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.

from somewhere in Paris, by the river Marne: the next day

Finally, on Tuesday, the country wakes up from a post-dejeuner doze. The café where I want to be a regular café crème customer each morning is open. I bike over and settle in.





I play with my camera, but just a little. Mainly I am enjoying the coffee, the pain au chocolate. The camera is loosely in my hand. A gentleman calls out to me from across the street. Don’t take my picture this morning! I didn’t put on make up yet! It takes me a minute to translate this in my head. Putting on make up – a phrase from the past. I haven’t much use for it these days. But he is already laughing. No make up! He says it in French, then in English. I laugh too.

I’m not always sure how my camera will be received when I’m out and about. I am always quite obvious about it and these days, oftentimes I ask. In this section of Paris, no one has yet said no.


Aurore wants to know if I want to go to the market this morning. (If you know your village schedules, you can catch a weekly open air market every day. Except Monday. Yes, I know, I am in Paris, but I live as in a village, because this part of the city is, indeed its own village.)




I follow her on the morning rounds. Market, bakery, plant store.

The sellers are engaging. Young men, bantering about this rather unusual presence of a tourist. (My camera is dangling conspicuously again.) I assure them that for once, I am in a buying mode. Really, j’achete tous! Well, maybe not everything, but a lot. My backpack fills and Aurore lends me her second basket. I am a kid let loose in Disneyland. I am a person starved for markets that have dinner right there for you, so that you don’t have to sweat thinking and planning. Shop at the market, cook and serve – how complicated is that? And if you’re not sure about your cooking skills, throw in the cheese and fresh bread and everyone goes home happy.

















Except that here, I am certain that everyone must know how to cook. It is as important as learning to tie your shoes. (Does it show my age that I should use this analogy??) Some time back, in a country b&b in Brittany, my landlady said -- I don't cook much for breakfast. I only made a Brittany cake, some breads, yougurt, fruit... Right. Not much at all.



At the plant store, Aurore buys plants for the garden. I think her garden is already magnificent, but I understand the temptation to add more.













And then I am home again and I close the door and work.


In the early evening, I take a walk by the Marne. I’m in a people watching mode.





And I see this adorable family, where one girl is on a lap, the other is dancing around and there is a picnic basket at the side. I recognize it as my landlords and I tiptoe past them, not wanting to disturb a moment so singularly peaceful that it catches you right there in the throat.

Back home, the little one brings me a bouquet of mint and a sprig of tiny yellow buds.





Her sister looks up from homework and I think that surely homework must be pleasant, fun even, when it is on the terrace amidst roses. And when you know that the next day there is no school.

Wednesdays here are school free days and next year, the primary grades will cut their Saturday classes as well. The president wants to improve the performance of school children and he is doing this by eliminating some school hours. An idea I could totally get behind, being of the belief that school work took my own daughters away from family time far too often, particularly on the week-ends.


I eat dinner en famille and it is as if I am eating with my own family fifteen years back except that they’re all speaking French and so the analogy ends right there.





The girls play in the way that only children their age can play at the close of a warm, sunny day. With vigor!





And then the evening winds down. Two more minutes! I know that cry. Two more minutes, I have dreams about “two more minutes” in life, where I want to continue something but I know I cannot. It’s so intense, so good, just two more minutes please!

I work late, not wanting to give it up just yet on this day of such warmth and tenderness.

from somewhere in Paris, by the river Marne: quotidien

She comes to me with her clay and she shows me how she can mix colors. She names them for me in perfect English.

Aurore and Olivier’s (my landlords) girls are enchanting. (Okay, so are their parents, but I think we already cleared that one.)

The youngest is five and she and I have a perfect system of communications going. When she is not listing colors, she speaks to me in French. I’m especially good at five year old French. It’s when I get into technical stuff like politics and my work that I start to falter. Five year olds, unlike us, never ask about work.


I work steadily and my contact with the outside world is minimal. This morning, that awful French Monday morning, when you’re ready to move on and everything is STILL closed (digestion, remember?), I found a bakery and a café and I combined the two to form a perfect union of a breakfast type, but I had been working and it was so late by the time I got to it, that the waiter was already setting tables for lunch.










