tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91661210821382188792024-03-08T03:32:09.509-08:00Sandy's France... a personal guide
and font of informationSandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.comBlogger272125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-15611961436342247932023-09-23T12:54:00.000-07:002023-09-23T12:54:28.218-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9UNEozNxuJzcd59ip43et2xwkNj2Z2KrcYoOgQpo3ISofXzClIjyahNpjwAyhJx9ewNOtcpliy19ZJG2hbBRki_w9uMsZRQivkr2QjCGX8E3Y38epadMyMKJN5IqKXTAwBHmqNyp_VqJ5dbRy-p2mo2e5n9oMtMlhI0wAJEQCSxnaEs3VY2asRPlASenQ/s3072/Veal%20scallop%20normande%20with%20creminis.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="2304" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9UNEozNxuJzcd59ip43et2xwkNj2Z2KrcYoOgQpo3ISofXzClIjyahNpjwAyhJx9ewNOtcpliy19ZJG2hbBRki_w9uMsZRQivkr2QjCGX8E3Y38epadMyMKJN5IqKXTAwBHmqNyp_VqJ5dbRy-p2mo2e5n9oMtMlhI0wAJEQCSxnaEs3VY2asRPlASenQ/s320/Veal%20scallop%20normande%20with%20creminis.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p> It’s been a long while since I wrote something here.</p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Why?</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Because covid happened. And then an illness that had nothing to do with covid - still haven’t had it/knock on wood - but an illness that almost erased me from the face of the Earth. Three months in hospital tells you how serious it was; they don’t do that for nothing.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span> </span><span> </span>But enough of that. Back to France, my Other Country, which I’ve missed horribly.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><br /></span></p><p>Eating lunch today, solo, I had time to think. And my thoughts ran to how things are different at the table between France and the States.</p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For instance, you’re supposed to finish up the cheese, the bread and the wine at the same time. That may not sound difficult, but just try it. You end up either getting very good at it, or eating far more than you’d intended. It took me years, but I’m very good at it now. I wonder if my children, born and raised there, find it anything but natural.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And then, in the States, when eating with knife and fork, you cut your meat (or whatever), put your knife down, switch your fork to your other hand (depending on whether you’re right- or left-handed) and eat what you’ve cut. Then you start all over again. In Frace, that’s ludicrous. You don’t change hands with your fork. But you do eat very gingerly. And hold your fork and knife in a manner pleasing to the eye.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And then there are the glasses. Of course, that also exists in fancy American restaurants as well. There’s the water glass, the red wine glass, the white wine glass, and perhaps Another Glass. Of course, if you’re a poor student, you’re lucky if you have ONE glass. Sometimes it’s got a fun image of Astérix le Gaulois, or Boule et Bill, or Gaston la Gaffe on it because it once held French mustard and you’ve recycled it because you can’t afford extravagances like real actual glasses.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span> </span><span> </span>Not to mention cheese. France has almost 300 types of cheese. In all shapes and sizes. General de Gaulle himself - hero of World War II and President of France - once said, “How can anyone govern a country with 246 varieties of cheese?” So knowing how to cut the various shapes correctly to put a piece on your plate really weeds the men from the boys.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>These are only four of the pitfalls of sitting down at a French table.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That being said, French food is so good that you really shouldn’t care. And the French are too polite to tell you you’re a slob anyway, so...</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So go to France. Have a meal with friends. Enjoy it all. You’ll never regret it.</span></p>Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-70765003655701430102021-04-27T05:51:00.001-07:002021-04-27T05:51:30.344-07:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ZQpHZSfMHldBZQPvU4GiqoeAvYu2QBibeVZRpwInUEyBr5ziTId_EEGKUpV-YyDbO5bgtJmWw1bVUEyeF17LnmQz_kwBTUP_9x5Rqc3eXFe3xK5IPrSX8tHsiJJ4AQg6ttSajMjIRvqs/s2048/DSCF0149.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ZQpHZSfMHldBZQPvU4GiqoeAvYu2QBibeVZRpwInUEyBr5ziTId_EEGKUpV-YyDbO5bgtJmWw1bVUEyeF17LnmQz_kwBTUP_9x5Rqc3eXFe3xK5IPrSX8tHsiJJ4AQg6ttSajMjIRvqs/s320/DSCF0149.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>LE LAPIN DE PAQUES</p><p><br /></p><p>Moving to a new continent with a new language definitely broadens your horizons. Things are done a different way with words you may or may not understand or recall. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Reading a story by David Sedaris, “Jesus Shaves”, touched on this subject and brought back a flood of linguistic “WTF” moments when, in spite of speaking fluent French, I had NO idea what people were talking about.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The example Sedaris relates is the Easter bunny vs the church bells. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Let me explain. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was after he moved to Paris, and he was taking French lessons. The teacher chose Easter as that day’s lesson. “And what does one do on Easter? Would anyone like to tell us?”</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One student mentions the Easter meal of lamb. And of course brings up chocolate.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“And who brings the chocolate?” the teacher asks.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sedaris thinks he knows the French word for rabbit and raises his hand. </p><p><br /></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>“The rabbit of Easter. He bring of the chocolate.”</i></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“A rabbit?” The teacher, assuming I’d used the wrong word, positioned her index fingers on top of her head, wriggling them as though they were ears. “You mean one of these? A rabbit rabbit?”</i></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well, sure,” I said. “He come in the night when one sleep on a bed. With a hand he have a basket and foods.”</i></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The teacher sighed and shook her head. As far as she was concerned, I had just explained everything that was wrong with my country. “No, no,” she said. “Here in France the chocolate is brought by a big bell that flies in from Rome.”</i></span></p></blockquote><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p>I must admit that this facette of French lore was confusing to me as well when I heard it my first Easter in Paris. But it’s easy to explain, once you realize the Christian logic behind it. As of Good Friday, with the death of Christ, all the church bells in France go silent. They only ring again Easter Sunday morning, once Christ has risen from the dead. And France, being a Roman Catholic country, explains to its children that the bells had flown to Rome but now they’re back, bringing chocolates with them. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Easter Bunny dates back to more pagan times, as do the eggs.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So there you have it. All very logical, if you know the cultural context.</p><p><br /></p><p>There are lots of differences between American sayings and French ones. Many run more parallel than the bunny versus the bell. For instance in France you let sleeping <i>cats</i> lie, not dogs. And when you don’t understand something it’s all Hebrew to you, not Greek. Stubborn people aren’t pig-headed; they’re mule-headed. If someone, especially an older person, loves you tenderly, they won’t call you “sweetie” or “honey”; they will call you <i>“ma puce”</i>, my flea. Bad checks aren’t made of rubber (so they bounce); they’re made of wood. Should something seem strange, you won’t smell a rat but you may have an eel under your rocks (not sure what that’s about, unless it’s the biting kind of eel). If you’re in a bad situation, your goose isn’t cooked, but your carrots are. And the frog in your throat is really a cat. (Cats come up a lot in French.)</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Those are fairly easy to comprehend, due to the parallel structure. But other things don’t just use a different animal or material; they depend on a historic explanation. And if you don’t know the history behind it, you won’t understand.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For instance, important events in America are red letter days. But in France, the red letter becomes a white stone. Why? Because during Napoleon’s Empire, military service was sometimes a question of chance, like the now-disappeared draft lottery for U.S. youths, where at age 18 boys got a number that decided whether they ended up in Vietnam or not (sometimes permanently). The young Frenchman would put his hand in a bag filled with black and white stones, and pull one out. If it was black, he was off to combat (unless someone poorer could be paid to replace him.) If it was white, no military service for him. So young men would remember that day for a long time, the day marked by a white stone that probably saved his life.</p><p><br /></p><p>But I prefer chocolate to war, and I’d rather hear bells ringing because they’re back from Rome than because they’re sounding a death knell.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So next time Easter comes around, remember to tell that bunny I said <i>“bonjour”</i>.</p><p> </p>Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-52492514924750668642021-02-03T07:59:00.000-08:002021-02-03T07:59:07.099-08:00La Chandeleur... and crêpes<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTzuhrYk5HKVecWRy1MglnW_-M3Lqiz6ZtVg4wdSJOFRE_cIpC7-EDr_QtcN3HbXqEBbgua19d3s5ddHtH40AwqiS3-CKpj4RASz3nB0zWtgY3ZTBPyrk3zJOs20JfrcZabmLG0W9NM39/s2048/DSCF6865.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTzuhrYk5HKVecWRy1MglnW_-M3Lqiz6ZtVg4wdSJOFRE_cIpC7-EDr_QtcN3HbXqEBbgua19d3s5ddHtH40AwqiS3-CKpj4RASz3nB0zWtgY3ZTBPyrk3zJOs20JfrcZabmLG0W9NM39/s400/DSCF6865.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
Well, yes, I’m a bit late. The <i>Fête de la Chandeleur</i> - Candlemas, in English - was yesterday, January 2nd, forty days after Christmas. Why forty? See below. It has to do with the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus. <div> But to the French, poor church-goers at the best of times, <i>Chandeleur</i> means food. As do a lot of things. </div><div> <i>Crêpes</i>, to be specific </div><div> Here’s what I wrote about it many years ago. </div><div> The <i>crêpe</i> recipe is at the end.</div><div> <i>Bon appétit!</i> </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixttl0ODr6xXRMLvtgfGuIqCMDJUTPt6JWKZlhVY7_wKZtBzM1Mq8iDjJ13iLmhw7m2LM8KBDZYToQU9bK7BC0I-TllZb3dU_NeVP7HpS8iaY6ESFvb1jobMpPDKDR0BCgqiLrw_UAdtEQ/s2048/DSCF6950+-+Cr%25C3%25AApes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1274" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixttl0ODr6xXRMLvtgfGuIqCMDJUTPt6JWKZlhVY7_wKZtBzM1Mq8iDjJ13iLmhw7m2LM8KBDZYToQU9bK7BC0I-TllZb3dU_NeVP7HpS8iaY6ESFvb1jobMpPDKDR0BCgqiLrw_UAdtEQ/s320/DSCF6950+-+Cr%25C3%25AApes.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Although Paris is rarely as cold as Michigan, or even as other parts of France, the City of Light is resolutely grey and damp during the winter months. Parisians are eager for any scrap of light or warmth.</div><div><br /></div><div> Enter <i>la Fête de la Chandeleur</i>. </div><div> As with so many feast days, this one has two sides to its story: a Christian one and a pagan one. Unlike the chicken and the egg, we know which came first. </div><div> Let’s attack the subject backwards. The Christian holy day commemorates Mary bringing Jesus to the synagogue 40 days after his birth, as Leviticus required, him being the first-born son. Later, the 14th century Catholic church linked this day to the Purification of Mary on February 2nd. In both cases, candles were used to keep Evil at bay. But that’s Chapter 2. Let’s flip back to Chapter 1: the pagans. </div><div> In France, the <i>Fête de la Chandeleur</i> is celebrated with <i>crêpes</i>. And therein lies the link to the pagan side of the feast day. Pagans worshiped the Sun. Especially in the middle of winter, when cold winds blew and the sky was perpetually grey and it seemed like the Sun would never shine again to warm Mother Earth and breathe life back into Nature. The Celts held a festival on the first of February where they walked through the fields, torches held high, asking the goddess of fertility to purify the earth and make it fruitful. To bring back the Sun. And what could better represent the Sun than a <i>crêpe</i>? It’s round. It’s pale yellow. It’s warm. And it’s nourishing. </div><div> Other pagans held a Festival of the Bear, which came out of hibernation around this time, much like Punxsutawney Phil, the groundhog who comes out - also on February 2nd - to see whether spring is here yet. They, too, felt early February was a good date for a sun festival. So there was already a long tradition of a feast day around this season when the Christians started to proselytize. </div><div> Winter. Cold. Dormant nature. Lore mixed and melded with religion. Out of it came a symbol that everyone, even the poorest, could adopt. And the winner was the lowly <i>crêpe</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div> If you want to perpetuate the tradition - or just enjoy a mouthful of paper-thin sweetness, here’s the recipe, (although every mother has her own to hand down to her children): </div><div><br /></div><div>- 1 cup flour </div><div>- 3 T butter </div><div>- 2 cups milk </div><div>- 3 eggs </div><div>- 2 T water </div><div>- 1 T rum or vanilla (or lemon or orange zest) </div><div>- 4 T sugar
pinch of salt </div><div><br /></div><div>- Heat the milk to a boil. Take it off the burner and add the butter. Leave it to cool. </div><div>- Put the flour in a large bowl. Make a “well” in the center of the flour and break the eggs into the well, one by one. Whisk thoroughly. </div><div>- Add the pinch of salt and the sugar, then the water, then the flavoring (or zest). Slowly whisk in the cooled milk. The batter should have no lumps. If it does, just strain them out. </div><div> - Let the batter sit in the refrigerator for an hour. </div><div><br /></div><div> Now you’re ready to get down to business. Take an 8" frying pan (non-stick helps) - or better yet, a crepe pan, with its low sides that make flipping easier - and melt a little nugget of butter. When it starts to sizzle, pour in just a ladleful of batter. Make sure the crêpe is almost paper thin. Wiggle the pan around to fill in any holes. As soon as the edges turn golden and bubbles form and start to pop - which is just about immediately - work it free with a spatula and flip it for just the few seconds it takes to finish up that side. Sprinkle plain sugar over the top - or spread jam or Nutella... or dribble on a bit of Grand Marnier - and fold the <i>crêpe</i> in half and then in half again. Eat it while it’s piping hot. </div><div> You can make a stack of <i>crêpes</i> ahead of time and keep them warm in the oven. Then fold them as you serve them up. </div><div> But the French like to all gather around the stove and watch the show. <i>Especially</i> as the trick is to flip them, not with the spatula, but with a flick of the wrist. If you manage to flip your <i>crêpe</i> without dropping it on the floor or sticking it to the ceiling, <i>and</i> if you do it with a coin in your other hand (traditionally a <i>louis d’or</i>, but I doubt if you have any of <i>those</i> laying about), then you’ll have good fortune for the entire year.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUOyq1brPEVNqmmBy1uoWuO29EJuEu53IiYBLv5FwLXLdLV1dmbrFcxGhcGi9L5DGX_JLjCBPYDfg8hHLlcoSUgWpsjrceTljLIPqyG3VfoF3olsM44bzg_WpQ0DDxU4NTbEqLZmleUov5/s2048/DSCF6951.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1448" data-original-width="2048" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUOyq1brPEVNqmmBy1uoWuO29EJuEu53IiYBLv5FwLXLdLV1dmbrFcxGhcGi9L5DGX_JLjCBPYDfg8hHLlcoSUgWpsjrceTljLIPqyG3VfoF3olsM44bzg_WpQ0DDxU4NTbEqLZmleUov5/w400-h283/DSCF6951.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><i></i></div>Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-78357861269946868112021-01-17T10:49:00.002-08:002021-02-04T11:58:54.813-08:00Le fête des rois = galette<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdkEMjqMtMTXPf8BcUCdECYXiFYr0HJn1VmWzXJUGo3lVRNrXqXZoHW9XMMcL6AC34mW0DQk78X6H4k-h8fH-w5v_kdOwb2QBYUkw026bCaZpnBUSPDjWten3mOpSaM_SU6f434dkTbJf7/s2048/Galettes+des+rois.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1360" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdkEMjqMtMTXPf8BcUCdECYXiFYr0HJn1VmWzXJUGo3lVRNrXqXZoHW9XMMcL6AC34mW0DQk78X6H4k-h8fH-w5v_kdOwb2QBYUkw026bCaZpnBUSPDjWten3mOpSaM_SU6f434dkTbJf7/s400/Galettes+des+rois.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
If you're a Christian, you know that Jesus was born in a manger, in a stable behind an inn. There was no publicity, no arc lights (except a star), no viewers (except for some shepherds passing by).<br /> And then arrived three wise men from "the East", the Magi: Melchior, a Persian scholar; the white-bearded Gaspard, a king of India; and Balthazar, a Babylonian scholar.<br /> Of the Gospels, Matthew is the only one who mentioned them, which is interesting.<br /> But whatever the history - and who of us could prove any of it, either way? - in France the Wise Men are responsible for one of the sweet culinary wonders of the world: the <i>galette des rois</i> - the pastry of the kings (three). A delicious treat you can find on January 6th. (And now sometimes longer.) It's something I look forward to every year. This year I will miss it because of covid. Luckily, I have a French friend here, a baker/chef, who makes them.<br /><br />
<i>Bonne année et bonne santé."</i> Happy New Year and good health. It’s what you hear as soon as people sober up from their New Year’s Eve festivities (La fête de Saint-Sylvestre), which are monumental, especially gastronomically. For fear of losing your French nationality, you must start with oysters and then move on to other equally rich things, all washed down with the appropriate wine and finishing with champagne. And chocolates.<br /> Even if you get your lords a-leaping confused with your geese a-laying (but still always chime in on the “five gold rings” part), you know about the Twelve Days of Christmas. But do you know what it means? It starts the day after Christmas and runs for twelve days, ending purportedly in the day the Three Wise Men - aka Magi - arrived at the manger in Bethlehem bringing gold and frankincense and myrrh.<br /> To mark that day with a pastry (it is France, after all), French bakers invented the <i>galette des rois</i> - or if you’re in the south of France the <i>brioche des rois</i> (basically the same thing but with with a brioche base instead of puff pastry). Unless you drink a lot of champagne or tea with it, the plain galette can be dry, so personally I always buy a <i>galette fourrée à la frangipane</i> - puff pastry with almond paste inside.<br /> Also inside is a <i>fève</i> - once a dried broad bean, but more often now a ceramic figurine which can range from one of those Three Wise Men themselves to Mickey Mouse to... oh, just about anything. (One year I got a kind of tiny ceramic rolling pin that opened up and had a miniature recipe for <i>clafoutis</i>, a delicious custard dessert with cherries on top.) French dentists have erected a monument to the <i>fève</i>, because unsuspecting victims have broken many a tooth on it, thereby ensuring their livelihood. Should no dental catastrophe ensue, the person who finds the <i>fève</i> is declared the king or queen and given a golden cardboard crown to wear. (It comes with the <i>galette</i>.) Sometimes they’re supposed to buy the next <i>galette</i>, but that may be the baker’s ploy; other times they just get to kiss everybody.<br /> The <i>brioche des rois</i> is indigenous to the south of France, and is fashioned in a semi-circle, reputedly to mimic the turbans of the Magi. The candied fruit on top is just to brighten up a short winter’s day by adding a bit of color... and to sucker children into eating it. (It’s similar to the Italian panettone, which had always been by far too dry for me until a smart friend told me to make it as French toast, and now I love it!)<br /><br />
But the New Year is more than just pastry.<br /> First of all, French people don’t send Christmas cards. Perhaps that’s left over from the concept of it’s being a religious festival and all minds should be on God. For whatever reason, cards are sent, but later, to wish a happy new year. They can be sent any time during the month of January, but I’m convinced that the date on which you send them is perceived by the French as an indication of what kind of person you are. (Do you procrastinate? Or are you the timely sort?) The French can be very judgmental. And of course you must add a little handwritten message, although those typically American “yearly state of the union” enclosures are not required.<br /><br />
And then there’s the <i>Bonne Année</i> handshake/kiss (depending on how well you know the other person). Ah yes. This is the true New Year’s test of French-ness. But not this year, because of covid.<br /> The rule is that you must wish a Happy New Year to everyone around you - not only family and friends but also anyone with whom you have dealings, even on a customer/shopowner basis. If you do a quick mental calculation of how many people you interact with in your daily routine, you’ll see that wishing them all Happy New Year can be daunting.<br /> And you must do it only once, because to wish them Happy New Year a second time just proves that a) you weren’t paying attention the first time around, b) they personally don’t merit being remembered as already having been greeted, c) you didn’t mean it when you said it, d) all of the above.<br /> If you live in France year-round, especially in a small community, it’s easy to keep track of who has been Bonne Année-d. If you start on January 1st, you may have a good chance of not giving double-greetings. But if you live in Paris, things can get iffy, given the number of people involved. And if you live in Paris only part-time, as I do, and so you start The Greeting Process part-way into the month... Well, to say you’re walking on eggshells is putting it lightly.<br /> Once, in mid-January, I went into the neighborhood five-and-dime/hardware shop, run by a nice Asian gentlemen originally from La Réunion, one of France’s overseas states (think Hawaii). I go in there several times a year, and I talk with the man each time. But still I’m far from a weekly customer who boosts his sales greatly. He greeted me with a big smile, came out from behind the counter, his hand outstretched, and said <i>“Bonne année, Madame, et bonne santé”</i>. With all the people who come through his shop, how did he remember he hadn’t seen me, in particular, yet this year?<br /> And it’s been the same thing with all the other shops. The butcher, the wine merchant, the newstand... Of course, maybe my periodic disappearances and reappearances make me stand out. Still, this is an acquired skill. I’m getting quite good at it myself after all these years.<br /> Or perhaps there’s a <i>bonne année</i> neuron in the brain and I've managed to turn it on.<br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0fR9gmPC5E8rXFn3wNgiYwKQqUAK3Ez5ForSx8uHRDB97Sd8fcXS1gNvNzdIs2YZfV5UkXbJs4U8saZX14HgKwQ-xEv0e0_91r8BEM3xMEAB8zwNpvt_d83I_G93xcsQv_7OFTs4Qpxpm/s2033/Pl+E-Goudeau+Jan.+2009.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1360" data-original-width="2033" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0fR9gmPC5E8rXFn3wNgiYwKQqUAK3Ez5ForSx8uHRDB97Sd8fcXS1gNvNzdIs2YZfV5UkXbJs4U8saZX14HgKwQ-xEv0e0_91r8BEM3xMEAB8zwNpvt_d83I_G93xcsQv_7OFTs4Qpxpm/s400/Pl+E-Goudeau+Jan.+2009.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-19492470312765960562020-12-02T05:06:00.000-08:002020-12-02T05:06:36.333-08:00Recipe: Moules marinières<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuVpWWeIyHF0EcbFg4nwBZ6nnyZG-VbhnHX2WyLwF0EQSjfrRpksMDZ1iqD0jG5XlwjQ7e7de_8dHX5cDihnqojbwav3vsWYGKU5-ClPP3akOOIHj9nodV0jpb43vKNmtzZXYZknGhOyf/s2048/Moules+marini%25C3%25A8re.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuVpWWeIyHF0EcbFg4nwBZ6nnyZG-VbhnHX2WyLwF0EQSjfrRpksMDZ1iqD0jG5XlwjQ7e7de_8dHX5cDihnqojbwav3vsWYGKU5-ClPP3akOOIHj9nodV0jpb43vKNmtzZXYZknGhOyf/w400-h300/Moules+marini%25C3%25A8re.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I spent all the summers of my childhood on or near the Atlantic coast in the (then-)pretty part of central New Jersey (yes, there was one, on the Toms River... Island Heights and Seaside Heights). I learned to swim in the almost-saltwater slightly upriver from Barnegat Bay, on which my father, in his youth, had learned to sail. Spent my summers walking the sands, digging out clams, then cracking them open on any stones available. We’d rinse the sand off in the seawater and eat them right there, feet still in the tides. Couldn’t have been fresher. (Maybe it’s not a good idea to do that any more, pollution having multiplied since then.) </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In spite of all that, I'd never eaten mussels. Clams, oysters, crabs, shrimp, crayfish, yes. But no mussels.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I arrived in France to study at the Sorbonne in 1968, the seafood restaurants in Montparnasse, or the simple cafés that had shellfish on stands next to their entrance, caught my eye. And set my stomach growling.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Luckily mussels weren't an expensive dish, even for my student finances, which were... shall we just say "limited".</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And they were yummy. </div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Plus they came with French fries. <i>Moules frites.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>So if you can find fresh mussels, and you want to plan a dinner for your covid bubble where you can get your hands dirty on something delicious while keeping up a conversation, all accompanied by a dry white wine... this is for you.</div><div><br /></div><div>To feed four people, you’ll need:</div><div><br /></div><div>- 3-4 pounds of mussels, medium-sized</div><div>- one large white onion, diced</div><div>- 5 or 6 sprigs of parsley, coarsely chopped</div><div>- 1½ c white wine</div><div>- an optional stalk of celery, strings removed, then diced</div><div>- some freshly ground pepper</div><div><br /></div><div>You’ll need to make sure the mussels are “clean”, which means no barnacles or seaweed still on the shells. If there are any, just scrape them off with a sharp paring knife. And make very sure the mussels are all alive, which means not opened. If some <i>are</i> open, tickle their insides with the knife; if they’re alive, the shell will close. If the shell remains open, you absolutely must throw that mussel out - it’s shuffled off its mortal coil and could make you very ill.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Once the mussels are clean, put them in a large pot, along with the onion, celery, pepper, and half the parsley. Pour the white wine over them. Cover and bring to a boil. Cook for about 2 minutes, shaking and tossing the pot from time to time to make sure all the mussels are in the juice at one point or another.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHpc7Tgbm8An1y4AhZE5JjgOWooRkygwsxbYF93u9yrOjxBP875TuGHAQKZmxIP_Idi_HSGzNCZLu9thzr58oS40Qq1dyl4KCNaViyOLDJyIMAdO2t9OKK6BQDsqKgGF9YxH2Q8zI_q9i/s2048/Moules+marini%25C3%25A8re+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHpc7Tgbm8An1y4AhZE5JjgOWooRkygwsxbYF93u9yrOjxBP875TuGHAQKZmxIP_Idi_HSGzNCZLu9thzr58oS40Qq1dyl4KCNaViyOLDJyIMAdO2t9OKK6BQDsqKgGF9YxH2Q8zI_q9i/s320/Moules+marini%25C3%25A8re+%25282%2529.JPG" /></a></div><span> </span>Check that all the shells have opened. If not, put the pot back on the burner for a minute more. You don’t want to overcook this or the mussel meat will be withered and less tasty.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Serve up with a slotted spoon into individual bowls, putting the broth in a serving dish. Along with their own juice, the mussels will probably have given off some sand that was in the shell, so make sure you leave it in the pot. Decorate with the rest of the parsley. Couldn’t be any easier</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Dig in while it’s hot. (And provide a big bowl for the empty shells in the middle of the table.)</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Serve with crusty French bread if possible, or Italian. And a dry white wine.</div><div><br /></div><div>By the way, all the alcohol will have evaporated in the cooking, so you don’t have to worry about serving this to underage diners or non-drinkers. Trust me.</div></div></div><br /></div>Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-22743934632578561632020-07-28T14:21:00.000-07:002020-07-28T14:21:25.257-07:00Out & About: Museums - Van Dongen and the Bateau-LavoirI’ve lived in Montmartre since 1970. That’s longer than most of my neighbors have been on this Earth.<br />
