Where it all began

Most architectural styles evolve, but the height, the light, and the extraordinary stained glass that we now call "Gothic" began with Abbot Suger and the church of St. Denis.  In a northern suburb of Paris, it is now surrounded by a working-class Muslim neighborhood.

Passages

Past the Pompidou, and between metro Les Halles and Etienne Marcel, is a historic market street with the unpronouncable name of  rue Montorgueil.  It's the street made famous in Monet's celebratory scene of a zillion waving red flags.  It rained buckets all afternoon and we took shelter in a restaurant called Marie Stuart.  We drank ice cold rosé by the bottle and then ordered singles.  Under the circumstances it seemed appropriate.   Best of all were the glass-topped passageways that led in and out of the neighborhood.

Chartres

Today I walked the labyrinth at Chartres.  It's good practice for life, just putting one foot in front of the other again and again.  After a while you let go, the breathing gets slow and deep. And the world steps back.

le rue Mouffetard

A long walk to le Mouffetard.  An even longer lunch.

Pilgrimage

Le Mont St-Michel.     Normandy Coast

Street Flowers

Comfort Food

If you know what's happening in the lives of my kids you'll understand that this has been a crazy, heartbreaking trip in every way.  But it was best for all that I didn't go home.  It rained all day, and tonight, some comfort food.

The Bird Market of Paris

Hunters and Gatherers

It's been said that women of a certain age,  in prehistoric societies, were invaluable because of their skill as hunter-gatherers.  Now we turn our talents toward flea market shopping.
The Paris Flea Market, Porte Dr Clignoncourt.

Count the Graces, Ira

You might possibly have missed one.

Venus Duh...and Other Delights

1.  We had to buy tickets and relearn the metro system today, which gave me opportunities to speak French all day.  My efforts were met with the same reaction each time.  First horror, then a slow acknowledgement and then..an answer to my question.  A form of success, oui??
   

Ira la Louvre...then Tuileries..then Arc Dr Triumph and finally a great cheap dinner prix fixe at la chat et la peche in the Latin Quarter.   Love those little winding streets.

69 rue de Perès

The first time I saw Paris I was dragging a red suitcase behind me.  It was bumping along the cobblestones and I was tense with fear and excitement, looking for Cornell University's offices where I would get my apartment assignment.  It would be the summer of the Gothic cathedral.  I didn't know on that day that I would never quite get over Paris.

Coming around again...

The apartment is good. The company is good. The food is good. The wine is good.  

And so on.

Daffodil Bundles

In a city where plastic is taboo, daffodils come with their own paper wrappers.

Yo. I'm an Art Class Dropout

Most of my friends thought I was pretty dumb in high school. It wasn't until graduate school that I discovered the arts, found my niche, and was ok with myself. But here, today, I am back in adolescence feeling dumb and sneaking out of class.

Christopher, from figure drawing

This spring, as you know, has been the season of the class.  Figure drawing has been spectacular. Maureen, Tyler, Barbara, and all the other models  have turned their trimmed, clipped, and Brazillian'd sides to me and I have responded with drawings that are--in my estimation--far more lovely than anything I ever did in college.   Then I picked up the second class--watercolor.

Oh my.  What is happening here?  I have painted for a long time, but I know nothing,nothing about the science of watercolor.  What makes those amazing transparent crimsons I see in my friends' work?  How do I achieve...luminosity?  What is "granulating??"  This is what I wanted when I signed up for beginning watercolor.

So with the first class, we learned to do a wash.  Three hours of layering, but that was ok. Today I went back with my Arches (pronounced Ar-chay) paper and San Francisco Slant palette and we learned how to shade a cylinder.  For three hours we looked at a standing paper cylinder, and we shaded it, and shaded it, and shaded it.

I  took two drawing boards and taped down six sheets of paper. Then I turned my paper cylinder sideways to see the stapled edge, and began with that. Next I put a transparent yellow background around my cylinder and layered it with green for sort of a spring-asparagus color. That is when the trouble started.

