The line was relatively short at the Hotel de Ville, to see “Paris in the time of the Impressionists.”   This little publicized show has taken Impressionist work from the Musee d’Orsay (under renovation) and arranged it on the walls of Paris City Hall.  Also, it’s free!

We’ve been juggling preparations for our painting tour, a catered dinner at our house for 7, a visit with a couple we met while working at the Petit Lux many years ago, and dinner with friends from the US.  On top of all this Blair’s Mom passed away this week at the tender age of 89, just on the heels of my own mother, who left us end of April.  It was the best of weeks, the worst of weeks…  I am astonished how life keeps barreling along despite what seems, at the time, cataclysmic events. 

The show at the Hotel de Ville  commences with a bit of the history of Paris between 1840 and 1910 or so…  this was the greatest period of change in the city, from the construction of the “Haussman” plan and the  “metro”, to the “commune” conflict in the 1870s.   This was the time of Impressionism, with the advent of the camera and paint in tubes.

Much of the work on display is done “en plein air” :  Monet’s impression of the Tuileries, Viullard’s view of the Metro, and Van Gogh’s “Guignette” on Montmartre.    These are ideal inspiration for my plein air painting class which starts on Sunday (4 students! Yippee).  I intend to take them to the show.   There is still time to sign up for June, by the way – and don’t be put off by the week-long part – three of my students are just spending 3-4 days.

It’s been sunny and warm in Paris, but luckily the “line” side of the Hotel de Ville is in shade in the afternoon.  Blair and I have been about verifying sunlit times of day/sides of streets and planning in the event of rain, where we will paint.

We walked from the Hotel de Ville, through Chatelet and over to the Palais Royal.  This, to me, is a convoluted walk, but luckily Blair has a sense of direction.  In the sunshine, Chatelet was bursting with coffee drinkers and window shoppers.  We found a plethora of painting sites for ourselves, not always so easy or obvious, however.  I like to be “out of the road” when I paint; Blair is just seeking that great view.   Honestly, I think I could paint six hours every day.

Even when you live in a place, it’s hard to keep track of everything going on.  Parts of the Palais Royal, one possible rain venue, are now wrapped in plastic for renovation.   So we crossed over to the galerie Vivienne.  If you’ve not been there, it is one of the prettiest passages I have ever visited:  this week it was chock full of people, interesting merchandise, and cafes.  The mosaics on the floor were brightly polished and all the lights in the chandeliers working.

We had dinner with American friends who rented an apartment in Paris this week:  they entertained us in their home, which was a rare treat.  Harika was able to go, too.  Over roasted chicken and celeriac remoulade,   we talked about our life in Paris.   Sometimes it doesn’t seem so different from life anywhere.

Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER

We were invited to an art opening this week.   It brought us to a neighborhood we were unfamiliar with:  Belleville.  We’ve heard of it as the up and coming place to show art.  And the art was beautifully presented in a small, but very effective space.  It was the work of the Wells College Art students abroad.   We had a glass of wine, shook hands, and enjoyed some unusual photographic methods; a collection of “copied” paintings from the Louvre; etchings; and original work in a variety of mediums.

The neighborhood was the most surprising:  it seemed more Chinese than Chinatown!  A collection of apartment buildings, mostly new, a smattering of old, with windows open and laundry drying.  There were a multitude of Chinese restaurants and stores:  the aroma of green onions and soy sauce, mothballs and ginger wafted from doorways.  There were women on the street, in footless stockings and mary-jane shoes.  I could not tell their disposition, some more painted than others, but not entirely provocative.  Were they just visiting?

Edith Piaf was said to be born under a streetlamp in Belleville.  Historically, immigrants to Paris were drawn to Belleville.  And the plethora of Chinese and North Africans suggest it is still so.  This rich fabric of colors, smells, and experiences made me think for   a minute or two, I wasn’t in Paris.

I am not ashamed to admit I spent part of yesterday morning watching the royal wedding.  It struck me not so different than any wedding, just more so:  more hats, more uniforms, a bigger church, a better means of transportation.  It was such a HAPPY thing.  We humans try to act so cool, but really, life is all about finding the perfect mate (and staying together).

