We drove to Carcassone on Saturday to purchase art supplies. Perpignan is the bigger city, and closer, but at the store we visited there, the canvases cost twice as much as they did in Paris, and the clerk was nasty, in that Communist sort of way. “Why are you buying that many canvases?” and “no, you can’t have a professional discount unless you belong to the “Maison d’artistes” of France. “ The extra hour to Carcassone proved worthwhile, as canvas cost half as much and the person behind the register was a peach.

We decided to take a smaller road home. We drove to Quillan and turned due south to Perpignan and Collioure. At first the road seemed picturesque, like any French road: huge plane trees on either side, little burgs with thousand year old churches. A few kilometers further the sign declared this is Cathar country. Huge stone mountains loomed ahead. “We’ll turn before those,” Blair said. Hmmm.

An hour later we were driving through a deep cavern between rocks. Arches, or half arches in most cases, were hewn from the stone for us to drive through. “Lucky we got here while it was still light out,” I said, glancing at the clock: 4:46. “Only 73 kilometers to Perpignan”. Forty bat-turns later, the sign read 70 kilometers to Perpignan. We passed two castles we hoped to visit Sunday – unless there are high winds: no guard rails, a walk not suggested for the faint of heart.

I picked Collioure as our holiday refuge, keeping in mind we would be nestled on Harika’s ocean, the Mediterranean. She loves the beach, and to illustrate just how delighted she was, she leapt into the air with joy. Harika has never been much of a “leaper”, unlike some of her friends who can propel themselves four feet into the air. She had barely left the ground when she landed back on terra firma, ass-over-teakettle. Blair and I laughed as she loped off, ears and tail down – she has no sense of humor when it comes to herself. Lo and behold, later that day she was an arithmetic dog, as my father puts it, dropping three legs and carrying one. This “carrying one “continued, off and on, for a couple of days, until Friday, when we had to carry all 25 pounds of dog back up the hill from the beach to home. We hemmed and hawed, but it was clear a trip to the vet was in order.

After quizzing a Chihuahua owner, we found the local vet clinic: a warehouse-type building with metal cut-outs of rhinoceros and similar exotic species on the outside. The waiting room was populated with an enormous pit-bull mix who could barely walk, a young hound dog, a Doberman puppy with protuberant yellow spots on his black coat, and a cat. The barking Harika heralded the arrival of a young German Shepherd who looked around to see what all the commotion was about. We were relegated to the bench outside. But they would “fit Harika in”.

“She’s twisted her knee”, the doc confirmed as Harika winced with the touch. We were off with a pocketful of anti-inflammatories and instructions to “take it easy” for the next three weeks (the duration of our trip!). 26 euros.

On the way home, we stopped in Argeles-sur-Mer, where we looked at houses built in the early 1900s along the beach. In summer, one can’t move in the town; today we were the only people on the mile-long sandy beach. We went to the port where we bought fresh fish: the very ugly lotte (the local species called bauderoie), which I prepared with amaretto and tangerines for lunch; and a wolf-fish I’ll use in stew. The woman at the stand was from Holland, and spoke English well; she’d just visited Utah, the au courant tourist destination for the French.

We’ll make several day trips from here to offset our change of beach plans with Harika. We’re thinking of going to Lourdes – I have been painting many saint/church pictures and this fits in. Send me your intention, and I’ll present it on your behalf. We’ll head to Marseilles for a bowl of bouillabaisse on my birthday; and visit the Pyrenees to paint the snow. Brrrr.

www.paintfox.com (for all the paintings!!)
Collioure at Night Blair Pessemier Oil on linen 15 x 21.5 $450.00

Blair and Laurie PESSEMIER

“Les Marines de Port-en-Bessin” the invitation read, “10 Novembre 2011”. Blair and I and our old friend Quentin had an expo in Port-en-Bessin in February 2005. At that time, the museum/cultural center took one of each of our nautical scenes. And for the next two weeks those paintings are once again on exhibit in this historic World War II town on the Normandy Coast.

We couldn’t pass up the chance to go the the vernissage, the following night. We rented a car and cast out at 9:30 AM the next morning. Harika was in complete agreement -- another opportunity to play on the beach. Whooppeee!

We sat down for a lunch of mussels and lamb chops at a beachside restaurant in Trouville, about 25 miles from Port-en-Bessin. Trouville has a long, sandy beach, and men were paddling on surfboards as the tide receded. Harika frolicked on the sand as we ate outdoors. It was brilliantly sunny, counteracting the nip in the air. In mid-afternoon we drove West to Port-en-Bessin, where we would paint.

