PAINTING PARIS

COOKING CLASS

2012-01-19T17:22:00.002+01:00

Who IS the boss?

THE HARTFORD CIRCUS

2012-01-13T21:34:00.011+01:00

On July 6th, 1944, there was a horrific fire at the Barnum and Bailey's visit to Hartford Connecticut-a tremendous circus fire that injured or killed several hundred spectators.

My mother, who was just about to give birth to my sister Kathy asked my father to stay home even though the tickets for my two brothers and older sister had already been bought. He did. The Ringling Brother's Barnam and Baily's Circus was banned never to return to Hartford. So, I grew up only dreaming about what a circus could be.

At thirty years old, I attended "The Bombay Circus". I was mostly charmed by the elephants lunching as they swayed to and fro to the loud Hindu music. They were really frolicking. A good memory.

FOR, MY SISTER IRENE

2012-01-11T21:24:00.005+01:00

This is for her birthday, wishing her good luck, Love Mary

POLITICAL DEBATES

2012-01-11T17:57:00.001+01:00

ONE FOR THE ROAD

2011-12-21T17:24:00.004+01:00

MERRY CHRISTMAS

Yes. I believe in Santa.

FATHER AND SON

2011-11-29T19:40:00.002+01:00

Happpy Thanksgiving

2011-11-23T22:39:00.001+01:00

Stained glass

2011-11-10T13:15:00.002+01:00

water color on paper 18x20 cm

from what year I don't know.

THE MAGIC LANTERN

2011-11-08T11:03:00.002+01:00

a small water color that I composed years ago when I still believed in magic

MORE STARS THAN SKY

2011-06-17T11:12:00.005+02:00

from storybook Spencer Teetop learns to Dance

A WATER COLOR

2011-05-06T09:30:00.007+02:00

brush to the water cup. then to choose a color which touches the paper and takes a direction before calling on another color to sit beside or rest at a distance - to come then another laceing around inbetween or above. An image begins. Then... it’s not what I thought I saw after all.

when I reach my destination.

la fin. I am happy. I hold it out and look at it for a long time.

Then a touch here and oui-non another touch.

A water color

Spring Art Show

The American Cathedral

23 avenue George V

Sunday 1 until 5:30

Monday Evening from 6 until 9

PLACES ON THE OTHER SIDE

2011-05-01T17:40:00.009+02:00

click on image and then "diaporama" upper left

For The Spring Art Show 2011, I have chosen a series of recent water colors entitled «places on the other side». Very much in tune with my first abstract work in the early 1970s, they seemed to come to life spontaniously. All I did was hold the brush. A very nice one at that. The saleswoman at Dubois Beaux Arts hipnotized me when she held it up and claimed “This is the finest brush in the world.“ and passed it to me as I passed her my credit card.

Is it the other side of the rainbow? The planet? Reality?

I don’t know. It ain’t here. One can only go there by the images my brush created.

ELYSEE MONTMARTRE

2011-03-27T18:18:00.002+02:00

The historic music hall, Elysee Montmartre was devistated by fire Tuesday morning with over one hundred firefighters called to extinguish the blaze that filled the neighborhood with smoke.

Older than The Moulin Rouge, and birth of The French Can, it was designed by Gustave Eiffel early in the nineteenth century It was in the mist of renovation. It stands just down the street and around the corner from my studio and is dear to nous Montmartois and high on the list of hip hop concerts for the last two decades.

Yesterday afternoon at four o'clock there was a gathering of mourners - at least a thousand or so-from old-timers to spiked haired rap stars and of course camera crews. It was very sad- a wonder I thought how people can love a place.

2011-03-23T18:16:00.000+01:00

IT'S SPRING!

2011-03-20T18:45:00.002+01:00

THE WHITE GODDESS

2010-12-06T12:16:00.007+01:00

"There is something about the moon that makes you want to wonder", I wrote, to began an essay in a writing class when I was nineteen. Professor Butterworth had given us an assignment to attempt "a stream of consciousness" style. I succeeded and was asked to read it to the class.

The day when man set foot on the Alka Selzer in the sky, my wonder-lust was punctured. Not so for my roommate who thought it to be a fitting date to offer her virginity to the guy down the hall. This way, she thought, I'll never forget the date.

The moon has always been with me and I with her. When full and round, I sigh . The first thumb nail - Instant hope.

This fall the Harvest moon was gigantic as it posed on the trees next to the dome Sacre Coeur. I pointed it out to the Sri Lankan boys working in the souvenir shop at the bottom of the hill. One ran with his camera-phone to catch a photo. I asked him what he was planning to do with it.

"Send it to my wife back home." He smiled.

"Doesn't she have the same one?" I inquired.

"Yes." he replied, still smiling.

That was the answer.

"About the first of the night when I had slept my first sleep, I awaked with sudden fear and saw the moon shining bright and seeming as though she leaped out of the sea." Apulius's Golden Ass

I picked up a book at a Rummage sale last Saturday. The White Goddess by Robert Graves.

It is extraordinary and from it I took the title of this post and retitled the above water color.

I found Graves' writing nourishing and magical . Makes me feel in love,

but, don't tell Claudio even when the moon is full.

COLLAGE recent water colors

2010-12-04T12:59:00.003+01:00

THERE IS A SEASON turn turn

2010-11-27T18:07:00.006+01:00

Café de la Paix Warm and Cozy

Bûcherie de la Paix Cold and friendly

There was a time when I braved the bitter cold and painted outside in mid-winter without even thinking about it. And there were days in March when the wind blew so fiercely, my easel fell

a dozen times or more. I trudged on like the mailmen of yesteryear.

Now, I sit happily painting my dream seen water-colors as if that alone is why I was put on this

Earth.

LE BEAUJOLAIS NOUVEAU EST ARRI...STOP THE MUSIC

2010-11-17T23:10:00.039+01:00

"A little Banana..."

"NON."

Stop the music! Wait a second!

I just heard that the Beaujolais Nouveau is not ready.

The third Thursday in November is the offciel date to celebrate since I can remember. When Les Halles was still a hole in the ground and I was doing odd jobs at Mother Earth's on the rue des Lombards,( not the first American restaurant in Paris, but the grooviest),

The wine distributor for Mother's, let me sample it the day before the official designated date.

I still remember his blue overalls, white hair, and red face as he as he unveiled the bottle from

under his jacket - nearly a capital crime.

The festival has since grown to a world wide sensation. some restaurants in New York had it delivered via the Concord - so to be the first.

This year, a vineyard announced that because June was quite cold, the harvest was late. They advised their customers to wait until it's really ready.

What next?

Parties are scheduled in all the cafés in Montmartre just the same and the folk will drink the recently harvested wine

green as it is.

FROM THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

2010-11-15T11:35:00.007+01:00

I spent three weeks in the country this fall in a region appropriately called Le Centre.

Geographically, the center of France. Otherwise, in the middle of no where. Not a one horse town. Many horses grazing on the verdure - nice horses. Nice cows also.

I hope they (the cows) remember me as I remember them - coming up to the fence staring, chewing, emontionless as adolescent boys on a street corner.

There was a wooded area nearby frequented by hunters of wild boar and deer during their season. We were only there for the wild mushroom chase.

