THE SHADOW AND LA RUE DE LA BONNE

A gentleman I met while painting Le Théâtre de L'Atelier urged me to consider the view of Sacre Coeur from rue de la Bonne on the other side of Montmartre. 

He said that the perspective from that corner was magnifique. He added that no one would bother me there. I guess he assumed that the people interrupting my work to ask directions bothered me. I didn't tell him that what bothered me the most was ADVICE.   

He was  convincing all the same. 

I took my equipment up the hill and half way down rue Lemarck without even a pre-view. At least no one was going to ask me how to get to La Moulin Rouge, I hoped.

The view was not extraordinary.  He must have had a sentimental experience here, I thought, as I set up my easel between two motor cycles. I blocked out the composition with  some blue paint, still wondering why. 

Two male meter maids approached me. Just to spy.

Next came a woman looking for her car. She had parked it near a stairway. There are about ten that surround the great basilica on the hill. She forgot the name of the street, but remembered there were two words in it.

I looked down at her child and said.

"This is your mother?" 

"Oui." She sadly confirmed.

I returned to the famous spot the following day and the day after, still wondering what was going to set my work apart from other neighborhood paintings until the Paris haze sunk and  a shadow appeared which made all the difference.

THE GROWING LEAVES

While painting Théâtre de l'Atelier, a passer-by stopped and stood behind me for an unusually long time. What was really unusual was that he didn't ask me for directions.

I finally turned and saw a middle-aged medium height tax inspector type eyeing my painting with some scrutiny. He was carrying a clip board, with notes already jotted down.

I wondered what was on his mind.

"Très Poetique", he finally sighed.

I was surprized.

"Oui, mais..." I winced.

"Mais, quoi?"

He seemed concerned.

"I have a problem." I confessed.  "I started the painting just as the leaves were sprouting tiny lime-green dots. Thousands of them. It was great.  Within the next couple of days the leaves opened. The shadows on the cobble stone looked like dancing butterflies."

  

"Then it rained for three days and was cloudy for three more. The leaves kept growing. It was terrible. Now they are a darker green and I can't see the theater. I would love to have those few days back." 

"They're right there." he said looking at my canvas and left making a small notation on his clipboard. 

HOME SWEET HOME

BACK IN PARIS

I'm so happy to be back home - sleeping in my own bed, in a town that understands my accent and I understand theirs - where my cats roam freely about the courtyard and every face in my neighborhood is familiar in the morning and foreign in the afternoon.

I was finally able to finish         La Boucherie de la Paix 

on rue d'Orsel - a painting that I had started last winter. 

The butcher was quite pleased as was his charming assistant. It's probably the first time someone made a painting of his sadly isolated shop.

The lady from the dress shop behind me was not so pleased. She shook her door mat a few times so the wind blew the grit in my direction. I got the picture and moved my easel out of her aim and merrily painted on.  

See La Boucherie de la Paix - click on flashing box PARIS PAINTINGS on the side panel.

THE MOUNTAINS

 

I don't ski or alpine, but my mountain experiences have given me a bird's eye view of beauty incarnate. 

Take the Himalayas.

Every morning  during a month-long-stay in Dharmasala, I'd open my door and watch a bird-of-paradise taking off swirling his tail feathers as he glided down the valley over the rhododendron trees. 

I began painting birds and continued for three years.

Eventually, I had to count on subway excursions to the Bronx Zoo to inspire my palette.

The night voyage crossing the Andes in a rattling bus from Lima to Santipo only taught me how to pray. 

The morning decent on a muddy road into the Amazon jungle was as lush as a Gauguin painting and as floral as Henri Rousseau could imagine.

I still remember the awe from discovering the iridescent crystal blue frost in Val d'Isere - the French Alps' luxury ski resort where I au paired thirty-five years ago.

As for the Pryrenees, I had only seen them on television following Lance Armsrong peddling LaTour de France. During my sejour in Orthez, I was told that if I went to Pau, (pronounced Po) I could see THE ENTIRE CHAIN OF MOUNTAINS. I was game.

I made a reservation at the train station and was surprized to see how near it was to Orthez which was only hilly at the most.  I imagined being taken up a ski lift type funiculair. The one for Sacre Coeur rises only about twelve stories. 

I brought along gloves and a scarf and regretted not having taken my boots down to Orthez.

I was assured that the mountains were still snow capped.  I arrived in Pau in less than a half an hour. The funicular was there and waiting. I was surprised to see it was even shorter than the one in Montmartre. I boarded it and up we went to Le boulevard des Pyrenees where I was told I could see THE ENTIRE MOUNTAIN CHAIN.

I reached the top hill in about a minute and a half, already a little suspicious.

Tout suite, I turned around on the balcony and beheld some hills.

It looked sort of like southern Pennsylvania in the winter - not alive with the sound of music.

The sun was out , but it was quite hazy.

I sadly surmised that THE ENTIRE MOUNTAIN CHAIN was  behind the hills behind the haze.

It didn't stop me from taking my grief to the Tourist Bureau in the center of town.

When the perky hostess greeted me and asked how she could help. I told her I was looking for les montagnes in the same tone someone would ask looking for le beureau de post.

She looked at me.

Yes, I told her that I had been told that if I came to Pau, I could see all of the Pyrenees.

She said, "No mountains today. Here is a guide of the town."

Perhaps I'd like to visit Le Chateau Henry IV ?

I thanked her.

So I saved the mountains for another day.

I visited the chateau and learned about the lusty life of a 16th century king.

As I climbed the grandiose spiral staircase, the view of no mountains got better.

Must have been wonderful back then - when the sun was shining. 

Leaving by the back door as probably most of his mistresses did, I walked into the middle of a demonstration by the locals seeking to preserve the very unique Bearn(Langaduc) language.

I decided to march with them clapping my hands  and trying to chant the slogans. Whatever they were saying, I did not know.

Reaching the Town Hall, we called for the mayor, who did not show his face, so we all booed.

It was great fun.

I stepped aside when they began to sing and returned to Le Boulevard des Pyrenees. The late afternoon light revealed an irregular line across the horizon. It looked like a cardiogram.

My cardiogram. My heart beat to know they were there.

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.