Pont Neuf, Toulouse    Laurie Fox PESSEMIER    Acrylic on canvas  22 x 13 inches  SOLD

ARTNOTES:  AUTO DE FE

When I think of Toulouse, France I always think of “burning at the stake” or “auto-de-fe” (which actually means act of faith, but to English speakers has come to represent a fiery martyrdom).  Toulouse is where the Cathars are from, and where they were burned at the end of their run;  the same fate befell the Templars.  Toulouse was pretty much headquarters of the “medieval inquisition”, and big burnings took place downtown clear up until the 1500s.  Burning at the stake, for me, is right up there with stoning or being dragged to death by an elephant.  It was with these thoughts in mind,  I flew  to Toulouse to fill in at a business appointment Blair was unable to attend.  

I arrived well in advance of the meeting, and I drank coffee with Blair’s boss, R, at the Radisson.  The caffeine ratcheted up my fears about my performance, but somehow a shot of whiskey seemed inappropriate in the morning, especially with the boss.   We met our customers at noon, walked across the street for lunch and enjoyed a lively exchange with them over hotel food.

Toulouse is home to the aviation industry in France, and much of Europe.  Airbus is located in Blagnac, a suburb of Toulouse, surrounded by engineering firms supporting the aerospace industry.  It made me think a little of Seattle with Boeing, and Microsoft.  I love the businesses that spring up all around – some of my fondest memories are of start ups in Seattle, successful and otherwise, that so many of my friends worked for.

We took a cab downtown to R’s hotel.  I sat in the lobby with my email while he checked in.  I chatted with the girl at the desk, got a map and some pointers for what to see in Toulouse.  We started our walking tour, first stopping at the famous Basilica of St. Sernin, which happened to be open.   Constructed in the late 1000s - early 1100s, the Romanesque basilica is part of a pilgrimage route.   St. Sernin was an early Christian martyr, dragged to death by a mad bull through the streets of Toulouse in 257 CE.

It wasn’t only the burnings that set me off the city of Toulouse, but Blair spent significant time in the hospital there in 2003.  Whisked off in an ambulance from a painting vacation on the canal de Midi, he spent weeks in an un-airconditioned room with pigeons perched on the (open) windowsill.    I spent daily vigils there, with our house rental supplies and four cases of wine in his hospital closet.  He took a medical flight back to the American Hospital in Paris, and I drove our rental van, which I filled with unleaded instead of diesel fuel.

We pressed on, another church, a sidewalk café, the remarkable Capitol square, and eventually to the banks of the Garonne.  Several bridges span the Garonne;  one, the Pont Neuf Toulouse, is now my favorite bridge in France.  Its arches are not symmetrical.   Between the arches are large oval openings intended to resemble the mane of a lion:  these permit the rising waters of the river to pass through the bridge without knocking it down.    The sun was shining and the light was outstanding.   Our march continued by an old “mill” on the river, once the largest in France, and we walked by sensitively-renovated buildings.    As the sun set, I boarded my bus for the airport hotel.

Blair arrived late that night, and the next morning we retraced my steps of the previous day, adding a few new highlights.  I felt completely different about the city of Toulouse, and was happy my act of faith was a positive one.

The Party   Laurie Fox PESSEMIER    Acrylic on canvas   16 x 12 inches  SOLD

ROMANCE    Laurie Fox PESSEMIER    Acyrlic on canvas  16 x 12 inches

Trees in winter   Laurie Fox PESSEMIER    Acyrlic on canvas  16 x 12 inches

Redhead at Le Fumoir   Laurie Fox PESSEMIER   Acrylic on wood  12 x 7 inches

 

ARTNOTES:  Enduring Love on the Street

There have been “sales” this week, in Paris, on our street.  There are only “sales” twice a year, legislated by the government, of all things.  The street was packed with bargain-seekers, and a hobo.  This  man of the street, in his dingy, dirty clothes, was spraying all the finely dressed shoppers on the rue de Rennes with PERFUME!!!  He obviously found some perfume, perhaps from the tester at the “south of France” store, and was squeezing that bulb at the end of the flexible tube, and spraying passers-by.   He was delighted with this activity, smiling and laughing, and most people, focused on their next purchase, didn’t seem to notice him or the change in their personal fragrance.