There was also a café in this hamlet and a beureau de poste open for a couple hours in the morning, and an eleventh century church which had a service every Thursday.

After three week of detoxing from internet, wine, and friends I was anxious to return home only to find all trains canceled with the rail strike. Real life nightmare and city stress retuned as I eventually did to Montmartre and my love for making images on paper and surfing on the net.

ISA

2010-11-08T16:47:00.010+01:00

She danced in a dream last night.

SUMMER AFTERNOON

2010-06-25T09:06:00.002+02:00

A TREE I MET

2010-06-04T14:34:00.007+02:00

EXHIBITION CAVES DES ABBESSSES

2010-05-22T15:05:00.037+02:00

rue des Abbesses 2001

I'm showing some works that I made in the 'hood' at a very groovy wine bar that I love.

Caves des Abbesses, 43 rue des Abbesses. It is unbeatable. A wine store that has a hidden wine bar, charcuterie - good cheese resto in the back room. Come visit.

Only open in the evening. Saturdays an d Sundays - all day.

Here are some abstract notes from my 1995 move to Montmartre

I had tried not to think about what life would be like after my eventual departure from rue Pierre Larousse. I assumed it was not going to be better and hoped it would not be a whole lot worse. Moving into the little apartment on rue Ravingnon, my apprehensions transformed to ecstasy.

It was as if the best artist of them all had lifted me up between His thumb and index finger and placed me exactly where I should be.

Music. Was I in heaven? Ruby and I had just stepped out the door to the sound of an incredibly powerful saxophone player. I didn’t realize I had such a great musician living so close to me, but, this was Montmartre. Arthur Rubinstein had lived up the hill on rue Orkchamp and the French singer Dalidia down the street from him.

The young musician, as I had imagined him, must have opened his windows to the beautiful spring day. All of rue Ravignon was benefiting to the glory of his gift. With Ruby anxiously pulling me along. I was just approaching rue des Abbesses. I ran into Robert, le patron of Chez Camille.

“He’s really good.” Was my first comment.

“Who?” Robert asked.

“Le saxophonist.”

“Oui, je l’aime beaucoups. Le Duke."

Luckily, I saw the loud speakers attached to a wire that had been stretched across rue des Abbesses.

“What’s that?” I asked him pointing.

“Celebration Village Lepic /Abbesses."

"You’ll get tired of it. It goes on three days and nights."
he murmured with his typical French enthusiasm."

SPRING HAS SPRUNG

2010-03-21T11:18:00.009+01:00

Well, "dank it" the Good Lord said to Paris in springtime. The 21st. There are promising buds and longer days and hope that global warming might find us. This winter was colder than I have ever known in this city of light and lots of snow. Today is grey.

One would think that with all the great sculpture here, they'd know how to make a snowman.

Not a clue. Not fun.

Inevitably, les printemps will come. The beauty. The splendor. Sitting at a sidewalk café. And boys and girls watching each other.

AUNTIE ROSE

2010-02-28T12:55:00.032+01:00

"Auntie Rose" took part in my recent exhibition that I had on the rue des Trois Frères. The water color reminded me of an old-maid-aunt, who wore gloves,and a hat with a veil. She visited us with her companion Margaritte, the first Sunday of every month. We sat on the veranda, drank iced tea, and behaved.

There were some inquiries at the vernissage if I had made a self portrait.

VALENTINE'S DAY

2010-02-14T23:07:00.003+01:00

GONE FISHING

2010-02-12T11:02:00.005+01:00

photo Kevin Hayden

Tied up with my exhibition. It's hell not to be creating.

We are having a small get-together anyway, tomorrow night. Thursday.

All are welcome.

Let me know.

See

paintingparis.blogspot

I'M SHOWING

for details

58 rue des Trois Frères

Metro Abbesses

I'M SHOWING !

2010-01-25T07:27:00.013+01:00

I'm so happy that Jean-Michael Faudmere, the director of La Galèrie 3F, on the rue des Trois Frères invited me to show some recent works at his very lovely Gallery, not far from the famous Bâteau Lavoir in Montmartre. Despite bad econimic times and Paris winter, I am optimistic that my happy paintings will encourage spring to arrive here soon.

Mark your calender.

L'EXPOSITION MARY BLAKE

Le Galerie 3F

58, rue des Trois Frères

Paris 18 eme

from the 10th 'til the 21st of February

vernissage, Wednesday, the 10th from 6 o'clock 'til 9.

M°Abbesses

The Gallery will be open everyday from 2:30 until 7:30.

Closed on Mondays

For more information

mblakeart@gmail.com

BEST WISHES

2010-01-01T13:35:00.003+01:00

Hope you are all well and that 2010 will be the year of years.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxx

xxxxxx

oooooo

Mary

A NEW DECADE time to change something... what?

2009-12-31T11:19:00.019+01:00

Happy New Year

from

and

the

geese.

CHRISTMAS DAY AND NIGHT

2009-12-28T11:50:00.017+01:00

I spent a wonderful Christmas day at Iris'es house, just outside of Paris. We were twenty à table. Anne and Latecia, her daughters, did the preparation and many more were summoned to bring something. I, the only American, was marked for cranberry sauce.

I did some hunting and was warned that in Paris those wild Massachucettes berries are sold one by one.

I found two packets (origin USA) on la rue

des Abbesses at a small Morocan green grocer and prepared the sauce Christmas Eve before Mass and my Café visit. It seemed to be a hit, but everything was good and plentiful including the champagne.

I arrived home early evening and opened the windows to the courtyard right off so that Lucy and Miss Kitty could wander.

Then went back to work on a large abstract painting that I had started a couple of weeks ago.

I was startled when Miss Kitty arrived with my cadeau de Noel. No. not

a mouse, but a tinsel garland from the consierge's Christmas tree.

Six meters long.

I'm not afraid of my consierge. I am afraid to be on her bad side. I thought it was best to replace it in the dark. I stepped out and so did she. I wished her Merry Christmas, then confessed that Miss Kitty had stolen her decoration. She seemed not terribly upset. Perhaps she had had a nice Christmas Day also.

THE MONDAY IN BETWEEN

2009-12-28T10:51:00.005+01:00

CHRISTMAS IN MONTMARTRE 1999

2009-12-24T17:14:00.005+01:00

T’was the night before Christmas

And all through the house,

Kiki was stirring

In search of a mouse.

My paintings were hung

On high walls white,

In hope that a buyer

Was somewhere in sight.

Nina slept soundly,

Curled in her bed,

A tennis ball schredded

Tucked ‘neath her head.

Piles of bills, threats, disconnection

Lay on a box of lemon confection.

Was there no man to take me away

In a big Rolls, on foot, metro or sleigh?

Felix sat upright, with a menaceing stare

“Do something please. The cupbord is bare.”

No hope. No hope. Then a tap on the door.

“Who is it? I asked;

“It’s Oysters Galore.”

I opened the door slowly,

And saw the man smile.

“Come in. Sit down.” I said, “Stay for awhile.”

Then,

Monsieur Galore entered with zest.

“I’ve brought 106 of my very best."

"Don’t worry," he said.

“I have shrimp for the cats.