Back in those days, the Musée de Montmartre was just a little house built in the 17th century. That house has a name, the <i>Maison du Bel Air</i> (House of Fresh Air) and originally came complete with a vineyard, which is still there, next door but now separate. The house was bought in 1680 by the successor to Molière, famous French actor and playwright Rosimonde, as his country home (at a time when Paris was far away by carriage).<br />
Centuries later, the little house is still there, now reputedly the oldest building in Montmartre, and is used for the museum’s permanent collection.<br />
But the building through which you enter, once in bad shape and uninhabited for decades, has now been totally renovated - in the style of the era though! - and houses the museum’s temporary exhibits.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMniVGMocC-CFErHGR1vLue7jRw_gdD930LT1D0cMu76rJKtdbyM8FVnOcOHYKwX5EdbGFsBGtfVFrBqlf5St8ircgXaCgBqiQbn6ljePo-noAuA_CoiUzp3BD6UnsOf53RI1pQgqtWXuP/s1600/Mus%25C3%25A9e+Montmartre.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1106" data-original-width="1600" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMniVGMocC-CFErHGR1vLue7jRw_gdD930LT1D0cMu76rJKtdbyM8FVnOcOHYKwX5EdbGFsBGtfVFrBqlf5St8ircgXaCgBqiQbn6ljePo-noAuA_CoiUzp3BD6UnsOf53RI1pQgqtWXuP/s400/Mus%25C3%25A9e+Montmartre.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
This season it’s Kees Van Dongen, another Dutchman who moved to Paris, as did Jongkind, Van Gogh, and Mondrian.<br />
Invited by Picasso, Van Dongen moved into the now-famous Bateau-Lavoir, a long wooden building where artists lived and painted, side by side, in cramped, cold quarters. Together, the two shared artistic inspirations, such as the various balls but also the Cirque Médrano, a circus that’s now disappeared but was still there when I moved to Montmartre. (The two artists also shared women, including Fernande, who was Picasso’s mistress when they met... before becoming Van Dongen’s.)<br />
<br />
Like many of his era, Van Dongen shows his classical training in his early works. It served him well even once he had changed to his new love, fauvism, with its bright colors and the opulent silhouettes that were a slap in the face of his old friend Picasso’s cubism. Sometimes his canvases seem unfinished, with those bright colors forming only a sort of frame around the subject, and both standing out against a blank background.<br />
His wide-ranging styles are obvious in one corner of the main floor where there are three very different works from one year, 1906. <i>Chinagrani</i>, on the left, is a very minimalist depiction of the dancer of that name, all in blue and elongated. On the other end is <i>Le Cirque</i>, an example of his colorful fauvist talent. Between the two, <i>Aux Folies Bergère</i> is pure Impressionism.<br />
Also on this first floor, in a little alcove, are some works by his good friend Otto van Rees, including a lovely one of his lover, <i>Adya in the Bateau-Lavoir</i> (1904).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3w6-F-7Ma8CU2RPZhKBxCiuKGvjeGirYsjRVMlhGA0uEQCYi7jSnlolU3CUrs9Ax4-55xoFCPJ1co09RHn3d7091SGGIQ1XnCSD1gvcH-swzVDj76xLzgIL8EZw4nUAAos-0dgcTaEQTn/s1600/Van-Dongen_Portrait-de-Mme-M.-T.Raulet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="831" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3w6-F-7Ma8CU2RPZhKBxCiuKGvjeGirYsjRVMlhGA0uEQCYi7jSnlolU3CUrs9Ax4-55xoFCPJ1co09RHn3d7091SGGIQ1XnCSD1gvcH-swzVDj76xLzgIL8EZw4nUAAos-0dgcTaEQTn/s320/Van-Dongen_Portrait-de-Mme-M.-T.Raulet.jpg" width="259" /></a></div>
Upstairs are grouped many of the portraits from the 1920's that helped make Van Dongen rich, successful, and even <i>mondain</i>, which could be translated as “part of the glitterati”. The first is of Marie-Thérèse Raulet relaxing in a typically Roaring Twenties dress, her eyes almost closed, her head resting on the sofa, her hand draped languorously over its arm. It’s a very different style from <i>Woman Sewing</i> that hangs downstairs, painted with broad strokes to transmit more a feeling than a likeness. In this later period of his life, Van Dongen became somewhat cavalier about art as a way of making a living. “The essential thing is to elongate the women and especially to make them slim. After that it just remains to enlarge their jewels. They are ravished.”<br />
In <i>La Parisienne</i>, the woman’s hands are painted in a much more traditional style, while her face is minimalist and one-dimensional. Perhaps that is what he called primitivism?<br />
<br />
In addition to his paintings, Van Dongen made a living from illustrations sold to various magazines throughout his career. He was also in demand by authors, including Proust, who wanted him to illustrate their works. Some of his creations are included in this exhibit.<br />
Most of the works come from private collections, but also from museums in Paris and Holland (Utrecht, Rotterdam, Amsterdam). As with the Mary Cassatt exhibit at Musée Jacquemart-André, it’s a treat to have the chance to see works that have never before co-existed in one place - including in the artist’s studio, given that they date from different eras.<br />
The exhibit is small, as befits the setting. But it offers a good representation of Van Dongen’s successive styles and periods.<br />
<br />
<br />
Two “asides” to this visit. One is a parenthesis: Otto van Rees. The other, at the end of the exhibit, is a visit of Suzanne Valadon’s actual studio. She, too, was one of the beauties Van Dongen pursued.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY1l_RDPivZISUFbMSnoXX15CnohY2cf9YQAYX_UY0H3XxgV16bhlskZ4KjelHOxJl7P_Dwgb_vaRWb3MiuqaO1moPkb9hFMVpBU-oSZ7KvmYjNgyZaP_NIybzmmuhH8-YD_VsLo1DkrNY/s1600/DSCF1377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY1l_RDPivZISUFbMSnoXX15CnohY2cf9YQAYX_UY0H3XxgV16bhlskZ4KjelHOxJl7P_Dwgb_vaRWb3MiuqaO1moPkb9hFMVpBU-oSZ7KvmYjNgyZaP_NIybzmmuhH8-YD_VsLo1DkrNY/s320/DSCF1377.JPG" width="240" /></a><b>Van Dongen & the Bateau-Lavoir</b><br />
<br />
Musée de Montmartre<br />
12 rue Cortot; 18è<br />
Métro: Abbesses or Lamarck-Caulincourt<br />
<br />
01.49.25.89.39<br />
https://www.museedemontmartre.fr<br />
<br />
Until August 26, 2018<br />
<br />
Daily 10-7 / closes at 6 pm Oct-March<br />
<br />
9.50-12 & 7.50-9 €, free under age 10Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-88212003837343331262020-07-14T09:34:00.000-07:002020-07-14T09:34:01.367-07:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC37_ioaVCOfKWZuMSkhBMXKhajB_CMCvT_QnuFSra0mJbuN_Wd9HgtlGPwzcs46euvSNl-FNb4s0kMrUmD5-2oPy6rGPFqlbykx72KZMOjzmgbgrKLq40YlaewcFs_-FnGUOM7RWiYVsu/s1600/DSCF2736.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC37_ioaVCOfKWZuMSkhBMXKhajB_CMCvT_QnuFSra0mJbuN_Wd9HgtlGPwzcs46euvSNl-FNb4s0kMrUmD5-2oPy6rGPFqlbykx72KZMOjzmgbgrKLq40YlaewcFs_-FnGUOM7RWiYVsu/s400/DSCF2736.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry II, in Fontevrault Abbey</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>FRANCE 101<br />
<br />
"But I know nothing about French history," you might say.<br />
"Ah, but you do!" I would reply.<br />
Robin Hood? Richard the Lionhearted? Prince John? Sound familiar?<br />
Religious? How about Saint Patrick?<br />
Or a bit harder now: William the Conqueror? Eleanor of Aquitaine?<br />
<br />
Let's go chronologically. England was a "green and happy land", as the hymnal says, until 1066 when William the Conqueror, Duke of Normandy, sailed across the Channel from France and defeated England's King Harold in the famous Battle of Hastings. With that defeat, England's fate changed hands for two centuries.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>English, which had flourished as a language, now was spoken only by the Common Man, while Latin governed the church and French, in its Norman version, ruled the castle. For example, while English serfs raised and ate pigs, by the time they reached the Norman's table they were <i>porc</i>. Sheep became mouton, ox or cow became <i>boeuf</i>, calf was <i>veau</i> and deer, <i>venaison</i>. (Do those French words sound familiar? If not, ask your butcher.)<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In 1154, Henry, Duke of Anjou in France and grandson of William the Conqueror, was crowned king of England as Henry the Second. Henry's wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, had previously been Queen of France for 15 years, even going on the Second Crusade with her then-husband, King Louis VII. But she was a bit too wild and sensuous for Louis. They became estranged and the marriage was annulled so that Louis could remarry (Catholic country, no divorces). That meant Eleanor's dowry was returned to her: the entire province of Aquitaine. Just as William had brought Normandy into the English realm with him, so Henry brought Anjou and Eleanor, Aquitaine. Now the borders of England stretched all the way down the Atlantic (with the exception of Wales) from Scotland in the north to Spain in the south, and inland on the Continent almost to the gates of Paris in the tiny kingdom of France.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqLw6scplOoCVHbJpz9QW6fvurqqepVOdWCgCv1Qj5EBuvrZZHJ8QDzyphaT2t0k6P7AnQoefFbNIzUwEIxuEWwWzYhnlYtluC8Do8w_qwAFM9mDBcsQRr6Qv53VW51ik3nPhtH2Kv9Xuz/s1600/DSCF2766.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1187" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqLw6scplOoCVHbJpz9QW6fvurqqepVOdWCgCv1Qj5EBuvrZZHJ8QDzyphaT2t0k6P7AnQoefFbNIzUwEIxuEWwWzYhnlYtluC8Do8w_qwAFM9mDBcsQRr6Qv53VW51ik3nPhtH2Kv9Xuz/s320/DSCF2766.JPG" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Chinon Castle</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now for the easy part. Remember Richard the Lionhearted (think Robin Hood) and his evil brother Prince John? Well, they are two of the sons of Henry and Eleanor. And where did Richard die? No, not in Sherwood Forest or on one of the Crusades, but at Chinon in France’s Loire Valley, at the castle where Joan of Ark later offered her services to the French king to help "throw the English out of France", services for which said English burned her at the stake. And where are Henry, Eleanor and Richard buried? No, not in London's Westminster Abbey. Their graves are in the Abbey of Fontevrault, again in France's Loire Valley.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"But what’s this about St. Patrick," you ask? Well, he was born in England, carried off into slavery by Irish raiders, then later after being freed studied at the Abbey of Lérins, on a tiny Mediterranean island off of Cannes. Right next to the island of The Man in the Iron Mask (but that's another story).<br />
<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So you see, you may never have set foot in France, or read about its history, but you know a lot about it. You just didn't know you did.<br />
<br />
<br />
Additional reseach:<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCw54e9KZ16fSJNsANruSQ1mR-Dl4gI0_Eibz6y774-BdL6dz5LEGEQdqkwVSn-xJPy5ZdfEpVo0xOkJ4FG8FShDTVLXtujb3Z2fb1MuYpD91-9SLq6dnhyAntVMeuK-cb4AgwbmHAub1g/s1600/DSCF2265.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCw54e9KZ16fSJNsANruSQ1mR-Dl4gI0_Eibz6y774-BdL6dz5LEGEQdqkwVSn-xJPy5ZdfEpVo0xOkJ4FG8FShDTVLXtujb3Z2fb1MuYpD91-9SLq6dnhyAntVMeuK-cb4AgwbmHAub1g/s320/DSCF2265.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bayeux Cathedral</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
William the Conqueror: go to Bayeux and see the famous tapestry woven by his wife Mathilda.<br />
For Richard Lionheart, tour Chinon and its castle.<br />
For Eleanor, Richard and son Henry, visit Fontevrault Abbey near Chinon.<br />
For a touch of Aquitaine, try any Bordeaux vineyard or truffle farm in Périgord.<br />
Joan of Ark - choose Chinon, or Lorraine where she was born, or Rouen where she was burned<br />
For St. Patrick, take sunscreen, travel south and hop a ferry from Cannes to St. Honorat Island.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-42988223853911620642020-02-21T08:53:00.000-08:002020-02-21T08:53:21.509-08:00Out & About - King Tutankhamun: Treasures of the Golden Pharaoh<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiY168Oo_HPksMONfcATLtUg_e9mE8-hAPKiyQ6ItQRl-BQ8VEHwx9-RMTVCX_z0MhgHZczpohDjQaf9vP46AWbLTdpRxa_w9sI5jwP6NK4Y8hStTa05432Gvev-cgGyEDggZQM98Iho6P/s1600/DSCF2055+-+crook+%2526+flail%252C+pectoral%252C+bands.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="952" data-original-width="1600" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiY168Oo_HPksMONfcATLtUg_e9mE8-hAPKiyQ6ItQRl-BQ8VEHwx9-RMTVCX_z0MhgHZczpohDjQaf9vP46AWbLTdpRxa_w9sI5jwP6NK4Y8hStTa05432Gvev-cgGyEDggZQM98Iho6P/s400/DSCF2055+-+crook+%2526+flail%252C+pectoral%252C+bands.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
It’s a sunny day in Paris - <i>finally!</i> - and I’m walking across the 2½-acre Parc de la Villette, past the famous Baltard glass-and-iron structure (one of several) that was once the Poney Club where my children learned to ride when they were very young.<br />
Of course before that time, all these buildings were a meat market, replaced by a huge modern slaughterhouse that never slaughtered a single animal because all those activities were hygienically banned from within Paris and sent to the suburbs. The never-used slaughterhouse was refurbished and is now the Cité des Sciences et de l’Industrie museum, with the Géode Imax theater behind it.<br />
Also within this park on the northeast edge of Paris are the new Paris Music Conservatory, the Cité de la Musique with its museum of all things musical, the Zénith concert and sports arena, the Philharmonie concert hall, the Grande Halle cultural center, a theater and... a riding school... for my grandchildren this time.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0PXMf-fwII9n_3RigII8Io1o3-9uY3maAFTqyzkLS3lQxs9kjAorsvS_SjXQXf6cz2KRz66PFQVmcNyhZ2QFgsG21Ayy1ImxB1VdhC9f47X363sUQo1qzfFnm-mJlQB6YfH8s-nPThQ0/s1600/DSCF2051+-+guardian+statue.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1022" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0PXMf-fwII9n_3RigII8Io1o3-9uY3maAFTqyzkLS3lQxs9kjAorsvS_SjXQXf6cz2KRz66PFQVmcNyhZ2QFgsG21Ayy1ImxB1VdhC9f47X363sUQo1qzfFnm-mJlQB6YfH8s-nPThQ0/s320/DSCF2051+-+guardian+statue.JPG" width="204" /></a></div>
But I digress.<br />
Why am I here? Because I want to see the “King Tut: Treasures of the Golden Pharaoh” exhibit that’s playing in the Grande Halle.<br />
This will be a bit of a rerun for me. Or rather a remake. Because I saw these objects in the Tutankhamun Room of the Cairo Museum when I was there in 2017. But they were all a hodgepodge, massed together in showcases with little breathing space for them to shine as solo items. Here in Paris, knowing the French, they will be staged, highlighted, spotlighted in striking fashion. It’s what the French do best.<br />
<br />
And once inside, which involves standing in line, even with a press pass, I’m not disappointed. The vastness of the building, with its high ceiling, makes for a spacious exhibit. Sometimes only a few items in any one room... but multiple spectators, so that was a wise decision on the curator’s part. And spotlights are indeed involved, the entire area being plunged into almost total darkness for maximum effect. All the better to accent the goldenness of the 150 items, which sparkle from having been newly - and ever-so-carefully - cleaned before the show set out on its worldwide tour.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh3Tzuy5I2z5RfURwrd4146FY3g12uhzZJWR7rmd6e8fle9qVRHSMk-CuokKHxaAjKzB76LADDhsQPies5IQAk4nWLI_TE7APnv_XlMO8usDPeweqZl8mN3BOYBR2PoRE7QAc58WTDY7K8/s1600/DSCF2048+-+Horus+fig.%252C+close.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1275" data-original-width="1600" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh3Tzuy5I2z5RfURwrd4146FY3g12uhzZJWR7rmd6e8fle9qVRHSMk-CuokKHxaAjKzB76LADDhsQPies5IQAk4nWLI_TE7APnv_XlMO8usDPeweqZl8mN3BOYBR2PoRE7QAc58WTDY7K8/s320/DSCF2048+-+Horus+fig.%252C+close.JPG" width="320" /></a> I recognize Tut’s chair and bed from the Cairo Museum, as well as much of the jewelry, pectorals and statues. But here they are even more striking in their visual solitude. A solitude poles away from how they were found heaped in Tut’s tomb by Howard Carter in 1924.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH7_96wORqEFqoI44Pl4-TDi21SyV7fLnkYAL2X8u_NW1yVqjLSU5-XNwyBJEwMWfJlpNQg16esTqNRi97DMv6hqP8epIrZ20Jl3B4Hr0und7wDIaBwtdzhQypZCRFo_WlfWKWjgy5Fg8u/s1600/DSCF2047+-+Horus+figure.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="932" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH7_96wORqEFqoI44Pl4-TDi21SyV7fLnkYAL2X8u_NW1yVqjLSU5-XNwyBJEwMWfJlpNQg16esTqNRi97DMv6hqP8epIrZ20Jl3B4Hr0und7wDIaBwtdzhQypZCRFo_WlfWKWjgy5Fg8u/s320/DSCF2047+-+Horus+figure.JPG" width="186" /></a> There's a golden statue of my old friend Horus, the hawk, with a magnificent disk above his head. And a fan with the representation of an ostrich hunt in a chariot etched into its golden surface.<br />
Also striking against the darkness of the room are the alabaster objects: a wishing cup and - at the very end of the exhibit, to bid us farewell - a statue of the young king, who ruled from age 9 only to age 19. Ten years in the life of a boy whom we still talk about 3,342 years after the young pharaoh passed into eternity.<br />
In one showcase is a replica of Tut’s sarcophagus, fashioned out of a matte slate-grey material against which the crook and flail jump out at you. Wondering why the sarcophagus is not part of the exhibit, I ask. I’m told it was slightly damaged when it last traveled to Paris in 1967. And so it doesn’t travel any more, to Paris or anywhere else.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjENV6H45Tl_H7dMs9S1gP2LX8SYeEmAAV28rd6tPs406CZUpfFJC0qhuwwR_WfSmy-8V84vyoctdFncqaPiEhUfo-2-LJTIFe6m6TkvUQocxDTBvSr1kmWMwBOgK2Dc-edVeh65GfWEv6G/s1600/DSCF2057+-+wishing+cup.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1263" data-original-width="1600" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjENV6H45Tl_H7dMs9S1gP2LX8SYeEmAAV28rd6tPs406CZUpfFJC0qhuwwR_WfSmy-8V84vyoctdFncqaPiEhUfo-2-LJTIFe6m6TkvUQocxDTBvSr1kmWMwBOgK2Dc-edVeh65GfWEv6G/s400/DSCF2057+-+wishing+cup.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
But all the items on display here will be traveling around the globe one last time. The tour launched in L.A. at the California Science Center in March of last year. It took in $5 million from about 700,000 visitors, with the Egyptian ministry taking $4 for each ticket. And that money will help pay for the new Grand Egyptian Museum still being built in Giza, across the Nile from Cairo proper and the objects’ former home in the Cairo Museum.<br />
Paris is the second stop on the tour, a six-month show. After that, in the fall the Golden King exhibition heads across the Channel to London and then later on to Sydney plus six other cities including in Japan, Canada and South Korea.<br />
We’re told this will be the last time these objects are seen outside of Egypt. After the tour, these golden treasures will join the others - especially the sarcophagus - in the Grand Egyptian Museum, not far from the Pyramids and the Sphinx. The museum isn’t finished yet - and has had a difficult birthing, given the changes in government - Mubarak, Morsi, el-Sissi - since its ground-breaking. According to an Egyptian archaeologist friend, “the conservation center in the museum has been active since 2014 or even before”, and Tut’s collection has been moved “to the labs of the conservation center to be cleaned and restored with more advanced methods that brought more beauty to the items”.<br />
For the first time, the entire collection will be on display in 2020 in one place: at the very heart of the GEM in Giza. And it will be the only place you will see anything of King Tut’s ever again.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNynIeg7xqITlalYD1xZHdu-rrte0rDiwkmPZ7wgI4OSg7FJJAza_lpkWxX9PtBNTMDr5sJj5QTVyBQhsTbo6tej8G3FJWt8oc0RY8chpo_0BD3Gscl60XSrq9DWjYhDj7Y7Io3Uqn5TSw/s1600/DSCF2064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1555" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNynIeg7xqITlalYD1xZHdu-rrte0rDiwkmPZ7wgI4OSg7FJJAza_lpkWxX9PtBNTMDr5sJj5QTVyBQhsTbo6tej8G3FJWt8oc0RY8chpo_0BD3Gscl60XSrq9DWjYhDj7Y7Io3Uqn5TSw/s400/DSCF2064.JPG" width="388" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>King Tutankhamun</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
P.S. If you want a look at something <i>else</i> from Egypt, how about the Luxor Obelisk in the middle of the Place de la Concorde. Napoleon brought it back from his marauding in that southern land. The second obelisk was also given to the French back then, but remains on site in Luxor. France magnanimously told Egypt it could stay there, that they gave up their ownership of it, probably because of the intricate and expensive logistics of bringing it to Paris. They got lucky with the first one.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
King Tut: Treasures of the Golden Pharaoh<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVFGPs2149iF-1jnVoBePf6GzsrrbGxmudg9sEHup8SKZhk8F9B5FiCpiePsK-Gj6N0rVlKAChzhqO56vAYRCu80VtVDaa3rjEZ4PdTjDntj5V5F1shHmTce9KxnoeBJsCxA82t4zzIJhf/s1600/DSCF2045+-+Ostrich+hunt+fan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1379" data-original-width="1600" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVFGPs2149iF-1jnVoBePf6GzsrrbGxmudg9sEHup8SKZhk8F9B5FiCpiePsK-Gj6N0rVlKAChzhqO56vAYRCu80VtVDaa3rjEZ4PdTjDntj5V5F1shHmTce9KxnoeBJsCxA82t4zzIJhf/s320/DSCF2045+-+Ostrich+hunt+fan.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Grande Halle de la Villette<br />
211 avenue Jean-Jaurès; 19è<br />
Métro: Porte de Pantin<br />
<br />
01.40.03.75.75<br />
<br />
Until September 15, 2019<br />
<br />
Daily 10-8 / Fri 10:30-8:30<br />
<br />
22 & 18 € (2€ more on week-ends and holidays)<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-90221314386114360352019-05-20T07:37:00.001-07:002019-05-20T07:37:51.754-07:00Out & About - Les Nabis et le Décor<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9cQcbMnjWW9Z7s_t8jkPdVaxe-aZjn9cRt_dAfuB2xFZqO8jJ0o1TpwPnL1du-eUDMRTbqTU0NjVU08wPwU4tsXwovZbVnpEDwPzfSCwL3fAcbk4N1Q_38UvKjrLAn4h9XxCu0UQ17Le_/s1600/DSCF2072+%2528+Canards%252C+Paul+Ransom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1383" data-original-width="1600" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9cQcbMnjWW9Z7s_t8jkPdVaxe-aZjn9cRt_dAfuB2xFZqO8jJ0o1TpwPnL1du-eUDMRTbqTU0NjVU08wPwU4tsXwovZbVnpEDwPzfSCwL3fAcbk4N1Q_38UvKjrLAn4h9XxCu0UQ17Le_/s320/DSCF2072+%2528+Canards%252C+Paul+Ransom.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Paul Ransom, Canards (Ducks)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Pretty much everyone is familiar with the Impressionists. But what about what came after them? What about the Nabis?<br />
The who?<br />
The Nabis. They were opposed to Impressionism because they felt it was too close to reality, an opinion that I find a bit strange. I mean, the very essence of Impressionism was that it was just an impression, not reality. That’s what critics criticized about it. But some artists felt that way, and they chose a word common to Hebrew and Arabic to explain their ambition to be something else, something new. That word was Nabis, meaning prophets.<br />
The Nabis (1888-1900) were fascinated by Gauguin and by Japanese prints. They tended to view their art as having more of a decorative role and wanted to erase the boundary between fine arts and applied arts. That led them to work extensively in tapestry, wallpaper, stained glass and ceramics. In their paintings, their style was more flat and colorful, with faces often left blank.<br />
Some of the names, such as Pierre Bonnard or Edouard Vuillard, may be familiar. Others may be new: Paul Sérusier, Paul Ransom, Maurice Denis or Ker-Xavier Roussel.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWlQhHYJaP2AsXl6CtBb6ID3qSGsR97M8Fx3A4H6lVmttblz3gq24lWNaXiJkBNf4_vG-7vBFM9b_VJF2x4olzeuxBXwphAeJTPQKEJRXQTo0as6EneG5jn6QtvOGuLvDcEeIhxkc7Pf23/s1600/DSCF2069+-+Vuillard.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1097" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWlQhHYJaP2AsXl6CtBb6ID3qSGsR97M8Fx3A4H6lVmttblz3gq24lWNaXiJkBNf4_vG-7vBFM9b_VJF2x4olzeuxBXwphAeJTPQKEJRXQTo0as6EneG5jn6QtvOGuLvDcEeIhxkc7Pf23/s320/DSCF2069+-+Vuillard.JPG" width="219" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Vuillard</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In the first room, the theme was women in the garden. The piece I liked the most was by Vuillard, who painted nine panels for the living/dining room of his rich friend Natanson. At Natanson’s death, the panels were split up and now live in several different museums and collections in several different countries. My favorite shows mothers with children of various ages in a garden. One, a boy in the foreground, has his back turned but it seemed to me that he was about to get up to some mischief involving a younger child close by.<br />