It was the most wonderful day, with a super low tide. We could see remnants of World War II wrecks, and could walk out nearly to the end of the jetties at Port-en-Bessin. Men were harvesting pentoncles (bay scallops), with wooden-handled nets. Some were in giant boots, others bare-legged in the icy sea.

Blair painted from above, but Harika and I opted to sit by the water. A short while into the painting we were chased off the beach by the arrival of a pit-bull: he sent the two of us plunging, me in my good shoes, across fields of seaweed alive with sea snails. Paints and canvas akimbo, Harika leaping, we made quite a site. I could imagine the other dog snickering at us from behind.

One half of the beach at Port-en-Bessin is the scallop-shell graveyard. The chalk-on-the-blackboard sound of shells beneath our feet results in Blair carrying Harika over the rough spots. The other half of the beach (on the other side of the locks which keep the fishing boats afloat) is an enclosed bay – this is where we painted. The light is extraordinary this late afternoon, and the pools of water amidst the sand are mirrors to the sky.

The last time we showed paintings at Port-en-Bessin the Mayor of the town sang the “Star Spangled Banner”, a cappella, in our honor. He was there again on Thursday night, but we assured him he didn’t need to sing. He was cheery as ever, but a tear filled his eye when we informed him of the demise of Q. Quentin was a veteran of World War II, and participated in memorial festivities in Normandy a couple of times.

It was appropriate to be at such an historic setting as the Normandy beaches on the Eve of Remembrance Day. There are fewer and fewer witnesses to the big wars of Europe. Museums, cemeteries and cultural centers keep the flame lit. In Port-en-Bessin this weekend there was a big scallop festival and circus., in conjunction with Veteran’s day. We left the vernissage early, to drive back to Paris by night.

Laurie and Blair PESSEMIER

11-5-11

Why are all these people walking around here? I wondered aloud.

Blair and I are constantly seeking new places to paint in Paris. We’ve been painting here for about 12 years, and we’ve covered a lot of territory. Maybe it was Halloween, but for some reason I felt inspired to visit the cemetery at Montparnasse. It’s walking distance and is serviced by several buses, too. Monday was a brilliantly sunny day, and the trees looked heavenly.

What did surprise us is that there were so many people walking around, plants in hand – but of course! November 1 is a holiday in France (Toussaint: all saints’ day) to commemorate the dead. We soldiered on, despite my protestations that maybe we were being irreverent. Actually, a lot of people enjoyed seeing us painting, especially the kids, who were dragged along to pay respects to grandma.

The cemetery at Montmartre is not the stellar attraction that the “Cimitiere Pere Lachaise” is. But even though Jim Morrison is not buried at Montmartre, several other noteworthy folks are, including Baudelaire and Man Ray. While I was painting, a woman approached me to ask if I knew where Jean-Paul Sartre was. Huh?

I managed to paint an alley of turquoise trees, as did Blair. People walked about, carrying pots of chrysanthemums – the classic grave flower here. Paris cemeteries are quite beautiful – elaborate flower arrangements and extraordinary chapels and sculptures abound. An extremely lifelike bas-relief of Honore Champion caught my eye. I also like the stained glass, and cut metal work of the little chapels.

Holidays here are not much fun for Blair and I – we’re not part of society (in some ways a great advantage). Finding a croissant on the 1st of November was challenging. We ended up at the Rostand, where I painted the waiter and barman. Blair got in a “snapshot” painting of trees at the Luxembourg Gardens that morning. I wasn’t as pleased with mine. The outdoor food market took place beneath our windows, as usual, but was feebly staffed.

Later in the week, we took to painting from our apartment windows. It is a bit of a challenge, as space is limited. We try to keep up appearances, in case we need to kick in the “bohemian art gallery” mode. A woman did stop by on Monday to inspect our premises for art lessons, but didn’t seem impressed. She was very nosy, and I breathed a sigh of relief when she took the elevator down.

Blair painted a view out the kitchen window, as I looked out at the corner of rue de Rennes and boulevard Raspail. We are both looking forward to our December soujourn to Collioure, where we’ll have a view of the Mediterranean.

Laurie and Blair PESSEMIER www.paintfox.com

"The future you see is the future you get." Robert G. Allen

I ate the most delicious fish of my life on Monday night.  I hadn’t really thought about the Saint Pierre, that fish from French waters, for years – I used to have a recipe for it.  The St. Pierre is a flat, upright fish with spiny fins and a thumb and fingerprint on each side where St. Peter picked him out of the water to remove the gold piece from his mouth.