And for you this cold night,

Two Afgan wool hats.”

The oysters were opened gentley,

so the juice wouldn’t spill

And in two christal glasses,

White wine he did fill.

We ate and we drank.

Then we sank and we sank

into conversation other

than landlord or bank.

“Your paintings are so happy.

You should be too.

It’s sad for your friends

To see you so blue."

Before he left,

He washed all the dishes

Then gave me two

Big salty kisses.

"Good night dear lady,

I’ll see you again,

when I’ve found my sleigh

And you’ve found your pen."

SHOPPING

2009-12-19T18:55:00.017+01:00

"Bags and Scarves"(33x41 cm) acrylic on canvas 2008

Yesterday, my little street in Montmartre was as crowed as Fifth Avenue the day before Christmas.(or the day after Christmas - (Big return - not my size day ) Missing - a loud speaker with Bing Crosby crooning "Silver Bells". I don't think it would work on the accordon.

The plastic shop, with silly gadjets made in China was the biggest hit. Followed by a pretty boutique with scarves and bags. (above)

Safe in my peaceful coatyard, I had but one visitor, my friend Linette. She bought one of my left-handed water colors. "Broken Promises."

TANGERINES

2009-12-18T20:46:00.004+01:00

Bit into a tangerine today. Tasted like Christmas.

ANIMAL CRACKERS

2009-12-13T10:59:00.019+01:00

It snowed in Paris this morning for fifteen and a half seconds. I saw it, because I had just opened my door ever so slightly so that Miss Kitty, now three and a half months old,would not slip out. She usually has freedom of passage to the courtyard, but, I had heard on the radio that there was an extreme drop in the temperature. She squeezed through anyway, but, stunned by the flakes came running back. " Meow! The snow is falling."

THE RAIN

2009-11-03T12:29:00.015+01:00

Staring at the rain,

I saw no more the rain, but
what appeared to be

a thousand silver threads
pulled so tightly,
that when God plucked them
only a fragment of their image appeared.
Beneath the silent earth
Mother Nature was weaving her masterpiece.
Thru the soil she would spin
Sewing up the seam of the dry root of the birch.

Then up the slender trunk

and thru the myriad of twigs,

she weaved with the precision of a Japanese artist.

Upon reaching the highest leaf

She would pause,
Tie a knot, and thread her needle again.

mb 1966

PARIS TREES

2009-08-06T10:31:00.074+02:00

"In a tree, there is a spirit of life, a spirit of growth,

and a spirit of holding its head up."

I recently came across this quotation by artist-teacher-writer, Robert Henri author of The Art Spirit.

Yes. I thought. That's just one more reason why I love Paris.

It's not just "Chestnuts in blossom..." or

why "I miss you most of all my darling..."

Year round, the trees here soothe my soul.

Despite their chorus-line uniformity on some streets and military

symmetry on others, they still soften the stone and marble architecture and make urban life a pleasure. Drawing the trees of Paris became my next passion .

My debutant dip into tree art was in August 1976. I was asked to sculpt a tree au tour de a fat winding pipe on the lower level of Mother Earth's, an American bar-restaurant next to Les Halles when Les Halles was no longer the mother of all markets, but a huge hole in the ground.

When Dennis, the manager of Mother's made the request, I immediately thought that I'd sculpt 'the tree of life'. I was working on a series of water colors at the time, on the creation of the universe - Genesis; one day at a time.

Dennis a beach boy Californian, said "No. We want a palm tree."

I'm a New Englander. I had seen "Gidget goes Hawaii.", but the closest I had ever come to this family of arbor was during Holy Week.

The following day, I began slabbing plaster of Paris all over the large winding pipe. When it dried, I sculpted the form and texture with a steak knife from their kitchen. Then, painted it with different shades of ochre and yellow and added a layer of clear varnish. The palms leaves or sprouts I painted generously on the ceiling.

The consensus was that I had done very well if a giant snake swallowing a parrot was my inspiration. I left on a trip to India a few days later, so was spared an excess of humiliation.

What does this have to do with Paris and trees? Now, I am not drawing the tree of life.

I am drawing the living. Each tree seems to have a unique form and personality despite the excess pruning. It's like what our schoolteachers did to us, and how we survived.

After rendering the local Montmartre trees, I headed down to le jardin Luxembourg and then went on to le Parc Monceau which could be called Picnic City. It was wonderful to see people lounging on the grass.

I met a couple of fellows in the café across the street from me in Montmartre

who said les Buttes Chaumont is The Place. They were right. I arrived on a Sunday afternoon; I thought that I had landed in

paradise. Them were treeze. Mammoth. And so peaceful.

I began drawing and decided it was time to get into bark. Texture. I noted more clearly that some branches had been cut so that others would grow. I thought of Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken".

Then, I thought of my life, a little out on a limb, but at least I chose it.

I hear the trees at Bagatelle are also grand.

Click on Paris Trees at top of side bar,

then click 'plein ecran' or 'full screen' to see the selection

of tree drawings.

THE HAPPY NOSE FOR SALE

2009-08-03T21:16:00.013+02:00

I am delighted to announce the second printing of one of my watercolors.

“The Nose” has been beautifully reproduced by Dubois Beaux Arts and is now available for order by email at AtelierMaryBlake@gmail.com

THE STORY OF “THE NOSE"

This year for The Spring Art Show at The American Cathedral, I exhibited a print along with canvasses and recent watercolors. Rarely do I make reproductions of my work, but I made an exception for “The Nose”. It quickly sold out.

So, on the heels of more requests, I arranged a second printing. It is now available at my atelier or by email at AtelierMaryBlake@gmail.com

The print, is made by Dubois Beaux Arts, using a Giclée ink-jet process for an extremely precise reproduction on 240g Arches watercolor paper which has a beautiful texture and grain. It is mounted for framing in an off-white, acid-free rag mat measuring 40 x 30 cm (15.75” x 11.75”). Each print is signed & embossed.

The price per matted print is 65 € or $90 .

Paypal, direct bank transfer, euro or dollar checks accepted

To order a print of “The Nose”, please email me at:

AtelierMaryBlake@gmail.com

Delivery by mail within 15 days.

BLUE FISH

2009-07-15T12:00:00.033+02:00

I've never wished to change my address, but occasionally I like changing the subject that I paint and less frequently which painting hangs where. Recently, I replaced "pass over" for "blue fish." to the great pleasure of my dinner guests. They liked its new spot also.

I read in last Sunday's Times a drooling story about Maryland Crab. Remembering my degustation of their, better, my delight, I said,

"Today, I will paint a crab."

I had one white canvas smaller than what I would have preferred, but I decided it would do.

Asked by a friend, why I wasn't going to church, I said "gone crabbing."

and headed for the shell fish stand at the café La Mascotte on the rue des Abbesses.

I was examining my prey when the oyster man approached me.

"It's for painting not eating."

That got me off the hook.

I went into the café and chatted with friends.

On my way out, I again studied my models.

The assistant approached me and his boss ran up to my defense.

She just wants to paint them. and smiled.

Only in Paris could one get away with this story.

The shrimp seemed a more tempting subject.

The jumbos were gorgeous and chères.