Of a much simpler style was Roussel’s “A Garden”, as seen through a window with four panes. Again, a boy has his back turned to us, letting our imagination run free. And a busy woman is half hidden by a tree. What is she doing? Is she caning the chairs we see? And what can we say about those strange leaves falling from the trees above?<br />
Demonstrating the decorative side of Nabis art is Ransom’s <i>“Canards”</i> (Ducks). The colors are bright - aqua-ish blue, light green, splashes of orange for flowers and on the duck’s bills and feet. The vines create motion and the ducks are caught in various poses and activities. It’s actually a draft for wallpaper, again linking fine and applied arts.<br />
That link was also evident in three pieces of painted china. I preferred the simplest: <i>“Femme et Chien”</i> (Woman with Dog), a Vuillard that uses only black ink strokes on white porcelain with just a touch of pale yellow for her hair, the dog’s spots and what might be the earth below.<br />
There you are; that’s my selection.<br />
<br />
The Luxembourg Museum is rather small, which makes it comfortable. But it can get congested fairly fast. So be patient.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUzfoLMdKXtyMSpZ1vYSS7RgxF5MhoBiPgr6xcnQVOFZPEXp8Il_yttNfy0CV5vxLFj91azNm722ygF5h-dx-NRk3mDBD4v8SZGPy-lI3XlM5u1djyRCW2fh2jCcIqiclMIQWFJVCeuVc7/s1600/DSCF2070+-+Femme+%2526+Chien%252C+Vuillard.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="1600" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUzfoLMdKXtyMSpZ1vYSS7RgxF5MhoBiPgr6xcnQVOFZPEXp8Il_yttNfy0CV5vxLFj91azNm722ygF5h-dx-NRk3mDBD4v8SZGPy-lI3XlM5u1djyRCW2fh2jCcIqiclMIQWFJVCeuVc7/s400/DSCF2070+-+Femme+%2526+Chien%252C+Vuillard.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Edouard Vuillard, Femme et Chien (Woman with Dog)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie6AFzY6OTY8h22xZnrTR4wrUWoKRhDlLQMf-1fWKqCuxmeDy3_2MnfBdQHBmtdwuiv1bAxAwL0GNQE_ycdBa4KQNKQ5OgK52ETP4YhsgIlWncXzfd4UalhBm4HkkgcmV-HetE_wWj5413/s1600/DSCF2071+-+Le+Jardin%252C+Ker-Xavier+Roussel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1233" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie6AFzY6OTY8h22xZnrTR4wrUWoKRhDlLQMf-1fWKqCuxmeDy3_2MnfBdQHBmtdwuiv1bAxAwL0GNQE_ycdBa4KQNKQ5OgK52ETP4YhsgIlWncXzfd4UalhBm4HkkgcmV-HetE_wWj5413/s320/DSCF2071+-+Le+Jardin%252C+Ker-Xavier+Roussel.JPG" width="246" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ker-Xavier <br />Roussel, A Garden</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Les Nabis et le Décor</b><br />
<br />
Musée du Luxembourg<br />
19 rue de Vaugirard; 6è<br />
Métro: Rennes, St. Placide<br />
<br />
01.40.13.62.00<br />
<br />
Until June 30, 2019<br />
<br />
Daily 10:30-7 / Mon 10:30-10<br />
<br />
13 & 9 €Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-37994643639723849152019-05-12T12:45:00.000-07:002019-05-12T12:46:25.794-07:00Les Saints de Glace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Hqe0qy0QP1pq6EtJYLl0XhEFJftS2E0UQKs4C7fm9snYEdnxAfuYB0I4PQyJcuBN1wk17V8Ufr1TRYuoBRvlQV0mHdytoOloNh_yLFGU68tqganjBStIB_sT3dTUiunvNzCpo2KpyW7Q/s1600/DSCF2031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1284" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Hqe0qy0QP1pq6EtJYLl0XhEFJftS2E0UQKs4C7fm9snYEdnxAfuYB0I4PQyJcuBN1wk17V8Ufr1TRYuoBRvlQV0mHdytoOloNh_yLFGU68tqganjBStIB_sT3dTUiunvNzCpo2KpyW7Q/s320/DSCF2031.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
When you move to a foreign country, you learn certain new things that are cultural touchpoints to your new environment.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I moved to France, one such discovery was the <i>Saints de glace</i>, the Ice Saints.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Being from the north of the States, I’m familiar with snow and ice. In Houghton, way up in the Keweenaw Peninsula of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, an ice festival is held every February. I went one year. The snow on either side of the streets was literally higher than I am tall. And the ice sculptures were amazing... and huge!<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But the <i>Saints de glace</i> have nothing to do with that.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And they happen in May.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In Western Europe, there are varying amounts of snow in winter. Paris gets very little. But there are still overnight frosts to deal with. Especially if you have a garden. And <i>especially</i> if you’re a farmer growing fruit trees or wine grapes.<br />
And that’s where the <i>Saints de glace</i> come in.<br />
<br />
Each day in Roman Catholic countries has at least one saint. Sometimes two: one male, one female. In mid-May, days are usually warm (although not this year), with a sweater being all you need, or a light jacket. But the nights are another thing. Temperatures can drop quite a bit.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In France May 11, 12 and 13 are the <i>Saint de glace</i>, the Ice Saints days. The 11th is (or rather was) for Saint Mamertus, archbishop of the city of Vienne in the Rhone Valley of Roman Gaul (i.e. today’s France), who died in 474.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The 12th is for Saint Pancras - of the London train station of the same name. He was the nephew of St. Denis, patron saint of France, whose head was lobbed off by the Romans just around the corner from me, whereupon he picked it up and walked north, down the hill of Montmartre and across the plain until he finally dropped in a place now named after him, where a basilica was built and where all the French kings and queens are buried. (Well, most of them.) But back to the nephew. Pancras is the patron saint of children, probably because he was beheaded at the ripe old age of 14 around the year 304.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>May 13 is for Saint Servatius, who was the bishop of Tongeren, in what is now Belgium, and died near the end of the fourth century. Although he was highly popular, he’s since been replaced on the calendar. Legend says he was a cousin of Christ and/or John the Baptist and a descendant of Saint Anne, the mother of the Virgin Mary.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLrjJ1lTheg4ixhxTs0OnxM2WKip4yBJSB6N2iAjjpSwnNN05PLNOw4lqs71AylTvN0_D8_kOuX6AK3pkCV-lfREVKzmrojQoYmQv8ozXgMy1VlTPdnmG5snIUEM9pB3iHD8W2mfdRmxFc/s1600/DSCF0338.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLrjJ1lTheg4ixhxTs0OnxM2WKip4yBJSB6N2iAjjpSwnNN05PLNOw4lqs71AylTvN0_D8_kOuX6AK3pkCV-lfREVKzmrojQoYmQv8ozXgMy1VlTPdnmG5snIUEM9pB3iHD8W2mfdRmxFc/s320/DSCF0338.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Horticultural advice in much of France is not to plant before the <i>Saints de glace</i> have passed. Which is true for the north of the United States as well, and there even not before Memorial Day. Especially as climate change has made many winters milder, causing plants to blossom and bud earlier. Galileo and his pupils confirmed this weather pattern for the years 1655-70, reporting a cold snap over the days of the Ice Saints. This year, wine growers are having an awful time, going to extraordinary lengths to try to keep their grape buds from freezing, or getting burnt by the morning sun hitting the frozen dew on them.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As I’m not here in my Montmartre hideaway much right now, and I don’t grow grapes, I’ve planted already anyway, just to cheer up my little private garden that went through a rough winter. I <i>have</i> been bringing the pot of basil indoors though many nights. The rest will have to fend for itself.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3EARFRdZH1C6K9l-Jgx07OOFh7ucFnwmb_neQ6Om6gv4d_I5mkuTWEHH_EKCTRqPB3rVRuwmw-0D8CYvdI34cwyArOe9CT0Rn95J_Qx_zZNXw_VDqlQYEMh-ahL2a4M1Mkq-hWYVtYeAD/s1600/Garden+rooster+%2526+placements.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3EARFRdZH1C6K9l-Jgx07OOFh7ucFnwmb_neQ6Om6gv4d_I5mkuTWEHH_EKCTRqPB3rVRuwmw-0D8CYvdI34cwyArOe9CT0Rn95J_Qx_zZNXw_VDqlQYEMh-ahL2a4M1Mkq-hWYVtYeAD/s320/Garden+rooster+%2526+placements.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
But the fun thing about these saints’ days has nothing to do with planting. It has to do with homonyms, words that are spelled or sound the same but have different meanings. In French there are <i>saints</i> - saints - and <i>seins</i> - breasts. Both pronounced absolutely the same. In other words, May 11-13 could be interpreted as the Icy Breasts Days. I guess one <i>would</i> result from the other, if temperatures were low enough and if you dressed scantily. Anyway, it always makes foreigners laugh when they first hear <i>Saints/seins de glace</i>. And young French children also.<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But we’re almost through them now. One more day. So button up. And perhaps light a candle to those Ice Saints.Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-20162561249293249872019-03-28T07:53:00.002-07:002019-03-28T07:53:50.037-07:00Out & About - Exhibits: Artists in MontmartreFor nearly half a century, I’ve lived in Montmartre off and on. Mostly on.<br />
<div>
So the exhibit at the Musée de Montmartre just over the rim of the hill behind my building covered territory familiar to me. The exhibit is called Artists in Montmartre: Mythical Studios and Sites. There are ten of them, ten addresses, and I know more than half of them well and the others by reputation.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Rv-y_6Ukw4vu6xaRQWuncTNJJOG214IEtZHkGvWF-WtBlfsA3b9fIDjUs7H4SRF8q_KwoHn_ZTNBk1a7xMv9yKWFqQcfCUwq0zJ4aHhSnfIb2V3uNZOX62nbK52-X1ZtsaSyHyeATzHV/s1600/DSCF1642+-+Valadon+-+Autoportrait+1927.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1469" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Rv-y_6Ukw4vu6xaRQWuncTNJJOG214IEtZHkGvWF-WtBlfsA3b9fIDjUs7H4SRF8q_KwoHn_ZTNBk1a7xMv9yKWFqQcfCUwq0zJ4aHhSnfIb2V3uNZOX62nbK52-X1ZtsaSyHyeATzHV/s200/DSCF1642+-+Valadon+-+Autoportrait+1927.JPG" width="183" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Suzanne Valadon, Autoportrait 1927</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
The first of them is the museum itself. The most famous people to have lived there were The Infernal Trio: Suzanne Valadon, her son Maurice Utrillo, and her husband André Utter. They were called that because of the rowdy arguments heard by the neighbors all hours of the night and day. In addition to temporary exhibits - and the other house, the oldest in Montmartre (part of the Museum) - you can still visit her studio, which will explain perhaps why three people would argue incessantly in such small digs.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7QiijLidwvt317gygnAf1eIk0TcDWImJp4reG900RhEJaw62R5veWL4Ate248RMmJujgLxwYSu_7U2SWKTLO2N5uC710SKLAHP88AtovwMMe-2TrNKqx7lV7MJ8Whaama5uOaLUSycBc/s1600/DSCF1640+-+Bateau+Lavoir.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1204" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7QiijLidwvt317gygnAf1eIk0TcDWImJp4reG900RhEJaw62R5veWL4Ate248RMmJujgLxwYSu_7U2SWKTLO2N5uC710SKLAHP88AtovwMMe-2TrNKqx7lV7MJ8Whaama5uOaLUSycBc/s320/DSCF1640+-+Bateau+Lavoir.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bateau Lavoir, before it burned down</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Another famous site is the Bateau Lavoir, which easily accounts for about one-half of all the tourists that plague that poor little square right around my corner. In it lived many now-famous artists. The most famous would be Picasso, but there was also Van Dongen, Juan Gris and Modigliani. There were also writers such as Pierre MacOrlan and Max Jacob, along with famous visitors that included Apollinaire, Cocteau, and Gertrude Stein. Its name is an inside joke. “Bateau” (boat) came from its construction which looked like that of an ocean liner: little rooms off of a long corridor open to the elements. “Lavoir” (laundry house) came from the laundry hung out to dry. The building was actually a piano factory at first. It burned down the year I moved to Montmartre, but has now been rebuilt in the same configuration... in concrete instead of wood.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaBWC6wocxBle2IhGfIa9rec9nuJ9D2ktoczVzZGMUnuKt_17SeqNPb-AlBG2vBYkNZGAzbwUPdwLh1ALSj7_A2zMJMmr8_XJVrYkqhlSgBwi9mKnmjY4ViPx9clzobMnieuosGrCQSTaF/s1600/DSCF1632.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaBWC6wocxBle2IhGfIa9rec9nuJ9D2ktoczVzZGMUnuKt_17SeqNPb-AlBG2vBYkNZGAzbwUPdwLh1ALSj7_A2zMJMmr8_XJVrYkqhlSgBwi9mKnmjY4ViPx9clzobMnieuosGrCQSTaF/s320/DSCF1632.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sunset Over the Adriatic, painted by a donkey</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The third very famous site is the Cabaret du Lapin Agile. On the north slope of the Butte Montmartre, right across from the last remaining vineyard in Paris (except for pretend ones that fit in a person’s backyard) and downhill from the Musée. Built in the early 19th century, it was called “In the Country”, which it was back then. (Montmartre only became part of Paris in 1860.) That name was followed by others that reflected the neighborhood’s bad reputation: Rendez-Vous of Thieves, Cabaret of Assassins. It was a place people came to drink mostly, especially the thirsty artists, or to recite their unpublished works. Then in 1879 came caricaturist André Gill who painted the tavern’s sign: a rabbit dancing in a frying pan and balancing a bottle of wine on one paw. The rabbit became Gill’s Rabbit (lapin à Gilles), thus the name, but written as a word play on “agile rabbit”, given how he’s dancing. The other story about Le Lapin Agile is the hoax the artists played on art critics in 1910. They tied a brush to the tail of the owner’s donkey and then submitted the resulting artwork as “Sunset Over the Adriatic”. It was accepted to the show by the jury, hung among other works... and bought by an unsuspecting art lover.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDgUok1_OwBrwvVXCxObvlgZ1QYYZbiiKJv7X5336kphsANuZJNtIdAlFDctPIbKEuKTb0UQ7g6wej4I2q-wqI3POr3W8vRjeN1lFLeJFWeLkZTa0Ww2hBO3XAoVFPkCfkV5xEkaiVKLy/s1600/DSCF1629+-+Ed.+Lef%25C3%25A8vre+-+Moulin+de+la+Galette.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1183" data-original-width="1600" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDgUok1_OwBrwvVXCxObvlgZ1QYYZbiiKJv7X5336kphsANuZJNtIdAlFDctPIbKEuKTb0UQ7g6wej4I2q-wqI3POr3W8vRjeN1lFLeJFWeLkZTa0Ww2hBO3XAoVFPkCfkV5xEkaiVKLy/s320/DSCF1629+-+Ed.+Lef%25C3%25A8vre+-+Moulin+de+la+Galette.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Edouard Lefèvre, Moulin de la Galette</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The last of the well-known sites is the Moulin de la Galette, immortalized by August Renoir and several other artists. When I moved here, it was being used as a TV studio and several variety shows were broadcast live from there each week. Then the studio closed and the city sold it, with the proviso that it be rebuilt in the style of the area (as with the Bateau Lavoir). Now it’s a very ritzy, gated row of units well out of my tax bracket. But it looks lovely. Local star, film director Claude Lelouch uses the corner building for projections and other activities open to the public, and especially a week-end something for children, just to get them inoculated with the cinema. He also restored one of the two remaining windmills, the one with the actual machinery, the one in all those Impressionist paintings: <i>Le Blute Fin</i> (Fine Grinder). In exchange for the restoration, the city allowed Lelouch to build something for himself underneath the windmill, with windows looking out over Paris but itself invisible when the trees are leafy.<br />
There’s one site in the show that isn’t there anymore: the Medrano Circus. It was still standing when I moved to Montmartre. A round building with a facade, it had been closed for years, and was ultimately torn down in 1974 to build a modern apartment building with a supermarket on its ground floor. Very handy if you run out of spaghetti sauce, but far less quaint. If it had survived one more year, it would have been one hundred years old and become a protected landmark. Toulouse-Lautrec painted the circus acts there often, as did Degas, Renoir, Picasso, Léger and Van Dongen, all fascinated by the theme of clowns and acrobats.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmm5vQgpApDe6J3lekbwlTPezhyphenhyphen9_DYBtGn82gccW7CF8A7-vb-_PSkqougA7E_ytYVjIuFUmxHOykeX7eXeY-8v8GHUpWFyw5ODogG5mWA_t78eg6tx5RmhLRV3F0OR0zdNrxeQKWO-4t/s1600/DSCF1626+-+Geo.+Joubain+-+Cit%25C3%25A9+des+Fusains+au+printemps.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1392" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmm5vQgpApDe6J3lekbwlTPezhyphenhyphen9_DYBtGn82gccW7CF8A7-vb-_PSkqougA7E_ytYVjIuFUmxHOykeX7eXeY-8v8GHUpWFyw5ODogG5mWA_t78eg6tx5RmhLRV3F0OR0zdNrxeQKWO-4t/s320/DSCF1626+-+Geo.+Joubain+-+Cit%25C3%25A9+des+Fusains+au+printemps.JPG" width="278" /></a></div>
I’ve often walked past the Cité des Fusains, another of the sites, but never gone in. The studios, repurposed after the 1889 Universal Exhibition for which the Eiffel Tower was built, are still used for artists. Bonnard and Derain once lived there, as did Max Ernst, Jean Arp and Joan Miro. Toulouse-Lautrec lived further up the same street. Expressionist painter and engraver Gen Paul lived in an ex-goat farm only a block from my place, next to a playground my children adopted because it was among the first in Paris to have monkey-bars and such. I knew a Japanese artist who lived in my building but had studio space in that house.<br />
The other sites are just addresses to me. One on rue Caulaincourt was the home of expatriate Swiss artist Steinlen, who painted the ubiquitous black cat poster for the Montmartre cabaret of the same name. The address on rue Véron was home to Adolphe Willette, and for 27 years my old apartment overlooked the Square Willette at the base of the Sacré-Coeur stairway. The last address is on rue Lepic, directly behind my new digs, where Eugène Delâtre lived. His name wasn’t familiar, but his pen-and-ink works of Montmartre certainly were.<br />
<br />
And there you have it: both the art exhibit at the Musée de Montmartre and my ramblings about my neighborhood. The show is worth a detour because you’ll see grouping of artists you won’t see anywhere else.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNpFTLBx4drhiRJj3KjvaxsBzt2QyZ-tcPtio02ES_dpJHcS5H17F1pvYexY4FlY8JAA2IYPjw2P9ryc1rnPHqgsQEe4XQgV-ls6bxHA0QyXMWo2iiyquDhk0HNpUFxuE4jclDjxDBFt5h/s1600/DSCF1633+-+Utrillo+-+Poste+Abbesses.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1240" data-original-width="1600" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNpFTLBx4drhiRJj3KjvaxsBzt2QyZ-tcPtio02ES_dpJHcS5H17F1pvYexY4FlY8JAA2IYPjw2P9ryc1rnPHqgsQEe4XQgV-ls6bxHA0QyXMWo2iiyquDhk0HNpUFxuE4jclDjxDBFt5h/s400/DSCF1633+-+Utrillo+-+Poste+Abbesses.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>La Poste des Abbesses, Utrillo</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRlovuYscHjEJj5di1ghYZ8QaVFcFwSviGacCDPBffEPSJlqw3boNbYCQvRztHcnGXjiqcqfMRCay9q4qCJWPVSKO6yi1XWudhqSiSUh5imzbmoyfgBq77L6vxkg8RwAFlmu5cBv7eEey0/s1600/DSCF1638+-+Valadon+-+Portrait+Utrillo+1921.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1311" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRlovuYscHjEJj5di1ghYZ8QaVFcFwSviGacCDPBffEPSJlqw3boNbYCQvRztHcnGXjiqcqfMRCay9q4qCJWPVSKO6yi1XWudhqSiSUh5imzbmoyfgBq77L6vxkg8RwAFlmu5cBv7eEey0/s320/DSCF1638+-+Valadon+-+Portrait+Utrillo+1921.JPG" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Utrillo, by Suzanne Valadon, 1921</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Artistes à Montmartre,</b></div>
<div>
<div>
<b>lieux et ateliers mythiques</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Musée de Montmartre</div>
<div>
12 rue Cortot; 18è</div>
<div>
Métro: Lamarck-Caulaincourt</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
01.49.25.89.39</div>
<div>
infos@museedemontmartre.fr</div>
<div>
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
<div>
Until Jan 20, 2019 (Valadon studio all year)</div>
<div>
Daily 10-6</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
12 & 6-9 € (free under 10 years of age)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
www.museedemontmartre.fr</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-71688363820318114782019-02-21T13:40:00.000-08:002019-02-21T13:40:34.257-08:00From the French forces in the American Revolution to the Military Archives of the Château de Vincennes<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj9IW7dDHdffURHcX06B9x3VT0cspswqXobrEf95ONkBhv3hu3kuiXSfsDiHwYDtsKYdfyyJlxIRMdBvFJrN4THNt8xwaif6UyARWTkKSYXbwJrJLHiG3wjcSv-_VWBKoVgxnCbdnAauNI/s1600/DSCF5311.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1163" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj9IW7dDHdffURHcX06B9x3VT0cspswqXobrEf95ONkBhv3hu3kuiXSfsDiHwYDtsKYdfyyJlxIRMdBvFJrN4THNt8xwaif6UyARWTkKSYXbwJrJLHiG3wjcSv-_VWBKoVgxnCbdnAauNI/s400/DSCF5311.JPG" width="290" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Château de Vincennes</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It all started with a friend of a friend contacting me with a strange request: to track down a French ancestor who had been dead for over 200 years.<br />
She’d been told I live part-time in France and thought that, being on-site, I might have more luck than she’d had from across the Atlantic.<br />
So Linda handed over all the paperwork she had, which seemed promising. Date of birth of this French soldier come to help America win its independence... but not place of birth. Names of officers the ancestor had served with in the French troops, regiment number, battles he fought in...<br />
Yet other points were problematic, mainly the three different family names he gave, and which only shared their first letter: D.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8zUXnhvcJXXB1LrKalJ7ZYy-xb7ZynQ6e8VsxHfHgXRvnxKhLj7PiUfwkzHkkLW34zxbvDWZL0bt8y03-XAzzzPXPMIex93w4nR6JeubzwDZypS7sNmxCkQX9-EvjYVKEhKv_rbbBewoS/s1600/DSCF5316.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="793" data-original-width="1600" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8zUXnhvcJXXB1LrKalJ7ZYy-xb7ZynQ6e8VsxHfHgXRvnxKhLj7PiUfwkzHkkLW34zxbvDWZL0bt8y03-XAzzzPXPMIex93w4nR6JeubzwDZypS7sNmxCkQX9-EvjYVKEhKv_rbbBewoS/s400/DSCF5316.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>King's Pavilion</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So on a bright day in late May, I take the <i>Métro</i> to the Château de Vincennes on the outskirts of Paris*. In a surprisingly short time for France’s top-heavy administration - literally overnight - I’d been e-mailed a “reader’s number” by the Ministry of Defense. It will allow me free access to their military archives which are stored in the Louis XIV Library.<br />
In the courtyard of the Château complex, an official asks me where I’m headed, and I learn that the Château has been on Orange Alert every since the <i>Charlie Hebdo</i> terrorist attacks last January (2015, in which I lost someone I once knew as a fellow PTA person, the parent of someone my children played with way back when). Tourists are welcome in the 14th century castle and chapel administered by the Ministry of Culture, but are closely watched if they walk beyond there. I’m headed well beyond, to the King’s Pavilion where the Archives are located, and which is governed by the Ministry of Defense. <br />
After filling out a registration sheet and having my photo taken, I’m given a snazzy plastified card valid for one year. Then I’m required to store all my stuff. And I do mean “all”. You put a one euro coin into the slot of a locker and lock up your coat, any sweater with big pockets, your purse, any bags... even take the case off your camera. Anywhere you could hide a purloined document. Only loose sheets of paper are allowed beyond this point - or laptops, without their case. And only pencils, no pens. No exceptions. This is the universe of the military.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjew-xqUd2VTtnYuCe-MqRFRiM6we3RbY-7-i88QNb3nF4d6iQpIdlgtlnz26zi_WrzSDEQwCUpF5B40RsSE5PqejAcFlISfHiurJ_DJrWWh-7Tla_VxB3VQDNMTFkf-64o-kVQp2g1iie-/s1600/DSCF5320.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjew-xqUd2VTtnYuCe-MqRFRiM6we3RbY-7-i88QNb3nF4d6iQpIdlgtlnz26zi_WrzSDEQwCUpF5B40RsSE5PqejAcFlISfHiurJ_DJrWWh-7Tla_VxB3VQDNMTFkf-64o-kVQp2g1iie-/s320/DSCF5320.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Up two flights of wide stone stairs (remember: it <i>was</i> the King’s Pavilion after all), I enter a magnificent room with classic paintings on all walls, marble columns and huge timber beams overhead. Plus a card catalog. (When was the last time you saw one of <i>those</i>?) I explain what I’m there for and am told to take a seat until the chief research librarian is free.<br />
And that’s where I get lucky. Really lucky.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWCuEzKT1OTWGFLO1f5SlEtswFR4lkFAdq-DBR-4UweqgTY1odGHtxpxdTqmPSWw0R3OWUgoPUPH3PwLVpoEc_lQ8-jLQTv4afteMjbIr944ucCGcgYy34lkYHOJiUTm4D6mavwd54OEaL/s1600/DSCF5322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1395" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWCuEzKT1OTWGFLO1f5SlEtswFR4lkFAdq-DBR-4UweqgTY1odGHtxpxdTqmPSWw0R3OWUgoPUPH3PwLVpoEc_lQ8-jLQTv4afteMjbIr944ucCGcgYy34lkYHOJiUTm4D6mavwd54OEaL/s200/DSCF5322.JPG" width="174" /></a></div>
There is a colonel here today who specializes in the French troops who fought in the American Revolution. I’m ushered into the Reading Room - complete with chandeliers - and introduced. The colonel is mildly curious about my quest and shows me where to start. Which turns out to be... the same book Linda consulted back in the States! <br />
So ends Day 1, because I have to go pick up my long-awaited <i>carte de séjour</i>**. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJFtf1ja6IihWtqp6QVyhrrbWmK3ARxdvLWv_CtC0hkjUCKE38tDuJGyBce_ZcKwKakEqIgKNBhq03AAzwP20mDvfLnrWNWHwzJ3sjnOed4hsefLYffEM8XJqpEJt6L-nWSSlp7CLPTrI/s1600/DSCF5321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJFtf1ja6IihWtqp6QVyhrrbWmK3ARxdvLWv_CtC0hkjUCKE38tDuJGyBce_ZcKwKakEqIgKNBhq03AAzwP20mDvfLnrWNWHwzJ3sjnOed4hsefLYffEM8XJqpEJt6L-nWSSlp7CLPTrI/s400/DSCF5321.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
As the colonel told me he won’t be around next week, I decide to go back the very next day and pick his brain some more. Luck has placed him on my path. That’s not an opportunity to be sneezed at.<br />
