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.”