We all want to go to a wedding.  What was the best one you went to?  I was invited to a wedding in Hawaii; I didn’t make it, too far away – and I think it could have been the BEST wedding.  My sister Nancy’s wedding was pretty good – singing “amore” while eating ziti; dancing for hours.  I went to a very modern wedding earlier this year:  a PACS celebration – a civil union here in France.   We ate sausage and drank wine; the couple were very romantic and joyeuse; they are even so now, months later.  There is something inside all of us that is happy when people come together.  Only a curmudgeon doesn’t like a wedding.    I’ve catered two weddings, and both times, it was a great experience.

Paris is a city for weddings:  about once a month we see a couple, often Asian, having wedding pictures snapped in the Luxembourg Gardens.  The Pont Alexandre III is another popular venue for immortalizing  the bride and groom on film.   Cars decorated with paper mache, honk their horns to announce the bridal couple; we saw one today on the Champs Elysees and we waved.

William and Catherine’s wedding kiss inspired me to paint a couple of kisses.

Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER

Amazing color Laurie, I'm very proud having you here. You do location painting a real service. Happy Easter.

our job to go on living,” a dear friend of mine told me not so long ago.  Her sagesse came from years of sadness about the early demise of her parents, when she was barely a teenager.  She used to spend hours at my house, around my own mom and dad, perhaps living vicariously with my family.  It was with this wisdom in mind I just left my own mother, dying, in Connecticut.

When I left Paris on 22 March, there was just a hint of spring with daffodils and tree buds; on Thursday, 14 April, a canopy of green covered the park.  To Harika’s delight I insisted on sitting on a bench in the park when we alighted the train at Luxembourg Gardens.  (she came to the airport to meet me!)  The chestnuts are in blossom.  My azalea tree on the balcony is past full bloom and my jasmine has flowers.  I’ve red and yellow roses.

The gypsies are in the market, bearing lilacs.  Aromatic in tones of purple and violet a large floral bouquet sits in the center of my living room.  I am so happy to be home.

I spent three weeks in the US, apart from my dog, and mostly apart from my husband, who was visiting his own mother and then returned to Paris.   I spent a week at High Point Market, leaving early, to get back to my mother’s bedside in the nutmeg state.   We had three major crises while I was there, to the edge of the grave and back.  I was crazy with worry and living out of my suitcase.   I made the decision to return to Paris.

Now, I am struck with an urgency to live.  Three paintings on Friday, cookies, artnotes to my beloved readers:  I have missed these parts of my own life.  My mother, 25 years my senior, lay dying, a victim of the world’s cruelest disease, alzheimer’s, which robs both the victim and the family of joy.  I want to make every day count and I force myself out of bed early, despite jet lag to paint and write.

My painting workshop begins in a month.  I have a really wonderful job possibility which we interview for on 27 April.  I am eager to paint again with my girlfriend Y, hopefully on Monday.

The usual folks and dogs are at the park.  Some of us are sneezing, and pollen dusts the benches in the early morning.  Blair and I have been bringing dog cookies to Harika’s friends.  Atlas has had to take a pill because this is the time of “heat” for many female dogs and he can’t eat or sleep (despite the fact he is castrated).  His counterparts are equally anguished, and some girl dogs just don’t come to the park in that condition.  Neutering is not a popular option here, despite its benefits for longevity or the unlikely event of breeding one’s dog (personally, I think people are too cheap or lazy to schedule the operation).

The windows are open in our apartment and birds fly by.  I am hoping for a new, great idea to enter on the wind and I await a beautiful summer.

Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER

The crowd who shows up at Patricia’s is as interesting as the entertainment – this week we met J, a dancer from Australia – her husband is dancing at the Moulin Rouge, and the two perform an acrobatic “bands” dance, circus style.  She was beautiful and fit, and it made me think about painting the two in their act.  She had that fresh “Aussie” attitude  -- American without the Puritan.  I visited with a Croatian tour operator who spoke all the European languages and perfect English.   There were several Americans there – a student from Oklahoma, a computer programmer from the DC area, who still used a standard camera and developed his own pictures whenever he could; a couple of French; and three Canadian women – one who taught art to children, both “Canadian” and aboriginal.  We had a hearty discussion about art and culture.

Patricia offers a 20 euro dinner with wine and entertainment every Sunday night -- everyone is welcome.   Entertainment varies – it’s the thing that draws me.  This last week it was an R+B Gospel singer.  The deep tones of  “the Upper Room” came from a place out of this world.   It turned out Connie Fredericks-Malone grew up in Springfield, Massachusetts  – not far from Winsted, Connecticut where I am from.   She is married to an ex-Jesuit and the two were out and about promoting the teaching of French by singing – a legacy to Connie’s sister, Carol Fredericks, who lived her life singing in France.