He was laughing, the whole episode was positively hilarious, so we laughed too, and he didn’t spray us, or our dog.   This had some small sense of normalcy, a giant, silly relief from the maniacal actions of most consumers on the sidewalk.

I love being out on the street.  It was a perfect day in January:  maybe 60F degrees, and sunny.  The park was full of people – we left a luncheon so we could meet someone there at 3.  He never showed up, but it really didn’t matter because it was so nice out, we were still happy to be there.  I gave dog biscuits to my favorite dogs.  One woman complained of the crowd, but I pointed out how nice it was to look at everyone, so happy.  Sunshine brings out the best in people and dogs.

At le Fumoir, where Y and I were painting on Friday, a handsome man and his pretty girlfriend took the table next to us, on the sidewalk.  They photographed each other, and when Blair arrived, he offered to take their picture together.   I painted a building on the rue de Louvre, and a couple of guys drinking coffee.  As I started brushing in  the redheaded lady a couple tables away, the handsome man at the table next to me said, “hey, that’s a nice picture, do you think you could paint me and my girlfriend from this photo?”

I told him I could, and we met the next day with my computer to download the picture off his digital camera.  The day was cooler, we met inside, and he asked if he could have two pictures, one for him, to take back to Australia, and one for his girlfriend, who was returning to Croatia.  Blair negotiated a fee.

We delivered two pictures (one by Blair, one by me) on Tuesday.  We neglected to photograph them.  The couple were positively delighted by the two small works and we wished one another best luck and to meet again.

On the way home, crossing the Pont des Arts, my eye caught a particular lock .  Couples attach locks to the grillwork on the bridge, and throw the key in the Seine, to commemorate their enduring love.  This purple metal lock read “Ben and Sonja 2011”, the subjects of our paintings.

Cafe des Nattes    M. Blair Pessemier    Oil on canvas  18 x 24"

Artnotes:  Communication

I made my first dog biscuit sales this week, to two ladies in the park.  The dogs are mad for the biscuits, jumping feet in the air at the sight of me.  Harika, of course, is not keen on sharing her mistress nor her biscuits, but we’re working on it.   I get the news from the ladies there – whether it’s who Mr. A is running around with or what the park hours will change to next week.    Harika loves Voltaire, the Tunisian dog who comes to the park, and she jumps around and over him, bumping noses, as we speak to his owner.  She’s not sure about this Tunisian revolution, and I realize as a mature home owner there, she doesn’t want to rock the boat.

 

I’ve been on computer all week, making dog biscuit labels (it turns out there is a sort of moon pie sold in Turkey, called, like mine, Harika Biscuit).  I’ve been answering questions about the painting tour we’re offering later in the year.  I’ve made brochures, and a couple of web pages along the lines of the tour. 

This, and monitoring Facebook.    I have really felt a part of the Tunisian revolution through Facebook.  I was ecstatic to be receiving current news, straight from the cellphone video.  I think it really helped that people there, the revolutionaries, could get their story out, despite state censorship.   And the positive vibrations, hope and encouragement sent back was appreciated.

 

One of my most vivid memories of Tunisia was on a first trip, in early 2007:  a friend asked we not speak about the government in her car, at the café, or anyplace we could be seen or heard.  I recall thinking, at the time, that she was paranoid,  We walked through the souk that day, and later, out in the Kasbah, amidst lots of “white noise”, we spoke.  Simply, there was no freedom.

 

When we moved to Tunisia later that year, it was clear there were many limitations.  I had a terrible time getting my Internet hooked up, and when I did, it only worked sporadically.  I used to go to the US embassy to send out Artnotes, until they confiscated my flash drive.   While working in the library, I met a man who worked in Internet security for the Tunisian government.  “So it’s you who read my emails,” I quipped.  “Yes,” he replied, with a completely serious face.   Everything I ever wrote was news at the listening post.

LaPresse was the Tunisian newspaper, heavily censored (probably owned) by the Ben Ali regime.  All was good news, but whether it was exactly true was uncertain.  When there were floods in the streets of Tunis, no reporting.   So the people network was what counted there: men in coffee shops, women over the back fence, at the hairdresser or hammam.   Facebook increased that people network.  

