Olivier has returned from vacation.  The strains of some well known but indistinguishable composer ring from the keys of his piano.  He is back to one hand.   He encourages me to paint, providing the sound track to our life.



Michel and Nicole are gone for the month, with Pamplemousse and their grandkids.  We won't see Odile until September.  Fabrice is in the Antilles, so we're making our own coffee in the morning.  We’ve been buying our croissants at the bakery, but it, too, closes on Tuesday.  We take our coffee, in a thermos, to the park to watch the young starlings search for worms.  They are not thinking about vacation.



Our section of rue Vaugirard is closed to traffic while work at the corner of rue Madame is taking place.  People and dogs wander in the streets, cursing the occasional and noisy motorcycle, cutting across the sidewalk.  Michel was able to glean a little concrete from the work site  to make a repair in the courtyard.  I obliged him by mixing the cement – one of my favorite mediums.  I wanted to add some shells to the square pipe covering we constructed, but he told me the other people in the building had no appreciation for art.



Inspiration is harder to find, as the city winds down.  I am happy that G wrote this morning about how glad he is to receive my images and letters – it gives me that charge to write today.  He sends me a photo of a swallow making its maiden flight.



I’ve been reading Studs Terkel’s “Hope Dies Last”, and  “The Children of Willesden Lane” by Golabek and Cohen.   I normally avoid sad stories, but I am thrilled how Lisa Jura survives war time Austria to become a world-reknown pianist.    Her parents send her via the kindertransport to London, and she finds her inspiration in her mother’s request that Lisa not forget her music.



I buy five bunches of flowers for ten Euros, from the florist on the corner:  sunflowers, delphinium, gladiolas and roses.  A lady, obviously used to paying much more (but her florist is closed) says, “this can’t be --  they mean 5 gladiolas for 10 euros.”  “No,” I tell her, “they are considered just one bunch.”  She picks the sunflowers and delphinium, too.    Arranging is extra.



We take off early this warm Sunday morning to find a place to paint.   I am telling Blair about the books I’ve been reading.  “You have a duty to use your talent,” I tell him.  There is a young violinist playing on the street near the Market at rue Raspail.  He is exceptionally good, but we only have pennies to offer.   Blair stops to sketch him, and people smile at the  two of them, inspiring one another.



Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER

Chair in the Park, acrylic on linen, 13 x 18"