The whole affair is as close to Cabaret as I can imagine without getting “corny”.  There was a couple who danced to recorded music after the singing was over:  the woman had a body not unlike a weasel  -- no waist, but a long muscled torso.  She wore fabulous, dramatic makeup and her partner, less of a dancer,  seemed like Karen Carpenter’s brother.    She was going to belly dance here on Easter.

B, the American guy who is always there, dozed in a chair.  It’s the kind of place one can get away with that.  Patricia seems to have no expectations for us.    Blair meets a woman who refers him to an opthamolagist.  “Is that the dip?” she inquires.

It’s amazing the thing ever gets off the ground – the atmosphere is beyond casual.   We arrived, a little early,  at 7:15, as instructed in the directions.  W, the computer operator was there, but there was no sign a soiree is about to happen.  The setting is an one-room apartment, with an open kitchen and toilet down the hall.  Mirrors surround the big room, making it feel festive and full, regardless of how many people show up.  I think there were about 20 this time.

Wine is opened, but dinner is yet to be prepared.  Patricia greets everyone, and about 8 PM, gets the singer going while she cooks.  The vegetarian dishes are always good; I smelled the beef starting to burn while Connie sang.    An assistant serves up the dishes of food – as much as we want, always enough.  Wine is poured, and there is water, bubbly and flat.   We eat and visit and before we know it the evening is over – we wish our hostess goodnight.  Patricia wears a poker face – someone who has introduces snake charmers and dancers,  sex therapists and artists.  Come to the cabaret.

(DonJ, Admin)I wanted to add a similar artist working in oil as opposed to Paint Fox's acrylics. I like both for their visual impression.

Maurice de Vlaminck’s work, during that time of important questioning and aesthetic transformations, ought to be considered both through its relation with the post-impressionistic generation that had preceded him (Van Gogh, Gauguin, the Nabis, Cézanne, Signac) and for his tremendous audacity which allowed for all sorts of excess in expressive gesture, color paroxysm and selective deformation: “I heightened all the tones, I transposed all the feelings I could perceive into my orchestration of pure colors. I was a tender, wild at heart barbarian” (Dangerous Corner, 1929).
Musée du Luxembourg exhibits " Maurice de Vlaminck a Fauvist Instinct "

Don - Admin,
I got a new computer and basically, it's been down for a month, I have a lot of catching up to do. Here's Blair's painting of the Seine.

When I think of Toulouse, France I always think of “burning at the stake” or “auto-de-fe” (which actually means act of faith, but to English speakers has come to represent a fiery martyrdom).  Toulouse is where the Cathars are from, and where they were burned at the end of their run;  the same fate befell the Templars.  Toulouse was pretty much headquarters of the “medieval inquisition”, and big burnings took place downtown clear up until the 1500s.  Burning at the stake, for me, is right up there with stoning or being dragged to death by an elephant.  It was with these thoughts in mind,  I flew  to Toulouse to fill in at a business appointment Blair was unable to attend.

I arrived well in advance of the meeting, and I drank coffee with Blair’s boss, R, at the Radisson.  The caffeine ratcheted up my fears about my performance, but somehow a shot of whiskey seemed inappropriate in the morning, especially with the boss.   We met our customers at noon, walked across the street for lunch and enjoyed a lively exchange with them over hotel food.

“Can we go someplace for a drink now?” I asked, after our clients had left.  It kind of broke the ice, and we spent an afternoon walking (not drinking) around the city.

Toulouse is home to the aviation industry in France, and much of Europe.  Airbus is located in Blagnac, a suburb of Toulouse, surrounded by engineering firms supporting the aerospace industry.  It made me think a little of Seattle with Boeing, and Microsoft.  I love the businesses that spring up all around – some of my fondest memories are of start ups in Seattle, successful and otherwise, that so many of my friends worked for.

We took a cab downtown to R’s hotel.  I sat in the lobby with my email while he checked in.  I chatted with the girl at the desk, got a map and some pointers for what to see in Toulouse.  We started our walking tour, first stopping at the famous Basilica of St. Sernin, which happened to be open.   Constructed in the late 1000s - early 1100s, the Romanesque basilica is part of a pilgrimage route.   St. Sernin was an early Christian martyr, dragged to death by a mad bull through the streets of Toulouse in 257 CE.

