A DOG IS BORN

Nina was born  next to Chez Camille, the hot spouse pour la nuit or singles' bar on rue Ravignon in Montmartre. It was puppy love. Warren, an eight-month old eager beagle-terrier had swooned Lola a ten month old Pyrenees-bearded collie unknown to Céleste their mistress,  who owned yet another dog, three cats, and a pet mouse. I had been six months without Ruby. The stars guided me to her store-front studio when I heard the news.

 I got Waren's and Lola's  approval - lick- lick...lick-lick-lick. Four weeks later, Céleste called to tell me that Lola had run out of milk. Celeste had run out of patience. It was time. With a mop in one hand, she bent down and handed me Nina Suprema. I took her down the street to The Café Saint Jean and presented her to my friends. Then we went home and I explained what a newspaper is for. She understood. She ate and drank, then sank into her new bed. There was a little weeping so I slept downstairs next to her bed the first night.  

Nina became the cherie of the neighborhood.

 Tourists loved her also. The name, "Nina" works in almost every language. So when I heard, "Bella carni." It was surfice to say, "Nina."

I'd hear back, "O Nina. Bella carni."

The Japanese would cry out, "Benji, Benji." Thousands took photos.

With some regret, I taught Nina to fetch.  A thousand and one tennis balls later, she learned how to pitch. A south paw. And she was good. 

Nina leapt in the air when Olivia de Havilland came to visit my studio,  and gave her a kiss without touching her pretty dress. 

"This dog is made for the cinema." Miss de Haviland announced.

"No." I told her.

She was made for me. 

 

A DOG part 1

I had a frayed childhood. Youngest and fairest of five, I had no say. I wanted to watch Princess Summer-Fall-Winter-Spring - Howdy Doody's  girlfriend. No amount of whining could make my brother Johnny budge from The Tex Pavel Show. Older brother, Walter, left me for the seminary when I was five. 

He told me thirty years later that I had cried and that he felt bad.. "Too late" I told him.

 My sister, Katherine, a licensed psychotherapist, giggled when she announced that Santa Clause didn't exit. What did she know?

Luckily my parents were loving, and there was my best friend my "Pal" a hound dog mutt with character.

 To be an artist, one must have a God-like sense of power, at least while creating. With Pal, who was privileged to have his own arm chair in the living room next to the radiator, I had control. I taught him everything he knew. "Sit."and "Shake." and also told him my gripes while sitting on the warm floor beneath him.

My teen-age years were far more shallow. I only thought about boys. I had a part-time job at the local library and took a liking to poetry. I read and memorized poems at night. Rarely opening a text book. That irked my parents, for I was now in a private school, but I think they figured that I was incorrigible. 

FAST FORWARD 1981

I'm in my early thirtys, back from Paris and a painter with some accomplishments and travel. As for boys, boys, boys, I figure that I've been disappointed too often and lied to in every

language, so I head off for the A.S.P.C..A. 

There, I found Ruby, among many howling contestants. The tag on her cage said "lost in the Bronx". I gave the custodian thirty dollars for this pretty mostly boarder collie. The used leash was

included. We walked home in the snow she looking up at me every three or four trots.  

Ruby had been abandoned and feared the same fate for her next fifteen years. Her last seven years she spent in Paris.

Lucky for her with all the good sniffs and the tolerance the French have for their canine.

Unlucky for fluffy white poodles , and their mistresses.

They were not her brand. Must have been something from her puppyhood.

MONDAY

LA VIE EST BELLE

The Ar tic cold has passed leaving more familiar misty drizzle. I am happy having received four back issues of The New Yorker. Old news is still good news for Metro rides, super market lines and under the covers which is where I go.

My both bed lamps are on the blink so I'm obliged to carry a very tall floor lamp to my mezzanine and pose it diagonally across my bed. 

Yesterday, my friend Méano came to visit. Not seeing any light through my "French doors", he panicked. 

It wasn't "tap-tap."

