Hi Laurie, my computer still can't download anything, maybe you can add a picture, I liked the Yellow Sailboat.

“Hey, you’re an artist. Want to paint our picture?”

The kid who stays at the summer cottage near ours was playing on the beach with his cousins, and saw me arrive with my painting gear.  They stay in their place, which their grandfather rents in July and August, for his extended family, and we stay in ours, bigger, but across the road from the lake. We share a beach, along with the property owners and their 29 grandchildren. The lake is plenty big enough for all of us.  And the activity  makes perfect subject matter for me to paint.

“WOW, it’s beautiful, that’s great (and other squeals of delight)”.  I tell them it is for them, for their house, and hand it to the brave boy (maybe 11 years old) who asked me to paint it.

They return ten minutes later, asking for a signature, awash in thank-yous. “I seen your work before,” the brave boy tells me,” in your house, you painted picture of my aunt and her dog.   It was great, too.”

It’s all an artist lives for.

“Let me finish the background,”  I tell them, as I dab on more blue on the water.  They are flabbergasted I am saying yes, the lady who they haven’t talked to before.  “I’ll call you when I am ready.” 

About five minutes later, the four boys line up in front of the water.  I expect them to stand still for five minutes max, but they are serious about this group portrait.   Counting the minutes, I opt for gesture, hair color and bathing trunk color to define each one.  They are still not too fidgety at twelve minutes, but at fifteen I wrap it up and turn the canvas their direction.

At lunch the other day, we were placed in the air conditioned dining room of the Tourne Bouchon, a neighborhood restaurant.  I thanked Madame – it’s been extremely hot out, and the cool air was refreshing.   For me, in any case:  several groups of French people came afterward and refused to sit there.  They insisted on tables in the bar, where they woudn’t have a “courant d’air”.  Never mind it’s 85 degrees.

It’s the same on the bus or train – the temperature can be 90, if it’s a degree, but French people will get up to shut the window. On the way to the park with Harika, we pass a friend, huffing and puffing, but wearing a sweater.   Parisiens are convinced if a draft hits them, regardless of temperature, it spells doom.   My luncheon partner explained to me, were it to happen, one must cover the area  exposed to the air at once.

I’ve always loved the wind – it brings me new ideas, I say.  So not only do the French think I am inviting sickness, but I am crazy on top of it.  A former neighbor, a French physician, cautioned us about going to the Pyrenees when the wind is blowing.  “I have seen men go mad,” he told us, quite seriously.  He implied it was why the Basques were so rebellious.   I write this as I sit in the wake of the fan;  Harika, too.

We’ve been spending a lot of time at the gallery, where it is nearly glacial.   Blair carries out a gallon of water from the de-humidifier every day.  You’d think you were in the freezer section of the super market when you go downstairs.   I love this.  I even went to work today, Sunday.

Yesterday, when I was sitting in the breeze of the doorway to the hall, I offered my chair to a sweaty arrival, “it’s marvelous here, there’s such fresh air.  Would you like to sit down?”  She rushed away, crying “on, no, it will be a courant d’air!   I must go, it is too cold here!”

Painting and skiing, I love them both. Both are solitary activities. I guess I can add working on the computer to that list.

A friend brought me up a pineapple the other day, I painted it, then ate it. Very sweet, did you know that by adding a little coconut milk to the pineapple the acid taste is removed? That can be done with a couple of minutes in the micro-wave too, put them together then in a processer and you have a great drink to drink while typing on the computer

A wine filled bota-bag is great while skiing, I don't eat or drink while painting, I concentrate instead.

Eglise Auvers   Blair Pessemier  Acrylic on linen  13 x 16 inches  300.00
The pond at Giverny   Blair Pessemier   Acrylic on linen 15 x 18 inches  350.00

Blair returned from picking up the rental car on Thursday, announcing, “the offered me a convertible so I took it.”   I had ordered a seven passenger van to accept our painters (fortunately only two) and all of our equipment.   “What?  What are these people going to think?” 

With some difficulty, we managed to get our painting gear, minus the caddie, into the back of the car.  It was a new Volvo C70 convertible with the retractable hard roof.   It looked like a “transformer” (do  you remember those kids toys from a few years ago?), and people congregated on the street as we performed the metamorphosis between a sort-of-sensible and wild-and-crazy car. 