And there he is. I sit down next to him, and we whisper a while about how to go about this quest. He asks many interested questions and concludes that the dates for Soldier Charles don’t add up. I explain Charles was over 80 when he provided this information in order to get a war pension from the American Government. With a bit more information from me, the colonel admits that the details do make sense - the march from the landing site in Newport, Rhode Island, down to the final battle against Cornwallis in Yorktown. But he’s adamant that no one served in both the first tour of duty with Count d’Estaing in Savannah and then a second tour of duty to fight alongside General Rochambeau of Lafayette’s troops.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS7V6VTHmGED_eMARx1Erb8mOujVvEzUEEvWAmargTgpLbDGCA4Kq0lgSsJGv0xsOiJDsgpfTMHt6Svd2FwqM1ESmqAxBilsCqintTw0NAGUj-oH538SvqUYRQqruiVwhtAg6fI5DgRcg0/s1600/DSCF5307.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1458" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS7V6VTHmGED_eMARx1Erb8mOujVvEzUEEvWAmargTgpLbDGCA4Kq0lgSsJGv0xsOiJDsgpfTMHt6Svd2FwqM1ESmqAxBilsCqintTw0NAGUj-oH538SvqUYRQqruiVwhtAg6fI5DgRcg0/s200/DSCF5307.JPG" width="189" /></a></div>
I get through half of the lengthy two-hundred-year-old army list, one name after the other, but it’s Friday and the Archives close at 4 pm (where have the two hours gone?!). And that’s 1600 hours, not one minute more, in true military style. At least that way I’ll miss rush hour in the <i>Métro</i>.<br />
<br />
I go back several times, and see the progress on restoration of the courtyard's old paving stones. I get some trails that don’t lead much further. The colonel has given me his daughter’s e-mail address - he doesn’t <i>do</i> e-mail - and says I can contact him... which I do. And he replies, providing additional information.<br />
But it doesn’t pan out. We’ve hit a wall. Which I guess isn’t surprising more than 200 years later. If I had but world enough and time... as the poem says. But I don’t. It’s time to return to the States.<br />
I provide my meager gleanings to Linda back in Michigan and say I can perhaps do more. But she’s merciful and says that information is fine.<br />
Before I leave, I thank her for the opportunity to see something I would never have seen otherwise. It’s been quite an experience.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnccGX8Yrcm3Ma9ldCXqxuHp3UG8rjekBbCwG13tvVJbvvuAvBvbI0pdIkArupi_HuCgOriPuWBcyTDnbz1PLh1rnckKUCsWj5VPQIBIeJADl6iDxumjF6HuQgVO-veXBe9YlYkk-yCQsy/s1600/DSCF5340.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnccGX8Yrcm3Ma9ldCXqxuHp3UG8rjekBbCwG13tvVJbvvuAvBvbI0pdIkArupi_HuCgOriPuWBcyTDnbz1PLh1rnckKUCsWj5VPQIBIeJADl6iDxumjF6HuQgVO-veXBe9YlYkk-yCQsy/s400/DSCF5340.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<i>*For more on the Château de Vincennes, see my blog of May 24, 2015</i><br />
<i>** For the carte de séjour saga, see March 6, 2015</i>Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-72718720336716520102018-11-27T13:39:00.001-08:002019-05-06T01:15:06.968-07:00Out & About: Exhibits: Collections privées<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFcNERvcGQkjAyJ1yf_43082CxlPeVrdXxNNyG4d4Xj4cGuI-nOgWWjVVva0V8CqsvkRTaECDrO_J9Z-BhZSL59Bw3Rj7YUepsuIe3xCeFI8H2ISkrbPXj2wY8-1q1OY_xUv_NTOQGptRW/s1600/DSCF1669+-+Pissarro+-+D%25C3%25A9chargement+de+bois%252C+quai+de+la+Bourse%252C+coucher+du+soleil+-+1898.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1335" data-original-width="1600" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFcNERvcGQkjAyJ1yf_43082CxlPeVrdXxNNyG4d4Xj4cGuI-nOgWWjVVva0V8CqsvkRTaECDrO_J9Z-BhZSL59Bw3Rj7YUepsuIe3xCeFI8H2ISkrbPXj2wY8-1q1OY_xUv_NTOQGptRW/s400/DSCF1669+-+Pissarro+-+D%25C3%25A9chargement+de+bois%252C+quai+de+la+Bourse%252C+coucher+du+soleil+-+1898.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pissarro - Déchargement de bois, Quai de la Bourse</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
Paris has 130 museums. In addition to the permanent collection of each, most also have temporary shows that change two or three times a year.<br />
So when I’m here, I have a long list of shows I want to see. This time I have eight or nine to fit into four weeks. I’ve already done the <i>Ateliers Mythiques</i> at the Musée de Montmartre and Mucha at the Musée du Luxembourg. Today it’s the turn of the <i>Collections Privées</i> at the Marmottan. And with an old friend.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGQo0xVuAZtu0Ue6MOr4W1iVFCRyy9UMtpG08BpXLuGhUma5JT2ije7ABedjeFJt2qrbCR_FdjszEEQo95sFI3Zub35LrXldqCVj66xiXAJcjLrTf62iwlCfA9ZXAJen_lNW33W75l7wSP/s1600/DSCF1667+-+Caillebotte+-+Pont+de+l%2527Europe+-+1876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1130" data-original-width="1589" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGQo0xVuAZtu0Ue6MOr4W1iVFCRyy9UMtpG08BpXLuGhUma5JT2ije7ABedjeFJt2qrbCR_FdjszEEQo95sFI3Zub35LrXldqCVj66xiXAJcjLrTf62iwlCfA9ZXAJen_lNW33W75l7wSP/s400/DSCF1667+-+Caillebotte+-+Pont+de+l%2527Europe+-+1876.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Caillebotte - Pont de l'Europe</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The Marmottan-Monet Museum is a perfect place for an intimate show. Originally, it was the large home, quaintly called the “hunting lodge”, of the Duke of Valmy. (I’m presuming he hunted in the Bois de Boulogne a mere block away.) The lodge was later purchased by Monsieur Marmottan, whose son then gave it and his art collection to the Paris Academy of Beaux-Arts. For many years that was the museum’s name, and it housed a lot of Impressionist art, including Monet. Which is why decades later Claude Monet’s son Michel chose to bequeath his own collection of his father’s works to the museum... and a third M was added to the name.<br />
The permanent collections rule on the basement and upstairs levels. The ground floor houses the temporary shows, as well as rooms that have some of the original furniture, period pieces to delight those interested.<br />
Me, I’ve come for the <i>Collections Privées</i>, Impressionist art owned by private individuals, artworks rarely - if ever - seen outside of these individuals’ four walls.<br />
Sometimes the owner of the painting was indicated, but usually not. People don’t always want burglars to know what’s hanging in their homes. The word “Monaco” arose often, but who knows whether it’s Prince Albert, one of his sisters, or any of the über-rich people who have paid for a residence in that tax-free principality on the Mediterranean. Two names came up often. One is American, the son of a grocer who hit it rich in money management: Scott Black. (His wife Isabelle was gallantly also named as co-owner.) The other, Juan Antonio Pérez Simón, is a Spaniard who has lived most of his life in Mexico, made his money in telecommunications, and loves to loan his artworks out, which he’s done here. French magazine <i>Paris Match</i> says his art collection is the largest in private hands in the world.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBh9J6LzMcCWSbrei87y3T1tHNatF5rdHdYduCW28vROiAQBq4nYkvRGWLIDZLyWd1NTtqzedHcebbgSYHSCB69w14JxQ3rzqPKf3Yhv4y1tjRa3NplCtIZVQOgLwZ5uvu9lckDs5kh_vx/s1600/DSCF1690+-+Monet+-+Tuileries+-+1876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1293" data-original-width="1600" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBh9J6LzMcCWSbrei87y3T1tHNatF5rdHdYduCW28vROiAQBq4nYkvRGWLIDZLyWd1NTtqzedHcebbgSYHSCB69w14JxQ3rzqPKf3Yhv4y1tjRa3NplCtIZVQOgLwZ5uvu9lckDs5kh_vx/s400/DSCF1690+-+Monet+-+Tuileries+-+1876.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Monet - Tuileries, 1876</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But on to the works themselves.<br />
The name Impressionism came from a painting by Monet shown in the first show ever by artists of this genre (in 1874). Monet called it <i>Impression, soleil levant</i> (Impression, Sunrise). A scoffing art critic picked up on that and said that <i>none</i> of the paintings in the show were real art, but only just impressions. The term stuck. (That painting is downstairs here at the Marmottan.)<br />
Impressionism is all about light. How it refracts. How it reflects off things. How it can transform a color. One of the best demonstrations of this is when the artist represents dappled light, scenes with light and shadow. One canvas by Caillebotte demonstrated this: <i>Le Jardin du Petit Gennevilliers</i>. Obviously not the center feature of the painting, three women sit off in a corner, talking in the sun. The focus, so to speak, is on the shadows cast by the tall trees and on the walk and flowerbed, and how the fruit tree stands out against the darkness in the background. The shadow takes up a good third of the canvas, the third that’s front and center. The year being 1889, the work is still somewhat traditional, as paintings were, pre-photography. It’s a scene you now might snap with your smartphone, except broken down by... light.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh66onZEckOGUOsVG_Vhj61WKMzR1At9NtZlYYE3GVNDR7VrjwaUKWz6BQLpoUX5i-b2kNWlcTyIXt5J-T9IDavc3i97NvnPSbBCgD6E8VfVRFpizy4H6zDxiRzYx-ZxeFo5k-Th4yko5dw/s1600/DSCF1661+-+Toulouse-Lautrec+-+La+Blanchisseuse+-++1886.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1394" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh66onZEckOGUOsVG_Vhj61WKMzR1At9NtZlYYE3GVNDR7VrjwaUKWz6BQLpoUX5i-b2kNWlcTyIXt5J-T9IDavc3i97NvnPSbBCgD6E8VfVRFpizy4H6zDxiRzYx-ZxeFo5k-Th4yko5dw/s320/DSCF1661+-+Toulouse-Lautrec+-+La+Blanchisseuse+-++1886.JPG" width="278" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Toulouse-Lautrec - La Blanchisseuse</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Toulouse-Lautrec has a painting in this show that is also photographic, but it’s a portrait rather than a landscape. He called it <i>La Blanchisseuse</i> (The Laundress). It’s from the same period as Monet’s garden (1886) and shares some traits. Here the focus seems to be on the woman’s white shirt, and the shadows its folds cast. A far cry from Lautrec’s famous posters. Her dreary room is made even more dreary by the contrast with the scrap of sky out her window. Lautrec has hidden the woman’s face with a lock of hair that’s fallen over her eyes as she takes a moment out of her drudgery, and there’s the merest shadow of that lock on her cheek. Again, light.<br />
Another thing that fascinated the Impressionists, something still fairly new in the world of that time, was the steam engine. The constant morphing of the rising steam was as challenging to try to capture on canvas as was light. Which is why so many artists set up their easels near Paris’s Gare St. Lazare train station and on the Pont de l’Europe bridge spanning the tracks. Pissarro captured it well in another setting: the docks, where boats wait to be loaded or unloaded. The river gave him the additional opportunity to interpret light on the water, as well as in the sky. As it was painted in 1898, Impressionism had already moved on a bit from a softer version of photographic depiction to something more personal, a step or two farther from reality.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_hzFt_Pfuk2r6LwQpWKm0ADPUQVo5cplQbNSwUoN78vDqm9-xszpHdrx00aeFAK7CrBNtceSv9GwWJuXxIh-mYIzp2T8sQ6XrWo_7wGgJ_3KleBXupb-l32JbdcddJAXHNZPymBsdH2er/s1600/DSCF1659+-+Th%25C3%25A9o+van+Rysselberghe+-+La+R%25C3%25A9gate+1892.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="931" data-original-width="1230" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_hzFt_Pfuk2r6LwQpWKm0ADPUQVo5cplQbNSwUoN78vDqm9-xszpHdrx00aeFAK7CrBNtceSv9GwWJuXxIh-mYIzp2T8sQ6XrWo_7wGgJ_3KleBXupb-l32JbdcddJAXHNZPymBsdH2er/s320/DSCF1659+-+Th%25C3%25A9o+van+Rysselberghe+-+La+R%25C3%25A9gate+1892.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Théo van Rysselberghe - Regatta</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Still later came pointillism, where light was broken down even further into dots. Although Seurat took it to the extreme, others used it more sparingly. There’s a canvas in this show that exemplifies that well, and it’s by an artist I hadn’t heard of: Théo van Rysselberghe. He called it <i>Regatta</i>, and the full sails of the boats embody the wind that also makes the waters choppy. He uses that same texturing with the rocky cliffs, but in a much more subtle way. (When I looked up van Rysselberghe, I found out he was from Belgium, and he called his style neo-Impressionism.)<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxp5oRdK6puynelDlpQ8p41TaWsjm7QlWWmYGgZp9btMR9L1J87pi0bGrd-4CT3xpHDBpN0hDO7G3vlE75BsNWcseq4tECZELQs_3jrmxZvXnVzJXjjvkL7mlyjJJcrgQfpqSlr1XfDm9/s1600/DSCF1681+-+Andr%25C3%25A9+Derain+-+Portrait+de+Vlaminck+-+1905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1294" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxp5oRdK6puynelDlpQ8p41TaWsjm7QlWWmYGgZp9btMR9L1J87pi0bGrd-4CT3xpHDBpN0hDO7G3vlE75BsNWcseq4tECZELQs_3jrmxZvXnVzJXjjvkL7mlyjJJcrgQfpqSlr1XfDm9/s320/DSCF1681+-+Andr%25C3%25A9+Derain+-+Portrait+de+Vlaminck+-+1905.JPG" width="258" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Vlaminck, by Derain</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Fauvism is a school that arose from Impressionism. That name was given by yet another art critic who focused in on the unnatural colors used by some artists and likened them to <i>fauves</i> (wild beasts). André Derain painted a portrait of fellow artist Maurice de Vlaminck and the colors he chose fall within this definition, especially as one eye is blue and the other is black. As far as impressions go, this portrait gives no more than an impression of what Vlaminck actually looked like. Based on photos of him, it’s about as unreliable a police sketch as it could possibly be. A mere outline of a face, with a line for a nose and only a patch of hair. And yet, as a piece of art, it works.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirGdVizCRnIH5HiE6eXy2VGB0SXZyuRLQoxxvnayaUiTVleFouVZKe86YJEDhfRTR_D8-YJA2H0cxc48slJacdPR_yr17u06UL35hEnz9L0LtbWU5_MZCog-8g1xtIVFH3H64VmysjjuR4/s1600/DSCF1673+-+Camille+Claudel+-+Petite+Ch%25C3%25A2telaine+-+1893.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirGdVizCRnIH5HiE6eXy2VGB0SXZyuRLQoxxvnayaUiTVleFouVZKe86YJEDhfRTR_D8-YJA2H0cxc48slJacdPR_yr17u06UL35hEnz9L0LtbWU5_MZCog-8g1xtIVFH3H64VmysjjuR4/s320/DSCF1673+-+Camille+Claudel+-+Petite+Ch%25C3%25A2telaine+-+1893.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
There were also a few pieces of sculpture in the show. One was a chillingly striking head of St. John the Baptist by Rodin. I saw one such head once in a church in Madaba, Jordan. What’s striking here, in addition to Rodin’s mastery of the chisel, is the coldness of the white marble. You’re sure he’s well and truly dead. In contrast to that, there’s a child’s head by Rodin’s student - and paramour - Camille Claudel. It’s displayed with a mirror behind it so you can stare into the child’s eyes yet see the loosely braided hair flowing down her back. Head slightly tilted up, she seems to be waiting for something, expecting something. The artist leaves it to us to imagine what.<br />
<br />
There were many more artworks in this show. But these were the ones that called out to me the most.<br />
And most of them will never be seen publicly again. Unless it’s at Sotheby’s or Christie's.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijRTvxysAma2mZdxR9vCdmc5sZ1gDIyhmxHN-rqw8N_ad4SPTXyXARd2LjQhD7YUQkKj4wpg6n7RVQ99xnWGpmP4WlNBelttQaCcI2ZtXZqwA0-FWIAW5xjd4m1QjUNmKb68rJhFF64bRD/s1600/DSCF1683+-+Monet%252C+by+Ph.+Garel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijRTvxysAma2mZdxR9vCdmc5sZ1gDIyhmxHN-rqw8N_ad4SPTXyXARd2LjQhD7YUQkKj4wpg6n7RVQ99xnWGpmP4WlNBelttQaCcI2ZtXZqwA0-FWIAW5xjd4m1QjUNmKb68rJhFF64bRD/s320/DSCF1683+-+Monet%252C+by+Ph.+Garel.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Claude Monet, by Philippe Garel</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Collections privées:</b><br />
<b>A voyage from Impressionist to Fauve</b><br />
<br />
Musée Marmottan Monet<br />
2 rue Louis-Boilly; 16è<br />
Métro: La Muette<br />
<br />
01.44.96.50.33<br />
<br />
Until February 10, 2019<br />
T-Sun 10-6 / Th 10-9<br />
Closed Mondays<br />
<br />
11 & 7.50 €<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-4536838867756541332018-11-05T12:12:00.000-08:002018-11-05T12:12:02.469-08:00Out & About: Exhibits - Alphonse Mucha<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsOlFpGHgEx8DHxxnU-ZwOBH99ZMaxSQjQO9oh-jO-N66O366WPhBwLG7zRCtYp_D3GlEVqLFERddsqmj_gVRlFkkrHutCbH37h2_RkQ3t-DDY5TRajtHeylI4zArO-Q0A9jA2bXekuFPA/s1600/DSCF1649+-+Alphonse+Mucha.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1285" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsOlFpGHgEx8DHxxnU-ZwOBH99ZMaxSQjQO9oh-jO-N66O366WPhBwLG7zRCtYp_D3GlEVqLFERddsqmj_gVRlFkkrHutCbH37h2_RkQ3t-DDY5TRajtHeylI4zArO-Q0A9jA2bXekuFPA/s400/DSCF1649+-+Alphonse+Mucha.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Alphonse Mucha</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
When I was in Prague last fall, I went to the Mucha Museum. So going to this Mucha exhibit at the Musée du Luxembourg was kind of like visiting an old friend.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf0-kpR4LO9HVdBFJCbSOXzj-fuPJF1CgbkUpsvkREqFXN4kwbYeFw4YYLwKWy7OYGvFeHwkt1ttf2oXc0LXsdKOQw7EcfDXovmvdabWkwRLXGqDIaefTsNll4OJKXAJGHT5BY4yVFcDx2/s1600/DSCF1650.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf0-kpR4LO9HVdBFJCbSOXzj-fuPJF1CgbkUpsvkREqFXN4kwbYeFw4YYLwKWy7OYGvFeHwkt1ttf2oXc0LXsdKOQw7EcfDXovmvdabWkwRLXGqDIaefTsNll4OJKXAJGHT5BY4yVFcDx2/s320/DSCF1650.JPG" width="214" /></a> For starters, as of the first room, there was the same photo, taken by Mucha of his good buddy Gauguin, newly arrived back from Polynesia, playing Mucha’s piano dressed in only a mercifully long shirt, his bare feet and legs working the pedals.<br />
The information gleaned in Prague on the life and works of Alphonse Mucha (gutturally pronounced “moo-ha”) also helped make sense of this Paris exhibit. For instance, the museum’s second room is set aside for his posters of Sarah Bernhardt, the ultimate theatrical star of the turn of the century. She liked his first poster of her so much that she proclaimed, in true star fashion, “I love that. You’re mine from now on.” <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoSR64uUwony007YWrIoXaKww3jRvDJWdBqsLdYgsewEHSYwMnZ-9RoDdB-mksJ52xlqLBYhy1xMmK2Bf2QDs0hJ08hg7AzPJSZAT2DPPdTAms_3qIj8zMh6E-RMNAIIPJ_pf1ByxWHRsq/s1600/DSCF1652+-+Maude+Adams+1909.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1193" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoSR64uUwony007YWrIoXaKww3jRvDJWdBqsLdYgsewEHSYwMnZ-9RoDdB-mksJ52xlqLBYhy1xMmK2Bf2QDs0hJ08hg7AzPJSZAT2DPPdTAms_3qIj8zMh6E-RMNAIIPJ_pf1ByxWHRsq/s320/DSCF1652+-+Maude+Adams+1909.JPG" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Maude Adams</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Of course, Toulouse-Lautrec had already made posters a new art form, up in Montmartre with La Goulue and Jane Avril. But Mucha took it even further - and lived longer. His success was helped along by works for the renowned jeweler Fouquet, and later by an exclusive contract with Parisian printer Champenois. With that, he could move from his cold Grande Chaumière artist studio in Montparnasse to a quite posh apartment in the toney Val de Grâce neighborhood, a setting suitable to invite all his rich new friends.<br />
After years of success, Mucha moved back to the now-independent Czechoslovakia, after several trips to the States to find a patron for his masterpiece, The Slav Epic. (Wealthy Chicago businessman Charles Richard Crane filled the bill.) For many years Mucha worked fervently on that project to the glory of his Slavic ancestors, culminating in twenty intricate canvases recounting scenes from Czech history as well as that of other Slav nations.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfH8GTyA8qZhi6ZFws2ZhlOMrnkbWG_Jr1inNxIhi-4V1WuBadGMlckL_P0LwhS-gRWE9XLE94lPSgDxq80xZvvYHKGCZrJMWf7JTqmJh1aCDbH11x9fD6iCrxJ-oxEcK29GRbcCtHfDuS/s1600/DSCF1651+-+Reverie+1897.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1226" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfH8GTyA8qZhi6ZFws2ZhlOMrnkbWG_Jr1inNxIhi-4V1WuBadGMlckL_P0LwhS-gRWE9XLE94lPSgDxq80xZvvYHKGCZrJMWf7JTqmJh1aCDbH11x9fD6iCrxJ-oxEcK29GRbcCtHfDuS/s320/DSCF1651+-+Reverie+1897.JPG" width="245" /></a> But in the end, Czechoslovakia savored only twenty years of independence, and when the Nazis marched into Prague in 1939, Mucha was one of the first people rounded up by the Gestapo. Too famous... and also a Freemason. He caught pneumonia in prison, whereupon the Nazis freed him, not wanting him to die in their custody. But die he did anyway only days later, shortly after his 79th birthday.<br />
Mucha is more than just one of the artists in the dccorative arts movement of the turn of the century. He came along at the birth of Art Nouveau, with its sinuous forms, floral motifs, ornamental lines and lovely young ladies, all rendered in a subtle palette of pastel colors. Mucha is the embodiment of the genre. Alphonse Mucha <i>IS</i> Art Nouveau.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9109VWU7qQcAmO7JDTa18HSqCp87x2QoNI5uEGouXEgeWDK4DC6-fhqykhtM_r-65dWCBSnjIBM35mEyiCKhoarMdxxwtyahQeXgPGiBnTcGPV3_21xMgI-qZ3LU3_27NmtdHqzp6u6d/s1600/DSCF1653+-+Freeing+Serfs+1914.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1222" data-original-width="1600" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9109VWU7qQcAmO7JDTa18HSqCp87x2QoNI5uEGouXEgeWDK4DC6-fhqykhtM_r-65dWCBSnjIBM35mEyiCKhoarMdxxwtyahQeXgPGiBnTcGPV3_21xMgI-qZ3LU3_27NmtdHqzp6u6d/s400/DSCF1653+-+Freeing+Serfs+1914.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Slav Epic - Freeing the Serfs</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7BGZcGvu2HY-B9Ak8MTpl8Kq2MOQocxxYMbHffck83LFmL81XhJH6GDevPyacQSLJY0n3cBc9VIYiPtCdBX24k-DQq4Q_T4FzDbn1tcDAUX5dAg0NzyVTOsLzvVCvTgVfrAVLZ94JExic/s1600/DSCF1647.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7BGZcGvu2HY-B9Ak8MTpl8Kq2MOQocxxYMbHffck83LFmL81XhJH6GDevPyacQSLJY0n3cBc9VIYiPtCdBX24k-DQq4Q_T4FzDbn1tcDAUX5dAg0NzyVTOsLzvVCvTgVfrAVLZ94JExic/s320/DSCF1647.JPG" width="240" /></a>Alphonse Mucha<br />
<br />
Musée du Luxembourg<br />
19 rue de Vaugirard; 6è<br />
Métro: St. Sulpice<br />
<br />
01.40.13.62.00<br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Until January 27, 2019<br />
Daily 10:30-7 (to 10 pm on Friday)<br />
<br />
13 & 9 € (free under 16 years of age)<br />
<br />
www.museeduluxembourg.frSandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-18218607851096975122018-06-22T06:24:00.000-07:002018-06-22T06:24:10.728-07:00Out & About - Exhibits: Mary Cassatt Exhibit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9orq-MbwhQpvenA6uwHvT2dRg1JK4Tf-aIZXi8G46pXmOqzSUbYO9fbqPmnRJC7HyxE8xoaE3hULj8BnhX7dgur6qyEw4Oteo3zr39OH2v6ptCZq2NXDp5-hKc2tK3XSmgrURYLFeDug6/s1600/cassatt+room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9orq-MbwhQpvenA6uwHvT2dRg1JK4Tf-aIZXi8G46pXmOqzSUbYO9fbqPmnRJC7HyxE8xoaE3hULj8BnhX7dgur6qyEw4Oteo3zr39OH2v6ptCZq2NXDp5-hKc2tK3XSmgrURYLFeDug6/s400/cassatt+room.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
I’ve talked about the Jacquemart-André museum before, so I’ll be brief here. Suffice to say it was once a private home - or rather mansion - built by Edouard André for his wife Nélie Jacquemart, who was also a painter and did his portrait ten years before their marriage. (I guess he must have liked it!)<br />
At their death, the house was bequeathed to the Institut de France with the proviso that it become a museum. It still has the original furniture and decoration, including a fresco by Tiepolo on the grand staircase and another on the ceiling of the adjoining room. The couple’s art collection, especially of Italian masters, is considerable and a tour of the house is well worth your time while you’re there.<br />
But given Nélie’s artistic bent, it’s only fitting that part of the mansion should be reserved for temporary art exhibits. The present one spotlights the talent of one of the first women artists of Impressionism, Mary Cassatt. And an American to boot.<br />
<br />
A short film - unfortunately only in French - at the entrance to the show discusses the birth of Impressionism and Cassatt’s place in it. Much of it underlines her close friendship with Edgar Degas. And there’s something fitting in that, because while the family of Cassatt’s father were French Huguenots who immigrated to America in 1662, Degas’s mother was from New Orleans, so they had that Franco-American link in common.<br />
Yet in spite of her American-ness, Cassatt chose to live most of her life in France - almost sixty years. Over that span of time, and thanks to her friendship with Degas, she became part of the Impressionism movement. Her art slowly transformed from the classicism that won her a place in the rigidly traditionalist Paris Salon in 1868. But as it changed, the doors of the highly-formal Salon closed to her, as they did to others who then chose to react by creating their own movement: Impressionism.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFdQeIULEEZzqc15lyd5SyPyNmcb1IRHfLUlcCcWqyHV24PfN-TfChQbRMX2bO9rzMgSuqv8yBkH6LEeS3uN5S626AOgFLDtA4_w6s7avS7uuJ_ndADCfPt7PON-SJtAwMgnrRzt41JGV6/s1600/cassatt+brother.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="539" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFdQeIULEEZzqc15lyd5SyPyNmcb1IRHfLUlcCcWqyHV24PfN-TfChQbRMX2bO9rzMgSuqv8yBkH6LEeS3uN5S626AOgFLDtA4_w6s7avS7uuJ_ndADCfPt7PON-SJtAwMgnrRzt41JGV6/s320/cassatt+brother.jpg" width="258" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Alexandre Cassatt & son Robert</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The first room of the exhibit includes a few works by Degas of his good friend Mary: one at the Louvre as she admires a painting, another of her buying a hat, and one of her just sitting, a portrait she hated. There’s also that canvas that won her a place in the 1868 Paris Salon - <i>A Mandoline Player</i> - which enables you to see the artistic territory she covered in her evolution as an artist.<br />
In one of the other rooms is a 1913 quote by Achille Ségard, author and art critic: “Instead of choosing the easy road, she felt the need to concentrate on the realities of volume, the movement of lines and of sentiments.” Although she did several canvases of her brother Alexander, one of which is on display here in the second room, her favorite subjects were women with their children. But not maudlin images. No. One of the first feminists, she chose to show the noble side of women.<br />
Like the other famous woman artist of the day, Berthe Morisot, she is known for her portraits. And yet this exhibit also includes many of her aquatints <i>(La Toilette)</i> and dry points <i>(Dans l’omnibus)</i>, which she printed out herself on a press she bought and learned to operate. Room 4 concentrates on these works. Many of them fall within the period where she, like other Impressionists such as Monet, became fascinated by Japanese prints, and a Japan-effect is clearly visible.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvPW1eJJklOOmafle9styIzDQMLcF-Xcvg_Cb-Euz8onG_NY6ALFtLWldiRkuLP3QLAGg4Cx8nMjK3InZhftJoBclXGQmJIUQLC3ac_8UyN-uL3eG7gbkOx0L0Vra6U7DHRbYh359LOZ7/s1600/DSCF1359.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvPW1eJJklOOmafle9styIzDQMLcF-Xcvg_Cb-Euz8onG_NY6ALFtLWldiRkuLP3QLAGg4Cx8nMjK3InZhftJoBclXGQmJIUQLC3ac_8UyN-uL3eG7gbkOx0L0Vra6U7DHRbYh359LOZ7/s400/DSCF1359.JPG" width="400" /></a>The most famous, perhaps, of all her works is the one chosen for the exhibit’s billboards and publicity: <i>Little Girl in a Blue Armchair</i>. It shows a young girl slouched in a blue chair, one arm behind her head, her gaze lost in little girl dreams, her dog on the chair opposite her. You wonder what she’s dreaming of. An interesting point about this canvas is that Degas lent a hand; the back wall that Cassatt had painted straight has been “corrected” by Degas, transformed into a corner with angles in order to better focus the eye on the girl. It’s the only one of her works where Degas took up the brush himself instead of just making suggestions.<br />