I selected four and headed home imagining the lay-out for my canvass.

"Do shrimp have a gender?" I thought.

Will I need parental protection?

I stashed the gambas in the freezer and inquired on Google.

Shrimp often have sex changes, I learned, to adjust to the population.

That would work for Montmartre.

I took the gems out and placed them on a very pretty royal blue plate.

Could I eat just one?

No.

KIKI MON AMOUR

2009-06-12T11:32:00.028+02:00

rue Didot back in 1994

I was taken with a tiny kitten sleeping on a bar downstairs from where I lived in the 14th. arrondissement.

Auw. So cute.

Polo, an iconic local drunkard exclaimed, "Donne le à l'americaine".

I said " Non, non, non, non, non."

That's French for "NO!"

Everyone was pleading with me.

Six-weeks-old and the beast already had more stories than me.

One being that a lady friend of Polo's had dropped him in the street.

The 58 bus was rolling by. Kiki escaped the wheels.

This was one of three escapes with earthly life he had managed.

One-night-stand, I thought, as I picked Kiki up off the bar.

Kiki, you understand, was the no-name I gave him, because it was a one-night-stand.

The next evening I returned to the café and who appears? The husband of the lady who dropped Kiki in the street, shouting.

"You've stolen my kitty cat!" .

The guy was big and ugly enough to play a monster in a B movie.

The locals were all in arms.

Polo (very slight, but stern) stood on a stool swaying.

"The kitty stays with Marie."

Everyone fell silent.

It was High Noon at Happy Hour.

Well, Polo got his way.

Kiki, Felix, Ruby, and I moved to Montmartre that winter.

First to rue Ravignan, then to rue Berth. From one window, there, he could watch all the pigeons in the world stationed in an abandoned building. From the other window he could find passage to the ajoining apartment and where he took afternoon naps with a Dorbermin.

He liked the move to rue Tardieu.

He has reigned the courtyard for the last 13 years.

Last Thursday, I saw that he wasn't well.

I had appointments in the afternoon and couldn't find him on my return nor the day after.

By Saturday I was certain he had gone off to die.

I began to write this story-tears streaming down my face; Sunday morning, I had the courage to write another line when I heard a crackling meow behind me.

Kiki had returned. Got some grub, then returned to the courtyard to survey.

Perhaps it's time to give him a name.

THE MORNING AFTER

2009-05-20T05:46:00.051+02:00

Wake up Mary!

You are not the center of the universe!

After The Week-End Exhibition at The American Cathedral, I felt free to do silly things, like laundry, returning a stove top that didn't heat hot, and readjusting to not being so important.

Starting with the easiest task, I headed off to Darty with my two burner electric plate in its original box and bag. The ten minute walk was long enough to rehearse the confrontations I was anticipating.

Somehow, I thought it was my fault, but was confident in Darty's "contract de confiance".

I had returned the same model two months before for a similar under-heating problem. It was an upstairs-downstairs-stand-in-line-procedure.

Again, I was going to have to tell them that I couldn't boil water, which in some language, I can't remember which, means that you're an idiot. But, even an idiot knows that macaroni don't cook in luke-warm water.

First step, was the return desk downstairs.

I waited fifteen minutes with that director on the phone with an irate customer. I could hear her voice blah-blah-blah from his phone. Loud and cranky.

"Why doesn't he just tell her that she's right and he's sorry?" I thought and get on with it or me.

Finally, her time ran out.

My turn.

I learned that it was "normale" that my hot plate didn't heat hot and I could replace it.

He gave me the necessary papers.

Upstairs, I was happy to see that the former aloof nineteen-year-old snobby salesgirl had been replaced. The new one, a very tall young woman with bad posture was in conversation with another customer. She was holding her hand on her chest.

I first took it as a sincerity gesture.

When my turn came, she smiled and said "Bon Jour."

She seemed refreshingly sweet - sort of with a smile and an ear of a pastor.

She continued to hold her hand on her chest during our conversation.

I asked her if she was in pain.

She said "Yes."

Next extraordinarily impolite question I asked was

"Are you pregnant?"

She said "no".

So not heart-burn.

Her pain came from "une ulcère."

She then, encouraged me to buy an upscale model hot plate.

She said that they had had many returns with the one I had first chosen.

"Then, why don't they stop selling them?"

"I don't know." she said still holding her chest.

"Have you seen a doctor?" I asked.

She said, "Yes."

Then, I remembered my ulcer story and told her.

About twenty-five years ago, I had an ulcer in the same place.

I saw a specialist. Then a homeopath. I changed my diet then

my doctor. Late one night there was a knock at my door.

I was living in New York at the time.

It was a former boyfriend that had up and left me to marry "the perfect woman."

I told him that he couldn't come in. He pleaded and announced that his marriage was over.

I finally relented telling him only because it might be good for the ulcer pain and put my hand on my chest. He said,"You have a pain, too?"

She was nodding waiting for the outcome.

The ulcer went away, but so did I and came back to Paris.

My new stove top is working well. Hot. Hot. Hot.

Painting from India water color series "Bombay" 1976

Fugi photo colors on Canson.

WHAT'S 'N TOWN?

2009-05-15T06:55:00.017+02:00

This is one event not to miss -

Sunday afternoon from 1 o'clock until 5:30, and Monday evening, from 6 until 9, artists from The American Cathedral reveal their talent exhibiting their recent works. There is a lot to be explored. We all know that living in Paris has a special effect on our artistic spirit. Here we can see it in many forms of expression.

I'm not promoting it just because I'm showing some recent canvases, water colors, and prints that are bound to dazzle; it is always a great event.

"PASSOVER" acrylic on canvas 38 x 46cm.

OH, I SEE

2009-05-10T07:44:00.026+02:00

I had been grossly negligent about upgrading my eyeglasses having stupid priorities on my agenda instead.

Then one morning, while taking a bath, (the only waking moment that I don't have them on), I realized that there was a hugh difference between the vision from my left eye and the vision from the right one.

Worried for the worse, I sought medical assistance finally settling for an ophthalmologist on rue des Abbesses. His receptionist was a long time neighbor of mine so he wasn't completely out of the blue.

When I arrived at his office last Friday, there were three people already waiting to see him. The receptionist,my neighbor, had taken the day off to make the week-end longer and her week shorter.

I had an image in my head of what a specialist looked like, so was surprised when a very cute, wiry young man emerged to call his next patient.

He announced that I was third in line. That was fine for me. It would give me time to run home and get my iron. His shirt definitely needed pressing.

When my time came, he directed me into what I thought was his office,but, in fact, was a small elevator. I gasped when he enterd close behind me, then, laughed as we began to move slowly upward.

In his small office that looked down on the street was an enormous seeing eye machine.

He posed me in place then looked into the machine that looked into my eyes. He told me that my pressure was fine and also announced that I had the beginning of cataracts, but, not to worry.

He then began to slide a great number of lenses in front of each eye.

"Better or worse?" Over and over again. He made a notation, then told me that I should get new glasses. That I knew. He also suggested that I wear them less.

"Really?" I replied.

"Your right eye has nearly corrected itself." he said as I handed him my carte securite sociale

"It's nearly perfect."

