from somewhere in Paris, by the river Marne: week-end market

First, let me put it right here: to all dads, especially to the best of the lot (yes, you!) – happy father’s day.





Were you a dad in France, you could well be treated with cakes and champagne, and a bouquet of flowers would sit festively in the middle of your table.













All, of course, purchased at or around the market.

Saturday, the Parisian village where I live (okay, it has a name: Champignol, which is part of the larger Ville de Saint-Maur-des-Fosses, which in turn is part of Paris; now you see why I avoid naming it) has its big market. Everyone who was selling on Wednesday is here, but there are many others.

Aurore tells me – go at 11. People come together then to shop and to talk.

Indeed.

A visit to the market is my only activity this day and so you have this to keep you happy: people coming together over white asparagus and orange melon and cheese. (I bought all three.)





















You may as well make the acquaintance of my cheese man (and his wife). Because I don’t dare go to anyone else. He is nice to me and I am nice right back. It’s not hard – he has a wonderful selection.





And this is how it works in these Parisian-village markets: they roam from Parisian village to Parisian village so that if you go from one to the other, you’ll meet your favorite vendors again. Some sell only a few products from their own backyard, but the vast majority present foods from a number of growers (most from France, but in seafood – some from Madagascar and in some fruits – Spain’s there as well; it’s easy to tell – most foods have place of origin clearly marked; if it’s French, it comes with an exclamation mark!).

So, I leave you with a bouquet for this holiday. Cleverly presented with roses and berries. Simple and sweet and so very pretty.

Paris!

grande l'Etoile, petit Citroen






romance




Eiffel Tower and Dior





shared ipod





Ten hours in Paris:

One hour: listening to Aurore rehearse with the Orchestre Philharmonique de Radio France. Brahms 4th. Exquisite! No photos. Don’t want to abuse privilege.

Five minutes: breakfast is late. After the rehersal. Out of croissants. Happy to take pain au beurre with the café crème.





Twenty minutes: enjoying a picnic in the rose gardens of the Bagatelle. More on that in a minute, but here is my lunch of choice (that's true pretty much every day) and this is my view from the bench where I ate it:










Twenty-eight minutes: waiting for the traffic to clear by l’Etoile so that I can take a photo. At rush hour, this was a fete. A miracle, really, that I could catch that one second during which there would be an empty space. And, to add cream to that unbelievable milisecond of luck, I watch one small old Citroen putting along, right in front. (See photo above)

The balance – eight hours and seven minutes: walking. Covering most every street (or so it seems) between l’Etoile, the Eiffel Tower and the far corners of the Bois de Boulogne.

This is why I cannot stay in central Paris. My work would fall to the side. I would set out for a short stroll and I would be gone the whole day. Walking, watching, photographing. Waiting for traffic to pass so that it would not clutter the picture. Admiring. Imagining. Taking in Paris.


On this day, my goal was the Bagatelle Gardens. Quite a hike from the Philharmonic Hall. And absolutely impossible to find. Somewhere in the Bois de Boulogne. No one can point me to it. I follow empty paths through forests that, in my mind, are more horseback riding friendly than strolling friendly.










But all roads eventually do lead to either Rome or roses. And the Bagatelle roses are something else. Not surprisingly, the gardens are the site for the international "new rose" competition. So, which of the 100 bushes was the winner this year? Here are some possibilities:


















The bees really liked this one:









But the judges picked none of the above. The first prize went to this small flowered variety:





And the "best fragrance" award went to this one:





I can't post fragrance on Ocean. But trust me, you'd agree. And the handful of people in the Bagatelle Gardens concurred. (Do the Gardens attract such small numbers because they are hard to find, far from metro stops, or because they're off the Paris map? I'm in favor of keeping them quiet, but if you happen to be in Paris while I'm not there, by all means, go look for them. Or if you're rich, take a cab. Then sniff away. It's a heady place.)





And speaking of rich, Bagatelle is more than just roses. I have plenty of photos of peacocks and children talking to peacocks and older people walking arm in arm and flower beds and such, but that's just too much for one day. I'll leave you with a photo from the Bagatelle Restaurant -- a posh place for that posh side of Paris that I actually rarely see. The right bank people who press their clothes with care and make sure every strand of hair is just so. Every big city has posh people and Paris seems to have quite a few in this part of town and so in the interest of fairness to them (because I'm sure they care), they shall have their moment on Ocean.




