WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE

Orthez is a small town in the southwest Bearn region of France. A female resident would be called une Bearnaise like the famous sauce which was not created here, but, by the chef of a regal Saint Cloud restaurant. He was un Bernais. This area has only been a part of France for the last four centuries.
I had gone to mass on Easter Sunday at the town's 12th century church, Saint Pierre d'Ortez, a couple of years ago. With a pronounced Bayonne accent, I wasn't at all sure what language the preacher was speaking. He was very convincing all the same.
The river, Le Gave, runs along the edge of town. Crossing Le Pont Neuf (built a century ago) you can view Le Vieux Pont which dates back to the 13th century. Water, water, under the bridge. Fantôms, love stories, family feuds, and religious wars all under the bridge. We're not counting the fish. Le Gave is renowne for its river trout and salmon. They are all upstream, sans doute.

Orthez was not spared la grande tempête that devastated the region in January. Walking up the hill to a nearby park, I saw giant oaks literallly uprooted. There were others that seemed untouched. And still others that had only been split at the top (I knew what that was all about) .
Work clearing up the debree was still in progress. I examined the rings of a fallen trunk that had been chain sawed for transport. I began counting the rings. First tediously, then, by groups of tens. It had stood for more than a hundred and fifty years.

La Fontaine's fable "The Oak and the Reed" Le Chêne et Le Roseau"came to mind. Then, Jean Anouilh's parody written three centurys later. raised my spirits.
parafrasedThe oak tells the sassy reed.
"Yes, it's true that I can not bend like you.. .And, if a great wind blows, I could be knocked to the ground, but, I am still an oak. Je suis toujours un chêne."
I spoke with the guardian of the grounds.
"You must have been heart broken."
He nodded . "Oui."
Futher up the hill I saw that three new trees had been planted attached to polls for support.
I went back down the hill now crossing Le Vieux Pont.
"Je suis toujour un chêne." I thought.

SHAKE A TAIL FEATHER

My neighbgorhood is always full of people visiting Paris, or Paris people looking for the Marché Saint Pierre. I have become a professional direction giver - one of the purist jestures one can offer.

Now, it was my turn to take a trip. I was off to The Southwest of France. Land of country ham (Bayonne) Nice Pigs. mountains, inimitable accents, body surfers and peace.

Leaving the Gare Montparnas, I felt a surge of happiness. The seat next to me was empty which was fine for my bags, but, a little boring for the, despite the lush of the bucolic flashes zooming by. Hills. Cows. Sheep. The max.

After three hours we arrived at la Gare Saint Jean Bordeaux. A young man boarded with a back pack and a skate board . A grown up with a skateboard and his place was next to me.

He arranged his gear in the overhead and took the window seat next to me. We gabbed about everything from art to Obama and why a skate board was a good means of transportation.

As the train began to roll through Les Landes my concentration became diverted. I was stunned by the the sight of the trees devistated by the of the violant storm that had hit the region in January. I moaned and gasped. He didn't turn to look out once once.

L'arriveé Ortez, my destination, panicked me. Time to shake a tail feather. A short stop, for this small 12th century town. I didn't even have time to give The Happy Traveler my blog address.

"LA PORTE!"

I'm beginning to get the picture. My precious fans following this blog think paintingparis is my site. (my store)

I don't like the word blog, but that's what it is. I delight in putting words together as much as color. I'm presenting a glimpse of ma vie artiste. And mind you. every artist's life is different. Most of them difficult. As with my painting, I show the more amusing side. For me, that's art. Or, that me.

There is a place where I sell my paintings, aside from exhibitions, word of mouth, and bribery. mblakeart.com . It has a collection of my abstract water colors dating back from 1974 to present. Abstract canvasses. And a selection of my recent Paris paintings. I hate to sound vulgar but, the prices are noted under "tariffs".

I had a client here last week who wanted a certain painting. I think she was standing on her head when she read the price. When I told her it was 1,200 €, she ran out the door. I had another woman contact me interested in the canvas "l'eau de vie". She decided that it was more important to send her son to college. It's true the economy is bad. It showed at Christies' last week. 375 million Euros for the late designer Yves Saint Laurent's collectin of art - dresses not included.

This is just to let you know that my door is open at mblakeart.com

and my studio.

The weather is mild in Paris. I'm I'm my way out to finish a painting of a butcher shop on rue d'Orsel. Visit me sometime.

THERE WAS A SNOW...

There was a snow in Paris last week. 

Walking down rue Steinerque  on my way to Chez Ed, I saw a white speck falling from above. 

"Must be a pigeon feather." I thought. 

Then, again, it was a bit too white to be pigeon and, believe me, there are no swans in Montmartre.

A few more floated down (or a few more down floated)

Having obtained my groceries, and hoping I had chosen the right flavor for my cats, I headed up to my house, now realizing it was snow.

Within seconds the flakes turned to confetti.

The glib marché Saint Pierre shopkeepers came out amazed  all looking up and smiling.

A young American tourist said, "It's snowing in Paris."

A monumental statement.

For a second, I thought about the opening scene from Fellini's Amacord with milkweed filling the air and everyone yelling "Primavera, Primavera."

Then,  I thought about the Democratic Convention.

It was an event.

I grew up in Connecticut. I know about snow.  These flakes were the biggest and most beautiful

I had ever seen.

I passed by the crepe maker at Café Kakoo who was also gawking.

Everyone except Peter Pigeon, who took advantage of the event. He swept down and stole the topping off the crepe.

Seconds later, it was over. The snow. The crepe. But not for Peter.

Happy he had outwitted all of us.

xx

Mary

The Saint Valentine's Day Mass Cure 2009

I'm sending all of you a copy of my famous "kiss drawing" with permission to copy (not sell)

and to offer it to someone.

Love,

Mary

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.