Generous friends took us to the Dome, where we had the fish.  They were seeking sole, themselves, and the Dome reputedly has the best.   My meal was so good, I wanted to cook a Saint Pierre myself, and set out for the market on Tuesday to buy one.   When my fish monger told me he had none, a woman customer sniffed, “it’s too expensive”.  I examined my dress, and was looking a little down-at-the-heel.     Oh, well, I went on to the butcher and bought a wild hare, which I soaked overnight in red wine and spices.

On Wednesday, friends took us out to a “les Halles” restaurant which served hearty French fare.  I had sheep’s brains, which were cooked “meuniere” – they were lightly breaded and fried producing a crunchy outside and  a remarkably light center.   I endeavor to eat differently than at home, whenever we go out, so I can expand my menu repertoire.  There was a table of Chinese people next to us, who ordered what looked like everything on the menu.  They were drinking red wine, so when it was our turn to order the wine, we said, “we’ll have what they are having.”  “Are you sure?” the waiter asked, “it’s 120 euros a bottle.”   They had four or five bottles while we were there.   Upon closer inspection it was a 1979 Bordeaux.  We opted for a respectable ’09.

I cooked my rabbit (he had the biggest legs!) for about 4 hours, with onions, cepe mushrooms, and carrots,  and invited over some French friends.   I needed to practice my French.  We’ve had a back-to-back English-speaking visitors since the 6 September when we returned from vacation.   I’ve alternated between feeling delighted, overwhelmed, tired, but it is clear to me Americans are at their best here in Paris.   We live in the one place that brings out creative thinking and joy in everyone.  It especially works well for artists, musicians and writers, but that’s for another artnotes.

I couldn’t be happier here, I think.  We visited with Voyeu (the dog)’s, mistress in the park Friday morning.  A bright sunny day and we are talking about the dinner we made: more specifically, about blood, and how and when one introduces it to a recipe.  Can you imagine such conversation?  I took it a step further to the butcher . " Yes, he said, I remember when my grandfather would slaughter the pig, then removed his eye to capture the blood.  It’s really wonderful in a coq au vin and with hare.  You must put a little vinegar in with the blood to keep it liquid."  Both Mme. Voyeu and Christian, the butcher, recommended pig blood. " I’ll bring you some," Christian offers.   "Oh, no," I protest, but sort of hope he has some on Tuesday.

When I walked by the fish stand on Friday, there were three Saint Pierres chilling on ice.  I chose the one with the clearest eye.

Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER    www.paintfox.com

Harika is mad at us.  She doesn’t want to wear her leash.  She spent three days “en liberte” (free!) in Normandy and now there is H-E-double-L to pay.

Earlier this week, we took a self-catering studio apartment in Trouville, on the English Channel.   After signing the papers for the small, but well equipped room in the Trouville Palace, we stepped outside onto the sand.  Harika ran around wildly as I committed a couple of swimmers (yes!) to canvas.  Blair painted the corniche with its wonderful Victorian architecture.  Our hotel/apartment, in the same lyrical style, was built in 1918.  It matches the original casino, intended to serve the English gamblers who’d won enough to buy a boat to take them across la manche.

A group of people gathered around a fishing boat at the quai.  We joined the fray and found the boat to be full of scallops.  We bought ten big ones at once, to take home to cook for dinner.   I seared them and set them in a sauce of bacon, garlic, crème fraiche and blue cheese.   

I woke up feeling refreshed and we set out the next day to find more great seafood.  We settled on a dozen oysters each and a glass of white wine for lunch (with a baguette).  For dinner, I made fresh sole Meunière, using true Dover sole fished out of the water that morning.  This was something I could get used to.  I bought fresh fish soup, served from a slushie machine, with accompanying rouille and croutons.    As a nod to the Calvados region, I bought fresh picked apples and local sausage.

There are postcards in our room at the beach.    Not only could we rent this studio, but the same people have a floor in a pink Victorian house on the beach, and another in a Victorian building I just happened to paint, with a turret.  I take one postcard, I promised to send to a friend moving back to America.

At 6:30 AM on Friday, we hop in the car to drive like mad to return the car at Avis at 10.  Rush hour.

Come to think of it I am a little disappointed to be back, too.  My leash is pretty short.   That is why I am writing to you today.  If you (or anyone you know) might like to rent our fabulous Paris apartment for the month of December, let us know.  We’d consider other months, or just a week or two, even.   And, if you are a dog lover, we might trade a week for free if you’d mind Harika.  Just don’t tell her we went to the beach.

Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER  www.paintfox.com

Last week a friend went to the “Epees” (sword) show at the Cluny museum.  “Did they have Joan of Arc’s sword?” I quipped, thinking it unlikely.   “Yes, they did!”  Not only that, but  Roland’s sword  “Durandal”,   Charlemagne’s “Joyeuse”,  and el Cid’s “Colada”.    Blair and I had to go see for ourselves.

Cluny, the National Museum of the Middle Ages, was the only major museum in Paris we hadn’t visited.  I just never got around to it, and most guests prefer the Musee d’Orsay or a blockbuster Impressionists’ show.  We arrived too late on Friday, so we went on Saturday at noon:  no line.

Cluny is actually the “northern thermal baths” of Lutetia, a gallo-roman site (the only significant one) in Paris.  They were constructed in the 1st century – and used for two more centuries.  It’s pretty breathtaking when one enters the “frigidarium”, where the Sword Show was staged.   People in odd shaped shoes (we saw them, the shoes, that is) were walking there 2000 years before me.  The building itself was older than any sword in the collection – including the hilt of Clovis’s father, Childeric’s sword.  It was this sword that defeated the Gauls and “made” France.

Swords are as much mythical and symbolic as they were useful.  People named their swords and attributed them with magical powers.   Some could fly, and everyone remembers the mystery of Excalibur.   I was surprised at the size of some of the swords:  Joyeuse, Charlemagne’s sword, must be three feet long (Blair says 40 inches – officially it is 38.54 inches) – one can see it in the portraits of King Louis XIV, XV and XVI.   Joan of Arc’s sword had a smaller grip, and was double edged – she brandishes it in her famous equestrian statue.   The show included the skull of someone who’d recuperated from several sword blows to the head before their death.  There were guides to how to wield a sword, and you could actually handle a sword:  I thought it was heavy, but Blair was impressed with how easy it seemed to use.

In a word, it was a very stimulating show.  And I got to see the Unicorn tapestries and all the marvelous portable arts of the Middle Ages.   It is a favorite period in art history – with so many rich crafts (okay, not everybody wants a reliquary, but I think how neat they are to carry/house things – a place to store chili peppers, for example).   There were ivory treasures and silver pieces; crowns and column capitals.  As we left young boys were climbing into the well in the courtyard.

We’ve had a hard time getting back into the swing of life in Paris since the summer.  We’ve had many distractions, and finding time to paint has been difficult:  it’s not that we don’t have free hours, but there is a mental “open road” one needs to achieve before launching creativity.   

The sword show, and more importantly, the Cluny museum put me into the mind of making things again.  It’s our chance at immortality.

Blair painted one too, they were in wine country.

Another painting vibrating color. Magenta to cad red, cyan to blue and yellow to green. The dark blue to neutral black and white patterns are powerful, Laurie did it again, a living dynamo.

Laurie, in this latest painting (above) has a 3 pigment color theme of cyan and red (opposite colors) plus yellow and shows the combinations available to her. She's a master colorist.    

“Aren’t the fireworks scary for her? Dogs can’t stand this…” Harika yawned, as the American woman looked at us like the SPCA enforcer. Harika isn’t afraid of fireworks, I tell her, or any noises, really – Harika grew up on the beach in a resort town. Her biggest fear is of German shepherds and horses (hide the puppies!).

Thursday was Bastille day, and it has been years since we’ve watched the fireworks. They were better than I remember, with red, heart-shaped explosions; multi colored sprays, like Christmas lights; and showers of gold coins. I try to paint them, after the fact, but it’s just not the same. I will keep trying.

We missed the morning parade, but I stood on our balcony watching the airshow from afar. In fact, the swallows stole the show. They looked bigger to me than the planes (from my vantage point), and are ever more maneuverable, turning on a wingtip, beaks wide open.

We all waited nervously on the bridge at Concord for dark, 11 PM. I listened to the banter of mostly Americans, some Italians, around me. Chatter, chatter. No French, they are all on vacation. I try to put it all into perspective, but it’s better just to ignore it. One man is going on at length about how lucky they are to be in Paris while they can still walk; the talk evolves into estate planning and who is getting what in his will. I try to make believe I don’t understand, but I do. The Eiffel Tower twinkles. Soon it will be extinguished for the show. The iron lady disappears. There is a hush and a scattering of red white and blue bursts fill the sky. We are underway.

