A NEW DECADE time to change something... what?

Happy New Year

from

me

and

the

geese.

CHRISTMAS DAY AND NIGHT

I spent a wonderful Christmas day at Iris'es house, just outside of Paris. We were twenty à table. Anne and Latecia, her daughters, did the preparation and many more were summoned to bring something. I, the only American, was marked for cranberry sauce.

I did some hunting and was warned that in Paris those wild Massachucettes berries are sold one by one.

I found two packets (origin USA) on la rue

des Abbesses at a small Morocan green grocer and prepared the sauce Christmas Eve before Mass and my Café visit. It seemed to be a hit, but everything was good and plentiful including the champagne.

I arrived home early evening and opened the windows to the courtyard right off so that Lucy and Miss Kitty could wander.

Then went back to work on a large abstract painting that I had started a couple of weeks ago.

I was startled when Miss Kitty arrived with my cadeau de Noel. No. not

a mouse, but a tinsel garland from the consierge's Christmas tree.

Six meters long.

I'm not afraid of my consierge. I am afraid to be on her bad side. I thought it was best to replace it in the dark. I stepped out and so did she. I wished her Merry Christmas, then confessed that Miss Kitty had stolen her decoration. She seemed not terribly upset. Perhaps she had had a nice Christmas Day also.

THE MONDAY IN BETWEEN

CHRISTMAS IN MONTMARTRE 1999

T’was the night before Christmas

And all through the house,

Kiki was stirring

In search of a mouse.

My paintings were hung

On high walls white,

In hope that a buyer

Was somewhere in sight.

Nina slept soundly,

Curled in her bed,

A tennis ball schredded

Tucked ‘neath her head.

Piles of bills, threats, disconnection

Lay on a box of lemon confection.

Was there no man to take me away

In a big Rolls, on foot, metro or sleigh?

Felix sat upright, with a menaceing stare

“Do something please. The cupbord is bare.”

No hope. No hope. Then a tap on the door.

“Who is it? I asked;

“It’s Oysters Galore.”

I opened the door slowly,

And saw the man smile.

“Come in. Sit down.” I said, “Stay for awhile.”

Then,

Monsieur Galore entered with zest.

“I’ve brought 106 of my very best."

"Don’t worry," he said.

“I have shrimp for the cats.

And for you this cold night,

Two Afgan wool hats.”

The oysters were opened gentley,

so the juice wouldn’t spill

And in two christal glasses,

White wine he did fill.

We ate and we drank.

Then we sank and we sank

into conversation other

than landlord or bank.

“Your paintings are so happy.

You should be too.

It’s sad for your friends

To see you so blue."

Before he left,

He washed all the dishes

Then gave me two

Big salty kisses.

"Good night dear lady,

I’ll see you again,

when I’ve found my sleigh

And you’ve found your pen."

SHOPPING

"Bags and Scarves"(33x41 cm) acrylic on canvas 2008

Yesterday, my little street in Montmartre was as crowed as Fifth Avenue the day before Christmas.(or the day after Christmas - (Big return - not my size day ) Missing - a loud speaker with Bing Crosby crooning "Silver Bells". I don't think it would work on the accordon.

The plastic shop, with silly gadjets made in China was the biggest hit. Followed by a pretty boutique with scarves and bags. (above)

Safe in my peaceful coatyard, I had but one visitor, my friend Linette. She bought one of my left-handed water colors. "Broken Promises."

TANGERINES

Bit into a tangerine today. Tasted like Christmas.

ANIMAL CRACKERS

It snowed in Paris this morning for fifteen and a half seconds. I saw it, because I had just opened my door ever so slightly so that Miss Kitty, now three and a half months old,would not slip out. She usually has freedom of passage to the courtyard, but, I had heard on the radio that there was an extreme drop in the temperature. She squeezed through anyway, but, stunned by the flakes came running back. " Meow! The snow is falling."

THE RAIN

Staring at the rain,

I saw no more the rain, but
what appeared to be

a thousand silver threads
pulled so tightly,
that when God plucked them
only a fragment of their image appeared.
Beneath the silent earth
Mother Nature was weaving her masterpiece.
Thru the soil she would spin
Sewing up the seam of the dry root of the birch.