It was "tap-tap-tap... tap-tap-tap...tap-tap-tap."

I desended  my stairs, floor lamp under arm like a gladiator and opened the door and responded to all inquiries.

The circus is in town. The famous Cirque d'hiver

I bet they have lights.

PERFECT SPRING DAY

Bees buzzed 

Flowers of every color proudly opened their petals...

Flowers of every color opened their petals
for tonight was The Annuel Spring Dance.

VIRTUAL MONEY

 

Oh, I'm rich.   Virtually rich

I made the inconceivable (or unforgivable) transition into the 21st century by selling a painting on line. Better put, a lovely lady from Iowa bought a water color from my new site   www.mblakeart.com and convinced me that PAYPAL was a good means to transfer money.

My banker did not disagree. 

The manipulations, after two or three tries were easy. PAYPAL accepted me and my bank address. My client, five time zones east, made the transfer. Bingo. My PAYPAL account was credited.

So it was out on the town, or my local café for me.

Everyone remarked that I seemed very happy.

"Oui," I said glowing, "J'ai une compte Paypal"

Marco, an old acquaintance remarked,  "Oui Paypil tres bien." 

The others just seemed happy that I was in a good mood.

The next morning I checked my bank account on line, but, didn't use the right code. No second chance. I will be sent a new code. Still not discouraged, I took my new bank card out and headed for the closest cash machine which promptly swallowed it.

The next day I received an email from PALPAL asking me to enter four digits to confirm my bank account. I clicked, but only found two spaces. How to squeeze? I don't know.

 

2009 Gloom and Doom

Gloom and doom is on everyone's lips but mine.

Here is a drawing from one of my unpublished children's stories.

Spencer Treetop Learns To Dance.

Spencer finally learns.

Not alone, mind you, but, with the help of, Emily the chickadee, Moe the owl, Nellie Nightingale and his pal from the middle branches,  Felix Faxton. He survives the winter, as all of us will.

Much Love and Happy New Year.

Mary

A CHRISTMAS CAROL part 2

A Dose of Christmas to come. 

Fearing no solution for my inevitable eviction, I married an investment banker and we moved to Greenwich  Connecticut. It was Christmas Eve. The house was full with friends and neighbors dressed up for a movie set.

They were all so rich. It was terrible.

My husband kept saying, "And she's such a good cook."

 I had tears in my eyes. I couldn't see Nina. It was snowing outside. I didn't know where I was. 

The phone rang.

It was Iris. "How do you make your cranberry sauce?" She asked, not realizing she had brought me back to Paris.

Merry Christmas to every one - Connecticut, California, Nantucket, _____ it, Uptown, Downtown, Green, Red, laid-off, paid-off, Madoff, and the English lady upstairs who doesn't speak to me anymore. merry merry, Christmas.

With love, 

Mary

A DOSE OF CHRISTMAS PAST

T'is the season for nostalgia. 

HO. HO, HO - On y go! 

 FAUCHON AND THE HARD HATS  written 1993 - revised today

I wasn't making a fortune with my Paris painting post cards at five francs a shot, but it was a catalyst to get commissions. Gérard, an ex-rugby player, who owns a wine store on rue Gergovi

seemed very interested.  He wanted to offer a Christmas gift to a friend who was a big wheel at Fauchon. Could I make a painting of the store? 

A few years back, Gérard had bought a watercolor from me. It took him forever to pay me. Big man. Small pockets. I raised an eyebrow when he proposed a deal. He assured me that he was serious. 

Fauchon on La Place Madelin is the Rolls Royce - Tiffany's of all food stores in the world.  I visited and observed it as a victim for my next work. The building was not very attractive. Worse. There was a construction site nearly in front with cranes dangling high and wide.

Not inspired, I decided to window shop. I gazed at their strawberries. Jewels. 

The vitrine marked CHARCUTERIE was exquisite. Nearly no one was able to pass with out pausing to admire all the gems en gelée. That was going to be my next painting.