One good point about this little girl, for me, is that she isn’t overly rosy of complexion. It’s the one detail of Cassatt’s paintings that I dislike. I dislike it in Renoir also. Both tended to paint overly-rosy cheeks and full faces, unlike Monet or Degas or the other Impressionists.<br />
I also admired the print called <i>La Toilette</i>. It shows a woman, modestly turned away from the viewer, her blouse off, washing up in a basin of water on her commode. The curve of her back is admirable, the bare corner of her face teasingly visible in the mirror, and the blues are amazingly vibrant.<br />
The oil of mother and daughter in a boat watching the ducks <i>(Summer)</i> demonstrates a typically Impressionist rendition of water. The splashes of blue, underlined with yellows and oranges and greens, perfectly translate the movement of the water and the reflections broken up by that movement.<br />
<br />
In spite of this fascination for mothers and their children, Mary Cassatt never married and never had children of her own. Her canvases were her children. And she managed to actually live from her art, unlike others such as Van Gogh. After a long life as artist, she, like Monet, developed cataracts and decided to put down her brushes. A sad end for an artist.<br />
<br />
This collection of some 50 pieces is the first collective exhibit in France of Mary Cassatt’s works since her death in 1926. In addition to works that have stayed in France, there are canvases from all over: from her native Pittsburgh, from Philadelphia where she attended art school, and from New York, Boston, Chicago, Cincinnati, Newark and Washington, D.C., as well as Lisbon, Zurich and Bilbao. That’s the great advantage of such a retrospective show: bringing together works you would never see side by side otherwise.<br />
And the exhibit gives a good perspective of how her art evolved from the pure classic style of her early years to the whittling down to a more bare minimum of lines and colors. If you like portraits in particular, you will thoroughly enjoy this exhibit.<br />
<br />
Note: Although the explanatory boards are in French only, audio-guides are available in many languages.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg37W_S1B-5Ons0W7sj2yZs6exEq3qFsjLJaK789rSUFU5lJG6xlmyq55_0BViQ0-uSDPPR87NW9jOPDURN4vg3LHH-6eHEUu80BM7SSG9R0XJEZIKv15fSSGb6tex1ECV4aW-O4Qy-tgKa/s1600/cassatt+bather.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="187" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg37W_S1B-5Ons0W7sj2yZs6exEq3qFsjLJaK789rSUFU5lJG6xlmyq55_0BViQ0-uSDPPR87NW9jOPDURN4vg3LHH-6eHEUu80BM7SSG9R0XJEZIKv15fSSGb6tex1ECV4aW-O4Qy-tgKa/s400/cassatt+bather.jpg" width="278" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>La Toilette</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Mary Cassatt: </b><br />
<b>An American Impressionist in Paris</b><br />
<br />
Musée Jacquemart-André<br />
159 bd Haussmann; 8è<br />
Métro: St.. Philippe du Roule<br />
<br />
01.45.62.11.59<br />
https://www.musee-jacquemart-andre.com/<br />
<br />
March 9 - July 23, 2018<br />
Daily 10-6 / Mon 10-8:30<br />
<br />
13.50 & 10.50 €<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-65172618745209071432017-12-09T08:01:00.001-08:002017-12-09T08:01:05.098-08:00Out and About - Exhibits - Jeanne Lanvin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsnOuxjeYhGO3C29z84PWVVj4IfQoMSqOYhoDo46zBTHHzJ4oJzBduX0mbWhkwGvHEjnR-y76LRcaKYm6LO90Mr19PB9TXkR8uL-7T_AHv7LUbnrxhPfBIhgRAlT1mY_gD7C500bkCIJ18/s1600/DSCF5450.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsnOuxjeYhGO3C29z84PWVVj4IfQoMSqOYhoDo46zBTHHzJ4oJzBduX0mbWhkwGvHEjnR-y76LRcaKYm6LO90Mr19PB9TXkR8uL-7T_AHv7LUbnrxhPfBIhgRAlT1mY_gD7C500bkCIJ18/s200/DSCF5450.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
April 26, 2009, the Palais Galliéra, Museum of Fashion, closed for renovation. The City of Paris sunk 5€ million ($6.5 M at that time) into safety and upgrading the equipment, including an handicapped entrance.<br />
Since September 28, 2013, it’s been open again. It took me a year and a half to get across town for an exhibit. This one was worth it. Jeanne Lanvin.*<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1uK9t4kySZBbBRLd888yhrQopbY2qB-MdA0eeHg7G32nYXr2M4jia3SXcBP1syimdaqouTh4JLHT71AevRyHtCTK-CMQnTqDfJ8avc6Z4B7g5WBBC9KRNGwvuDu1VeEiLDlpXUOp_nOu/s1600/Jeanne+Lanvin+1925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1uK9t4kySZBbBRLd888yhrQopbY2qB-MdA0eeHg7G32nYXr2M4jia3SXcBP1syimdaqouTh4JLHT71AevRyHtCTK-CMQnTqDfJ8avc6Z4B7g5WBBC9KRNGwvuDu1VeEiLDlpXUOp_nOu/s320/Jeanne+Lanvin+1925.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Jeanne Lanvin, portrait 1925</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Jeanne Lanvin was born into a poor family in 1867, the first of eleven children. Which meant, at that time, that you had to contribute to the family finances. At an early age. Especially girls. By 1880, she was already an apprentice milliner, and only 13 years old. By 1885, she had her own millinery shop.<br />
And by 1908 she had expanded her fashion activities to robes, first for women, then for children and eventually the summum: wedding dresses. All are present in this exhibit of over 90 of her creations.<br />
What strikes you first in these dresses is their timeless quality. Yes, obviously some details are dated, but overall many of these dresses could be worn today and not look out of place.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhspJoj-r_k_0QpSJtPChFqtY0Ofll4WnbWkvt2AcYNqHjl43DL4MV6sKUuo46LMpd0zfe0pCqs0IkbShanL38j5eGsfrKUBJX6qzQr8EQjVPnZn-uzQATEhiZ-7WqzpNwri1EV7aGgF8LG/s1600/Lanvin%252C+La+Diva.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhspJoj-r_k_0QpSJtPChFqtY0Ofll4WnbWkvt2AcYNqHjl43DL4MV6sKUuo46LMpd0zfe0pCqs0IkbShanL38j5eGsfrKUBJX6qzQr8EQjVPnZn-uzQATEhiZ-7WqzpNwri1EV7aGgF8LG/s320/Lanvin%252C+La+Diva.jpg" width="188" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>La Diva</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Lanvin was known for several things. One was color... or the lack of... or the sublimation of. She started out with black and white, later adding gold. The two colors she highlighted were what became known as Lanvin blue and also absinthe green, a slight, greyish green like the “green fairy” of the fabled drink. She was also known for topstitching, which often replaced the use of opposing colors to create a pattern. And appliqué, lots and lots of appliqué, plus tiny little beads, all sewn on by hand, which, along with <i>plissé</i> (tiny pleats) probably ruined many a seamstress’s eyes. Boleros were also a trademark of the House of Lanvin, as was the bouffant skirt. And motifs - often geometrical, sometimes exotic in theme, with an accent on the Japanese look - were often off-set and diagonal. You could recognize a Lanvin dress in the blink of an eye.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0XsP2TYfhLSpHOCG_ZYjQi9PGOAVUFPQAYa5bO-oFIDrLw2mpZQKay_tnJM9lHjOTn7WT_prd91r7RuuV5HX0A3SpdpTj7D2LimF3lRy6uy_-PJcHgdEpv6qgxNVKowOeO4WozlZ782C/s1600/Lanvin%252C+Maharanee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0XsP2TYfhLSpHOCG_ZYjQi9PGOAVUFPQAYa5bO-oFIDrLw2mpZQKay_tnJM9lHjOTn7WT_prd91r7RuuV5HX0A3SpdpTj7D2LimF3lRy6uy_-PJcHgdEpv6qgxNVKowOeO4WozlZ782C/s400/Lanvin%252C+Maharanee.jpg" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Maharanee</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At its busiest, Maison Lanvin employed almost 1,000 <i>petites mains</i>, little hands, meaning seamstresses, usually specializing in one thing, such as beadwork or <i>plissé</i>. Lanvin put out more than 100 different models each year. And to make sure the colors were the colors she wanted, Jeanne Lanvin had her own dyeworks in Nanterre, a suburb of Paris. <i>Madame</i>, as she was called, was very “hands on”, from start to finish. And it did well for her; Maison Lanvin is the oldest fashion house still in existence.<br />
Half of the dresses and coats on exhibit here are laid out flat and reflected vertically in a mirror. Others are worn by dressmaker dummies and also reflected in mirrors so you can see both front and rear at the same time.<br />
Galliéra isn't a big museum. There are basically two large rooms and another narrow room on either side. But until the end of August, it will be filled with the discretion and elegance of Jeanne Lanvin.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
* I didn't post this entry "in the day". Other things intervened. But as Jeanne Lanvin was one of the landmarks of French fashion, I decided to post it now, even though the show is long over.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBn0tbufw4TE0Clg0osWcOyXwgS1-GVJefhUD6SgA8ND4pa9jICQukYEgH2K-O5m2LeRVzRylB9oFZQnKS0I5HHTOXLA3vucyDJ1Kgv9DMqPpKeVfEWR0hIYte3UvmHcoKrf7PxKNvA8WD/s1600/DSCF5449.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBn0tbufw4TE0Clg0osWcOyXwgS1-GVJefhUD6SgA8ND4pa9jICQukYEgH2K-O5m2LeRVzRylB9oFZQnKS0I5HHTOXLA3vucyDJ1Kgv9DMqPpKeVfEWR0hIYte3UvmHcoKrf7PxKNvA8WD/s320/DSCF5449.JPG" width="320" /></a><b>Palais Galliéra - Fashion Museum</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
10 av Pierre-1er-de-Serbie; 16è<br />
Métro: Alma-Marceau or Iéna<br />
01.56.52.86.00<br />
http://www.palaisgalliera.paris.fr/en<br />
<br />
Tues-Sun 10-6 / Thurs 10-9 / Closed Mondays<br />
<br />Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-25101943076295147862017-10-05T23:44:00.000-07:002017-10-05T23:44:01.958-07:00Out and About: Exhibits: Hansen's Secret Garden<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSfe17RUak7urxUK1ohKrBQdosIV_nseWbJWDoitUqO7MigU4qt55aHqOqiEVkAMRGzPXJyVSrK9Vr6GIpyn9E53DbxklStloHDmjPlDjWDWSAmxqkm_yPz9uFZZ-_vfUFXJ18aiG_-__/s1600/DSCF1253+-+Monet+-+Pont+de+Waterloo%252C+temps+gris+-+1903.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSfe17RUak7urxUK1ohKrBQdosIV_nseWbJWDoitUqO7MigU4qt55aHqOqiEVkAMRGzPXJyVSrK9Vr6GIpyn9E53DbxklStloHDmjPlDjWDWSAmxqkm_yPz9uFZZ-_vfUFXJ18aiG_-__/s400/DSCF1253+-+Monet+-+Pont+de+Waterloo%252C+temps+gris+-+1903.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Monet, Waterloo Bridge</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For me, arriving at the Jacquemart-André Museum on Boulevard Haussmann is like dropping by an old friend ‘s home. Not only do I know the museum well, but it’s located in what was once the opulent home of Edouard André, heir to a rich banking family. After building this mansion in 1876, he met and married a talented young artist, Nélie Jacquemart. Thus the hyphenated name. When they died, they left their mansion to the Institut de France, so that their artworks could become accessible to a broader audience.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlZ4p-ntBc6rdraX_lnqYXtXPrBNZ77dRKBGf1jBDSiKOhrqmZb3FrCdjLfwOD2aHTIu7iIzLL_vUh-iwyaLBbr4X5grC_hLYB4cWgC37aaleZ3oIMeT_3yulFAyNT1DDbz8ognyGqNa6k/s1600/DSCF1252+-+Corot+-+Moulin+%25C3%25A0+vent+-+1835.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlZ4p-ntBc6rdraX_lnqYXtXPrBNZ77dRKBGf1jBDSiKOhrqmZb3FrCdjLfwOD2aHTIu7iIzLL_vUh-iwyaLBbr4X5grC_hLYB4cWgC37aaleZ3oIMeT_3yulFAyNT1DDbz8ognyGqNa6k/s320/DSCF1252+-+Corot+-+Moulin+%25C3%25A0+vent+-+1835.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Corot, Windmill</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Inside the museum, you’ll wind through the rooms as they were left by the family, complete with the art, furniture and other trappings that the couple collected. “The extremely pragmatic Nélie Jacquemart had thought of every detail,” says the museum’s website, “even stipulating in her will the museum’s opening hours and conditions, as well as the exact position of certain artworks.”<br />
Once you’ve got a feeling for its late 19th century splendor, cross the winter garden and climb the magnificent double-helix staircase. There you’ll find the rooms where temporary exhibits are hung.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrh_x_gzpMTm9zQOu5PoGLhIG96KOXOPP4CMmpQbMq9ly2nuipfNiNA-xcYdBlMWX_UB2XU_PGbBQcKqA9Qp7y6Mcfn3kSJajRPJr_GJPPgfe8Nzn9cboO2D0Z7ghZC1YJxwd8hKYMDR_a/s1600/DSCF1254+-+Marine%252C+Le+Havre+-+1866.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrh_x_gzpMTm9zQOu5PoGLhIG96KOXOPP4CMmpQbMq9ly2nuipfNiNA-xcYdBlMWX_UB2XU_PGbBQcKqA9Qp7y6Mcfn3kSJajRPJr_GJPPgfe8Nzn9cboO2D0Z7ghZC1YJxwd8hKYMDR_a/s400/DSCF1254+-+Marine%252C+Le+Havre+-+1866.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Monet, Marine, Le Havre</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPncXrzgSWRrGkOo-QmA8hA-Np7aySFzMtxoU0fjcHTLBxCD3FCMdvnNKq7QRydg3MUiC3Z3bDz9rxUc9paeLRO2PQ7y1L4YV4lFO-n9sVX1ABbNjkktKiOQDn4Zfb8XIoQCJH-wEw6SX5/s1600/DSCF1255+-+Pissarro+-+Effet+de+neige+%25C3%25A0+Eragny%252C+soir+-+1894.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPncXrzgSWRrGkOo-QmA8hA-Np7aySFzMtxoU0fjcHTLBxCD3FCMdvnNKq7QRydg3MUiC3Z3bDz9rxUc9paeLRO2PQ7y1L4YV4lFO-n9sVX1ABbNjkktKiOQDn4Zfb8XIoQCJH-wEw6SX5/s320/DSCF1255+-+Pissarro+-+Effet+de+neige+%25C3%25A0+Eragny%252C+soir+-+1894.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pissarro, Snow over Eragny</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This one is about another rich man’s collection: that of a certain Danish insurance czar named Wilhelm Hansen. Like the Jacquemart-André family, the Hansen’s country residence, Ordrupgaard north of Copenhagen, was bequeathed to the Danish state, which turned it into a museum in 1953.<br />
In the very first room, a short video tells a bit about Wilhelm Hansen and his love of art, and especially of the Impressionists. It explains that he originally wanted to have 12 pieces by each of the artists who caught his fancy, but later gave up on that detail. Amusingly, the video calls Camille Pissarro “the greatest Danish painter”, because he was born on the Caribbean island of St. Thomas, which was then ruled by Denmark. (A second Denmark connection is the fact that Paul Gauguin’s wife, Mette Sophie Gad, was Danish.)<br />
Then it’s on to the canvases.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw001CU-Dgzoi94uP7eMr4JXmetjWdPw-BfEIQKQxt8uuC39TSrlgbSQTrCS1tSKsVzjvpU0b6p08KWHa2I3q3ogo2MnaEAFQH-MQyqb8x0hE9KdzDPfqPd2_WipwwElhpUEWxCIWgQxDd/s1600/DSCF1257+-+Daubigny+-+Pleine+mer%252C+temps+gris+-+1874.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw001CU-Dgzoi94uP7eMr4JXmetjWdPw-BfEIQKQxt8uuC39TSrlgbSQTrCS1tSKsVzjvpU0b6p08KWHa2I3q3ogo2MnaEAFQH-MQyqb8x0hE9KdzDPfqPd2_WipwwElhpUEWxCIWgQxDd/s400/DSCF1257+-+Daubigny+-+Pleine+mer%252C+temps+gris+-+1874.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Daubigny, Pleine Mer</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
First to catch my eye is a canvas by Corot: “The Windmill”, painted sometime between 1835 and 1840. (Note: these are my translations of the titles in French, which may differ from the titles as they have come down to us in English). Hansen called Corot “the last of the classics and the first of the moderns”, an opinion which most of the artists on view here would second. Although the colors are classic, Corot already focuses on the Impressionists’ prime concern: light, as can be seen in the clouds and in the shadows on the road and on the windmill itself.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKQCsm6P4R8UC0_B2BwqXqCuUheB9EyLIVagR2x7cT4rR0LToSbILx7lFPZ-cuFNHCQ0KKei6sFf9Upnygg_mt0HjBCji9mFHAEkeCVGe3Dl1cTUrnjy4GNc1z1lNv_k7WiQHnerSocTE/s1600/DSCF1259+-+L%2527inondation%252C+Bords+de+Seine%252C+Bougival+-+1873.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKQCsm6P4R8UC0_B2BwqXqCuUheB9EyLIVagR2x7cT4rR0LToSbILx7lFPZ-cuFNHCQ0KKei6sFf9Upnygg_mt0HjBCji9mFHAEkeCVGe3Dl1cTUrnjy4GNc1z1lNv_k7WiQHnerSocTE/s320/DSCF1259+-+L%2527inondation%252C+Bords+de+Seine%252C+Bougival+-+1873.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sisley, Inondation Bougival</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Which is a perfect preface to... Monet. Two of his works hang almost side by side. The first was mentioned in the video: “Waterloo Bridge: cloudy day”, one of many Monet painted from his hotel room in 1903. For having spent many days in London, I can tell you he got the color of the muddy Thames exactly right. It’s very different from the nearby “Marine, Le Havre” painted nearly forty years earlier. Almost the entire canvas is taken up by the sea, with the storm clouds overhead just slightly more grey than the water... and four ships just specks on the horizon that divides one from the other.<br />
Very different indeed from another of the canvases in this room of landscapes: Pissarro’s “Snow over Eragny, Evening”, painted during his happy later years in a house Monet bought for him and his family*. When it was painted in 1894, Eragny, a simple town he has immortalized, was far from Paris, in the countryside where Pissarro could afford to raise his six children. The treatment of the sky and snow are very different from Monet’s, but the Impressionist approach to light as a structure is very clear.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqObisz1mOT3us-5Llt5o6_2Rb2epQ_qK4cFzHS1mL-5fsuNplwZeDCKnGGD58MBJo39wVJRisMIfGkuevEtFnX3F4uS8zp7t0UH0Xebow13-AC3MsRsCdKCZR-hKOPdCDABt_X2QkAwud/s1600/DSCF1256+-+Manet+-+Corbeille+de+poires+-+1882.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqObisz1mOT3us-5Llt5o6_2Rb2epQ_qK4cFzHS1mL-5fsuNplwZeDCKnGGD58MBJo39wVJRisMIfGkuevEtFnX3F4uS8zp7t0UH0Xebow13-AC3MsRsCdKCZR-hKOPdCDABt_X2QkAwud/s320/DSCF1256+-+Manet+-+Corbeille+de+poires+-+1882.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Manet, Bowl of Pears</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In the next, smaller room are just a few smaller canvases. Of them, I prefer Manet’s “Bowl of Pears” from 1882. Painted the year before he died at the young age of 51, it is all understatement: the size, the color, the forms. The video explained that Manet was very ill the last few years of his life and was restricted in how long he could even hold a brush. What it didn’t explain was the cause: the syphilis he’d contracted years earlier in Rio. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKjwBmmY6Skj7be4bjRwwKYvsgyUWVKR-3ioCCb5_L_jGvebR6KBcCttNGCDy1OWEfyGfyUard0F3dvrK4pmTo45QW7jvY2-MrYMV3MpioUjNZ2WsGcMTW6tqULpM-cljNCikCM2uGuqE/s1600/DSCF1260+-+Pissarro+-+Coin+de+Jardin%252C+Eragny+-+1897.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKjwBmmY6Skj7be4bjRwwKYvsgyUWVKR-3ioCCb5_L_jGvebR6KBcCttNGCDy1OWEfyGfyUard0F3dvrK4pmTo45QW7jvY2-MrYMV3MpioUjNZ2WsGcMTW6tqULpM-cljNCikCM2uGuqE/s320/DSCF1260+-+Pissarro+-+Coin+de+Jardin%252C+Eragny+-+1897.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pissarro, Jardin Eragny</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The intimacy of Manet’s pears is in striking contrast with Daubigny’s “At sea, Cloudy Day” painted in 1874. A rougher sea than Monet’s and more of a contrast between sea and sky, with only one small ship in the distance, but definitely, again, a similar treatment of light and how it shapes nature... or at least our perception of it. Small touches of color that the eye and the brain patch together to rebuild reality in the mind of the viewer.<br />
Farther down the wall, a work by Degas: “Courtyard of the House” (1873), a “sketch” of a house in the hometown of his mother: New Orleans. I like the composition, but find the dog disturbingly large. I far prefer Sisley’s “Flooding along the Seine, Bougival”, also from 1873. It’s a true study in the dual principle of Impressionism: light and reflection, both treated masterfully here. The last of the paintings in this room that catches my eye is Pissarro’s “Corner of the Garden, Eragny” (1897). Not only is it a lovely study in how to capture dappled light filtering through the trees, but it looks very familiar. Which is natural, seeing as I think it was part of the Musée du Luxembourg’s exhibit dedicated to the artist’s Eragny period - Pissarro in Eragny - which ran from March to July of this year.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsIWVngXn4LK1MXxmMXb9UK-j64CCCEp-wgumAV-CiUhxLpHeivz_aO3j-XND2rAV8vi47GpfOPdIsZAPK62-FQBTKKezkBBQ49zOF4RPQatQxppUpJ1OSPf6Ocvnq7JKHSQsT5bwC9fY/s1600/DSCF1261+-+Morisot%252C+Femme+%25C3%25A0+l%2527%25C3%25A9ventail%252C+portrait+de+Mme.+Marie+Hubbard+-+1874.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsIWVngXn4LK1MXxmMXb9UK-j64CCCEp-wgumAV-CiUhxLpHeivz_aO3j-XND2rAV8vi47GpfOPdIsZAPK62-FQBTKKezkBBQ49zOF4RPQatQxppUpJ1OSPf6Ocvnq7JKHSQsT5bwC9fY/s320/DSCF1261+-+Morisot%252C+Femme+%25C3%25A0+l%2527%25C3%25A9ventail%252C+portrait+de+Mme.+Marie+Hubbard+-+1874.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Morisot, Woman with Fan</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The next room concentrates on portraits, and here I find a work by my old friend Berthe Morisot, the only woman to have made a name for herself in the Old Boys’ World that was French art of the late 19th century. Hansen obviously liked this portrait enough to buy it: “Woman with Fan, Portrait of Mme. Marie Hubbard” (1874). It’s an obvious nod to her brother-in-law Manet’s famous Olympia, but without the implied naughtiness that so scandalized the public. Here the reclining lady is fully dressed. And yet there’s something similar in the look she’s giving the artist.<br />
Hanging right next to Morisot’s Mrs. Hubbard is a similarly white-clad brunette painted by an artist unfamiliar to me: Eva Gonzalès. The elongated canvas, painted around 1877, is even more soft than Morisot’s, almost blurred, the white of the dress somewhat fading into the white of the cushions. Which was probably done on purpose, seeing as it’s titled “The Convalescent”. When I get home, I look Gonzalès up and find she evolved in an artistic world (father a novelist, mother a musician wife a painter), lived around the corner in Avenue Frochot at one point, was a student of Manet and died at only 34 shortly after giving birth.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh95FWe_DzHh_gHklXpb_M_osIcEwjUpSoZmEANIP2xVdNPRba7ODwigAPAkTu1ySQNFL8sNsb6A5ooe4gT37F6Hj3Yfrm6_0xw2lxEljMjnFgS_Zr4IvJ0zFOX7vW-LCzRDyaeKx_b0W1M/s1600/DSCF1263+-+Gauguin%252C+Les+arbres+bleus+-+1888.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh95FWe_DzHh_gHklXpb_M_osIcEwjUpSoZmEANIP2xVdNPRba7ODwigAPAkTu1ySQNFL8sNsb6A5ooe4gT37F6Hj3Yfrm6_0xw2lxEljMjnFgS_Zr4IvJ0zFOX7vW-LCzRDyaeKx_b0W1M/s320/DSCF1263+-+Gauguin%252C+Les+arbres+bleus+-+1888.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Gauguin, Blue Trees</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The final room is set aside for post-Impressionist art. Which obviously entails Gauguin. There are several works from his Tahitian years, but I’m drawn to “The Blue Trees” (1888), painted during the short Arles period when he was living and fighting with Van Gogh. The other title of this work is more foreboding for the figure half-hidden by the trees: “Your Turn Will Come, My Beauty”. As with so much in Gauguin’s world, no one has any idea what that means. The rest of the work is every bit as disturbing, aesthetically, with its red clouds, yellow sky and blue trees. Which, I’m sure, is just the effect Gauguin was going for.<br />
<br />
One thing that’s unfortunate in this otherwise exceptional exhibit is that all the information provided is in French only. But there are audioguides available in several languages, so that problem can be overcome.<br />
And when you’re done, there’s a café right by the entrance, in what fittingly used to be the mansion’s dining room? There you can enjoy a light lunch (salad, quiche, dish of the day) or a wide selection of pastries throughout the afternoon, as well as brunch on Sundays as of 11 am.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWPAbyUslxk28lN4rdkIT-Wuh1S3e2zruUX2jhxymhqZC1WMGQtzXvKg7G8hMIU0GOCJDQ0bnMFpYAQV0ey0-6nllhM1fzj0farDTrWZqddNGuJ-BtljAa5svhs9-xpYVz9tDZf9Vt_jP8/s1600/DSCF1258+-+Degas+-+Cour+d%2527une+maison+%2528N.+Orl%25C3%25A9ans%2529+-+1873.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWPAbyUslxk28lN4rdkIT-Wuh1S3e2zruUX2jhxymhqZC1WMGQtzXvKg7G8hMIU0GOCJDQ0bnMFpYAQV0ey0-6nllhM1fzj0farDTrWZqddNGuJ-BtljAa5svhs9-xpYVz9tDZf9Vt_jP8/s400/DSCF1258+-+Degas+-+Cour+d%2527une+maison+%2528N.+Orl%25C3%25A9ans%2529+-+1873.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Degas, Courtyard of House, New Orleans</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
*<i>I thought I’d posted my review of this show, but evidently not. I’ll do it in the future, if only to show you the artwork.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Le Jardin Secret des Hansen<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK3jpI5wxg9uhk2N7xeGy1SxiBYrnmfdMAgPsJZOD5hcYEIgCOH7nbG6FPee0KYRXJtrXkJzw5JNR9tUbEOZkw8lSowDIwhKa4JFArTQV_13FITeNI_dNmevOtwyMxvCvkojiY2XzSpNbi/s1600/DSCF1262+-+Eva+Gonzal%25C3%25A8s+-+La+Convalescente+-+1877.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK3jpI5wxg9uhk2N7xeGy1SxiBYrnmfdMAgPsJZOD5hcYEIgCOH7nbG6FPee0KYRXJtrXkJzw5JNR9tUbEOZkw8lSowDIwhKa4JFArTQV_13FITeNI_dNmevOtwyMxvCvkojiY2XzSpNbi/s320/DSCF1262+-+Eva+Gonzal%25C3%25A8s+-+La+Convalescente+-+1877.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Gonzalès - The Convalescent</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</b><br />
<br />
Musée Jacquemart-André<br />
158 boulevard Haussmann; 8è<br />
Métro: St. Philippe du Roule<br />
<br />
01.45.62.11.59<br />
<br />
Until January 22, 2018<br />
Daily 10-6, Mondays 10-8:30<br />
<br />
13?50 € & 10.50 € (free under 7 years of age)<br />
<br />
www.musee-jacquemart-andre.com<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-62338338004497946782017-09-19T01:53:00.000-07:002017-09-19T01:53:00.672-07:00Out & About - Exhibits - National Geographic: The Legend<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_LBo12rnHpxNbm-xyTJzRyxWetYfhxQPYX5rk3ETzCY5OVKdN7l1RXNpXC2O4ZCOWRP3himW49iTlJZRcP2gSUW7LM8wH8UM9QDahMNU8Ycscdnn1kpZAVEx1BmlKbeRDoTE4hscCbvaI/s1600/Nat+Geo+Massoud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_LBo12rnHpxNbm-xyTJzRyxWetYfhxQPYX5rk3ETzCY5OVKdN7l1RXNpXC2O4ZCOWRP3himW49iTlJZRcP2gSUW7LM8wH8UM9QDahMNU8Ycscdnn1kpZAVEx1BmlKbeRDoTE4hscCbvaI/s400/Nat+Geo+Massoud.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been reading National Geographic. And even before that, even before I understood what I was reading, I would look at the photos.<br />
Photos of far away places with strange-sounding names (to steal some lyrics from an old song). That may be what led to my trademark wanderlust. (It probably also led to my photo-taking and travel-blog-writing.)<br />
With no siblings, I had to find ways to amuse myself that didn’t require other children. Reading was the key one. That somehow led me to National Geographic, although I don’t remember my parents having a subscription.<br />
I <i>do</i> remember, later, we adolescents using it for sex education, a class which didn’t yet exist at school in the Fifties. We would go to the library and seek out National Geographic issues about Africa, where you were always sure to see bare breasts. (To the concern of all us girls, they were always sagging to the waist; great for bra sales.) And I won’t go into the New Guinea articles with the penis gourds!<br />