 

With Facebook, I was able to keep up with news and conditions there even better than on Aljazeera.  I read a variety of online papers to get the news:  NYTimes, Drudgereport, leParisien and LeFigaro or LeMonde, and Aljazeera.   If I’m really stuck I’ll try BBC or Independent.  It was Aljazeera who made the first announcement that Ben Ali was gone, followed 20 minutes later by the NYTimes.   I learned it five minutes before either.   And yes, I’ve gone to Wi k ileaks, to learn more about what was going on, and certain hypotheses I had were in fact, correct.   Wikile aks bore out the fact Ben Ali was clearly responsible for autrocities and flagrant corruption in a country where the average monthly salary is less than $500.00. 

The opportunity to share information worldwide is perhaps the best invention of my lifetime so far (Blair’s grandmother used to say for her, it was the radio).  I hope it stays as free and open as it is now.

 

Harika, who has been barking for the last four weeks, has mysteriously stopped.  She’s been sleeping heavily since the news that her native country, Tunisia, is in on its way to Independence.

2 Mecs   Laurie Fox PESSEMIER   Acrylic on wood  6 x 13 inches 

 View from the Terrace Le Fumoir     Laurie Fox PESSEMIER   Acrylic on wood  12 x 7 inches  SOLD

Redhead at Le Fumoire   Laurie Fox PESSEMIER   Acrylic on wood  12 x 7 inches

Oysters   Laurie Fox PESSEMIER    Acrylic on wood   19 x 7 inches

 

Oysters  2  Laurie Fox PESSEMIER    Acrylic on wood 10 x 7

 Oysters 3   Laurie Fox PESSEMIER    Acrylic on wood 12 x 7 inches

 Jack Russell   Laurie Fox PESSEMIER   Acrylic on canvas  7.5 x 13 inches  SOLD

Trees in the Bois de Boulogne   Laurie Fox PESSEMIER   Acrylic on canvas  8 x 20 inches


ARTNOTES:  For love of Paris

After a visit to the American Library, I stand on Avenue Joseph Bouvard and wait for the 69 bus.  My heart leaps as the lights illume the Eiffel Tower just in front of me.  I am still in love with Paris. 

That thrill continues as we slip down rue St. Dominique (it’s often a tight squeeze here) toward  Invalides and Napoleon’s Tomb.  We pass Place Bourgogne before I press the button to get off at St. Germain and change for a 68 or 94 or 83 which will get me home.  Had I continued, I’d pass through the Louvre and by Chatelet, around the column at Bastille, out to the Pere LaChaise cemetery and Gambetta.

My favorite line is the 63, which runs from Gare de Lyon out to Port de la Muette, where the Bois de Boulogne is.  We take this line, with Harika, to go for an off-leash run.  On  the bus she must remain in her sack.  She kind of likes that, sitting in the seat with me.  Blair is taking pictures out the window.

My newest project has been to create a guide to monuments and attractions on the city bus lines of Paris.  The 63 passes some beauties, including Trocadero and the Tour Eiffel, the Musee Guimet, and the Statue of Liberty Flame.  On the other end, the Garden of Plants and Flowers,  the Arab Institute with its camera lens windows and  St. Sulpice await.  

But today we’re headed to Porte de la Muette, the very end, in front of the Musee Marmottan, full of wonderful Monet paintings.  A statue of Fontaine, the fable-writer, graces the park, but not really visible from the bus.  Day in and day out, the fox compliments the crow with the camembert in his beak. 

We cross the road and  Harika chases phantom rabbits as we walk across the plain to the woods.  Patches of ice dot the lake we walk around; terns and gulls, coots and moor hens flit from the ice to the water.   Just past the island, Harika spots a cottontail, dead, beside a crow, on the ice.  Our dog  jumps from the path, slipping and sliding as she hits the ice.  I stop myself before going after her:  this ice will never support me.  Blair and I hold our breath, willing her not to fall in the frigid water; I shout, “get back here, right NOW!”  She comes to her senses and arrives at our feet, dry.

We finish our walk before we head back to Avenue Henri Martin (historian and mayor) and rue Octave Feuillet (writer) to catch the 63 home.  We hop out by the Deux Magots and take the 95 to our house. 