Afterwards, I wandered over to a big store and found the newest CD of the French singer Raphael and after purchasing it, I realized that my daily budget allowed for only 8 more Euros. Luckily, I had rose wine left over from the night before and large baguettes with chicken, egg and tomato were less than 4 Euros each. I was happy to still have change because you never know when the urge will strike to buy, say a pastry in the late evening. (I could go off budget, but I am proving a point to those who don’t believe I can do it. There are many.)


I think a lot about Impressionism while I am here. It could be because of the art in my apartment in the carriage house. There are numerous paintings of Jacques Seguin – a local artist who will appear in a later post for reasons that will also become clear later – and he has that slightly impressionistic stroke. But there is more to it: I am living an unremarkable but stunningly beautiful daily routine by the River Marne. In this, the quintessential vie quotidienne, I find inspiration. A girl making pink out of red and white clay, a woman taking a café on her way to the store, two friends and a dog taking in the warmth of a June day by the River Marne.





Except I have things to write and so I must let go and end for today. And my apologies about one more thing: this week for me is more about words than it is about photography. I think you can already tell.

from somewhere in Paris, on the Marne: day by day

The sun is making patterns on the wooden kitchen table. I prod the mullioned window open. I know Olivier is out with his daughters and it is ever so pleasant to hear their voices drifting in and out. A garden of birds and family sounds.





He’s in his jeans now. Minutes ago, he was still in his concert clothes. Aurore has spent the day here with their daughters, in their garden, where roses of all heights and hues of pink and red hug the walls of the two buildings. At other times, she must play her violin, I’m sure, as she is, too, a professional musician. Radio France Symphony for her, oboe at the Paris Opera for him.

The sounds of a Sunday.

So this, too, is Paris!

I’m living in the old carriage house. Here, you can see it from the driveway. It’s behind the house. And that's my bedroom -- just over the large wooden doors. (The lower windows are the cooking and living spaces.)









You want to see the house of my landlords? Sure. It’s lovely (they bought it in shambles and slowly brought it and the carriage house to its current splendid state). I'm sitting in my favorite kind of garden chair (childhood memories!) and admiring it now.














When I walk down a block, I come to the River Marne. It joins the Seine closer to the center of the city, but here, it twists and forms almost a full circle. I’m surrounded by it from all sides. A path runs next to it, for the entire ten kilometers of the loop.



a block from the house




a family coming round the bend




nibbling and snacking




the little ones




another family




friends flying




riverside houses




trees




children playing


Sunday is my hands down favorite day in France. I am so often alone here (as I am today) that I truly look forward to this day, when I can be surrounded by people. On Sundays, whether I am in the southwest of France, the northeast, or somewhere in between, I am most certainly going to find people. In groups, couples, families – they all spill out into public spaces, and I am, just on this day, part of their world and they are part of mine.

Okay, that’s a general statement about this day. Here’s the flipside: everything stays open, in preparation for the big eating frenzy that takes place nationwide between noon and 2:30. Everything. You need more bread? More wine? More fruits and veggies or prepared foods? Flowers for the table? Cheeses maybe? Shop to your heart’s desire. Until early afternoon. And then the nation shuts down to digest.


So that if you finally make it to your splendid apartment early on a Sunday afternoon, you better hurry up and find a place to eat, because if you go out too late, you may find shades drawn and doors locked for the day and a good part of Monday, too. Digestion takes time.

I hurry into a place that's about to close and order a delicious, big plate of spaghetti with wild mushrooms.






And in this way, out here near the Marne, I am not 100% in Paris (and this is a good thing). Because Paris is the kind of round-the-clock city where if you cannot find food at some odd hour, then you’re not trying hard enough.


I am here for not quite two weeks. I have a lot to do and very little money left after weeks of travel. This is my time to eat at home and not look for distractions. Posts will be shorter writing hours will be longer. You could say that I am in the French counterpart to my writer’s shed, only it’s a tad more put together here. And there’s running water.

I open the bedroom window to this – a fine day in Paris. But, that’s for another time. Now let me get back to work.