So, after twenty years of limited vision, I can see all around me. It's a wonderful sensation.

" Groovy." I thought crossing La Place Etoile at The Arc de Triophe.

Trees all around me.

More incredible is that I needed a specialist to see that I saw.

Drawings from unpublished storybook SPENCER TREETOP LEARNS TO DANCE

THE SHADOW AND LA RUE DE LA BONNE

2009-04-28T20:34:00.037+02:00

A gentleman I met while painting Le Théâtre de L'Atelier urged me to consider the view of Sacre Coeur from rue de la Bonne on the other side of Montmartre.

He said that the perspective from that corner was magnifique. He added that no one would bother me there. I guess he assumed that the people interrupting my work to ask directions bothered me. I didn't tell him that what bothered me the most was ADVICE.

He was convincing all the same.

I took my equipment up the hill and half way down rue Lemarck without even a pre-view. At least no one was going to ask me how to get to La Moulin Rouge, I hoped.

The view was not extraordinary. He must have had a sentimental experience here, I thought, as I set up my easel between two motor cycles. I blocked out the composition with some blue paint, still wondering why.

Two male meter maids approached me. Just to spy.

Next came a woman looking for her car. She had parked it near a stairway. There are about ten that surround the great basilica on the hill. She forgot the name of the street, but remembered there were two words in it.

I looked down at her child and said.

"This is your mother?"

"Oui." She sadly confirmed.

I returned to the famous spot the following day and the day after, still wondering what was going to set my work apart from other neighborhood paintings until the Paris haze sunk and a shadow appeared which made all the difference.

THE GROWING LEAVES

2009-04-25T12:40:00.035+02:00

While painting Théâtre de l'Atelier, a passer-by stopped and stood behind me for an unusually long time. What was really unusual was that he didn't ask me for directions.

I finally turned and saw a middle-aged medium height tax inspector type eyeing my painting with some scrutiny. He was carrying a clip board, with notes already jotted down.

I wondered what was on his mind.

"Très Poetique", he finally sighed.

I was surprized.

"Oui, mais..." I winced.

"Mais, quoi?"

He seemed concerned.

"I have a problem." I confessed. "I started the painting just as the leaves were sprouting tiny lime-green dots. Thousands of them. It was great. Within the next couple of days the leaves opened. The shadows on the cobble stone looked like dancing butterflies."

"Then it rained for three days and was cloudy for three more. The leaves kept growing. It was terrible. Now they are a darker green and I can't see the theater. I would love to have those few days back."

"They're right there." he said looking at my canvas and left making a small notation on his clipboard.

HOME SWEET HOME

2009-04-17T13:51:00.041+02:00

BACK IN PARIS

I'm so happy to be back home - sleeping in my own bed, in a town that understands my accent and I understand theirs - where my cats roam freely about the courtyard and every face in my neighborhood is familiar in the morning and foreign in the afternoon.

I was finally able to finish La Boucherie de la Paix

on rue d'Orsel - a painting that I had started last winter.

The butcher was quite pleased as was his charming assistant. It's probably the first time someone made a painting of his sadly isolated shop.

The lady from the dress shop behind me was not so pleased. She shook her door mat a few times so the wind blew the grit in my direction. I got the picture and moved my easel out of her aim and merrily painted on.

See La Boucherie de la Paix - click on flashing box PARIS PAINTINGS on the side panel.

THE MOUNTAINS

2009-04-14T22:34:00.051+02:00

I don't ski nor alpine, but my mountain experiences have given me a bird's eye view of beauty incarnate.

Take the Himalayas.

Every morning during a month-long-stay in Dharmasala, I'd open my door and watch a bird-of-paradise taking off swirling his tail feathers as he glided down the valley over the rhododendron trees.

I began painting birds and continued for three years.

Eventually, I had to count on subway excursions to the Bronx Zoo to inspire my palette.

The night voyage crossing the Andes in a rattling bus from Lima to Santipo only taught me how to pray.

The morning decent on a muddy road into the Amazon jungle was as lush as a Gauguin painting and as floral as Henri Rousseau could imagine.

I still remember the awe from discovering the iridescent crystal blue frost in Val d'Isere - the French Alps' luxury ski resort where I au paired thirty-five years ago.

As for the Pryrenees, I had only seen them on television following Lance Armsrong peddling LaTour de France. During my sejour in Orthez, I wastold that if I went to Pau, (pronounced Po) I could see THE ENTIRE CHAIN OF MOUNTAINS. I was game.

I made a reservation at the train station and was surprized to see how near it was to Orthez which was only hilly at the most. I imagined being taken up a ski lift type funiculair. The one for Sacre Coeur rises only about twelve stories.

I brought along gloves and a scarf and regretted not having taken my boots down to Orthez.

I was assured that the mountains were still snow capped. I arrived in Pau in less than a half an hour. The funicular was there and waiting. I was surprised to see it was even shorter than the one in Montmartre. I boarded it and up we went to Le boulevard des Pyrenees where I was told I could see THE ENTIRE MOUNTAIN CHAIN.

I reached the top hill in about a minute and a half, already a little suspicious.

Tout suite, I turned around on the balcony and beheld some hills.

It looked sort of like southern Pennsylvania in the winter - not alive with the sound of music.

The sun was out , but it was quite hazy.

I sadly surmised that THE ENTIRE MOUNTAIN CHAIN was behind the hills behind the haze.

It didn't stop me from taking my grief to the Tourist Bureau in the center of town.

When the perky hostess greeted me and asked how she could help. I told her I was looking for les montagnes in the same tone someone would ask looking for le beureau de post.

She looked at me.

Yes, I told her that I had been told that if I came to Pau, I could see all of the Pyrenees.

She said, "No mountains today. Here is a guide of the town."

Perhaps I'd like to visit Le Chateau Henry IV ?

I thanked her.

So I saved the mountains for another day.

I visited the chateau and learned about the lusty life of a 16th century king.

As I climbed the grandiose spiral staircase, the view of no mountains got better.

Must have been wonderful back then - when the sun was shining.

Leaving by the back door as probably most of his mistresses did, I walked into the middle of a demonstration by the locals seeking to preserve the very unique Bearn language.

I decided to march with them clapping my hands and trying to chant the slogans. Whatever they were saying, I did not know.

Reaching the Town Hall, we called for the mayor, who did not show his face, so we all booed.

It was great fun.

I stepped aside when they began to sing and returned to Le Boulevard des Pyrenees. The late afternoon light revealed an irregular line across the horizon. It looked like a cardiogram.

My cardiogram. My heart beat to know they were there.

WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE

2009-03-28T14:46:00.050+01:00

Orthez is a small town in the southwest Bearn region of France. A female resident would be called une Bearnaise like the famous sauce which was not created here, but, by the chef of a regal Saint Cloud restaurant. He was un Bernais. This area has only been a part of France for the last four centuries.
I had gone to mass on Easter Sunday at the town's 12th century church, Saint Pierre d'Ortez, a couple of years ago. With a pronounced Bayonne accent, I wasn't at all sure what language the preacher was speaking. He was very convincing all the same.
The river, Le Gave, runs along the edge of town. Crossing Le Pont Neuf (built a century ago) you can view Le Vieux Pont which dates back to the 13th century. Water, water, under the bridge. Fantôms, love stories, family feuds, and religious wars all under the bridge. We're not counting the fish. Le Gave is renowne for its river trout and salmon. They are all upstream, sans doute.