I returned the following morning equipped to begin. The doorman saw me setting up and inquired if I had authorization. I nodded. I was still tightening the bolts of my easel when the floor manager approached me.

"C'est pour vôtre chef. " I announced straight-faced. "Christmas present."

" A bon?" he replied.

Then added sheepishly, "It's a surprise."

He asked me if I needed anything. "Only water." I told him and pulled out an empty tin can from Leader Price marked "haricot verts".

He gestured for me to follow him. I was dressed to paint and stay warm not to visit Fauchon. The salesmen were all in tuxedos. The clientele in fur.  I was led to a back room where there was a not-so-pretty sink. He told me to help myself when needed .

I thanked him and returned to the sidewalk to work.

"I am an abstract painter with an abstract mind who paints outside, for the experience." I said to myself as I tried to construct the composition with blocks of color. My water  become murky. I dumped it and meekly entered the store.

The overly slick haired salesmen who had been observing my struggle from their warm interior gave me a friendly nod. 

"There are human beings behind those penguin suits." I thought.

 One, white gloved, slender and handsome serving  champagne  to the fancy clientele offered me une coupe.

"I'm not a customer.' I told him.

"Neither am I ." he replied and handed me a glass.

I placed my tin can on his mahogany bar and began to sip the vintage bubbly. The fortuneteller in the Par Har Gange Bazaar came to mind.

"You are a lucky girl." he had crooned to me with his dark glaring eyes many moons ago.

I thanked White Gloves and offered him one of my post cards.

Yellow cranes, a blue sky and part of l'eglise Madéline were all reflected in the store front

window. I was trying to work on the play of color between the exterior and interior. Meanwhile, "Pa ra pum pum," The Little Drummer Boy and other Christmas Caroles amplified from a lamp post.  Ra ta ta ta behind me from the construction site melled with all the languages of the world passing by.

Then, CRASH, BOOM.

The barrier between the construction site and the Fauchon valet parking collapsed splattering the privileged cars with mud. Pa ra pum pum. Ra pa pum pum.

A tuxedo came out of the store and was greeted by a hard hat. There was a discussion. No shouting. Another tuxedo. Another hardhat until there were at least twenty men clearly divided by profession and physical make-up looking, pointing, and discussing the mess. Out came the sponges. The cars were washed and polished immaculately.

The following days were less dramatic. Many people asked me if my painting was for sale. Regrettably, I told them "no".

Finally finished and signed, I brought it over to Gérard.

"But I wanted the whole store."

"The whole store would not have been a good painting."

He said to come back in three days. He was working.

"You don't think this is work." I shouted.

I walked out slamming the the door miraculously not breaking the glass.

When I got back home, I began searching for the address of an American lady who wanted a painting of her building. To my great surprise, I found it and gave her a call. She invited me over.   

LA GARE SAINT LAZARE...Rats

With the dankest December in many years I decided to plant my easel inside. I came across a canvas that I had started this summer and was surprised that it seemed much better than when I had put it aside. Perhaps because there was more light in it than the whole Paris sky. 

I worked on the oeuvre  gently yesterday and first thing this morning trying to resolve the composition. It reminded me of a water color I had made in the eighties which I had entitled "La Gare Saint Lazare" and had sold it to a couple in New York.  

I  have painted that rail station from Le Pont Europe several times. So has someone called Monet I learned later. 

I adore seeing words on paintings  (I like words period) so decided to paint "St Lazare" on the work. So pleased, I signed it. 

Then told Nina, who had sneaked up on my bed, it was time for a walk.

I was feeling quite good. I bundled up and headed for Le Café de Thêatre to see Marie and have a cafè.  She was in the middle of a delivery and in a bad mood. I waited patiently for the counter newspaper, Le Parisian, to be free, but was disappointed to learn that there was a big scare of rat infestation tailed with a disease at the famous Gare Saint Lazare.

The Chinese fortune teller came to mind, who told me I was going to have badruck this year.

I asked him what was badruck.

He said, "You know, Good ruck. Bad ruck."