I’ve been reading about how to be positive, succeed, lead my life -- there are scads of internet preachers, and enough people around me with the same mission. However, I HAVE COME TO THE CONCLUSION: it is one thing to read about it and try to make yourself do it, but there is something deep inside which tells me what is right. I have an inner compass. The word in French is "boussole" – someone in the park brought the word up, asking me what it was in English, and I thought yes, I have my own.

I know what to do, and when and how. It is all there. I am complete, like a set of dishes, and there’s no sense in bringing out the dessert plates when we’re going out for ice cream.

Who I am is a strong person, sometimes weak when it comes to dealing with other people. I have a giant desire to be happy and self actualized, with Blair and Harika.

There is no formula to happiness. In fact, what works for one doesn’t work for another. Two great individuals might have two completely different formulas for life. But they didn’t read about how to get there on the internet. They didn’t cling to other people’s ideas at all. They listened to the universe with their own two ears.

Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER www.paintfox.com www.parispaintingworkshop.blogspot.com
Fireworks 2011 Laurie Fox Pessemier Acrylic on wood 6 x 10 inches $90.00

Paris has been hot, rainy, cool, moderate – all in few days span. I am looking out on golden sunshine on the building across the street. There is nothing like these rays at the end of the long summer day.

Like the weather, our life has been up and down and settled. I’ve a terrible respiratory ailment, partially due to the wild fluctuations in temperature. The computer pooped out – the new one, that is, that we got instead of regular pay from the Germans we work for. I only kept on working to keep the computer. When I write that, I realize what a lame justification that is for working at something. In January, I resolved to make my living with my art. Wouldn’t I be better off peddling my paintings, and lessons, and art expertise?

Writing things out is such a good thing to do. And I thank you all for listening. I do wish I could get the computer to start again – I was editing a photo in Picasa, when the cursor turned to stripes, and the whole thing crashed. Now, when I start the machine, it makes a gulping noise and freezes with nothing on the screen (it isn’t the screen, as I hooked up a separate one to verify). I am giving the computer back, of course, but I would like to retrieve my own week of un-backed up information before I do. Advice gladly accepted (nor do I have a boot disk).

I’ve dabbled with the romance of writing with a pen or pencil. A friend here has been in hot pursuit of writing paper – he wants to write a letter. It is occasionally done here in France, writing, that is. There’s a special charm to words hand written – the pressure of writing “I THINK” or the timidity in “I love you” – perhaps not, maybe those feeling are the other way around? Does the line go up slightly, in a hopeful way; or down, on the slippery slope of pessimism? At the postage stamp market, in the park at Rond Point near the Champs Elysees, one can buy old letters written in fountain pen on pastel shades of paper which make up their own envelope (usually with a plain stamp): 2 euros. They are often invitations to dinner or such, written in a flowery hand. I bought one to decorate.

When I lived in North Africa, there were places where people would write letters for you: “Calligrapheur” or fabulous writing samples posted outside indicated the service. Fine Arabic lettering was something prized – used as artwork.

When Blair and I first lived in Paris, mail delivery was still twice a day. They had just discontinued the pneumatic delivery tubes, where one could put a letter in at one end of town and it was delivered at the other, tout suite! Telegraph buildings still exist, but have been rehabilitated for other purposes. One is just across the market from us at Raspail and Cherche Midi, with “VOX CLAMANS PER ORBEM” etched in giant letters in the frieze. Although I never sent a telegram in Paris, I did send one in the USA, and saw many examples of telegrams delivered to others.

Many years ago, I offered to write letters for people. I set up a desk, with special papers, at Christmas time in Rainier Square in Seattle. It was a very romantic ambition. In fact, I had two people hire me to compose and print Christmas letters (one in French) and a man ask me to help him write a love letter to his girlfriend.

There’s no personality in these Calibri characters, no sense of the line waving, or my hand sweating. I am glad to still have the paintings which are chock full of inexplicable emotion, when we sit in the park and paint.

Laurie (text) and Blair (painting) Pessemier www.paintfox.com

I can’t believe it’s another week since I wrote artnotes.  We’ve had a busy week – guests, many paintings, a weekend full of art lessons.

I am making the adjustment from painting with my friend Y, to painting with my darling Blair.  Sometimes we can bring out the worst in one another, or the best.  Somehow we’ve managed to paint together four times this week.