“It’s only got two doors,” I moaned, although secretly I was thinking it was pretty spectacular.  I had recently accused Blair of being no fun, and he figured this would be a good way to show me he was still the sporty, stylish guy I married.
After learning how to operate the roof, we picked up our charges, a mom celebrating 50 years, and her 18 year old son,  at the edge of the Latin quarter.  It was a period of non-rain, and although only sixty-five degrees, the sun peeked out.    We drove (slowly) down the congested St. Michel, along the Seine and beneath the Louvre to Madeleine.  I’d never seen the buildings in such detail – from the middle of the road without a roof I could see EVERYTHING.  I heard the people in the back seat whisper, “this is better than the bus tour”.

We drove North, by Place de Clichy (we couldn’t see the Moulin Rouge) and past Montmartre.  Paris thinned out as we made our way to the country.  I began to smell the trees (little leaf lindens, achoo!) and the wheat.  Harika hung on for dear life as the wind buffeted her fur.  THIS is living!
We parked the car on top of the hill in Auvers, overlooking the countryside.  We visited the graves of the Van Goghs, and walked through the wheat fields.  We visited many of the plaques indicating Van Gogh’s last works, and some of Cezanne, Corot and Daubigny.   Making like those famous types, we painted around the church.  After a visit to  Dr. Gachet’s house (there was a cat, much to the chagrin of Harika, who was on leash), we piled back into the car and drove into Paris:   with the top down.

After moving back to Paris in 1998, people would ask “why are you here?’.  We would respond, “for the light”.  It was the light that fueled the impressionists, a sort of misty, thick colored light (from yellow to blue to pink) that made those paintings wonderful.   About 18 months ago my friend Y said she felt the light had changed here “it’s never pink!”  I thought we just weren’t outside early enough.   Now, this spring/summer 2013, I notice the change, too. 

I had my most talented workshop participant ever, I believe, this week – a young woman, about 18, who was born to paint.   She was home-schooled, and just started taking some art classes.   She had such a way of building up her painting from paint, not from drawing – and the result was practically pure impressionism.  It was thrilling -- beside her, I felt humbled.   I learn from each and every painter we paint with.

The British call it “white cloud” in their weather reports.  It is the refrigerator  type of light that Seattle had.   And it is the light in Paris the very moment of this writing.  It is somewhere between overcast and brightly foggy, but it takes the light, shadow and warm coloration out of the picture.  A photographer I met here a few weeks ago commented on it, and a painter I just painted with had a hard time defining the light here.  I am not sure what is happening, but it has pushed Blair and I to seek new sunsets.

We are looking at new locations for painting this winter:  of course, Tunisia comes to mind, but there were security issues I wouldn’t want to repeat.  We’ve been looking at the Southern United States, where we can paint and sell paintings (or I could open a game and wild herb/vegetable restaurant:  Afield (or is that just my thinking?)).  Morocco is also possible, or the south of France, like last year. 

It’s not that the light was always perfect in Paris:  just sometimes.  And those times are breathtaking.   Indoor light has changed as well, with the introduction of energy-saving/mercury laden light bulbs.  Warm incandescence, casting a golden glow on your partner’s cheeks has given way to a fluorescent-green-y glow (think lime-light?).

I am painting dogs in the park now – we are going to have a “dog show” at 14, rue Servandoni, before we close on 30 July.   They go for walks in clouds or sun, Harika, in her black coat, officially preferring the shade.  You never hear them complain.

We’ve still not had a single summer-y day here.  I feel the earth has tilted on its axis and we are headed for a new ice  age.  I am reminded of the documentaries on the public TV of my youth: “there was no summer and crops failed”.   I feel hair growing in my ears and nose and Harika’s canines seem to be getting longer.  The ice age, right around the corner, darn it!    I joke we are having summer in Siberia, but in fact, the temperatures there have been warmer and the sky sunnier than here.    Picnic, comrades?

Umbrella in the Luxembourg Gardens  Laurie Fox Pessemier  Acrylic on canvas panel  12 x 12 inches  175.00
Atlas and Astor  Laurie Fox Pessemier   Acrylic on canvas panel 12 x 12  175.00

Van Gogh's field in Rain   Blair Pessemier   Acrylic on linen 13 x 16 inches  325.00
Sailboat School Trouville  Laurie Fox Pessemier  Acrylic on wood 7.5 x 16 inches  125.00

“de St Marie, Matsushita, Pessemier, Nahem, Claes--  are those cities where you have galleries?” someone asked the other day.  Two weeks after our opening we received the sign listing the names of the people who have paintings on our gallery walls (the vendor promised it on 9 May, but, alas, it’s France).