Orthez was not spared la grande tempête that devastated the region in January. Walking up the hill to a nearby park, I saw giant oaks literallly uprooted. There were others that seemed untouched. And still others that had only been split at the top (I knew what that was all about) .
Work clearing up the debree was still in progress. I examined the rings of a fallen trunk that had been chain sawed for transport. I began counting the rings. First tediously, then, by groups of tens. It had stood for more than a hundred and fifty years.

La Fontaine's fable "The Oak and the Reed" Le Chêne et Le Roseau"came to mind. Then, Jean Anouilh's parody written three centurys later. raised my spirits.
parafrased
The oak tells the sassy reed.
"Yes, it's true that I can not bend like you.. .And, if a great wind blows, I could be knocked to the ground, but, I am still an oak. Je suis toujours un chêne."

I spoke with the guardian of the grounds.

"You must have been heart broken."

He nodded . "Oui."

Futher up the hill I saw that three new trees had been planted attached to polls for support.

I went back down the hill now crossing Le Vieux Pont.

"Je suis toujour un chêne." I thought.

SHAKE A TAIL FEATHER

2009-03-23T15:07:00.023+01:00

My neighbgorhood is always full of people visiting Paris, or Paris people looking for the Marché Saint Pierre. I have become a professional direction giver - one of the purist jestures one can offer.

Now, it was my turn to take a trip. I was off to The Southwest of France. Land of country ham (Bayonne) Nice Pigs. mountains, inimitable accents, body surfers and peace.

Leaving the Gare Montparnas, I felt a surge of happiness. The seat next to me was empty which was fine for my bags, but, a little boring for the, despite the lush of the bucolic flashes zooming by. Hills. Cows. Sheep. The max.

After three hours we arrived at la Gare Saint Jean Bordeaux. A young man boarded with a back pack and a skate board . A grown up with a skateboard and his place was next to me.

He arranged his gear in the overhead and took the window seat next to me. We gabbed about everything from art to Obama and why a skate board was a good means of transportation.

As the train began to roll through Les Landes my concentration became diverted. I was stunned by the the sight of the trees devistated by the of the violant storm that had hit the region in January. I moaned and gasped. He didn't turn to look out once once.

L'arriveé Ortez, my destination, panicked me. Time to shake a tail feather. A short stop, for this small 12th century town. I didn't even have time to give The Happy Traveler my blog address.

"LA PORTE!"

2009-02-28T11:40:00.018+01:00

I'm beginning to get the picture. My precious fans following this blog think paintingparis is my site. (my store)

I don't like the word blog, but that's what it is. I delight in putting words together as much as color. I'm presenting a glimpse of ma vie artiste. And mind you. every artist's life is different. Most of them difficult. As with my painting, I show the more amusing side. For me, that's art. Or, that me.

There is a place where I sell my paintings, aside from exhibitions, word of mouth, and bribery. mblakeart.com . It has a collection of my abstract water colors dating back from 1974 to present. Abstract canvasses. And a selection of my recent Paris paintings. I hate to sound vulgar but, the prices are noted under "tariffs".

I had a client here last week who wanted a certain painting. I think she was standing on her head when she read the price. When I told her it was 1,200 €, she ran out the door. I had another woman contact me interested in the canvas "l'eau de vie". She decided that it was more important to send her son to college. It's true the economy is bad. It showed at Christies' last week. 375 million Euros for the late designer Yves Saint Laurent's collectin of art - dresses not included.

This is just to let you know that my door is open at mblakeart.com

and my studio.

The weather is mild in Paris. I'm I'm my way out to finish a painting of a butcher shop on rue d'Orsel. Visit me sometime.

THERE WAS A SNOW...

2009-02-16T16:13:00.019+01:00

There was a snow in Paris last week.

Walking down rue Steinerque on my way to Chez Ed, I saw a white speck falling from above.

"Must be a pigeon feather." I thought.

Then, again, it was a bit too white to be pigeon and, believe me, there are no swans in Montmartre.

A few more floated down (or a few more down floated)

Having obtained my groceries, and hoping I had chosen the right flavor for my cats, I headed up to my house, now realizing it was snow.

Within seconds the flakes turned to confetti.

The glib marché Saint Pierre shopkeepers came out amazed all looking up and smiling.

A young American tourist said, "It's snowing in Paris."

A monumental statement.

For a second, I thought about the opening scene from Fellini's Amacord with milkweed filling the air and everyone yelling "Primavera, Primavera."

Then, I thought about the Democratic Convention.

It was an event.

I grew up in Connecticut. I know about snow. These flakes were the biggest and most beautiful

I had ever seen.

I passed by the crepe maker at Café Kakoo who was also gawking.

Everyone except Peter Pigeon, who took advantage of the event. He swept down and stole the topping off the crepe.

Seconds later, it was over. The snow. The crepe. But not for Peter.

Happy he had outwitted all of us.

Mary

The Saint Valentine's Day Mass Cure 2009

2009-02-14T10:20:00.008+01:00

I'm sending all of you a copy of my famous "kiss drawing" with permission to copy (not sell)

and to offer it to someone.

Love,

Mary

A DOG IS BORN

2009-02-05T02:36:00.020+01:00

Nina was born next to Chez Camille, the hot spouse pour la nuit or singles' bar on rue Ravignon in Montmartre. It was puppy love. Warren, an eight-month old eager beagle-terrier had swooned Lola a ten month old Pyrenees-bearded collie unknown to Céleste their mistress, who owned yet another dog, three cats, and a pet mouse. I had been six months without Ruby. The stars guided me to her store-front studio when I heard the news.

I got Waren's and Lola's approval - lick- lick...lick-lick-lick. Four weeks later, Céleste called to tell me that Lola had run out of milk. Celeste had run out of patience. It was time. With a mop in one hand, she bent down and handed me Nina Suprema. I took her down the street to The Café Saint Jean and presented her to my friends. Then we went home and I explained what a newspaper is for. She understood. She ate and drank, then sank into her new bed. There was a little weeping so I slept downstairs next to her bed the first night.

Nina became the cherie of the neighborhood.

Tourists loved her also. The name, "Nina" works in almost every language. So when I heard, "Bella carni." It was surfice to say, "Nina."

I'd hear back, "O Nina. Bella carni."

The Japanese would cry out, "Benji, Benji." Thousands took photos.

With some regret, I taught Nina to fetch. A thousand and one tennis balls later, she learned how to pitch. A south paw. And she was good.

Nina leapt in the air when Olivia de Havilland came to visit my studio, and gave her a kiss without touching her pretty dress.

"This dog is made for the cinema." Miss de Haviland announced.

"No." I told her.

She was made for me.

A DOG part 1

2009-02-03T11:14:00.026+01:00

I had a frayed childhood. Youngest and fairest of five, I had no say. I wanted to watch Princess Summer-Fall-Winter-Spring - Howdy Doody's girlfriend. No amount of whining could make my brother Johnny budge from The Tex Pavel Show. Older brother, Walter, left me for the seminary when I was five.