We went, with Harika, first to the café La Palette.  It’s a bit of a meat market, but what could be better than men and women looking and acting their best?  Hand gestures, good hair, SMILING.  It’s funny, from the outside looking in.  That’s the role of the artist.  It’s always been my role.  I prefer to look into a closed shop, or restaurant, or a night time window across the street, than actually being “inside”.

Without Harika, we went to the café at the mosque the next day.   Men with trays of hot ultra-sweet tea come by tables to take your order.  Just putting my lips on the edge of the glass makes me as happy as champagne.  The place is more populated than it was a few years ago, by all nationalities.  The hubble-bubble pipe is more present: I could smell different, delicious tobacco.   There were two veiled ladies beside us, one toking heavily on the narghila.   An affectionate couple in the corner confirmed the relaxed atmosphere of the place.  I took out my paints and made images.

I took Harika to the park on Wednesday: she lies beside me while I paint.  Blair painted an exceptional “boules game” in oil,  in another part of the park.  She and I did a series of people paintings on wood.  Two people are lying in recliner chairs near us.  I feel a little sorry for them, with nothing to do.  Are they thinking?

We brought two students to the Luxembourg Gardens on Friday.   They were very different:  one about 45 and charmingly reserved, the other 16 and charmingly confident and direct.   What we all had in common was art, and we painted up a storm:  in about 5 hours of painting, we produced, among us, 13 paintings.  A (very good) painter we painted with a few weeks ago would say:  “I can only give birth once a day”.  Altogether yesterday we produced a litter.

On the phone I talk with my Dad about my nephew:  he is a great young pianist.  It is not clear he will pursue music as a profession, but we agree that to make music or make art is a gift:  he will never be lonely.  It is a wonderful door to open.

Laurie (text) and Blair (painting) PESSEMIER    www.paintfox.com

When friends asked if we’d like to go to Versailles for a picnic, we jumped at the chance.  It was the fourth birthday of our darling dog, Harika, on Friday, and she needed a trip outside the city.  We packed our tiffin with  tomatoes and mozzarella, stuffed endive, and devilled eggs.  Our friends brought roast pork and tabouli, red wine and water.  There was cake for dessert, and we sang “Happy Birthday Harika”.  Her best friend, Urti, the fox terrier, helped her celebrate.

It is possible to enter the grounds of Versailles from the back side.  It used to be free to park there, but now Indians have the franchise to maintain the lots: 5 Euros.  The three cars in front of us (all carrying descendents of the king, no doubt)  fought the guy in the booth, but eventually paid.  We passed Marie Antoinette’s hamlet, and parked near the Petit Trianon.  Harika ran ahead to the big pond (sufficiently sized to land a 747, thanks to Louis XIV), where we pitched our blanket.

It’s been a long and sunny week in Paris.  The tilleuls (little leaf Lindens) are in bloom, and my eyes and nose are running to beat the band.  Our geraniums revel in the sunshine, blooming  like never before.  We water them daily, but otherwise it has been the driest spring since 1976, an outstanding champagne year.  It makes me want to go out there to inspect the vines.

I alternate between loving the city and longing for the country.  Our seven big windows let in a lot of light – despite lined drapery in the bedroom, the light begins around 5:30 AM and lingers until past 10 PM.  We’re sleeping less and midday at the dining table can be pretty warm.  Running the oven for dinner is not advised (it’s 10:30 in the morning and Blair is cooking a chicken).

We have lots of friends and things to do here in Paris, but the grass at Versailles felt good beneath my feet.  Harika ran around in circles and rolled in what we hoped was just the scent of tilleul blossoms.  A boy was flying a kite with his father, and his sister was robed like Marie Antoinette, plus a baseball cap.  Other daogs, mostly small, milled around the end of the pond.  One could rent a boat.  We switched sides of the pond to accommodate shade, between lunch and dessert.

I had packed painting supplies for the group, and encouraged  everyone to paint.  Neither of our friends had ever painted outside before, nor used acrylic paint, particularly my five colors (I make all of my paintings with five colors only:  turquoise, magenta, lemon yellow, dioxyzine purple and white).  Three of us painted the same view of the Grand Trianon, and I made a portrait of Urti afterward.   It is always delightful to see such different outcomes:  one royal, one like the Dordogne (it must have been the red wine) and mine, in my regular style.  Blair didn’t paint because he painted Notre Dame at 5:45 Friday morning:  www.paintfox.com

Laurie (text) and Blair (painting) Pessemier
Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris    Blair PESSEMIER  Oil on canvas  22 x 18 inches  $325.00