After, I stumbled around until I came to La Muette (the neighborhood of the Marmotan!), where I got lost in windowshopping.

I didn't take many photos. Because GW Bush was in town (why? isn't he lame yet?), traffic was snarled and drivers were more grouchy than usual. I could do a whole post on the time I spent watching everyone jostle for a spot on a crowded square or circle. But in Paris, you can turn a corner and the noise of traffic falls away, behind you. And in front? There's always the Eiffel Tower.

from Giverny, France: cloudburst

Well, they said it would rain. Clouds and big drops of water, plastered all over the little image of Thursday on the weather site. But I had no choice! All remaining days here are accounted for. And Thursday is for Monet’s garden in the village of Giverny. Besides, rain and I are friends. I’m used to getting wet, used to protecting my camera, used sloshing around in drippy pants.

The skies don’t look too threatening. Initially. By 7, I am on the commuter train to Paris and by 8:15, I am on the train out of Gare St. Lazare. Watching the landscape grow darker as we zip due north.

And now I am in Vernon, the closest station to Giverny. From here you take the bus. Last time, I walked. An hour’s hike. This time, I got it into my head that I should bike.

I’m in a mild hurry. The gates open at 9:30 and I want to be there before the usual avalanche of impatient souls, each wanting everyone else not to be there. I pedal fast. It’s a crappy bike, but it is cheap. The savvy monsieur at the station bar-café offers me a special deal! And I am a sucker to take it! Who else will rent from him on this soon to be very wet day? Of course, monsieur assures me “it’s a new velo!” Right. Utterly believable. It got messed up in shipment, that’s all.

Two minutes into the ride, I notice that the seat falls back every time I go over a bump. I can handle it! I am in a hurry! I wont even pause for a morning café crème avec pain au chocolat and there isn’t much on this planet that will keep me away from that routine.

I’ve arrived. I’m inside the gardens with only 350 people sharing the narrow paths with me. Which is way better than the sunny day in July when I swear, there were 10,895.

So what! It remains a splendid place. Both in concept and execution. It always seems so fantastically random, even as it isn’t random at all – it’s painstakingly well planned.

I am between flowering seasons again. Spring is over, summer hasn’t taken hold. The roses are still blooming, but the irises are gone. Poppies dominate. Nasturtium are so nascent as to be invisible. Water lilies are just beginning, but they’re plenty beautiful already. Sit back now and revel in the abundance that is Giverny:






















































Ninety minutes later, I am done. I sip my grande crème and consider my options. The hike to the next village seems silly. It’s gray and damp and I am unlikely to enjoy a forest slosh. I grip my bike and head out to the top of the hills behind the village of Giverny.

And it starts raining. A little at first. Heavily within minutes. I challenge you to try this: to work a multispeed bike with a lopsided seat up a hill, while protecting your camera and holding an umbrella.

At the top, I am spent (and I admit to getting off and pushing the damn bike up at least half the incline), wet and mumbling things that a person of good standing should not be mumbling, even in the middle of nowhere.

But I grow quiet quickly. Because it’s sort of pretty up here. And I can imagine that the Monet family must have run up this hill often enough, to get away from terror dad who made them carry heavy cans of water to sustain his garden dreams.

And then I see the poppies in the green fields of grain and I am enchanted, because for me, this pastoral scene is sublime. (Up there with Normandy cows.)









Admittedly, the excursion did not end majestically, on this high note. For one thing, I had to get off that hill and there isn’t much that can be said for zipping down in the rain at a rapid pace without a bike helmet. (The French will not wear bike helmets casually. Given their love of biking, it is a complete mystery to me why they avoid this very basic protection.)





In the last stretch, while crossing the River Seine, my chain disengaged and I spent a wonderful 10 minutes contemplating the traffic, the river, the train schedule and the sad state of affairs with respect to the bike.



And now I am off the train and in the city. I could have spent the rest of my day in Paris, but I have had enough of cloudbursts. I poke around Les Galleries Lafayette, buy a sack full of beautiful but overly expensive foods and take the train home. I couldn’t wait to find out if Aurore and Olivier's daughters had had a good day in school.

from somewhere in Paris, by the river Marne: for the love of painting

At 5:30 in the morning, my computer is ringing. I sit up listening, confused. I stumble downstairs and ask the one person who Skypes me, Ed, what’s wrong.