The teacher came to me and said, "What is going on here, something different? It was not a nice tone of voice, either, the voice I heard.  What is this line doing in the cylinder?  Using my best southern-girl voice I pointed out the stapled edge and explained that I was putting the stapled edge of the paper cylinder in my painting.

Then she made an announcement to the whole class:    "If you are seeing the stapled edge of your cylinder, turn it around to the back side so it won't be a part of your painting.

Lorraine, from figure drawing wk 4

I wanted to slink out like a chastened puppy.  So very slowly, I moved my paint box outside the classroom door.  Then when the teacher wasn't looking I took my bag full of  Windsor Newtons and Ar-chay paper and put it outside the door as well.  Then I came back, grabbed my car keys, and when her back was turned I made a break for it.

So. I will not be going back to watercolor class.  Instead on Monday afternoons from 2:30 until 5:30 I will go to Emma's Coffee Shop as I did today, where, for six dollars they let me pick from a lineup of low-end red wines (Yellowtail, Rosemount, Mondavi) and, with a smile the young Hispanic bartender will pour a glass that is incredibly full, brimming.  Almost flowing over.

Unchambered

This morning the park was quiet except for the sounds you hear any any woodland.  It was unchambered music: the scrape of eucalyptus limbs, and percussion of water and stone.  Expect the unexpected in the park, and this morning it was the jarring and repetitive curse of a hawk-sized crow.  You couldn't call it a song.

Nekkid and Nude

Ira once told me that he could never have a long term relationship with any woman who pronounced naked as “nekkid.”  It was best, at that point, not to reveal that this is the way we all pronounced it when I was growing up.  Nay-kid was, well, not something we said.  So forgive me if I avoid any mention of that word and say that I am taking a figure drawing class, attended my first session yesterday, and…it was good.

Most students arrived early, padding around until they found a space they liked and then claiming and straddling their see-saw-like drawing benches. Those of us who were wait-listed were last in line, so we were parked at easels in the back…my choice anyway. Money was collected, heat was turned up, and our model Maureen appeared--wearing a muted green sarong.   From the moment the fabric dropped silently to the floor,  Maureen held all the cards.  Much of her power had to do with the stopwatch she was using:  in this three-hour class Maureen timed every pose like a drill-sergeant, beginning with three one-minute poses (quick, let me change my paper!), two four minute poses (can I even sharpen my pencil?),  and a break.   No time to think about what’s happening here,  just get the lines down on paper.

After a little intermission (on with the sarong),  Maureen moved into two 10-minute poses; we were still sketching at breakneck speed.  I found myself remembering how to look at angles and forms, spaces and solids, how to loosen up, choose the lines I wanted to keep and let the others fade away.  By the time we got to the last hour of class and two 20-minute poses I was in the zone, appreciating Maureen for her grace (she’s quite beautiful in a 40ish way) and marveling at her flexibility and her ability to strike a compelling pose.  Well before beginning the last group of studies I was lost in the process, feeling like I’d miraculously learned something about drawing by being away from it so long.

Maureen's 20 minute pose   1/8/13

During the next break the teacher reminded everyone about the “No Cellphone!” (i.e. camera) rule. Can't imagine a reason for that one.  I slipped out for coffee and wondered, “Does Maureen put ‘nude model’ on her income tax return?  When did she “come out” to her children?  If she saw me at the Safeway, would she smile and speak?”  I’d say this would be no big deal to Maureen of the sarong and stopwatch.  She is elegant, professional,…and, in this case,  just nude.  

Near the end of the class several seats were vacated and I moved to one of the drawing benches, sandwiching  myself between a group of  men and women (mostly retirees) who had been working as diligently as I.  It wasn’t surprising that--from my new vantage point-- I could see as many different sketching styles as there were people, like students speaking varied artistic languages, some more proficiently than others,  but all equally dedicated to the process.

I took a sidelong glance at the person beside me, a man who was seated with a full frontal view of the model. Then I discreetly checked out the work on his drawing board.  What I saw were lots of stick figures with Afro-like hair.  I didn’t "let on"-- one of Mother’s favorite expressions--but in retrospect I think those particular drawings might have been, well….nekkid.