<br />
All this to say that Paris hosted a National Geographic Photography exhibition at the city’s National History Museum. I arrived here near the end of it, so I made time - between rainstorms - to go over there.<br />
It was full of the iconic photos by George Shiras and Tim Laman and Joel Sartore and Steve McCurry, among other famous photographers who used their talents at the Society’s request..<br />
An introductory “mobile” displayed National Geographic magazine covers down through the years, all strung up in dozens of vertical necklaces. They went back to almost the beginning of the Society in 1888. Even from afar, you could guess how old they were by the style of the magazine’s famous yellow outline, and by the visual technology of the photo on the front cover.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifTSCM6BvPSekt5s7ks-r51QLxxiIGdcVfD7WpfVU0VUsaHUmtpJKdi9JwgWSYTzX2apnXh7CrkEi_snh4dqWHp4XkJ3sOrraZiB5xmqwdWujWsqO0X3xOqWBwFyu5TYeUnmke-r5n7FED/s1600/Nat+Geo+lynx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifTSCM6BvPSekt5s7ks-r51QLxxiIGdcVfD7WpfVU0VUsaHUmtpJKdi9JwgWSYTzX2apnXh7CrkEi_snh4dqWHp4XkJ3sOrraZiB5xmqwdWujWsqO0X3xOqWBwFyu5TYeUnmke-r5n7FED/s400/Nat+Geo+lynx.jpg" width="299" /></a>The exhibit was set up in sections, to reflect the Society’s areas of interest. The first section was for wildlife, and I stood a long time in front of a night photo by Shiras of a lynx in Ontario, seated by a pond, staring at the camera out of the darkness. Such beauty! There was also a photo by Tim Laman of snow-flecked, long-haired apes with red faces sitting in that hot spring in Japan’s Jigokudani Yaen-Koen Park, which is on my Bucket List of things to see before I die. They look like old men trying to stay warm. So very human!<br />
A small monitor played a video of different animals, each a blow-up from Joel Sartore’s Photoark, a mural displayed in its entirety on the opposite wall. Another monitor ran a video of primatologist Jane Goodall speaking in China about her work with chimpanzees, complete with some imitations of ape calls; I presume it was sponsored by NGS.<br />
The exhibit included not only animals, but also famous people, another of the Society’s fields of interests. In the section reserved for underwater exploration, right behind a model of his diving saucer, there was (logically) a photo of a very young Jacques-Yves Cousteau from 1960. Prominently displayed was a photo of polar explorer Robert Peary, his grim, bearded face haloed by a warm fur parka. Photographer unknown, but taken on an expedition funded by National Geographic to reach the North Pole. (Science would later claim Peary stopped 30-60 miles short.)<br />
<br />
In the following section were photos which could be dubbed world affairs. One that hit me upon entering was Steve McCurry’s 1985 cover photo of that green-eyed Afghan girl, where the eyes jump out at you and hold your gaze. She embodies every woman who has ever had to live through war, with all its hardships, including the ever-present risk of rape for any woman in times of conflict. Near her was a striking photo (I believe also McCurry’s) taken in 1985 of Ahmad Shah Massoud, the Lion of Panjshir. Fighting the Russians during that first modern Afghan War, and consequently seen then by America as having a common enemy with us, Massoud would end up one of the earliest victims of Al Qaeda, massacred by two of its agents posing as Belgian journalists, arguably because he’d gotten wind of the preparations for 9/11.<br />
At the very end of the hallway, and of the exhibition, was a viewing room where you could sit and watch three National Geographic films. The first was on the Titanic, and whether it broke in two or not as it went down. The second was from the Society’s wildlife channel, on all sorts of animals but especially a jaguar up a tree, heckled by attacking hyenas below. The last video took on the issue of tar sands. All were excellent and you could stay and watch the three of them in a loop as long as you wanted.<br />
<br />
As I walked back down the hallway to the museum’s entrance, I reflected on the fact that I had seen so many of the destinations on my Bucket List for the first time in the pages of this magazine! Angkor Wat, the Great Wall of China, Cuba, Easter Island, Machu Picchu, those old-man monkeys...<br />
But for the time being, it’s back across Paris to my home on the hill. Outside the Museum, on the opposite side of the street, stands the beautiful Paris Mosque, where I get on the same bus my children used to take home from their school nearby. Between that and all those National Geographic photos from the past century, I feel like a Time Traveler.<br />
<br />
<br />
P.S. Before I left, I took a peek down the other exhibit hall of the building and found it filled with sparkling geodes, huge crystals and multi-colored minerals - pyrite, amethyst, chalcedony, malachite - from around the world. Some of them date all the way back to Abbé Haüy, the mineralogist who, with Cuvier, amassed all these wonders for which Paris eventually built this natural science complex. I’ll come back another day to look at them and marvel.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7nFd14YMef7k6bVHkpLefD_i4O5OPcp3PBIOVfSUlGLEsBfVfI8Y29qrdIGcf_JqPbIQHRsbpsYYeavaoFyORyYDmbEanoqS3sFeaQIVPzRO5Vznfs0qSV-97b5mnyQ6vwIPQR705f4mF/s1600/Nat+Geo+Afghan+green+eyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7nFd14YMef7k6bVHkpLefD_i4O5OPcp3PBIOVfSUlGLEsBfVfI8Y29qrdIGcf_JqPbIQHRsbpsYYeavaoFyORyYDmbEanoqS3sFeaQIVPzRO5Vznfs0qSV-97b5mnyQ6vwIPQR705f4mF/s1600/Nat+Geo+Afghan+green+eyes.jpg" /></a><br />
<b>National Geographic: The Legend</b><br />
<br />
Galérie de Minéralogie et de Géologie<br />
Muséum National d’Histoire Naturelle<br />
36 rue Geoffroy St. Hilaire, 5è<br />
Métro: Jussieu<br />
<br />
01.40.79.56.01<br />
<br />
Until September 18, 2017<br />
10-6 / Closed Tuesdays<br />
<br />
12 € & 8 € (free under 18 years of age)<br />
<br />
www.mnhn.fr/fr/visitez/agenda/exposition/legende-national-geographic<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-85224149638718214902017-08-17T13:41:00.000-07:002017-08-17T13:41:42.640-07:00A Day Out: Giverny<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6gNBcgmjheTwRlwuon65dUaPlL5m9sNdqV8-n_8UQVxUPXIvy4amQEiR_dSi6kslCF4IZAx30Szuywwe-Wy2nP6nqwWHIUCtWYjvzSftNS6q5OIRNkQi04tqnkFGw4qzGV5gPBCg7rMHl/s1600/DSCF0199+-+Giverny+house.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6gNBcgmjheTwRlwuon65dUaPlL5m9sNdqV8-n_8UQVxUPXIvy4amQEiR_dSi6kslCF4IZAx30Szuywwe-Wy2nP6nqwWHIUCtWYjvzSftNS6q5OIRNkQi04tqnkFGw4qzGV5gPBCg7rMHl/s400/DSCF0199+-+Giverny+house.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Paris offers no shortage of things to do. But sometimes you just want to get out of the city for a day. Commune with Nature.<br />
France’s rail system makes that easy. And relatively cheap.<br />
So let’s consider a day trip. To Giverny. To commune with Nature as Claude Monet perceived it.<br />
<br />
<u>First: Getting there</u><br />
Giverny is a small town in Normandy, near the Seine River downstream from Paris. Monet chose it because it was out of the way. So no train station here. But the much bigger town of Vernon is just 6.2 kilometers (4 miles) down the road. And it does have a train station.<br />
Trains run from Gare St. Lazare in Paris directly to Vernon every two hours daily, and sometimes more frequently. The trip takes 45 minutes. For instance, there’s a train at 8:19 in the morning that gets you into Vernon at 9:05 and another at 10:19 that gets you there at 11:05. As Monet’s house opens at 9:30, that first train leaves you time to take the shuttle bus (parked just outside the train station) to Giverny - a 20-minute ride - and <i>still</i> get there in time for opening.<br />
- Round-trip Paris-Vernon-Paris: about 20€<br />
- Round-trip Giverny shuttle: 10 €<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh552ohzxahMlHVQCNOTO9xUDZhosRWQwZ6x7Eb7KqcMv5FlIMQsvRotVPKmIBhyHJCOJbihdiDFWl04vH_J50MiBuQxrO5Tj-6TI-GkLkDSCTEZ-3IfWvsqNixAsQRACXwOBHTauyOk1gP/s1600/DSCF0201+-+Giverny+house+%2526+allium.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh552ohzxahMlHVQCNOTO9xUDZhosRWQwZ6x7Eb7KqcMv5FlIMQsvRotVPKmIBhyHJCOJbihdiDFWl04vH_J50MiBuQxrO5Tj-6TI-GkLkDSCTEZ-3IfWvsqNixAsQRACXwOBHTauyOk1gP/s400/DSCF0201+-+Giverny+house+%2526+allium.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<u>Monet’s House and Gardens</u><br />
A word to the wise: there <i>will</i> be a crowd. And a line. <i>But</i> you can book tickets early on-line and print them out, in which case there’s a side entrance (also marked “for groups”) where there will be no line. Lucky you.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dLqHxhUsAvHQgf0l0G_nqRu433fVO-zok-zNRB-TgGI2r28_nOk1fqx2FGZ8l12lbxzhezSE5kZm9-7FfT1cELuYF1VcDRzthYPpddhxaaxsRSwQnw-bQvZZefnHhq3zUHT2p-TKR_YZ/s1600/DSCF0197+Giverny+-+Monet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1076" data-original-width="1600" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dLqHxhUsAvHQgf0l0G_nqRu433fVO-zok-zNRB-TgGI2r28_nOk1fqx2FGZ8l12lbxzhezSE5kZm9-7FfT1cELuYF1VcDRzthYPpddhxaaxsRSwQnw-bQvZZefnHhq3zUHT2p-TKR_YZ/s320/DSCF0197+Giverny+-+Monet.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
As the house is small, I suggest starting there. Before the tourist buses arrive if possible - which is where the 8:19 train out of Paris comes in handy. Monet’s actual studio is always the highlight for me, because I can imagine him painting there on rainy days. The last time I went, there was a huge photo of him in one corner, and there are always reproductions of many of his works (hanging to dry?) on the walls.. Then there’s his collection of Japanese prints, which he said inspired him. (The Japanese come as much to see them as they do the gardens, I think.) And after all the restful blues in the other rooms of the house, the sunny yellow dining room seems even brighter. Last of all, the burnished copper pots and pans hanging on the wall of the kitchen, and the blue-and-white tiles.<br />
<div>
Next come the gardens. I’ve been to Giverny multiple times, in different seasons (April through October) and I’ve never seen the same garden twice. Monet planned it all out very well, season by season, and a large cast of gardeners have maintained and improved on it ever since his death. At this time of year (June), it’s lush with delphiniums, rhododendron, poppies of many colors... all of it accented by allium standing tall. Not to mention all the rosebushes.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRwyRl70BZohjbwuhEcIDE0tbXNayt78d1bMATRN4XnAqNhqsgHWDZ2kkGygTXaMaevdMYuSvAOmFZ37H6UY3RDB-v5-08cFHfH7gqgw3sPu7QyPsj3-M6CiM4UtqS6cEV7wIszZgBAVL5/s1600/09_Schopbach_Monet%2527s_Lilies.jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRwyRl70BZohjbwuhEcIDE0tbXNayt78d1bMATRN4XnAqNhqsgHWDZ2kkGygTXaMaevdMYuSvAOmFZ37H6UY3RDB-v5-08cFHfH7gqgw3sPu7QyPsj3-M6CiM4UtqS6cEV7wIszZgBAVL5/s400/09_Schopbach_Monet%2527s_Lilies.jpg.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
Then it’s through the underpass - paid for decades ago by the Annenberg family - and just like going through the looking glass, you’re in another world, a much less planified garden... at least on the surface. Monet called it his <i>“jardin d’eau”</i>, his water garden. There’s a bamboo forest that grows thicker every year. And much other greenery. All framing the lily pond that Monet created from a brook called the Ru. (His neighbors were afraid that his strange plants would poison the water, so he needed the backing of City Hall to dig out the pond. But by 1893, who would refuse anything to the great Monsieur Monet?) You’ll see Monet’s rowboat floating near the Japanese bridge and, if you’re lucky, if it’s late enough in the season, and in the day, and if the sun is out, you just might see the water lilies open. It took me years for conditions to be ideal. That’s when I took this photo.<br />
After sitting a bit and taking it all in, retrace your steps. At the far end of the flower garden, past the turkeys and chickens, the exit is obviously via a gift shop, and this one is a pip (as the British used to say). If you don’t find something for Aunt Martha back home there, then you’re hopeless.<br />
<br />
<u>Eglise Sainte-Radégonde</u><br />
As long as we’re visiting vestiges of Monet, you can stop by the cemetery alongside the village’s small church at the far west end of the same street as the museum (Rue Claude Monet, what else?) to see his grave. Nearby is a monument to the seven unfortunate British airmen who crashed here two days after D-Day in 1944. As for the Romanesque church, built between the 11th and 16th centuries, it’s topped by a typically Norman steeple and inside are some old pieces of art dating back to the 14th century.<br />
<br />
<u>Other Museum</u><br />
In between Monet’s house and the village church is another Impressionism museum. As one of the founders and leaders of the Impressionist movement, Claude Monet attracted other artists, some of them from as far away as the United States. (Far away because back then it took over a week to travel by boat to France from North America, not to mention crossing the nation to reach the docks of New York City.) John Leslie Breck, Theodore Butler, Lilla Cabot Perry, Robert Vonnoh, Theodore Wendel, Willard Metcalf, Louis Ritter, Theodore Robinson, Frederick Frieseke, Guy Rose, Dawson Dawson-Watson, Louis Paul Dessar, Thomas Buford Meteyard, William Howard Hart, Frederick MacMonnies, Karl Anderson, Richard Emil Miller... they all found their way to this sleepy village.<br />
In 1992, philanthropist businessman Daniel Terra opened the doors of his creation: the Museum of American Art in Giverny. Its purpose: “to explore the historic and aesthetic connections between French and American artists.” The modern building he commissioned is unobtrusive from the outside, all light and huge hanging walls inside. It's perfect. But Mr. Terra died in 1996 and the museum, as such, outlived him by only ten years. Although there is still a Terra Foundation, the museum was handed over to the regional authorities and has become the Musée des Impressionismes. It now operates in conjunction with the Musée d’Orsay and the Musée Marmottan Monet in Paris, as well as with the Fondation Claude Monet. After recent exhibits on artists such as Caillbotte and the Paris years of Sorolla, the present exhibit focuses on musical instruments as represented in Impressionist art.<br />
<br />
<u>Auberge Baudy</u><br />
But back to those American artists who wandered all the way to Giverny only to find there were no hotel accommodations. The first one, Willard Metcalf, knocked on the village grocer’s door as the sun was starting to set. Madame Baudy opened the door, stared at the bearded giant spouting some gibberish in abominable French about a bed - she only had her own - then slammed and locked the door. Months later he came back, with artist friends, and she realized what they wanted... and that there was money to be made. She gave up her bed and slept at the neighbor’s, coming back the next day to cook for them. The rest is history. Monsieur Baudy stopped selling his sewing machines on the road and built a bigger house, which he turned into a hotel. And a restaurant.<br />
Today you can’t sleep at the Auberge, but you can eat there. Inside or on the terrace under the trees. The setting is bucolic, the service snappy and friendly, the food fresh, good, copious and not too expensive, especially for people used to Paris prices (either à la carte, or 30€ for a three-course meal)..<br />
<br />
Eaten at a leisurely pace, hopefully in good company, that just leaves time to walk back downhill to the shuttle. As the buses are well-coordinated with French Rail, there’s one that leaves at 16:10 and gets you to the train station by 16:30. Plenty of time to even have a glass of something refreshing at the café across the street and still make the 16:53 train back, arriving in Paris at 17:40... just in time for rush hour.<br />
Welcome back to the modern world!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjnaolVrlPGmZU4ZdM-lvN3bX3L9_LvCboH5Woxeo8I8Opfier3LBPnvgsUhSnePB1n8mMY1uBt-azy7rHzXEEfPWCWWKOaEr7y8Nd4UsJoGkk4KeSJ4w0L5NLFo3U-Ffe-Wu7giVMw3rc/s1600/DSCF0202+-+Giverny+2+water+lilies.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjnaolVrlPGmZU4ZdM-lvN3bX3L9_LvCboH5Woxeo8I8Opfier3LBPnvgsUhSnePB1n8mMY1uBt-azy7rHzXEEfPWCWWKOaEr7y8Nd4UsJoGkk4KeSJ4w0L5NLFo3U-Ffe-Wu7giVMw3rc/s320/DSCF0202+-+Giverny+2+water+lilies.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
To see what grows when in Monet’s garden: http://giverny.org/gardens/fcm/calendar.htm<br />
<br />
For a general view and practical information: on http://giverny.org/gardens/fcm/visitgb.htm<br />
<br />
Auberge Baudy’s menu can be found (in French) at: http://www.restaurantbaudy.com/menu-carte<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-3049306899408100822017-07-12T13:32:00.000-07:002017-07-12T13:32:00.768-07:00Out & About: Exhibits: Balenciaga: Working in Black<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUi6Q7xgC6Skc-ssEykNc-1ThrJvyCa66Pou8saHB3mP1ltDf9qHgBYtyoF-90IAOg9hkLvkCxGm9XNSHPt7G1nRZT4bB6e12jo-cLivPz9hxLbd82EaB9gLY8vnB6tOMJkr4jmljWWhq/s1600/DSCF0396.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1052" data-original-width="1600" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUi6Q7xgC6Skc-ssEykNc-1ThrJvyCa66Pou8saHB3mP1ltDf9qHgBYtyoF-90IAOg9hkLvkCxGm9XNSHPt7G1nRZT4bB6e12jo-cLivPz9hxLbd82EaB9gLY8vnB6tOMJkr4jmljWWhq/s400/DSCF0396.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
In addition to food and art, another thing Paris is famous for is fashion. <br />
One of the leading fashion designers of my youth was Balenciaga, whose dresses were delicious works of art, alongside those of Schiaparelli. So the exhibit at the Bourdelle Museum was a must for me.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV9kCEuZanMKU6wzisA1lxfKF5P5-STmoVGtKnL0RlcMq6OUkUvxv2na9kNGmgXNN7146YFug8CHxt1iXWyibQXZ9jwwdW1hXfSuBrKwLgzOtexgIkb-1X8Ga3oH0gF_HKDsorU56svA0z/s1600/DSCF0392+-+Sketch+long+1963.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1232" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV9kCEuZanMKU6wzisA1lxfKF5P5-STmoVGtKnL0RlcMq6OUkUvxv2na9kNGmgXNN7146YFug8CHxt1iXWyibQXZ9jwwdW1hXfSuBrKwLgzOtexgIkb-1X8Ga3oH0gF_HKDsorU56svA0z/s200/DSCF0392+-+Sketch+long+1963.JPG" width="152" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRcvO3zTufVgzLHNqQ9rp2BVincko1vcXRkidEgeNJv9Pzoy00b05hj5wQ-yNbdfwgiyfxwxzhAOf-ASfuOrswhh0miFV8EXEWQokaFTgMAdwAnNcFbxo_xm15-62Diwal1HpcIUuM_fMK/s1600/DSCF0398+-+Gown+1963+%2528in+sketch%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRcvO3zTufVgzLHNqQ9rp2BVincko1vcXRkidEgeNJv9Pzoy00b05hj5wQ-yNbdfwgiyfxwxzhAOf-ASfuOrswhh0miFV8EXEWQokaFTgMAdwAnNcFbxo_xm15-62Diwal1HpcIUuM_fMK/s320/DSCF0398+-+Gown+1963+%2528in+sketch%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
When I get to the Bourdelle Museum, I find out just how much I did <i>not</i> know about Balenciaga. For instance, I thought he was French, but no. Cristobal Balenciaga (1895-1972) was Basque, from the Spanish side of the border. Learning from his seamstress mother as of childhood, he went on to apprentice as a tailor before opening his own fashion house. Given his tailor’s training, he was able to design, cut and sew his creations himself, one of the few couturiers who could take a dress from the drawing board to the runway all by himself. His clientele grew to include Spain’s royal family, but when the Spanish Civil War broke out, Balenciaga closed his fashion house and moved to Paris, where he became pretty much an overnight success.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV4pTKCsIfNnyAAWu61UwA-3M8APFLbTW7LCUOXJZrZKThGoG3De7yZr_x_qag39lURfSJqEJq5mrCpVHQmiPNq0QBmVTB7w_xHcJ6uBb0JZfxgrzkkkErU36c3PfA-GBbeoLLBaIK2lGn/s1600/DSCF0415+-+Drap%25C3%25A9+1961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV4pTKCsIfNnyAAWu61UwA-3M8APFLbTW7LCUOXJZrZKThGoG3De7yZr_x_qag39lURfSJqEJq5mrCpVHQmiPNq0QBmVTB7w_xHcJ6uBb0JZfxgrzkkkErU36c3PfA-GBbeoLLBaIK2lGn/s320/DSCF0415+-+Drap%25C3%25A9+1961.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
Christian Dior called him “the master of us all”, which is high praise from someone most people saw as being the master himself. To Coco Chanel, he was "the only couturier in the truest sense of the word. The others are simply fashion designers." And to everyone, Balenciaga was known for his uncompromising standards.<br />
His creations were always sculptures. At the start of the 1950's, he drew women’s shoulders wider and did away with the waist. Then in the mid-Fifties he moved on to the tunic dress, followed closely by the chemise dress. His looks were many, as the exhibit points out: “the barrel line (1947), the balloon (1950), the semi-fitted (1951), the tunic dress (1955), and, of course, the sack dress (1957)”. By the end of the Fifties, he had switched his look to Empire waistline dresses and kimono-style coats.<br />
Balenciaga not only created his own style; he mentored a whole generation of rising designers, the most famous of which were Givenchy, Courreges, Ungaro and Oscar de la Renta. In addition to his European clientele, his creations attracted attention across the Atlantic. Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly, Ava Gardner and First Lady Jackie Kennedy, among others, were all faithful to Balenciaga.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-7TMqFZUIRE9k4tgfWJHrfRXBuszLQQ0apaxl1u1-QSyCwBkxtiI7kUAl2d2kqEuFaSvx0PAIxmNXJgfW0w0iPYJpq48UE5RUQbUqIbRRuHpHM_5GWTVQ2pRFeKTPc0AJipTbA7xnZfrQ/s1600/DSCF0404+-+Dresses+%2526+sculpture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1179" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-7TMqFZUIRE9k4tgfWJHrfRXBuszLQQ0apaxl1u1-QSyCwBkxtiI7kUAl2d2kqEuFaSvx0PAIxmNXJgfW0w0iPYJpq48UE5RUQbUqIbRRuHpHM_5GWTVQ2pRFeKTPc0AJipTbA7xnZfrQ/s320/DSCF0404+-+Dresses+%2526+sculpture.JPG" width="235" /></a></div>
<br />
This exhibit focuses on his version of Chanel’s proverbial “little black dress”, in all its various forms. He played on the opposition of matte black, as in wools and velvets, and the “brilliant black” of satin, silk or taffeta. As one exhibit panel explains, “He used black textures to accentuate the play of shadows and to emphasise the line.” To that he added accents with embroidery - perhaps borrowed from the “suit of light” of the matadors - or with sequins, paillettes and jet beads.<br />
Another of the couturier’s tricks was how he used the fabric, how he shaped and cut it. “In order to get the best out of a fabric, Balenciaga would adapt his technique to its qualities. According to its weight, its thickness, its hang and its feel, he would cut it or mould it or drape it differently.” <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrZ_RBfzs3SQBrxOx0IuInfZvT7Xb4a_xkAMPPSq0xdzd0y1qI7VVpu0QmZoxgUpyEfdeAmwPOa-PnI9q713b0MDdlIqzWC-Qz8AG4oe-1b84DRiGmQW29tM7pPkjQTCgr42dqytYTJeVr/s1600/DSCF0411+-+Dresses+1967+%2526+1965+with+pink.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrZ_RBfzs3SQBrxOx0IuInfZvT7Xb4a_xkAMPPSq0xdzd0y1qI7VVpu0QmZoxgUpyEfdeAmwPOa-PnI9q713b0MDdlIqzWC-Qz8AG4oe-1b84DRiGmQW29tM7pPkjQTCgr42dqytYTJeVr/s320/DSCF0411+-+Dresses+1967+%2526+1965+with+pink.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
Even when he used other colors, black was part of the formula. At one point Balenciaga designed dresses of bright pink cloth visible only as an accent through the black lace overlay. The lace was reminiscent of Spanish mantillas. As for the pink, sometimes it was gentle, almost flesh-toned, sometimes the bright color of a toreador’s cape.<br />
It must be remembered that there is black galore in Balenciaga’s native Spain. Perhaps it was seeing all the widows, sometimes condemned to wear only black as of an early age, that led him to experiment with that “color”.<br />
As the exhibit explains, “...for Balenciaga, black was more than a colour or even a non-colour; he saw it as a vibrant matter, by turns opaque or transparent, matte or shiny – a dazzling interplay of light, which owes as much to the luxurious quality of the fabrics as to the apparent simplicity of his cut. A lace highlight, an embroidered composition, some twisted metallic tape, a thick drape of silk velvet and, presto, you have a skirt, a bolero, a mantilla, a cape reinvented as a coat, a coat tailored as a cape.”<br />
The exhibit is broken down into three sections: “Silhouette & Volumes”, followed by “Noirs & Lumières” (Black & Light), and then “Noirs et Couleurs” (‘Blacks & Colours’). In total there are over one hundred pieces from the Galliera Museum and Maison Balenciaga: day clothes, suits, jackets, evening outfits, cocktail dresses and accessories. All in black.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRke3j3yyJaEb8gQJSgRJYRVQBh4b8T5arpQgzZLqxwcHJrVZDS6VaVljyASasAHSdsA1sND5MMDdKaBGZLfBuhg86hVbVpvpzia7ew8GtBrugPRsdFYnMppzJtgQP1bwDeXA9giq1B-Fp/s1600/DSCF0405+-+Gown+1950+taffeta+%2526+lace.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRke3j3yyJaEb8gQJSgRJYRVQBh4b8T5arpQgzZLqxwcHJrVZDS6VaVljyASasAHSdsA1sND5MMDdKaBGZLfBuhg86hVbVpvpzia7ew8GtBrugPRsdFYnMppzJtgQP1bwDeXA9giq1B-Fp/s320/DSCF0405+-+Gown+1950+taffeta+%2526+lace.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
Initially, I found it a bit perplexing why these dresses were being shown at the Bourdelle Museum. I mean, yes, Balenciaga was called the sculptor of haute couture so I guess that was the link with the sculpture of Bourdelle. But once I got there and saw the dresses next to Bourdelle’s plaster casts in the museum’s Great Hall, and even a few in his atelier, it turned out to be a brilliant idea.<br />
My only regret: the dim lighting. Especially for the black dresses set against a black background. Obviously it’s necessary to protect these works of fashion art, and harsh lighting is not kind. But black doesn’t show up well in the shadows. Perhaps they could pump up the luminosity just a bit.<br />
With that one caveat, if you enjoy fashion, this is a show for you.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0PhjVBfzGPd5eDC3dOaM7LC5SKOs2tcfDsAo378tjtHnUjC9uYGYfeXg7XWbjKF8URgVlAH9Z-6AZFLwq5IPTYJgLyLHHD8Uz77abQvMvNzE162mioeTqjT2-cw5Hrc0NRVWIfSRadI_F/s1600/DSCF0389+-+photo+Balenciaga.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1184" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0PhjVBfzGPd5eDC3dOaM7LC5SKOs2tcfDsAo378tjtHnUjC9uYGYfeXg7XWbjKF8URgVlAH9Z-6AZFLwq5IPTYJgLyLHHD8Uz77abQvMvNzE162mioeTqjT2-cw5Hrc0NRVWIfSRadI_F/s320/DSCF0389+-+photo+Balenciaga.JPG" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cristobal Balenciaga</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Balenciaga: L’Ouevre au noir</b><br />
<br />
Musée Bourdelle<br />
18 rue Antoine-Bourdelle, 15è<br />
Métro: Montparnasse<br />
<br />
01.49.54.73.73<br />
<br />
Until July 16, 2017<br />
10-6 / Closed Mondays<br />
<br />
10 € & 7 € (free under 18 years of age)<br />
<br />