It wasn’t only the burnings that set me off the city of Toulouse, but Blair spent significant time in the hospital there in 2003.  Whisked off in an ambulance from a painting vacation on the canal de Midi, he spent weeks in an un-airconditioned room with pigeons perched on the (open) windowsill.    I spent daily vigils there, with our house rental supplies and four cases of wine in his hospital closet.  He took a medical flight back to the American Hospital in Paris, and I drove our rental van, which I filled with unleaded instead of diesel fuel.

We pressed on, another church, a sidewalk café, the remarkable Capitol square, and eventually to the banks of the Garonne.  Several bridges span the Garonne;  one, the Pont Neuf Toulouse, is now my favorite bridge in France.  Its arches are not symmetrical.   Between the arches are large oval openings intended to resemble the mane of a lion:  these permit the rising waters of the river to pass through the bridge without knocking it down.    The sun was shining and the light was outstanding.   Our march continued by an old “mill” on the river, once the largest in France, and we walked by sensitively-renovated buildings.    As the sun set, I boarded my bus for the airport hotel.

Blair arrived late that night, and the next morning we retraced my steps of the previous day, adding a few new highlights.  I felt completely different about the city of Toulouse, and was happy my act of faith was a positive one.

Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER



Pont Neuf, Toulouse   Laurie Fox PESSEMIER   Acrylic on canvas  22 x 13 inches   200.00

ps.  Painting workshop is filling up -- sign up today for your place!

Laurie and Blair PESSEMIER         
Impressionist Art Painting Workshops and Tours
110, rue de Rennes   75006 Paris   +33(0)1.71.73.57.78
www.paintfox.com ;  paintfox@aol.com

made my first dog biscuit sales this week, to two ladies in the park.  The dogs are mad for the biscuits, jumping feet in the air at the sight of me.  Harika, of course, is not keen on sharing her mistress nor her biscuits, but we’re working on it.   I get the news from the ladies there – whether it’s who Mr. A is running around with or what the park hours will change to next week.    Harika loves Voltaire, the Tunisian dog who comes to the park, and she jumps around and over him, bumping noses, as we speak to his owner.  Mrs. V's not sure about this Tunisian revolution, and I realize as a mature home owner there, she doesn’t want to rock the boat.

I’ve been on computer all week, making dog biscuit labels (it turns out there is a sort of moon pie sold in Turkey, called, like mine, Harika Biscuit).  I’ve been answering questions about the painting tour we’re offering later in the year.  I’ve made brochures, and a couple of web pages along the lines of the tour.

This, and monitoring Facebook.    I have really felt a part of the Tunisian revolution through Facebook.  I was ecstatic to be receiving current news, straight from the cellphone video.  I think it really helped that people there, the revolutionaries, could get their story out, despite state censorship.   And the positive vibrations, hope and encouragement sent back was appreciated.

One of my most vivid memories of Tunisia was on a first trip, in early 2007:  a friend asked we not speak about the government in her car, at the café, or anyplace we could be seen or heard.  I recall thinking, at the time, that she was paranoid,  We walked through the souk that day, and later, out in the Kasbah, amidst “white noise”, we spoke.  Simply, there was no freedom.

When we moved to Tunisia later that year, it was clear there were many limitations.  I had a terrible time getting my Internet hooked up, and when I did, it only worked sporadically.  I used to go to the US embassy to send out Artnotes, until they confiscated my flash drive.   While working in the library, I met a man who worked in Internet security for the Tunisian government.  “So it’s you who read my emails,” I quipped.  “Yes,” he replied, with a completely serious face.   Everything I ever wrote was news at the listening post.

LaPresse was the Tunisian newspaper, heavily censored (probably owned) by the Ben Ali regime.  All was good news, but whether it was true? uncertain.  When there were floods in the streets of Tunis, no reporting.   So the people network was what counted there: men in coffee shops, women over the back fence, at the hairdresser or hammam.   Facebook increased that people network.