He told me thirty years later that I had cried and that he felt bad.. "Too late" I told him.

My sister, Katherine, a licensed psychotherapist, giggled when she announced that Santa Clause didn't exit. What did she know?

Luckily my parents were loving, and there was my best friend my "Pal" a hound dog mutt with character.

To be an artist, one must have a God-like sense of power, at least while creating. With Pal, who was privileged to have his own arm chair in the living room next to the radiator, I had control. I taught him everything he knew. "Sit."and "Shake." and also told him my gripes while sitting on the warm floor beneath him.

My teen-age years were far more shallow. I only thought about boys. I had a part-time job at the local library and took a liking to poetry. I read and memorized poems at night. Rarely opening a text book. That irked my parents, for I was now in a private school, but I think they figured that I was incorrigible.

FAST FORWARD 1981

I'm in my early thirtys, back from Paris and a painter with some accomplishments and travel. As for boys, boys, boys, I figure that I've been disappointed too often and lied to in every

language, so I head off for the A.S.P.C..A.

There, I found Ruby, among many howling contestants. The tag on her cage said "lost in the Bronx". I gave the custodian thirty dollars for this pretty mostly boarder collie. The used leash was

included. We walked home in the snow she looking up at me every three or four trots.

Ruby had been abandoned and feared the same fate for her next fifteen years. Her last seven years she spent in Paris.

Lucky for her with all the good sniffs and the tolerance the French have for their canine.

Unlucky for fluffy white poodles , and their mistresses.

They were not her brand. Must have been something from her puppyhood.

MONDAY

2009-01-19T14:33:00.003+01:00

LA VIE EST BELLE

2009-01-18T05:38:00.011+01:00

The Ar tic cold has passed leaving more familiar misty drizzle. I am happy having received four back issues of The New Yorker. Old news is still good news for Metro rides, super market lines and under the covers which is where I go.

My both bed lamps are on the blink so I'm obliged to carry a very tall floor lamp to my mezzanine and pose it diagonally across my bed.

Yesterday, my friend Méano came to visit. Not seeing any light through my "French doors", he panicked.

It wasn't "tap-tap."

It was "tap-tap-tap... tap-tap-tap...tap-tap-tap."

I desended my stairs, floor lamp under arm like a gladiator and opened the door and responded to all inquiries.

The circus is in town. The famous Cirque d'hiver

I bet they have lights.

PERFECT SPRING DAY

2009-01-14T10:07:00.008+01:00

Bees buzzed

Flowers of every color proudly opened their petals...

for tonight...

Just a page from my unpublished storybook until I finish my up-to-date-grim-Paris-suffering- artist story. Five to one, I caught you all off guard.

Love,

Mary

VIRTUAL MONEY

2009-01-03T14:51:00.023+01:00

Oh, I'm rich. Virtually rich

I made the inconceivable (or unforgivable) transition into the 21st century by selling a painting on line. Better put, a lovely lady from Iowa bought a water color from my new site www.mblakeart.com and convinced me that PAYPAL was a good means to transfer money.

My banker did not disagree.

The manipulations, after two or three tries were easy. PAYPAL accepted me and my bank address. My client, five time zones east, made the transfer. Bingo. My PAYPAL account was credited.

So it was out on the town, or my local café for me.

Everyone remarked that I seemed very happy.

"Oui," I said glowing, "J'ai une compte Paypal"

Marco, an old acquaintance remarked, "Oui Paypil tres bien."

The others just seemed happy that I was in a good mood.

The next morning I checked my bank account on line, but, didn't use the right code. No second chance. I will be sent a new code. Still not discouraged, I took my new bank card out and headed for the closest cash machine which promptly swallowed it.

The next day I received an email from PALPAL asking me to enter four digits to confirm my bank account. I clicked, but only found two spaces. How to squeeze? I don't know.

2009 Gloom and Doom

2009-01-02T11:41:00.016+01:00

Gloom and doom is on everyone's lips but mine.

Here is a drawing from one of my unpublished children's stories.

Spencer Treetop Learns To Dance.

Spencer finally learns.

Not alone, mind you, but, with the help of, Emily the chickadee, Moe the owl, Nellie Nightingale and his pal from the middle branches, Felix Faxton. He survives the winter, as all of us will.

Much Love and Happy New Year.

Mary

A CHRISTMAS CAROL part 2

2008-12-25T07:29:00.014+01:00

A Dose of Christmas to come.

Fearing no solution for my inevitable eviction, I married an investment banker and we moved to Greenwich Connecticut. It was Christmas Eve. The house was full with friends and neighbors dressed up for a movie set.

They were all so rich. It was terrible.

My husband kept saying, "And she's such a good cook."

I had tears in my eyes. I couldn't see Nina. It was snowing outside. I didn't know where I was.

The phone rang.

It was Iris. "How do you make your cranberry sauce?" She asked, not realizing she had brought me back to Paris.

Merry Christmas to every one - Connecticut, California, Nantucket, _____ it, Uptown, Downtown, Green, Red, laid-off, paid-off, Madoff, and the English lady upstairs who doesn't speak to me anymore. Merry, Merry, Christmas.

With love,

Mary

A DOSE OF CHRISTMAS PAST

2008-12-21T10:00:00.033+01:00

T'is the season for nostalgia.

HO. HO, HO - On y go!

FAUCHON AND THE HARD HATS written 1993 - revised today

I wasn't making a fortune with my Paris painting post cards at five francs a shot, but it was a catalyst to get commissions. Gérard, an ex-rugby player, who owns a wine store on rue Gergovi

seemed very interested. He wanted to offer a Christmas gift to a friend who was a big wheel at Fauchon. Could I make a painting of the store?

A few years back, Gérard had bought a watercolor from me. It took him forever to pay me. Big man. Small pockets. I raised an eyebrow when he proposed a deal. He assured me that he was serious.

Fauchon on La Place Madelin is the Rolls Royce - Tiffany's of all food stores in the world. I visited and observed it as a victim for my next work. The building was not very attractive. Worse. There was a construction site nearly in front with cranes dangling high and wide.

Not inspired, I decided to window shop. I gazed at their strawberries. Jewels.

The vitrine marked CHARCUTERIE was exquisite. Nearly no one was able to pass with out pausing to admire all the gems en gelée. That was going to be my next painting.

I returned the following morning equipped to begin. The doorman saw me setting up and inquired if I had authorization. I nodded. I was still tightening the bolts of my easel when the floor manager approached me.

"C'est pour vôtre chef. " I announced straight-faced. "Christmas present."

" A bon?" he replied.

Then added sheepishly, "It's a surprise."

He asked me if I needed anything. "Only water." I told him and pulled out an empty tin can from Leader Price marked "haricot verts".

He gestured for me to follow him. I was dressed to paint and stay warm not to visit Fauchon. The salesmen were all in tuxedos. The clientele in fur. I was led to a back room where there was a not-so-pretty sink. He told me to help myself when needed .

I thanked him and returned to the sidewalk to work.

"I am an abstract painter with an abstract mind who paints outside, for the experience." I said to myself as I tried to construct the composition with blocks of color. My water become murky. I dumped it and meekly entered the store.