When I looked at the sign, I realized someone might think that these were cities, in different countries.  In fact, they are the names of five (six)  American artists with work hanging  on the walls of 14, rue Servandoni.  I love the diversity, acceptance and cooperation of the different cultures of America.  NEVER would that occur, without the help of an American, in Europe.

Over drinks the other night, a couple of American friends said we no longer knew America, that it wasn’t all friendship and cooperation there.  But there is no other country that comes as close.   We are ambassadors here, hosting painters from Australia, Brazil, Slovakia, England, Austria, Japan, Canada and the United States.

It was a week of Americans in Paris for us – Memorial Day perhaps brought the American theme closer to home.  On Sunday, we had four young Americans (18-20) over for a mock Memorial  Day picnic in our apartment.  I made a Venezualan-barbecue beef roast, potato salad, goat cheese stuffed peppers, cantelope and asparagus.   It warmed up enough to take in the view from the balcony, where we witnessed 200,000+ protesters on rue de Rennes. 

It was NOT a diverse crowd of protesters as we all observed – we could pick out two black people and an asian woman, but otherwise it was all white bread.   People waved fuchsia and turquoise flags, which made it difficult to identify what kind of angry mob the were.   They were protesting the fact gay people could now adopt children, after the passing of the equality law in France.    With trepidation, I sent the four off to put their locks on the Pont des Arts.   Facebook postings later assured me they made it.

We rented a car on Monday, our first great sunny day this spring.  We drove with two California friends to Trouville, where we spent the day on the beach.  I had half a mind to go to the DDay cemetery, but it was at least another hour in the car.   Bells rang out at the church for a long time, which I believe were in honor of the Americans in Normandy 69 years ago.   In any case, we had a sense of Memorial Day – I can take out my white clothes and shoes, to wear until Labor Day.

My early morning writing has fallen by the wayside as we have more and more painting workshops.  This week we went out to the Bois de Boulogne and Auvers-sur-Oise.   Coming up is a day at the Seine and Tuileries, just before the opening of our “he loves me, he loves me not” Flower Art Show on Thursday.

We picked up our painter at 9:30 this Sunday morning – traffic was negligible as we headed Northwest out of the city.   We visited the graves of Vincent and Theo van Gogh – Harika snuck in behind us, despite my best intentions to keep her outside the cemetery.  “We in France welcome dogs,” an older woman told me as I tried to catch her, so off she went.  Something about all those bones made me nervous, but it was fine.

We walked through the field where Vincent was shot – it is pretty clear now that he was accidentally murdered by young boys playing with a gun.  I really feel happier about him knowing that.  A path leads from the fields down to the church.  We continued through the town – Blair had hoped to paint in the city park, but there was an event going on.  We continued further on, where our associate visited Vincent’s rooms.

We painted not far from there –on a street overlooking buildings and flowering trees. Harika schmoozed with every tourist that walked by, as well as the locals.   “This dog wants water,” a local woman in a house dress and penciled on eyebrows admonished me.  She could have been Vincent’s model.  “There’s water in the park, where they are serving lunch,” she continued, “it’s the best water in all of Europe.”  I told her I’d be sure to try it.
As we finished up our morning painting, we decided to go for the lunch “event”  on the grass.  Salad, bread, duck and roasted potatoes,   crepes for dessert,  wine and coffee.   Eaten beneath a tent, people sang-along to live tunes played on the accordion.

We had lunch of a different sort at our Bois-de-Boulogne session.  We took the ferry across the lake to the Chateau-des-Iles, where we ate a gourmet lunch on the patio.  Men wore jackets and the napery was linen.  I did my best to clean my painted hands.

There were a plethora of dogs, people and bicyclists at the Bois de Boulogne.  Most played well together, save for an English bulldog who took exception to a fluffy dog (all ended up intact).  We had lots of admirers and our fellow painter was a good sport.

Mid-week, we ate dinner at our house with an old friend from the Cordon Bleu Cooking School here.  I made a Barbue (which I believe is the equivalent of a Sunfish) – more than four pounds of fish, like a giant sole.  I was honored she took a photo of him.