Then up the slender trunk

and thru the myriad of twigs,

she weaved with the precision of a Japanese artist.

Upon reaching the highest leaf

She would pause,
Tie a knot, and thread her needle again.

mb 1966

PARIS TREES

"In a tree, there is a spirit of life, a spirit of growth,

and a spirit of holding its head up."

I recently came across this quotation by artist-teacher-writer, Robert Henri author of The Art Spirit.

Yes. I thought. That's just one more reason why I love Paris.

It's not just "Chestnuts in blossom..." or

why "I miss you most of all my darling..."

Year round, the trees here soothe my soul.

Despite their chorus-line uniformity on some streets and military

symmetry on others, they still soften the stone and marble architecture and make urban life a pleasure. Drawing the trees of Paris became my next passion.

My debutant dip into tree art was in August 1976. I was asked to sculpt a tree au tour de a fat winding pipe on the lower level of Mother Earth's, an American bar-restaurant next to Les Halles when Les Halles was no longer the mother of all markets, but a huge hole in the ground.

 Dennis, the manager of Mother's made the request, I immediately thought that I'd sculpt the tree of life.  I was working on a series of water colors back then, on the creation of the universe - Genesis; one day at a time.

Dennis a beach boy Californian, said "No. We want a palm tree."

I'm a New Englander. I had seen "Gidget goes Hawaii.", but the closest I had ever come to this family of arbor was during Holy Week.

The following day, I began slabbing plaster of Paris all over the large winding pipe. When it dried, I sculpted the form and texture with a steak knife from their kitchen. Then, painted it with different shades of ochre and yellow and added a layer of clear varnish. The palms leaves or sprouts I painted generously on the ceiling.

The consensus was that I had done very well if a giant snake swallowing a parrot was my inspiration. I left on a trip to India a few days later, so was spared an excess of humiliation.

What does this have to do with Paris and trees? Now, I am not drawing the tree of life.

I am drawing the living. Each tree seems to have a unique form and personality despite the excess pruning. It's like what our schoolteachers did to us, and how we survived.

After a few days of rendering the local Montmartre trees, I scurried and schetched in the jardin Luxembourg and then went on to le Parc Monceau which could be called Picnic City. It was wonderful to see people lunching on the grass. 

I met a couple of fellows in the café across the street from me in Montmartre

who said les Buttes Chaumont has the best trees in Paris. They were right. I arrived on a Sunday afternoon; I thought that I had landed in

paradise. Them were treeze. Mammoth. And so peaceful.

I began drawing and decided it was time to get into bark. Texture. I noted more clearly that some branches had been cut so that others would grow. I thought of Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken".

Then, I thought of my life, a little out on a limb, but at least I chose it.

I hear the trees at Bagatelle are also grand.

Click on Paris Trees at top of side bar,

then click 'plein ecran' or 'full screen' to see the selection

of tree drawings.

BLUE FISH

I've never wished to change my address, but occasionally I like changing the subject that I paint and less frequently which painting hangs where. Recently, I replaced "pass over" for "blue fish." to the great pleasure of my dinner guests. They liked its new spot also.

I read in last Sunday's Times a drooling story about Maryland Crab. Remembering my degustation of their, better, my delight, I said,

"Today, I will paint a crab."

I had one white canvas smaller than what I would have preferred, but I decided it would do.

Asked by a friend, why I wasn't going to church, I said "gone crabbing."

and headed for the shell fish stand at the café La Mascotte on the rue des Abbesses.

I was examining my prey when the oyster man approached me.

"It's for painting not eating."

That got me off the hook.

I went into the café and chatted with friends.

On my way out, I again studied my models.

The assistant approached me and his boss ran up to my defense.

She just wants to paint them. and smiled.

Only in Paris could one get away with this story.

The shrimp seemed a more tempting subject.

The jumbos were gorgeous and chères.

I selected four and headed home imagining the lay-out for my canvass.

"Do shrimp have a gender?" I thought.

Will I need parental protection?

I stashed the gambas in the freezer and inquired on Google.

Shrimp often have sex changes, I learned, to adjust to the population.

That would work for Montmartre.

I took the gems out and placed them on a very pretty royal blue plate.

Could I eat just one?

No.