Just wanted to say hi… he says in a very sleepy voice.
It’s 5:30!
Oh, you’re eating dinner?

The man is turned around. Having dozed off himself, his level of awareness is about equal to mine.

He’s apologizing now, but my eyes have wandered over to the window. Pink sky of a sunrise. As we chat, it gradually loses some of its pinkness.

I have to run down to the river! I shut down Skype, take the keys (gates shut firmly behind you in this neighborhood), the camera and jog down the block to the river.






No one is out yet. Oh! The family of swans! They know whne not to sleep.





Monet would have liked it now. I'm sure of it.



Later:

At the outdoor market, I add supplies of cheese, endive, carrots, and at the prepared foods store, I throw in a salad of leeks and shallots. Daily life. La vie quotidienne continues. The "village" is my studio.









As I take a lunch break, the little one joins me at the table outside. I’m eating, she is making pretty designs on her page. I already have two of her pieces of art – I pasted them to the wall before me. Her color choices are lovely. She must get inspiration from her home, her garden, no? I bring out my computer and write, she continues to add color to her creation, using markers now.



young painter




lunch




garden


Later:


We bike across town (or village, or Paris neighborhood, depending how you view it), because the ten-year old daughter of my landlords has art class and the teacher is letting me sit in.

And I learn something. I learn how to encourage the formation of art. The girls (I see only girls) paint with their own style and speed, in a setting that is tranquil and forgiving (the outdoors). Spills, mistakes, slip ups, imprecise angles – they are routine.



in the garden where they work










discussing art


My landlords’ daughter has a gifted hand and I think how exceptionally wonderful it is for her to do this on a day which, in the States, is reserved for schoolwork.


Later:

In the evening, I visit Jacques and Nathalie Seguin. I walk in with a grudge: I am leaving Paris next week because of you! I say this with a smile because in reality, I have to leave Paris no matter what. I am out of money, out of time, out of days to spend on the work I love. But it is also true that I have to vacate my apartment because on that midsummer-day weekend, Jacques and Nathalie are displaying their art at the coachhouse where I am staying. That was the deal. I can live here in June, but I have to be out by the time of their gallery event.

Fact is, I love their work. Both, though I will concentrate here on the paintings of Jacques, because this post is about paintings.

(Though note her magnificent work here, and visit her studio by clicking her name above:)



Nathalie Seguin



Long ago, I fell in love with Impressionism and especially with the work of Monet. You could say that my daughters grew up on this fancy of mine, because on our visits to Paris (and elsewhere), we made sure to stop by every conceivable place where a Monet was displayed. And there are many such places.

Giverny (Monet’s garden) kicked me into an intense gardening mode many decades ago. And it still takes my breath away, the onslaught of visitors notwithstanding. And yet, I am aware of how uncool it is to love Monet. It’s like loving Mozart or Bach. Or Honfleur or Florence. Or anything else that has gained the status of popular genius.

[To let you know how uncool I am: I studied the music of Bach in college, and I chose Honfleur over and above any other town in Normandy, and I’ve visited Giverny at least a half-dozen times, which is more than the average Parisian, I'm sure, even though it’s in their backyard and hardly in mine. Oh, and I regard Florence as being on par with paradise. So there.]

So imagine my delight when I hear that Jacques was inspired by Monet. Of course, his canvases move beyond the recreation of great art forms. To me, his genius is especially evident in the large paintings, the ones done with a paint knife. Should you invest in one, I'll be jealous for life.



Jacques Seguin







(Note: if you want to band together and surprise me with a canvas – I like a number of the large paintings! He’ll tell you which ones. Really, they cost small pennies compared to what they’re worth to the soul. And he ships for free.)


In the late evening, Aurore and her two young artists, brought me a piece of strawberry cake, done in the style of the north. I wanted to tell the two little ones (but I couldn’t, because it would take me beyond my vocabulary) that they have a special thing going here. They are surrounded by art and roses and good food and loving parents and earnest visitors (that would be me) and music. It’s a good life.