Artnotes Italy Daily

Saturday, October 11, 2014

Artnotes: The Comfy Chair

 Under the Pont Neuf   Blair Pessemier   Acrylic/panel  18 x 15"  46 x 38 cm
 Harika and Laurie at Eglise Auvers   Blair Pessemier  Acrylic/linen  21.5 x 18"  55 x 46 cm  SOLD
 Bee Hives in October   Laurie Fox Pessemier   Acrylic/linen  14 x 20"  35 x 50 cm
 Statue and Flowers October   Blair Pessemier   Acrylic/panel  12 x 12"  30 x 30 cm
 Path in Auvers   Laurie Fox Pessemier  Acrylic/panel  12 x 12"  30 x 30cm
 Blair's Water Lilies    Blair Pessemier  Acrylic/panel  8 x 10"  20 x 28 cm
 Along the Seine in October   Laurie Fox Pessemier  Acrylic/linen  10.5 x 14"  27 x 35 cm
 Two flowers Giverny   Laurie Fox Pessemier   Acrylic/panel  18x 15  48 x 38 cm
 Pasha Chair  Laurie Fox Pessemier   Acrylic/panel  16 x 13   41 x 33 cm

ARTNOTES:  THE COMFY CHAIR

When we lived at 28, rue d’Assas in Paris, we had a young friend (about 9 at the time) who always wanted to come over and sit in our “cozy sofa”.  It was a loveseat, made by DesignAmerica, of a streamline style from the 30s.   E loved our cozy sofa, and I had a little knitting machine she would sit there with, by the hours.   Her life was a trifle discombobulated at the time, born in America, lived in Glasgow, then London, now Paris all within the span of her short life.

We have no comfortable furniture now.  We have two exotic “pasha” chairs upholstered in flying carpets, a large Louis XV bergere in white linen, a fuzzy pink boudoir chair,  and a half dozen dining chairs which fight for discomfort at the table.

Like Eliza Dolittle, all I want is a room somewhere far away from the cold night air with one enormous chair, or do I?

My mother took her place in her one enormous chair when she retired and sat there until she died of Alzheimers.  This followed in the steps of my aunt, who did the same thing two years earlier.  Was it the chair?  Did all that comfort make her lose her edge?  Probably not, but I am not sure I am going to get a comfy chair anytime soon.  Comfy chair in moderation.  My father, perhaps thinking the same way as I do, resists sitting in his comfy chair.  He’s 87.

We’ve been out all the days this week, painting:  the usual spots by the river and in the gardens, but also we made a jaunt to Chantilly where we sketched horses in dressage.  Yesterday we were at Auvers sur Oise, where we (not so successfully) tried to channel Vincent Van Gogh.  

I feel dog tired (to coin Harika’s term) after some of these outings, but often it is good-tired.  Tons of fresh air make rosy cheeks.  I think about things like the comfy chair (and, no doubt, Eliza Dolittle needed it – I don’t plan on selling violets anytime soon), and its effect.  We visit with people on the street – “why are only foreigners visiting this place (Auvers)”, a middle-aged American tourist asks.  All young French see this on field trips, I think.  But I tell him,  “Because we can get out and  APPRECIATE IT.  We make it possible.”






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