John that Jane is most aware of. The master of the house is an austere man, a man made of marble, white and cold. The changeling feels obliged to him, on account of his saving her life, and on account of his being a religious man.
John has located a position for Mary. She is to be a governess. For a moment she thinks she hears a footfall overhead, but of course there is no attic here. Her mind is playing tricks on her again. She manages to congratulate Mary on her new employment. In truth, it is good news of a sort, for these gentlewomen have very little to live on, and their brother is to go for a missionary.
The magic that sleeps in these people is buried deep. In the women it almost never surfaces—their dreams are cramped by poverty. Also, they are afraid of their brother, of his torrential ambitions and drive to know God. The changeling senses his magic and fears it, for it flows down the narrow channels carved by his religion. John does not know he is different. He believes he has a destiny.
Such people are dangerous. But, she thinks, this family means her no harm. They are the first other changelings that she has found. And where else would she go? The housekeeper turns and looks at her sharply. Rochester asks. He almost never listens. Astonished, Adele loses her balance and lands flat-footed.
Rochester is staring out the window again, waiting for someone. The woman he is looking for will not return, Adele thinks, not as long as the house has curses piled up at its door. This is not a good place for a child. Not anymore. Rochester is silent for a moment. He has a young girl your age. Adele is horrified. Other girls? She imagines a pair of rivals, their hair curled more perfectly than hers, their artificial bodies perfectly poised.
Afterward, when she has been sent to her room, she climbs up on one of the posts of her tall bed and puts her fingers against the ceiling. Curses sleep on every tongue.
The Governess of Penwythe Hall
Here, at least, she has a place; she is cosseted and somewhat protected. Then you must do what I tell you. The attic is relentless on this point. It has been whispering the same thing for weeks. In Moor House, Jane is saying her goodbyes again. This time she is bidding farewell to her two protectors, the earnest changelings who do not know what they are. They do not know how to form charms; they have not seen the dead cities of the fey.
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Jane pities them, and envies them, too. While she will miss them all, it will be a relief not to steel her mind against St. When he talks to her, she does not feel like herself. She becomes the quiet, mouse-like creature she resembles, nodding at his every statement. Just as she thinks this, a shadow falls on her shoulder. John asks, his voice mild and ominous. The changeling wipes her damp hands on her skirt. There is nothing to be afraid of, she tells herself as she follows him out.
Adele does not follow this logic. She does not understand what a plain, mousy thing like her governess could have in common with the attic. But seeing as she cannot win the argument, she shrugs and reaches for the candle. The changeling walks on the heath with St. He looks, she thinks, like an animated statue, the kind that stalk young maidens through Italian castles.
Instantly her heart sinks. She is aware of the magic that swirls strongly around him. She raises barriers against its will. Here he pauses, and she can almost hear him trying to frame what he senses but cannot admit: that the blood that runs in her veins is, like his own, wild and godless, thick with alien magic. Keep in good health and never die. The old, rebellious answer springs to her tongue, but this time she bites down on it. She has too much to lose. To die in flame, in other words. He must know that foreign soil is fatal to their kind.
He knows it; she can see the light of martyrdom in his eye. Someone who can aid me in my labors, visiting the natives, tending to me when I am ill. In short, that I may need a wife. Jane says nothing. All her breath has frozen inside her. She can see his plan now, unfolding before her. Yes, she would be the perfect wife for him: quiet, obedient, tumbling with him into an early grave. And if not?
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A ring of salt, a circle of iron. John is getting angry now, his unacknowledged magic constricting the air. Already Jane can feel the awful charm forming, and part of her wonders if this was how the Masons caught the madwoman in the attic. People can pretend you have choices even as they deny you the air you breathe.
Still, she summons her strength to make her final reply. And it is in the summoning that she feels something tear away from her. On the other side of the shadow someone calls her name as they fall into a terrible light. Leaving St. John bewildered in her wake, she runs across the heath, her skirt bunched up in her hands, the mud splattering her boots. Someone, somewhere, has done an awful thing.
She can feel the narrative buckling around her as the story changes. She is, therefore, not surprised to see a bearded man standing at the door, message in hand. Her heart sinks. She slows to a walk, trying to delay the last few seconds before the man speaks, knowing that whatever he says will propel her in a final direction. They saw the madwoman, a candle in each hand, her hair fizzing in tendrils of smoke. They say she laughed as she jumped. Her crazed brains made wet puddles on the stones below.
The master tried to follow her as far as he could. To the edge of the roof, and almost over it.