http://www.bourdelle.paris.fr/en/exhibition/balenciaga-loeuvre-au-noir<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-19916271740963916332017-07-01T08:12:00.001-07:002017-07-01T08:12:19.857-07:00On the Road: Honfleur<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBc005MtUXTuyv9dYtQA7xxCciGrfkbuoQficQNcn_XmNWx5uN5619e0TR_47k9rS9rV0k26OYySoMQOwfnLET2crGm1vebofd1JwVbwdQfAaZqLWQJrMtmpPpnJhwxNUt_QO8-YadyfiD/s1600/DSCF3552.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBc005MtUXTuyv9dYtQA7xxCciGrfkbuoQficQNcn_XmNWx5uN5619e0TR_47k9rS9rV0k26OYySoMQOwfnLET2crGm1vebofd1JwVbwdQfAaZqLWQJrMtmpPpnJhwxNUt_QO8-YadyfiD/s400/DSCF3552.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It’s only a short trip from Paris to Honfleur - under 200 kilometers (125 miles), but one well worth making, either by car or by train.<br />
For art historians, it offers a look at what so many Impressionists came here to paint. First of all, hometown boy Eugène Boudin, actually a pre-Impressionist who influenced Claude Monet greatly in the perception of light, especially on water. Charles-François Daubigny, also a precursor of Impressionism, captured the port of Honfleur on many canvases, basing himself at the Saint-Siméon farm which became a home-away-from-home for a whole new generation of artists, including Jongkind and Bazille. Monet and Seurat fell under the charm of the port as well.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4M0W5LnO08NbS5s4zxvT2CyiU77vQg1tCU3JpEQNIDW_LwwaaKgEWDqOER3HqvEo1zmfKaNhzBGwJQ9LMqC5KH8kb6u8zteD10kH8hOhgMJKU40PmhdvXwJNxstFCbUr_jLRdSdrXmvu/s1600/DSCF0041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1165" data-original-width="1600" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4M0W5LnO08NbS5s4zxvT2CyiU77vQg1tCU3JpEQNIDW_LwwaaKgEWDqOER3HqvEo1zmfKaNhzBGwJQ9LMqC5KH8kb6u8zteD10kH8hOhgMJKU40PmhdvXwJNxstFCbUr_jLRdSdrXmvu/s200/DSCF0041.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
It’s easy to see why. Filled with fishing boats back then, the small inner port is now booked year-round by sailboats that sometimes reach yacht size. When I was there last, the drawbridge to the inner harbor twice blocked car and pedestrian traffic, with waiting boats circling patiently outside the harbor as the bridge was slowly raised. Some were locals; some flew British flags and had booked ahead of time.<br />
(I see someone in the back of the room waving his hand. “Why the drawbridge?” Because there are tides in Honfleur. It’s at the mouth of the Seine River, but actually on the English Channel, so... tides. There’s a lock on the drawbridge; otherwise the inner port would go dry, or at least the water level would be too low at certain times of the day. Oh, and also because of the boat’s masts.)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP2tV3rdiU1nkQS9pImVcPJoC_yv7NbrIMmrMmpbRhLKt-wLMUJdclvGnLB1NSugdeoBvyQrfRzWHeJBiYwqDJdqiR2u8Kn8YlNHQWSRdZOcuvlGXteoishmUIyPIZ3uaJ6vmRezaKGBk1/s1600/DH000439.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP2tV3rdiU1nkQS9pImVcPJoC_yv7NbrIMmrMmpbRhLKt-wLMUJdclvGnLB1NSugdeoBvyQrfRzWHeJBiYwqDJdqiR2u8Kn8YlNHQWSRdZOcuvlGXteoishmUIyPIZ3uaJ6vmRezaKGBk1/s400/DH000439.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fishing port</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At the north end of the inner port, there’s a tower near the drawbridge. The memorial plaque on it reminds you that Jacques Cartier sailed out of Honfleur in 1535 and up the Saint Lawrence River in Canada, claiming the New World - at least this part of it - for the king of France. In 1608 he again sailed, this time founding the city of Québec. All of which makes Honfleur a small port, but a historic one.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj53jdyF8kNgMDCHBlOczu281HuKYgsmmXmI8zFsRfAq1Tt8keGNitaE_tMPB5gP9URi_UD-P4EZebJ-bqhcOdT2RpGI6bJEjK1UzSm_ucOslP5uHIJTbDKNX40fX3shLR4qgUchSBemZB_/s1600/DSCF3559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj53jdyF8kNgMDCHBlOczu281HuKYgsmmXmI8zFsRfAq1Tt8keGNitaE_tMPB5gP9URi_UD-P4EZebJ-bqhcOdT2RpGI6bJEjK1UzSm_ucOslP5uHIJTbDKNX40fX3shLR4qgUchSBemZB_/s200/DSCF3559.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Musée de la Marine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
On the east side of the harbor is the Musée de la Marine, housed in the old Saint-Etienne Church whose religious activities ended once and for all under the French Revolution. It became a customs house, then, since 1976, a museum with a collection of maps, engravings, paintings and model ships that trace the town’s maritime history of fishing, naval construction, commerce and ship-related crafts. (Closed Mondays, at lunchtime during tourist season and all morning outside tourist season).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlj4GnUtVH44KSFYT-KdMiAlmo81Tz4oGlJmgzApu2VX8FYMQ8vluTXNHNdm3GAVtVYH3W17_ryH5rBzlccpDdfE7UMch5cd7BFVstzbZ8esfCllIw5tmKTIB6EXDy5pvWBUdiOmU0Jsd/s1600/DSCF3468.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlj4GnUtVH44KSFYT-KdMiAlmo81Tz4oGlJmgzApu2VX8FYMQ8vluTXNHNdm3GAVtVYH3W17_ryH5rBzlccpDdfE7UMch5cd7BFVstzbZ8esfCllIw5tmKTIB6EXDy5pvWBUdiOmU0Jsd/s320/DSCF3468.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
All around the inner port runs a wide terrace that has been taken over in its entirety by the port’s restaurants, especially on the west side. (Parasols are provided to shelter you from the sun.) It would be hard to find fish or seafood any fresher than here. It’s brought in by the fishermen in the morning and picked up by the chef’s staff as the boats moor. Seafood platters are a beauty to behold - as befits an artistic town - and a blessing for the stomach. You can pick what you want. If I don’t give in to a sole meunière, I usually end up with half a dozen oysters, some clams, sea snails, pink shrimp and also those little grey ones you can’t find in the States. All washed down with some chilled white wine.<br />
After lunch, it’s time to see “uptown”, as I call it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEFU9aS0KzMyxsDyAIcnH7EylNKxrgc1i4lr-sGo3no7y8PsMUo7MY7DR-3GLct6_Gs0YphpTqmES3BxD7haTgz5WSgHvZtcob59dxipWj9XOvfGM6nym23Eb-ZqYLPHov7PTvLB7kKVbO/s1600/DSCF3507.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEFU9aS0KzMyxsDyAIcnH7EylNKxrgc1i4lr-sGo3no7y8PsMUo7MY7DR-3GLct6_Gs0YphpTqmES3BxD7haTgz5WSgHvZtcob59dxipWj9XOvfGM6nym23Eb-ZqYLPHov7PTvLB7kKVbO/s400/DSCF3507.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eglise Sainte-Catherine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Head down towards the tower at the drawbridge and turn left. You’ll see the Eglise Sainte-Catherine higher up on your left. It’s well worth a look inside. Honfleur being a town of boat-building, this church was hewn by workers from the naval shipyards without the use of a saw, as were the ships of William the Conqueror in 1066, depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry. You’ll probably notice right away that there are not one but two naves, side by side. The first (the one on the left as you face the altar) dates from the 15th century. It was built once the English left shortly after the end of the Hundred Years War, to replace the stone church that was destroyed in that war. If you look up, you’ll find it looks like the keel of a boat overturned. The second nave was added about a century later, when the town’s population had outgrown the little church, and looks less like a ship and more like a modest Gothic church, although there’s still a harmony between the two, at least to me.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJIfUba7Vwtn3EPBAR1_1SoEL0tOLmKyzhjatjVQT4Y4QOGIrAq8dwQDlAeFeqkwW74Sfxd0ylPj5iv4Ea05sSnEstj-JDIiKHGfx_llsK2Sij8ZC6iNx2QD7xLa0tHM0Ynb6TGjLQUhE3/s1600/DH000433.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJIfUba7Vwtn3EPBAR1_1SoEL0tOLmKyzhjatjVQT4Y4QOGIrAq8dwQDlAeFeqkwW74Sfxd0ylPj5iv4Ea05sSnEstj-JDIiKHGfx_llsK2Sij8ZC6iNx2QD7xLa0tHM0Ynb6TGjLQUhE3/s200/DH000433.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
Across the street from the church is its steeple made all of oak. Yes, you heard that right: across the street. Given the location of the church on the side of a hill, and the height of the steeple, it would have attracted too many lightning strikes. Which is bad for an all-wood church (the largest in France). So the steeple was built away from the church, and the bell-ringer was allowed to live in the ground level space. You can go in and see vestiges of the old structure.<br />
To the right of that as you look at the building, the Rue des Lingots heads downhill. Turn left in the first street, and walk down the Rue de l’Homme de Bois to the Musée Eugène Boudin (closed Tuesdays). It’s a lot of bang for your 8 €. Inside you’ll find an old repurposed chapel of the Convent of the Augustine Sisters. As is only fitting, there are a number of works by Boudin himself, surrounded by those of his artist friends: Monet, Jongkind, Courbet, Eugène Isabey, Charles Mozin, Alexandre Dubourg, Charles Pécrus, Gustave Hamelin, and Adolphe Félix Cals. Upstairs are two levels of modern exhibit space added on in the 1970's to help house the over 2,500 works of art the museum has accumulated. Not only can you enjoy temporary art exhibits there, but the end wall, completely of glass, offers a wonderful view out over this part of the town’s rooftops to the harbor and the very modernistic Normandie Bridge beyond.<br />
Music lovers may already know that Erik Satie, composer of Gymnopédies, is a native of Honfleur. To see his house (closed Tuesdays), turn right as you leave the Musée Boudin, then left down a little alley to the Rue Haute (which means Main Street in French), then left again and it will be about a block down on the right at Number 90. Or, if you don’t like alleyways, turn left exiting the museum, go a block or two and turn right into the Rue du Trou Miard, then right again into the Rue Haute and it’ll be farther down on the left. The house is very small, but take the audioguide that will turn on the light-and-sound show as you enter each room, giving a commentary on a bit of Satie’s life and playing some of his tunes. You’ll get a real feel for how small houses were back then. But the really fun part is when you reach what I remember as the final room, which has a four-seater merry-go-round that you pedal and it makes music and sounds as you go!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg09t305u0R5NpTMGwzE6ENltP_1yA-f074nICbp7DkLi2mZ1Wter6M9ShSARbTWOvsMDUiZ5Q54SCvV5FHiDC0Te1fzS0ATmq8oZzEnXpsdXh6DEtJ5PpzQzB9o4a6AAhHXUJWqaTN-Hdp/s1600/DSCF3565.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg09t305u0R5NpTMGwzE6ENltP_1yA-f074nICbp7DkLi2mZ1Wter6M9ShSARbTWOvsMDUiZ5Q54SCvV5FHiDC0Te1fzS0ATmq8oZzEnXpsdXh6DEtJ5PpzQzB9o4a6AAhHXUJWqaTN-Hdp/s320/DSCF3565.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
When you’re done having fun with Satie, go out the exit on the Boulevard Charles V side, turn right and head back to the harbor. Children might enjoy a ride on a real merry-go-round at the outlet of the inner port. Adults may enjoy a drink at a different place on the inner port before heading back wherever you came from. Or you can take a boat tour out onto the Seine and under the Normandie Bridge with Cauchois Cruises, leaving from the foot of the boulevard (1½ hr).<br />
Cruises, water colors, hewn wood churches, seafood on the port... Any way you look at it, Honfleur and water are intimately intermingled.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFrFoKnT3T_VCrpL2KW3_i32Kqjo-mxC6ZGk4rEOmkNBE5yIaBT3xQvMpGwoP7L-Tlp199u1CBWoP9hyfuVP9evad7lUQDG-LnjQbn6inysWhFkyvmIwuMDXJFYyZAgpMPcylyR49gC4N_/s1600/DSCF0038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="1600" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFrFoKnT3T_VCrpL2KW3_i32Kqjo-mxC6ZGk4rEOmkNBE5yIaBT3xQvMpGwoP7L-Tlp199u1CBWoP9hyfuVP9evad7lUQDG-LnjQbn6inysWhFkyvmIwuMDXJFYyZAgpMPcylyR49gC4N_/s400/DSCF0038.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Restaurants on the inner port: My particular favorite is L'Abricotier (68 Quai Sainte-Catherine), perhaps for no other reason than habit but I’ve never had a bad meal there.<br />
<br />
As to hotels, there are many. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF8oa3A5QZfAUvzqj_kj0OadvoOPVajuwRkzLnRioDbgkQ3NUYgZX67Z1YzZCU1dXNwdWEa8LBZDOwYe92V8yS090yHjDPe1fJDtEcjwiMY_OwQQ1-MDAA2o_KYX-F58PV7WnPfGt4ypME/s1600/DSCF3497.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF8oa3A5QZfAUvzqj_kj0OadvoOPVajuwRkzLnRioDbgkQ3NUYgZX67Z1YzZCU1dXNwdWEa8LBZDOwYe92V8yS090yHjDPe1fJDtEcjwiMY_OwQQ1-MDAA2o_KYX-F58PV7WnPfGt4ypME/s320/DSCF3497.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hotel L'Ecrin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If you don’t mind steep stairs and noise from passers-by, there’s Le Dauphin on the Place Pierre Berthelot, right by the Eglise Sainte Catherine. It has some bedrooms on the ground floor, which might be handy for people with mobility problems, but then again Honfleur is not necessarily kind to people with mobility problems.<br />
Otherwise, try L’Ecrin a few blocks further “inland”, on the rue Eugène Boudin. It has parking and a small pool put in recently, plus a garden where you might just get breakfast, or tea, if the weather is clement.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA3eAU7z3Jng8451cy5iAg2lAFEZn3ogvy_N80dvRDNAXteNr9eMVbkxyhj5APjuu2fz7-JKP4JWkvcZy64_-8dF8yJ3TuwaPSRQdtScW84Kwj4SAY0OFe_izOBu0JFTe19N6guqv2dAdN/s1600/DH000428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA3eAU7z3Jng8451cy5iAg2lAFEZn3ogvy_N80dvRDNAXteNr9eMVbkxyhj5APjuu2fz7-JKP4JWkvcZy64_-8dF8yJ3TuwaPSRQdtScW84Kwj4SAY0OFe_izOBu0JFTe19N6guqv2dAdN/s200/DH000428.JPG" width="150" /></a><br />
Musée Eugène Boudin: http://www.musees-honfleur.fr/musee-eugene-boudin.html<br />
<br />
Satie House: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hJqWeMqcbso<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-3252649417710644082017-06-15T02:10:00.000-07:002017-06-15T02:10:07.817-07:00Out and About: Tokyo-Paris at the Musée de l'Orangerie<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezEWbGGWXeRD8MXg_Mov9wIN-n9diDjdCOblwQZk7OUVm9N9CaAPAbQYsu8yhU-gQ-DkBIJgx9rdVnJ1VyjoSMs4LzBipg7pf1TlFhzEDEmf4t-ltjLrNX8amOvN7AtnLSdxCBUgzpTY-/s1600/DSCF0221+-+Cr%25C3%25A9puscule+%25C3%25A0+Venise+-+Monet+1908.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1343" data-original-width="1600" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezEWbGGWXeRD8MXg_Mov9wIN-n9diDjdCOblwQZk7OUVm9N9CaAPAbQYsu8yhU-gQ-DkBIJgx9rdVnJ1VyjoSMs4LzBipg7pf1TlFhzEDEmf4t-ltjLrNX8amOvN7AtnLSdxCBUgzpTY-/s400/DSCF0221+-+Cr%25C3%25A9puscule+%25C3%25A0+Venise+-+Monet+1908.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crépuscule à Venise, Claude Monet, oil on canvas, 1908</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Living in Paris, there are constant distractions in the art world. So many you don’t know which way to turn.<br />
The other day, I took a visiting friend to see Monet’s Water Lilies at the Orangerie Museum, after having shown him the real thing at Monet’s country home in Giverny and then the Monet collection at the Marmottan Museum in Paris.<br />
There’s also an Impressionist collection on the basement level of the Orangerie. I’ve seen it multiple times. Remarkable though it is, I wasn’t up to seeing it again, so I pointed him in the right direction and then went to the left to see a temporary exhibit called Tokyo-Paris.<br />
Based on a title like that, I never would have gone to see it if left to my own devices, but seeing as I was already there... And I’m very glad I did because it’s an amazing exhibit of works collected by a rich Japanese industrialist named Shôjirô Ishibashi (1889-1976), otherwise known as the founder of the Japanese tire giant, Bridgestone. (You may have some of his tires on your car right now.)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3cuvpNSUTOvDzZW373lz5GRHOF1XjrWLHC-wMKlsqVu1JFHdzGBd7CyXs6zjgrPN2cyw7ivEhPca1Gp71LodHUz90_lfL0DzF48FUJ6WeZST0ubXwQ2TJJGZ6rTy16V7hyphenhyphenDugdGTH0Z0m/s1600/DSCF0216+-+Marine%252C+Mera+-+Shigeru+Aoki+1904.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="857" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3cuvpNSUTOvDzZW373lz5GRHOF1XjrWLHC-wMKlsqVu1JFHdzGBd7CyXs6zjgrPN2cyw7ivEhPca1Gp71LodHUz90_lfL0DzF48FUJ6WeZST0ubXwQ2TJJGZ6rTy16V7hyphenhyphenDugdGTH0Z0m/s400/DSCF0216+-+Marine%252C+Mera+-+Shigeru+Aoki+1904.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marine, Mera - Aoki, oil, 1904</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Many late 19th century French artists adored Japanese art, and Monet was one of them. If you visit his home in Giverny, you’ll see his collection on the walls. <br />
But at the start of the 20th century, as the Meiji period came to a close and Japan opened up to the rest of the world, Japanese artists started to take some of their inspiration from Western Impressionists. They called this artistic genr Yôga, which literally means “Western-style painting”. <br />
The very first piece in this exhibit is by one of those artists, Shigeru Aoki (1882-1911). It’s simply entitled “Marine, Mera” (1904), Mera being a place in the south of Chiba Prefecture. This seascape is very reminiscent of other marines by other artists, and the rocky coastline could be somewhere in New England or along France’s north Brittany shores.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_V8_jWupKJBG6FI7Ij7bVWFdOyxXv8c7J8ju8FLTiv0oV9S1fKaZ_B-7ALYOC9xPu416pQzv7dq9HJpEOOeG5ZlOWi2DRYFkp9pHjGknNNqCabNN0rgM8ZJUs-9SDomBY06mK_jBvdBao/s1600/DSCF0223+-+Nymph%25C3%25A9as%252C+temps+gris+-+Monet+1907.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_V8_jWupKJBG6FI7Ij7bVWFdOyxXv8c7J8ju8FLTiv0oV9S1fKaZ_B-7ALYOC9xPu416pQzv7dq9HJpEOOeG5ZlOWi2DRYFkp9pHjGknNNqCabNN0rgM8ZJUs-9SDomBY06mK_jBvdBao/s320/DSCF0223+-+Nymph%25C3%25A9as%252C+temps+gris+-+Monet+1907.JPG" width="247" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nymphéas, Monet, oil, 1907</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Most of the pieces, however, were French in origin, perhaps because, as the exhibit description explains, Ishibashi “admitted to a market preference for French Impressionists”. And when any were being sold by other Japanese collectors, he bought them up so they would stay in Japan, for instance six Monets from private collections which were being broken up. The exhibit includes the highly acclaimed <i>“Crépuscule à Venise”</i> (Dusk in Venice, 1908), as well as one of Monet’s water lily works, <i>“Nymphéas, temps gris”</i> (1907). The light in both demonstrated where Impressionism got its name.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgkyeCSuS-eVEKoFEOKYRtheigu-1Zmu9DX71rWY7YHNZmv3IdE1rdOra8iz_9AUnj0tWKauWjqhlZAKbYinQiO-1TUntPnA-TRB96hOCLzXyWVem3KgxuhowmkVhHGhm1IY0zqkDraymt/s1600/DSCF0225+-+Plage+environs+Trouville+-+Boudin+1865.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1049" data-original-width="1600" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgkyeCSuS-eVEKoFEOKYRtheigu-1Zmu9DX71rWY7YHNZmv3IdE1rdOra8iz_9AUnj0tWKauWjqhlZAKbYinQiO-1TUntPnA-TRB96hOCLzXyWVem3KgxuhowmkVhHGhm1IY0zqkDraymt/s320/DSCF0225+-+Plage+environs+Trouville+-+Boudin+1865.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beach near Trouville, Boudin, oil, 1865</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
One of Monet’s chief inspirations was Eugène Boudin, a key precursor of Impressionism. As my guest and I had just been in Boudin’s native Honfleur and visited the Boudin Museum, it was nice to see a Boudin among the works on display here. Again, it was a well-known masterpiece, a “Beach Scene Near Trouville” (1865), where city people on vacation laze around in a very dignified, city manner, seated on chairs on the sand, in their full bourgeois regalia.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtakTrHg9kvrOJRlucmjWZ2uuNArqAcdODmZ-1WAtQ9X0jXAdMv15XFaBZxAZwF3rZ3qj91oAbZfj9TU9wDJJGWCjRjm87z66m4D2IjzE-8uVM28QEDxqx7rIe3JPylBfb-S-O0jZBB-I/s1600/DSCF0219+-+Saint-Mamm%25C3%25A8s%252C+Sisley+1884.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1208" data-original-width="1600" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtakTrHg9kvrOJRlucmjWZ2uuNArqAcdODmZ-1WAtQ9X0jXAdMv15XFaBZxAZwF3rZ3qj91oAbZfj9TU9wDJJGWCjRjm87z66m4D2IjzE-8uVM28QEDxqx7rIe3JPylBfb-S-O0jZBB-I/s320/DSCF0219+-+Saint-Mamm%25C3%25A8s%252C+Sisley+1884.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saint-Mammès, Sisley, oil, 1884</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Impressionism is all about light, and that light is visible in Alfred Sisley’s “Saint-Mammès and the Hills of La Celle”. It must be a perfect representation of the light on that June morning of 1884 when Sisley painted it. (My photo doesn’t begin to do its luminosity justice.)<br />
Having lived in Montmartre half my life, and now literally just around the corner from the only two remaining windmills, how could I not like van Gogh’s “Windmills and Gardens in Montmartre” (1886)? He lived here briefly, when there were many more windmills than now, and before the Butte (the hill) was tamed by builders. Its rocky soil can still be seen here, and I think that’s a gardener trying to eke some subsistence out of his veggie garden.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHG9UDkzZ0BdUeshLrRDF4_klraEXJf7xnfWe9WPYbbA4amU1kRHy41k8RsLSIrR7v-m03DGr1pQZsc3VGQjMfsrsX6p7xKfRy7UNaE2mi-bSxOwYPTE1iEP55p717CqtdctZ5QDJkFzf/s1600/DSCF0228+-+Moulins+%2526+jardins+%25C3%25A0+Montmartre+-+van+Gogh+1886.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1287" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHG9UDkzZ0BdUeshLrRDF4_klraEXJf7xnfWe9WPYbbA4amU1kRHy41k8RsLSIrR7v-m03DGr1pQZsc3VGQjMfsrsX6p7xKfRy7UNaE2mi-bSxOwYPTE1iEP55p717CqtdctZ5QDJkFzf/s320/DSCF0228+-+Moulins+%2526+jardins+%25C3%25A0+Montmartre+-+van+Gogh+1886.JPG" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Windmills & Gardens, van Gogh, oil, 1886</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A piece that really caught my eye was an almost-black-and-white oil on canvas by bad boy Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. “Backstage at the Circus, 1887” (my translation). It shows three people in the wings: a clown, a female acrobat and a bearded man who could be Toulouse-Lautrec if he hadn’t had that childhood accident and had grown to a normal height. The acrobat may be in a bareback riding act that is about to go on and the clown is trying to calm the Arabian horse who seems skittish. There is very little color here, just a hint of sepia, probably to contrast with the bright lights that will shine down on the act once it rides out from behind the curtain. So much is said with so little. And that is what great art is about.<br />
<br />
So if you’re going through Paris, and even if the exhibit’s title doesn’t “grab” you, drop in on the Orangerie - basement level - and take in over 60 paintings - mostly oils - and a few statues, including Zadkine’s “Torso” (1951) and <i>“Pénélope”</i> (1909), a bronze by Emile-Antoine Bourdelle.<br />
You won’t regret it.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitu5B7hkhRsneRPk8iIf1gYa3o3vtz2bvlQSY7NMibpwwYwnPXw1IkwadjJWczSYstxEBThzUqE20zn5_fiIl0bDUWfL_ih2qmpd8_YVvhqyyX4_3sVhEc3saFpCnUfNm0LSXQfli_gf67/s1600/DSCF0229+-+P%25C3%25A9n%25C3%25A9lope%252C+Bourdelle+1909.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="990" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitu5B7hkhRsneRPk8iIf1gYa3o3vtz2bvlQSY7NMibpwwYwnPXw1IkwadjJWczSYstxEBThzUqE20zn5_fiIl0bDUWfL_ih2qmpd8_YVvhqyyX4_3sVhEc3saFpCnUfNm0LSXQfli_gf67/s320/DSCF0229+-+P%25C3%25A9n%25C3%25A9lope%252C+Bourdelle+1909.JPG" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pénélope, Bourdelle, bronze, 1909</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Tokyo - Paris </b><br />
<br />
Musée de l’Orangerie<br />
Place de la Concorde, Tuileries Gardens, 1er<br />
Métro: Concorde<br />
<br />
01.44.77.80.07<br />
<br />
April 5 - August 21, 2017<br />
9-6 / Closed Tuesdays<br />
<br />
12 € & 9 € (free under 26 years of age and the first Sunday of the month)<br />
<br />
http://www.musee-orangerie.fr/<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi36o90hcW6njQAkNMsJyGxWFWV5m2WWD7qyC9FcRoYW7JTbAbzhenqxhmWSA0YGMUInlw5BBF-nLPoeqYTCiYHmp0Yj6Y_KfcVNTPTjfsB9OEVLoQvNnY5qD2LCa-G45ESNJkrl5Tj0d5U/s1600/DSCF0227+-+Au+cirque+-+Toulouse-Lautrec+1887.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="1199" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi36o90hcW6njQAkNMsJyGxWFWV5m2WWD7qyC9FcRoYW7JTbAbzhenqxhmWSA0YGMUInlw5BBF-nLPoeqYTCiYHmp0Yj6Y_KfcVNTPTjfsB9OEVLoQvNnY5qD2LCa-G45ESNJkrl5Tj0d5U/s400/DSCF0227+-+Au+cirque+-+Toulouse-Lautrec+1887.JPG" width="358" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Au Cirque, Toulouse-Lautrec, oil, 1887</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-20867533133422341752017-03-03T06:03:00.000-08:002017-03-03T06:03:19.986-08:00Out and About: Exhibits: Bazille at Orsay<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFQ6-5-eBvlkNlU-1rrCtFf2owr2E4ZE4H2u85i8-RTfR6oFKsZ-z4FvIM93rhEsfbpZmajMrCrMkQcdf2DwWqJHpReWdWobJkdGj2gEfRcGEo45fTT2iFIgrMBjC6W_qNpok9meUUHf6/s1600/DSCF9909+-+Etretat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFQ6-5-eBvlkNlU-1rrCtFf2owr2E4ZE4H2u85i8-RTfR6oFKsZ-z4FvIM93rhEsfbpZmajMrCrMkQcdf2DwWqJHpReWdWobJkdGj2gEfRcGEo45fTT2iFIgrMBjC6W_qNpok9meUUHf6/s400/DSCF9909+-+Etretat.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Etretat</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The Musée d’Orsay in Paris is one of the main showplaces for Impressionism in the world.<br />
This ex-train station turned museum is stunning to seem inside and out. It also has a nice restaurant tucked away just over the entrance a few floors up, complete with Belle Epoque mirrors and bronze decoration. And now two - count ‘em, two! - gift shops so you can’t leave without dropping some change. (But then again, you couldn’t exchange euro coins anyway, so why not spend them?)<br />
Right now there’s an exhibit of the works of Bazille at the far end of the top floor. (Take the escalators aesthetically hidden behind the wall at the end opposite the entrance.)<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnG4AaBmpvwWzi2ROExZAwppZDtxJCTK40VhlxN4_pwJv7RjSnRnTt6_lAsF-IMChjQxK2ISDSgguHOaf6mnqqMd9OSGuHPXvV-ZOv4fBbS4u0G5y8YFHcg56KRgE6VJZGz4QK13XNCBxe/s1600/DSCF9907+-+Bazille%252C+Self-portrait.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnG4AaBmpvwWzi2ROExZAwppZDtxJCTK40VhlxN4_pwJv7RjSnRnTt6_lAsF-IMChjQxK2ISDSgguHOaf6mnqqMd9OSGuHPXvV-ZOv4fBbS4u0G5y8YFHcg56KRgE6VJZGz4QK13XNCBxe/s320/DSCF9907+-+Bazille%252C+Self-portrait.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Autoportrait</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Frédéric Bazille, one of the lesser-known Impressionists, was born in Montpellier (southwest France) in 1841. His wealthy Protestant family had intended him to become a doctor and sent him to Paris to continue his medical studies. Mistake! There he met Renoir and Sisley, and it was all downhill from there. At least from a social status standpoint.<br />
Bazille started taking classes in Charles Gleyre’s studio, as had Renoir, Sisley and also Whistler. In 1864 he failed his medical exam, whether on purpose or from missing too many classes we’ll never know. So it was the artist’s life for him, much to his parents’ chagrin. And to the joy of Monet, Sisley, Manet and other artists whom he helped survive financially, spreading his family’s wealth around beyond their wildest dreams.<br />
<br />