My next trajet will be the route 95, which runs from Montparnasse to Montmartre, crossing the Seine and passing the Moulin Rouge.  I assemble pictures and stories and will bring them to the Paris Office of Tourism.

The Impressionists were in love with Paris, too, and Van Gogh, Monet, Whistler and Grant Wood painted images of the city.  In May, June, September and October, I will be leading a group of painters through Paris in a painting workshop:  visiting historic views, painting them (or not) and enjoying Paris “a la impressionism” .  Please join me, and suggest my tour to your friends.  Even if you are not a painter, we’ll look at paintings and drink wine in cafes, which is a lot of fun.

Gaillon  Laurie Fox PESSEMIER  Acrylic on wood  7 x 13 inches

Artnotes:  the best laid plans, a trip to GAILLON

I could never understand why my father would get up at 4 AM, to take a walk, to have a cup of coffee, to sit in the kitchen apparently doing not much of anything.   I now realize that the hours he shared with us, the family, were not necessarily what he wanted to do, what he needed to do.  He needed that extra time by himself, in the early hours, to express himself, to be his essential self.

I am up at 5:30 AM on Wednesday.  We have guests.  I am typing here in the kitchen.  It isn’t that I am unhappy to have guests (I love company!), but I can’t write or paint, or even sit in my chair and think.  I am not plucking my ukulele for Blair and Harika in the evenings… these are all my essential elements.

I can’t paint at 5:30 AM – I am physically and mentally able, but there is no light and I am in a 600 square foot apartment with three other people and a dog.  So, I am writing.  I have been dying to write for the last 48 hours.  Life and adventure continues, and must be recorded:

“Do you think that tire needs air?” I asked my friend.  It was clear the bottom inch of the tire was hugging the ground.  “We have a flat tire!” Blair exclaims when he sees it.  I suggest air.  

We were at the rest stop on the A13 just before Rouen.  I had a sandwich and a cup of coffee at “Paul” to fortify myself until we arrived at the beach in Trouville for a celebratory birthday lunch.  The weather was looking poorly, my arms windmilling wildly to keep my balance on the ice outside the car. 

We  thlunked over to the air machine with our errant wheel.  I pushed the green button as Blair attempted to fill the tire.  “Is that enough?” I asked, my glasses glazed over in the freezing rain.   We really had a flat tire. 

We  telephoned Hertz -- they instructed us to call the assistance number.  Assistance told us to change the tire.  “But there is no spare.”   One half hour later a wrecker, suitable for a tractor-trailer tow, arrived.   “Nope, they don’t even give you a spare tire anymore,” the driver acknowledged as he pulled the car onto the flatbed.   A small man, he had a hydraulic seat that raised and lowered to receive him. 

E climbed the two tall steps into the passenger area, as I lifted Harika over my head and into the cab of the truck.  I hoisted myself up and awaited the trip to the garage, a good 30 minutes hence.   It was becoming clear the best laid plans for the seafood platter at the restaurant on the beach were for naught.   Two hours later, after the tire was plugged, and we said our goodbyes to the garagist, we decided to eat lunch in Gaillon, our current locale.

The city of Gaillon was founded at the end of the 9^th century.  Rollo was the first Viking chief here, holding back the French forces.  Gaillon was the scene of a major battle between Richard the Lion Heart and King Philip II Augustus of France 200 years later. 

The chateau at Gaillon, as we know it now, was built in the 16^th century.  After our lunch, we decided to explore the property, and we walked and threw snowballs at the giant stone structure.  Harika ran around wildly, and I slid down the hill on the back of my jacket.   Blair and M couldn't resist and did it, too. 

Even though my mother (in memory care) and my sisters and I are no longer living in the same house with my father, he continues to rise before 5 AM.  He exercises, has his coffee, looks at the news before his day really begins.    

Blair and I and our guests  go out to see the holiday windows at the Galeries Lafayette and Printemps on New Years Eve, before setting in at Concorde with people from every corner of the globe.  It is a mild midnight, with the Eiffel Tower sparkling.  The Russians open their champagne a minute before the event, just to be sure they are the first.  On the way home a group of people from “all over” hand us poppers and sparklers and we light our way home.