With Facebook, I was able to keep up with news and conditions there even better than on Aljazeera.  I read a variety of online papers to get the news:  NYTimes, Drudgereport, leParisien and LeFigaro or LeMonde, and Aljazeera.   If I’m really stuck I’ll try BBC or Independent.  It was Aljazeera who made the first press announcement that Ben Ali was gone, followed 20 minutes later by the NYTimes.   I heard it about five minutes before both of those.   And yes, I’ve gone to Wi k ileaks, to learn more about what led up to events, and certain hypotheses I had were in fact, correct.   Wikile aks bore out the fact Ben Ali was clearly responsible for autrocities and flagrant corruption in a country where the average monthly salary is less than $500.00.

The opportunity to share information worldwide is perhaps the best invention of my lifetime so far (Blair’s grandmother used to say,for her, it was the radio).  I hope it stays as free and open as it is now.

Harika, who has been barking for the last four weeks, has mysteriously stopped.  She’s been sleeping heavily since the news that her native country, Tunisia, is in on its way to Independence.

Laurie (text) and Blair (painting from archive) PESSEMIER

I could never understand why my father would get up at 4 AM, to take a walk, to have a cup of coffee, to sit in the kitchen apparently doing not much of anything.   I now realize that the hours he shared with us, the family, were not necessarily what he wanted to do, what he needed to do.  He needed that extra time by himself, in the early hours, to express himself, to be his essential self.

I am up at 5:30 AM on Wednesday.  We have guests.  I am typing here in the kitchen.  It isn’t that I am unhappy to have guests (I love company!), but I can’t write or paint, or even sit in my chair and think.  I am not plucking my ukulele for Blair and Harika in the evenings… these are all my essential elements.

I can’t paint at 5:30 AM – I am physically and mentally able, but there is no light and I am in a 600 square foot apartment with three other people and a dog.  So, I am writing.  I have been dying to write for the last 48 hours.  Life and adventure continues, and must be recorded:

“Do you think that tire needs air?” I asked my friend.  It was clear the bottom inch of the tire was hugging the ground.  “We have a flat tire!” Blair exclaims when he sees it.  I suggest air.  

We were at the rest stop on the A13 just before Rouen.  I had a sandwich and a cup of coffee at “Paul” to fortify myself until we arrived at the beach in Trouville for a celebratory birthday lunch.  The weather was looking poorly, my arms windmilling wildly to keep my balance on the ice outside the car.

We  thlunked over to the air machine with our errant wheel.  I pushed the green button as Blair attempted to fill the tire.  “Is that enough?” I asked, my glasses glazed over in the freezing rain.   We really had a flat tire.

We  telephoned Hertz -- they instructed us to call the assistance number.  Assistance told us to change the tire.  “But there is no spare.”   One half hour later a wrecker, suitable for a tractor-trailer tow, arrived.   “Nope, they don’t even give you a spare tire anymore,” the driver acknowledged as he pulled the car onto the flatbed.   A small man, he had a hydraulic seat that raised and lowered to receive him.

E climbed the two tall steps into the passenger area, as I lifted Harika over my head and into the cab of the truck.  I hoisted myself up and awaited the trip to the garage, a good 30 minutes hence.   It was becoming clear the best laid plans for the seafood platter at the restaurant on the beach were for naught.   Two hours later, after the tire was plugged, and we said our goodbyes to the garagist, we decided to eat lunch in Gaillon, our current locale.

The city of Gaillon was founded at the end of the 9th century.  Rollo was the first Viking chief here, holding back the French forces.  Gaillon was the scene of a major battle between Richard the Lion Heart and King Philip II Augustus of France 200 years later.

The chateau at Gaillon, as we know it now, was built in the 16th century.  After our lunch, we decided to explore the property, and we walked and threw snowballs at the giant stone structure.  Harika ran around wildly, and I slid down the hill on the back of my jacket.   Blair and M couldn't resist and did it, too.

Even though my mother (in memory care) and my sisters and I are no longer living in the same house with my father, he continues to rise before 5 AM.  He exercises, has his coffee, looks at the news before his day really begins.    

Blair and I and our guests  go out to see the holiday windows at the Galeries Lafayette and Printemps on New Years Eve, before setting in at Concorde with people from every corner of the globe.  It is a mild midnight, with the Eiffel Tower sparkling.  The Russians open their champagne a minute before the event, just to be sure they are the first.  On the way home a group of people from “all over” hand us poppers and sparklers and we light our way home.

Laurie (painting and text) and Blair Pessemier