Bazille met with some success in his artistic endeavors. The extremely conservative Salon de Paris accepted one of his works, a classic nature morte entitled Fish. His friend and colleague Fantin de la Tour painted him standing in profile on the right of his famous Un Atelier aux Batignolles<br />
And then the Franco-Prussian war broke out, stoking Bazille’s patriotism. A mere month later, in August of 1870, he joined a Zouave regiment. By late November, he and his unit were on the front lines. When his commanding officer was injured, Bazille took command and led an assault on the German position. Wounded twice, he died on the battlefield at the ripe old age of 28. His body was taken back to Montpellier for burial by a bereaved father, whom, I’m sure, wished his son would have stayed in med school.<br />
Thus ended the brief career - and life - of Frédéric Bazille. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjdXhbmDT06Q1q0rdjjXHuJIZ8ZTp5NgXWR4ddFWJb7hSrx7gBDNul9RtWsYVC7_gU8AhjnTBGxUvqqaaFWivMs9AzCJKzH2zqyvhRpUOmO47xSsf-Nc5iBeTmA13_MHLiISesXVzkOIV/s1600/DSCF9914+-+Bazille%252C+Remparts+d%2527Aigues-Mortes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="367" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjdXhbmDT06Q1q0rdjjXHuJIZ8ZTp5NgXWR4ddFWJb7hSrx7gBDNul9RtWsYVC7_gU8AhjnTBGxUvqqaaFWivMs9AzCJKzH2zqyvhRpUOmO47xSsf-Nc5iBeTmA13_MHLiISesXVzkOIV/s400/DSCF9914+-+Bazille%252C+Remparts+d%2527Aigues-Mortes.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ramparts of Aigues-Mortes - 1867</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
The young artist’s talent might have gone unnoticed. Four years after his death, the first exhibition of Impressionism - held at photographer Nadar’s studio - included not even one of his paintings. And then in 1900, for the Exposition Universelle in Paris, two of his works were selected by art critic and historian Roger Marx. That leaves 58 other works to choose from, many of them now hanging in the Musée Fabre in his native Montpellier.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7MKsuX2Xl1shOKwglYzlo4VIe5b8wTbRkbd8wQefGfPNhIj7ez_wOYPLvLUl-RyKNYgdmBuHLjZiQlPOy8d_q0uQPnIL5rSShAULQA-colWCt95Vmg82IFo3_5tAULaBNgj17i15Ni6GF/s1600/DSCF9910+-+C%25C3%25A9zanne+-+Po%25C3%25AAle+dans+l%2527Atelier.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7MKsuX2Xl1shOKwglYzlo4VIe5b8wTbRkbd8wQefGfPNhIj7ez_wOYPLvLUl-RyKNYgdmBuHLjZiQlPOy8d_q0uQPnIL5rSShAULQA-colWCt95Vmg82IFo3_5tAULaBNgj17i15Ni6GF/s320/DSCF9910+-+C%25C3%25A9zanne+-+Po%25C3%25AAle+dans+l%2527Atelier.JPG" width="221" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Poêle dans l'Atelier - Cézanne</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The Orsay show covers the range of Bazille’s works as he progressed from the classicism that won him that spot at the Salon toward an ever-more personal expressionism. It’s organized by both theme and chronology, mixing Bazille’s paintings with those of his contemporaries: Delacroix, Courbet, Manet, Monet, Renoir, Fantin-Latour, Guigou, Scholderer and Cézanne. That gives you a better idea of how he fit in - or didn’t - with the trends of his time in portraits, nature morte, nus, and landscapes.<br />
It was nice learning something new about Impressionism, long a favorite of mine. I recommend the show. And even if you’re not won over by this young artist, there are plenty of works by other more sainted Impressionists to make the trip worth your while.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikfi4_rObO-MSso6ppWW_18WVuN2WkHTZN9tfYtrmUbowY1cBhFUZW2xC2goGnCxatUvc4xoiPdeyvNiJFOYauuq1VqlNkxufIto9lmzLvyWh1K0WBkixMfoS-X2dONYOWRsWsRThS3tF6/s1600/DSCF9906.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikfi4_rObO-MSso6ppWW_18WVuN2WkHTZN9tfYtrmUbowY1cBhFUZW2xC2goGnCxatUvc4xoiPdeyvNiJFOYauuq1VqlNkxufIto9lmzLvyWh1K0WBkixMfoS-X2dONYOWRsWsRThS3tF6/s320/DSCF9906.JPG" width="100" /></a><b>BAZILLE: The Youth of Impressionism</b><br />
<br />
Musée d’Orsay<br />
1 rue de la Légion d’Honneur; Paris 7è<br />
Métro: Assemblée Nationale, Solférino<br />
<br />
November 15, 2016 - March 5, 2017<br />
<br />
Open 9.30 am - 6 pm (to 9:45 pm Thursdays)<br />
Closed Mondays<br />
<br />
12 € & 9 €<br />
<br />
<br />
For a video (in French) which shows many of the paintings on exhibit: www.musee-orsay.fr/index.php?id=649&L=0&tx_ttnews%5Btt_news%5D=44076&no_cache=1Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-39246839080049841622017-01-21T13:58:00.001-08:002017-01-21T13:58:55.899-08:00The Women's March, Paris version<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxz7YdKJtE7AoLxgxBtp9jHCYTwIWiZlp4GeJoKtqL8Rg4bWIEdp6AHDh-k-jDr4a5YWpxjf3Qo3wN6qtasiPlWeQTy9v-ql-XFrh8Mv1AU7_-VIB-WdWr-C8Z_g1G9_98lu5ZLfWKwsFh/s1600/DSCF8393.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxz7YdKJtE7AoLxgxBtp9jHCYTwIWiZlp4GeJoKtqL8Rg4bWIEdp6AHDh-k-jDr4a5YWpxjf3Qo3wN6qtasiPlWeQTy9v-ql-XFrh8Mv1AU7_-VIB-WdWr-C8Z_g1G9_98lu5ZLfWKwsFh/s400/DSCF8393.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
During the Vietnam War, I was in college. There were lots of demonstrations there at University of Michigan - remember SDS* and Tom Hayden? - but my parents were footing the bill, so I didn’t really feel I could join in. Blame my upbringing.<br />
And I never burned my bra with the Women’s Libbers, although I lived my life on my own terms, post-BA degree (and maybe even a bit pre- as well).<br />
As a matter of fact, I think the only time I went to a real demonstration was in Paris in the 1970s or 80s on the Champs-Elysées, in support of a Russian writer whom the Soviet Union was persecuting. But it was more of a simple protest. Small but heavily guarded.<br />
Nothing like today in Paris for the Women’s March. No, today was a full-fledged demonstration. It was not small. And it was not heavily guarded. We had a low-profile police escort opening the way and closing it, more for traffic than for crowd control. No <i>casseurs</i>, no breaking or looting. No violence of any sort.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUxnvCV9f0CPSHYgsz-YFweya1teRnbGpMW4evXl03AmPzTwCxfi3hM7YttduCWt5k_SC5P71xTEoPO0ycZ_Kd7Ya-9ICvLr5f-HP0eDJcBzJbHpur_koG86xEdXaHtRuf1u-nHgd2IgX2/s1600/DSCF8387.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUxnvCV9f0CPSHYgsz-YFweya1teRnbGpMW4evXl03AmPzTwCxfi3hM7YttduCWt5k_SC5P71xTEoPO0ycZ_Kd7Ya-9ICvLr5f-HP0eDJcBzJbHpur_koG86xEdXaHtRuf1u-nHgd2IgX2/s320/DSCF8387.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
The route - about two miles in all - started from the Place du Trocadéro, wound around the perimeter of the park, headed down to the Seine, across to the Eiffel Tower, then around that park to the far side and ending in front of the Ecole Militaire. (Maybe parks are off-limits whereas the streets belong to everyone, something that was chanted during the march.) To get to the “starting line”, I took the bus. As I got on, I asked the driver if he could go the whole way to Trocadéro, and he replied that, yes, it wasn’t closed off... yet.<br />
When I got there, the crowd was already sizeable. Some men but mostly women. Quite a few women in hijabs, Muslims marching against hatred toward Islam. There were all races - white, black, red, yellow and those in between who are “all of the above”. All ages, from grey-hairs to teenagers, and some parents with small children riding on their shoulders. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIfuhpSJGBvIZfN-t_dukeDIFZ665QYg7dk506TNsE54R930v3IO6jcv75jVyinxDgb33q76CVIfXDbdY16D0vYE2Nw-0BBIHB_8YCQ2P3gsZ8E7LmYXqtE9tyPT4HhYTYMxsG4yIkxrJ1/s1600/DSCF8388.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIfuhpSJGBvIZfN-t_dukeDIFZ665QYg7dk506TNsE54R930v3IO6jcv75jVyinxDgb33q76CVIfXDbdY16D0vYE2Nw-0BBIHB_8YCQ2P3gsZ8E7LmYXqtE9tyPT4HhYTYMxsG4yIkxrJ1/s320/DSCF8388.JPG" width="320" /></a> To take a photo of the crowd, I tried to climb up higher, but the wall wasn’t built for that. A young man - French, probably in his late 20s.- was already up there. He held his hand down to help the old lady make it to the top. That kind of solidarity - across nationalities, races, religions and ages - turned out to be the the main theme of the day.<br />
<br />
After clambering down again, I walked around, talking to people I'd never met before. Everyone was still in the “milling” stage, wondering when the march would start. I talked to two older women, long-time friends, one an American, the other French, both living in Paris. Both just kept saying they never thought the country - America - would have to fight these same fights again. And hoped it wouldn’t happen in France in the Spring presidential election. It’s another theme that kept coming up, no matter who I talked to.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs8sQPqKhCUpbPdFA5bFhyphenhyphenfydNdByxVRxjMlgyrcm95xvRCafoMRuU5fLBH41iUGWoC9h4Jplha_n2BmdjRDmpgGLiZ_HMQFVbt_OQmKwurWmldNXVZy80zRjQFikO7QOL8vKn_OkP7vWQ/s1600/DSCF8389.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs8sQPqKhCUpbPdFA5bFhyphenhyphenfydNdByxVRxjMlgyrcm95xvRCafoMRuU5fLBH41iUGWoC9h4Jplha_n2BmdjRDmpgGLiZ_HMQFVbt_OQmKwurWmldNXVZy80zRjQFikO7QOL8vKn_OkP7vWQ/s320/DSCF8389.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
There was a middle-aged couple behind me as I made my way toward the front of the crowd. They were chanting loudly any chant that came along. Out of curiosity at their accent, I asked them where they were from. “South Africa,” they replied. They said they knew about inequality, and I’m sure they did. They weren’t a mixed-race couple, but there <i>were</i> many in the crowd.<br />
There were lots and lots of chants, led by individual factions, such as the pro-choice people who sometimes chanted in French <i>Mon corps / Mon choix</i> and sometimes in English “My body / My choice”. The young people on the heights preferred a chant the Obamas made famous: “They go low / We go high”. There was the requisite hey-hey chant, in this case “Hey hey, ho ho, Donald Trump has got to go”. And of course the insult to Donald’s small hands: “Take your hands off my rights”. There were the Solidarnosc veterans: <i>Sol- Sol- Solidarité / avec les femmes du monde entier </i>(Solidarity with women everywhere), and the veterans put their whole hearts into that one. I preferred one with a similar message, but more catchy in a multi-ethnic way: “No hate / No fear / Everybody’s welcome here”. But the one heard most frequently - and the loudest - was definitely “NOT MY PRESIDENT!”<br />
There were also signs. Lots and lots and lots of signs. Here is a non-exhaustive list:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMnL-el_L9c810Afsa4u1G7uuquXJT8QVpiAUVeBp9jYKNx34OrMcNtjjnTESDB9nSabezlWlvs0tLI18zSRNxvdqaL5ivZdzLeELsfl3JuVUtKgimZPNkEO8OOznQDLGimBhedZazxYti/s1600/DSCF8394.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMnL-el_L9c810Afsa4u1G7uuquXJT8QVpiAUVeBp9jYKNx34OrMcNtjjnTESDB9nSabezlWlvs0tLI18zSRNxvdqaL5ivZdzLeELsfl3JuVUtKgimZPNkEO8OOznQDLGimBhedZazxYti/s320/DSCF8394.JPG" width="235" /></a>Ethics matter<br />
Listen to science<br />
Dump Trump<br />
Trump’s a 3 at best<br />
Impeach the Creep<br />
Women’s rights are human rights<br />
Stronger than fear<br />
If you’re not horrified, you’re not paying attention<br />
Big ovaries trump small hands<br />
I will not be silenced<br />
There is no Planet B<br />
... and my personal favorite:<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>OMG<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>USA<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>WTF<br />
<br />
It was the signs that offered me my personal take-away memory of the march. About a third of the way along the route, before we reached the Seine and the Eiffel Tower beyond, I spotted a women trying to hold up a sign made out of cardboard that just wouldn’t stand up straight. It kept bending in half, hiding the message, and she was trying to hold up both ends <i>and</i> keep an eye on three middle-school-ish girls, one of whom reminded me of my daughter at that age. Same hair; so probably same heritage. I told the woman I’d hold the other end of the sign if she wanted. And we spent the rest of the march together.<br />
As we went along, she said, almost to herself, that her employer wouldn’t be happy if he knew she were here. When I asked her who she worked for, she literally whispered “The Embassy” (American, of course). So in case Big Brother truly <i>is</i> watching, we won’t call her by her real name. Let’s call her Jacqueline.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP00YgYUzfD1Ij2RuEDV3Nb57z2b3Dbb8x-bmztw7BbD8sb4YZ0HzMRap5c7E3yvdgdCMxEbdqFMx_If-mDlSgELQSJBwUbLZnNECYrMt85W1GjXk_EDAV6jJPcpFMkvfit4UbUNhwJXNi/s1600/DSCF8395.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP00YgYUzfD1Ij2RuEDV3Nb57z2b3Dbb8x-bmztw7BbD8sb4YZ0HzMRap5c7E3yvdgdCMxEbdqFMx_If-mDlSgELQSJBwUbLZnNECYrMt85W1GjXk_EDAV6jJPcpFMkvfit4UbUNhwJXNi/s200/DSCF8395.JPG" width="200" /></a> I ended up walking right behind the girls, who became even more enthusiastic as the march continued. “It’s their first demonstration,” Jacqueline explained. Some how I think there may be many more in the future.<br />
In the absence of the brass ensemble + drums lost somewhere in the middle of the crowd stretching back over blocks and blocks, far enough to be out of earshot, someone in the very front row, someone with the sound system, started an <i>a capella</i> version of We Shall Overcome as we reached the Seine River, with the Eiffel Tower as a backdrop. It not only took me back to the Civil Rights Era, but brought tears to my eyes to hear all these people from different countries singing together and knowing the words: we’ll walk hand in hand, we shall live in peace, we are not afraid. Even the young girls caught on, more or less. Behind me stood a tall man with grey hair and a beard, singing in a powerful voice. He knew the song well... and turned out to be French. It was that kind of day.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwV90vleHC7HYWxP2-vKs4mjwBUsQESCjRX9kpOo_qFLhkM_r-30m77zXVj6_yiTYTxz1yGnWmjqw6_seb2-ulSYw7rB-JKqhOW8O-0kcOp81OcKVJaiwiIzVJbVHPORSY34P0elI3UC5u/s1600/DSCF8391.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwV90vleHC7HYWxP2-vKs4mjwBUsQESCjRX9kpOo_qFLhkM_r-30m77zXVj6_yiTYTxz1yGnWmjqw6_seb2-ulSYw7rB-JKqhOW8O-0kcOp81OcKVJaiwiIzVJbVHPORSY34P0elI3UC5u/s400/DSCF8391.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
The chanting continued all along the avenues, right up to the square at the far end of the Eiffel Tower, from where you could see our starting point in the distance. I gave Jacqueline my e-mail address and asked her to send me some photos. And as the crowd started to break up, headed for the Métro and our respective ordinary lives - maybe not so ordinary after all - I asked one of the CRS - riot police once known for having <i>la matraque facile</i> (being heavy-handed with the billy-club) but today just peaceful escorts - how many people he thought had attended. He told me 3,000 to 4,000 “but we were only at the end”. I told him there were about as many in the front half. Final figures came in around 7,000. Not bad for a place known for la belle vie, the good life, all wine, champagne and Cordon Bleu.<br />
Until you touch L<i>es Droits de l’homme et du Citoyen</i> (The Rights of Man and Citizens) as covered in a universal declaration written in 1789 by the new government after the French Revolution.<br />
Then it’s a whole other ballgame.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFlRFzkONYaGnpYeqB5w_o3vLm7bW9Mb8Hiyj5VE4uRO5BbMjKIw4Yc6z04pXeCvQIrSXKdr3hkpkljkyw750Hu1Fo2Wt_Q9xSHNE7s3wjwkEr6kU6oSE8ddU5kgAe5PYPN0N1GD_Xr-yG/s1600/DSCF8396.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFlRFzkONYaGnpYeqB5w_o3vLm7bW9Mb8Hiyj5VE4uRO5BbMjKIw4Yc6z04pXeCvQIrSXKdr3hkpkljkyw750Hu1Fo2Wt_Q9xSHNE7s3wjwkEr6kU6oSE8ddU5kgAe5PYPN0N1GD_Xr-yG/s400/DSCF8396.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fo8HLeKBLeg<br />
<br />
<br />
* “SDS held its first meeting in 1960 on the University of Michigan campus at Ann Arbor, Michigan, where Alan Haber was elected president. Its political manifesto, known as the Port Huron Statement, was adopted at the organization's first convention in 1962, based on an earlier draft by staff member Tom Hayden.” - Wikipedia. (And Haber’s still at it; I know his French wife well.)Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9166121082138218879.post-1741840709351996242016-12-11T13:31:00.003-08:002016-12-11T13:31:47.116-08:00Sunday morning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7LBEG2JWmTxJ91wDYpf_4UpJDlk-Zgb9YEZ3OoV_BWiBnpxoMj4WzjzmqCn0gEuKsGIty1hTe7QmiWjCSD-qnEd26jt4QMhXvU96ubp_0jvZ8ciWMUGDDmSvL1DIaR2jMmDo0IrGWilNK/s1600/DSCF6520.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7LBEG2JWmTxJ91wDYpf_4UpJDlk-Zgb9YEZ3OoV_BWiBnpxoMj4WzjzmqCn0gEuKsGIty1hTe7QmiWjCSD-qnEd26jt4QMhXvU96ubp_0jvZ8ciWMUGDDmSvL1DIaR2jMmDo0IrGWilNK/s320/DSCF6520.JPG" width="231" /></a></div>
Easy like Sunday morning.<br />
A lyric from a song that doesn’t apply here. Except that it <b><i>is</i></b> Sunday morning, and it’s an easy one because there’s no To-Do List.<br />
Except food shopping. Because it’s France and tomorrow’s Monday and that means shops are closed to offer shopkeepers a delayed week-end.<br />
<br />
My plan, such as it was, was to head out early, to beat the lines. But when I wake up and open the shutters, it’s seriously raining.<br />
So I switch plans, such as it is, and make myself a leisurely cup of tea and read a bit... but not in the garden. Around 10, the rain stops although the sky is still resolutely clouded over. I put on a jacket, grab my shopping bag, my camera and my coin purse and I’m off downhill to the Purveyors of Good Things to Eat and Drink.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEfQ367uEu0pqb9UyFOuGVYexzGkIEGbqBkcBt5h30Hf76mjMCfYNbOFlOhJiFNoPq2_PDp_UZaJGV_LpVng-TGkpEkC4NJd490w8plYRBTCGW7tTfz5Q-uwJOjTZJX9FKyF3FqAjmfIZC/s1600/Le+Radet+closeup.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEfQ367uEu0pqb9UyFOuGVYexzGkIEGbqBkcBt5h30Hf76mjMCfYNbOFlOhJiFNoPq2_PDp_UZaJGV_LpVng-TGkpEkC4NJd490w8plYRBTCGW7tTfz5Q-uwJOjTZJX9FKyF3FqAjmfIZC/s320/Le+Radet+closeup.JPG" width="212" /></a></div>
I decide to take the High Road, the opposite direction from the square, and come out the far end of my street onto the usual tourists taking pictures of <i>Le Radet</i>, one of Montmartre’s two remaining windmills. With a <i>“pardon”</i> and an “excuse me” and an <i>“entschuldigen”</i>, I weave my way through the throngs. It’s just this one spot with its knot of sightseers that’s a problem. Past that is the green-and white remake of the <i>Moulin de la Galette</i> painted by Renoir which no one seems to want to photograph... and then the Galette windmill itself, the second one remaining.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4qb822Z0O0QPA1mBrtDeuuxW0zlGAWwTfh5EqmbU-q9SCBuKKs3jbf_QibSbzyKyOHTtsqxPEF1vOhPsAAgKITRSMJj66EUwo1AVJb5e4wOEZFXDOTd4iIYwc4X3PXcIkFZ8APXOMmQys/s1600/DSCF7720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4qb822Z0O0QPA1mBrtDeuuxW0zlGAWwTfh5EqmbU-q9SCBuKKs3jbf_QibSbzyKyOHTtsqxPEF1vOhPsAAgKITRSMJj66EUwo1AVJb5e4wOEZFXDOTd4iIYwc4X3PXcIkFZ8APXOMmQys/s320/DSCF7720.JPG" width="238" /></a></div>
This one, <i>Le Blute-fin</i> (they all had names), was refurbished recently by French film director Claude Lelouch, in exchange for permission to build an apartment underneath its base. His semi-circular bay windows are rarely even visible from the street, but from his windows he has a helluva view out over Paris, including the gilt of the Invalides dome in the distance, with today’s backdrop of clouds. My zoom makes it look within arm’s reach, but it’s actually half of Paris away, 5 kilometers (3 miles) to be exact.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPP_W0bt1do9p_ScvS6qtxQmqeiDEiBS1KB4LE3GALIsC3fbjZ4q39ng_TPs8hRHUrVruat74XJG_ksQEKRvIWuaodrvXe1uxfdLDtVsC53nNTQqnP_rO8ugF72E1DalrJRjGdOXaAp-wk/s1600/DSCF8705+-+Rainy+Sunday+morning.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPP_W0bt1do9p_ScvS6qtxQmqeiDEiBS1KB4LE3GALIsC3fbjZ4q39ng_TPs8hRHUrVruat74XJG_ksQEKRvIWuaodrvXe1uxfdLDtVsC53nNTQqnP_rO8ugF72E1DalrJRjGdOXaAp-wk/s400/DSCF8705+-+Rainy+Sunday+morning.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
My needs are few: <i>boudin</i> from the Auvergne lady, chicken from Jacky Gaudin’s butcher shop, a bottle of Chinon from Manu’s <i>Caves des Abbesses</i> and a red bell pepper from <i>Au Verger des Abbesses</i>. In fact I don’t even need to make a list.<br />
First is the Auvergne shop. I’ve been meaning to buy some of her blood sausage since last week-end, but then Life Happened, as John Lennon would say. I end up buying not only the <i>boudin</i>, but also a slice of <i>pâté aux morilles</i> (those are morels, which I love), a tiny one-portion raw goat’s milk cheese from Rocamadour, and a box of those luscious, thin, crisp butter cookies from Salers that are called <i>pavés</i> (paving stones). So now I have a full four-course meal.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK_CpdIGOC3bCTsiZtHHvlN4Rw5QjMjr6l8JSZlgR9QrHLl8m_dBNnbApIbMBr4ylh4_ATLSR8vukpYxBVjbYfBWDnpJ9jUX9T4_4eJgAlhpuNzxSSnCw3zE34yJdSFqxx6uZ9_NPHv8rh/s1600/DSCF8695.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK_CpdIGOC3bCTsiZtHHvlN4Rw5QjMjr6l8JSZlgR9QrHLl8m_dBNnbApIbMBr4ylh4_ATLSR8vukpYxBVjbYfBWDnpJ9jUX9T4_4eJgAlhpuNzxSSnCw3zE34yJdSFqxx6uZ9_NPHv8rh/s200/DSCF8695.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
Next it’s back up the Rue Lepic to the butcher on Rue des Abbesses. Somehow I resist all the other things that he offers for sale and stick to my original two chicken legs. Jacky asks me if I want them cut in half (thigh + drumstick), which is very professional and considerate of him. I hadn’t thought of that, but I agree and thank him. When I go to pay, the woman behind the counter asks me if I’m the chicken thighs. I smile and say, “Yes, I danced ballet when I was young.” She looks perplexed for a moment and then breaks out in a huge smile, realizing the other possible interpretation of her question.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR3SdYl6_WsR9pah1m0E4M6YXME9engR0svCCEca1WNsZeoLaAlHDA0ObJ9_g6QIgfpzMGdKNj-l8MRGTqqxD2dmA-hEsCiUGv-cY6U0Mui2yWwYJ7kmmYLhAR7Rp5ofpfVQXzFsqd4ZqN/s1600/DSCF8712+-+Les+P%2527tits+Poulbots.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR3SdYl6_WsR9pah1m0E4M6YXME9engR0svCCEca1WNsZeoLaAlHDA0ObJ9_g6QIgfpzMGdKNj-l8MRGTqqxD2dmA-hEsCiUGv-cY6U0Mui2yWwYJ7kmmYLhAR7Rp5ofpfVQXzFsqd4ZqN/s320/DSCF8712+-+Les+P%2527tits+Poulbots.JPG" width="320" /></a> As I leave the butcher shop, I hear a drum roll. It’s a sound I’ve known for ages: the <i>P’tits Poulbots de Montmartre</i>.<br />
(An aside here: In the early 1900's, Montmartre was a slum, with poor health conditions, lots of orphans, and many artists. One of the artists started sketching the orphans. His name was Francisque Poulbot and he became rich and famous for those sketches of les enfants de la rue, the children of the streets. In return, he opened a dispensary for them right down on Rue Lepic. The drum corps came later, as a free activity for kids too poor to afford extra-curricular activities or go on holiday. And it’s still going strong.)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimgicaK0ofVn0BOiVcJ8K10flsv1G0ECpLHqt74U_G18W4LuqB9APvnh8tzV7D81te6EbPKrigm0hyBF-jRmGzvHxXKvxKOhb_t66f5qH8vRWMDLx_gwt_crPo1eFluEgVR0DEHe2aTnYE/s1600/DSCF8707.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimgicaK0ofVn0BOiVcJ8K10flsv1G0ECpLHqt74U_G18W4LuqB9APvnh8tzV7D81te6EbPKrigm0hyBF-jRmGzvHxXKvxKOhb_t66f5qH8vRWMDLx_gwt_crPo1eFluEgVR0DEHe2aTnYE/s320/DSCF8707.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
I get out my camera - this is why I always have it handy. Suddenly runners start streaming by. It turns out to be a 10-km race through Montmartre’s streets to help fund the P’tits Poulbots, which is why their drum corps is present. There are at least 100 runners taking part, and the Poulbot drum corps strikes up a welcome for them as they pass on every lap. A race in Montmartre is a real challenge, because level surfaces are few and far between. The Rue des Abbesses is one, and the joggers revel in it after that last grueling stretch up the steep Rue Lepic. I’m used to the hills, but that’s at walking speed, and with numerous stops in various shops. This is way more serious. Except for the clown who amuses both the runners and the children looking on, a break from the boredom of Sunday shopping with mom or dad.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_QtCVIPPM3aXkI-C5k_2O-1cS43Fb9Vv2GxQ5ZZOndXspXINzkwvC_NQ8PNP8HOG_hhNB8VzKtik8NngqfLbsH5gcjcb4Io9aVZ8qoWEqV9sMjSfskQ2iHAkTRLT3gV1ZsABxSLA6_t8w/s1600/Shopping+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_QtCVIPPM3aXkI-C5k_2O-1cS43Fb9Vv2GxQ5ZZOndXspXINzkwvC_NQ8PNP8HOG_hhNB8VzKtik8NngqfLbsH5gcjcb4Io9aVZ8qoWEqV9sMjSfskQ2iHAkTRLT3gV1ZsABxSLA6_t8w/s320/Shopping+4.jpg" width="320" /></a> A quick stop into the wine shop for a bottle of <i>chinon</i>, and then across the street to the green grocer, dodging the jogging stragglers (or straggling joggers). There, my “one bell pepper” resolution goes to pieces and I end up with two (one red and one orange for a Basque chicken dish tomorrow), plus some neatly manicured green beans and a serving or two of those delectably sweet, tiny early potatoes from the island of Noirmoutier. I get handed a free bouquet of parsley as well, complete with a big smile. When I ask Fathi why he’s not out there running in the race, he replies that he only runs after women.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiistgKkDYViBBcG69QdHdGWZuQELPruT1OFv2tu6s9eXpXLAgf4WepI0flRq0sFs4g8By8riate8mXZ3iPUoI5WCKloUJF4KKjf4hqDkVQ_hSnmbF2XZzZst3ehgKHDdwjJ1R0Sgr-Ao89/s1600/DSCF8221.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiistgKkDYViBBcG69QdHdGWZuQELPruT1OFv2tu6s9eXpXLAgf4WepI0flRq0sFs4g8By8riate8mXZ3iPUoI5WCKloUJF4KKjf4hqDkVQ_hSnmbF2XZzZst3ehgKHDdwjJ1R0Sgr-Ao89/s320/DSCF8221.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Back up the equally steep Rue Ravignan with a stop into the bakery for half a baguette to go with my goat cheese, and a bit left over for breakfast tomorrow... then I’m home, through my gate and across my garden. Without any rain, but probably only because I took my umbrella with me.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0LokppFPWA1xFiWwkw3V2UxqLh4krnyRsQTVKNlNQmDooi8ekGB-sZLe2m9eE1JESj-8GNs7H51lCitSe7Ie9DWKYX81NO0C9QlNN4fDRyO1NhMJlb_nEYT-avc5nVWQmZS6U3c5Kiz4f/s1600/Boudin+2+pommes+%2528cl%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0LokppFPWA1xFiWwkw3V2UxqLh4krnyRsQTVKNlNQmDooi8ekGB-sZLe2m9eE1JESj-8GNs7H51lCitSe7Ie9DWKYX81NO0C9QlNN4fDRyO1NhMJlb_nEYT-avc5nVWQmZS6U3c5Kiz4f/s200/Boudin+2+pommes+%2528cl%2529.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
It’s time to start lunch. First boil the potatoes. That gives me time to do last night(s dishes. With time left over to peel and cut up some Canada apples to make applesauce for the <i>boudin aux deux pommes</i> - the two apples <i>(deux pommes)</i> in question being apples from the trees and apples from the earth. They cook down easily and I add the <i>boudin</i> to the pan. It browns itself while I cut up the cooked potatoes, add milk and butter and smoosh them into mashed potatoes. It’s all perfectly timed. Now to eat it.<br />
And then a nap. The museum will have to wait until tomorrow.Sandyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02079274085194856593noreply@blogger.com0