The overly slick haired salesmen who had been observing my struggle from their warm interior gave me a friendly nod.

"There are human beings behind those penguin suits." I thought.

One, white gloved, slender and handsome serving champagne to the fancy clientele offered me une coupe.

"I'm not a customer.' I told him.

"Neither am I ." he replied and handed me a glass.

I placed my tin can on his mahogany bar and began to sip the vintage bubbly. The fortuneteller in the Par Har Gange Bazaar came to mind.

"You are a lucky girl." he had crooned to me with his dark glaring eyes many moons ago.

I thanked White Gloves and offered him one of my post cards.

Yellow cranes, a blue sky and part of l'eglise Madéline were all reflected in the store front

window. I was trying to work on the play of color between the exterior and interior. Meanwhile, "Pa ra pum pum," The Little Drummer Boy and other Christmas Caroles amplified from a lamp post. Ra ta ta ta behind me from the construction site melled with all the languages of the world passing by.

Then, CRASH, BOOM.

The barrier between the construction site and the Fauchon valet parking collapsed splattering the privileged cars with mud. Pa ra pum pum. Ra pa pum pum.

A tuxedo came out of the store and was greeted by a hard hat. There was a discussion. No shouting. Another tuxedo. Another hardhat until there were at least twenty men clearly divided by profession and physical make-up looking, pointing, and discussing the mess. Out came the sponges. The cars were washed and polished immaculately.

The following days were less dramatic. Many people asked me if my painting was for sale. Regrettably, I told them "no".

Finally finished and signed, I brought it over to Gérard.

"But I wanted the whole store."

"The whole store would not have been a good painting."

He said to come back in three days. He was working.

"You don't think this is work." I shouted.

I walked out slamming the the door miraculously not breaking the glass.

When I got back home, I began searching for the address of an American lady who wanted a painting of her building. To my great surprise, I found it and gave her a call. She invited me over.

LA GARE SAINT LAZARE...Rats

2008-12-04T11:25:00.013+01:00

With the dankest December in many years I decided to plant my easel inside. I came across a canvas that I had started this summer and was surprised that it seemed much better than when I had put it aside. Perhaps because there was more light in it than the whole Paris sky.

I worked on the oeuvre gently yesterday and first thing this morning trying to resolve the composition. It reminded me of a water color I had made in the eighties which I had entitled "La Gare Saint Lazare" and had sold it to a couple in New York.

I have painted that rail station from Le Pont Europe several times. So has someone called Monet I learned later.

I adore seeing words on paintings (I like words period) so decided to paint "St Lazare" on the work. So pleased, I signed it.

Then told Nina, who had sneaked up on my bed, it was time for a walk.

I was feeling quite good. I bundled up and headed for Le Café de Thêatre to see Marie and have a cafè. She was in the middle of a delivery and in a bad mood. I waited patiently for the counter newspaper, Le Parisian, to be free, but was disappointed to learn that there was a big scare of rat infestation tailed with a disease at the famous Gare Saint Lazare.

The Chinese fortune teller came to mind, who told me I was going to have badruck this year.

I asked him what was badruck.

He said, "You know, Good ruck. Bad ruck."

IRIS AND LA PLACE CLICHY

2008-11-28T12:32:00.014+01:00

I visited my friend Iris yesterday. She lives in Boulogne just outside of Paris.She called to tell me that she had a surprise. Something about a coat.

The surprise was really an old drawing I had made in 1975 that she had recently dug up.

Iris is a "sentimental saver" and her walls show it.

Some people throw away flowers when they are limp. If a good friend has offered her a fine bouquet she will not dump it until each petal is brown and moldy. She is that way with objects and photos... and friends.

The drawing, made on a shirt cardboard with a scratch pen was of a scene on La Place Clichy. I was living in a maid's room near by at the time on la rue Amsterdam completely focused on my abstract water colors.

I made it for someone who was looking for someone to illustrate his children's book series.

It didn't meet with his approval, but he added with his rejection. "You'll never get anywhere with this crap (my water colors) why don't you paint clowns?"

What astonished me about seeing this drawing was how it revealed "life on the bench" in 1975.

The man is opening a can of sardines. At that time a special key was necessary and

most clochards possessed one. The pigeon friendly woman still exits somewhere in the sky.

And the working woman on her lunch break would no longer be reading Le Figaro.

Time has passed and I have yet to paint a clown.

LUCY IN THE SKY

2008-11-11T07:38:00.021+01:00

Spring a year ago. Doom on the horizon. I was on the brink of loosing my studio -lodgement. The last thread of hope was a delay at Le Palais de Justice the following month. Not only was I about to lose the place where I hung my hat and my paintings - my Montmartre neighborhood ...and what would happen to my animals? Nina, pink-nose- bearded collie -terrier- beagle. Kiki - no name because I was only going to watch him for the night fourteen years ago, and little Lucy the noctonbulle. Every time I passed someone sleeping on a cardboard box, a shrill ran up my spine. I gave Iris, my longtime friend, a call to confirm that I was coming for a visit.

"Tiens, Tiens" she began. "Do you remember my neighbor Marie Ange who owned the flower shop next to me?" I had a vague recollection of a blond lady with a little dog whose shop was in my painting of la place where Iris lived.

"Well we crossed paths this morning." Iris announced.

"And I told her that she had a sad face." Iris'es franglais.

"Yes." she admitted that she was upset." I will be losing the guardian of my country house at the end of the month and I'm very worried."

"I may have someone for you." Iris assured her, thinking of my dreadful plight." She will be visiting me this afternoon."

Marie Ange arrived minutes after I walked up the steps at Iris's house.

with an airiel veiw of her chateau in her pocket. I had imagined a cottage.

There was a small farmhouse on the property. That's where I would live

and I 'd take care of the colombiere or birdhouse. There were also a few hens and a rooster of course, and I would have to gather the eggs, and bail the hay for her two donkeys.

Iris,who has known me for thirty years, glared at me as I nodded.

Madame la florist Marie Ange was going there the following week-end and I could come along in the car. I didn't know the region. It wasn't far from Orleans two hours south of Paris.

The transportation plans changed. I was to call Claude who was one of her guests for the week-end. He and

his wife lived close to the boulevard Saint Germain des Pres. I offered to meet them near Les Deux Magouts, but he insisted on picking me up.

I told him that I lived au pied de Sacre Coeur. The rendez-vous was set for 11 o'clock.

I guess because they were high class, they thought I lived on the top of the hill and not in le Marché Saint Pierre by saying "at the foot"... had always worked. There was some confusion with me running up the twelve flights of steps, and Claude running down then up again, but we finally found each other and to his car.

I met his lovely wife Chantal and a beautiful old black Labrador both planted in the back seat. We were then off to My New World. Finally out of Paris he alerted Marie Ange by mobile phone that we would be arriving a little late which lowered the stress.

I normally prefer speaking French as accented as it is to French people, but Claude's English was perfect. We had good chats and we knew people in common. He had a law degree from Yale. I was impressed.

We arrived just as others were coming back from the market. All hands we busy preparing lunch which was on the patio. We were twelve. All of us in our early sixties.

There was a second Chantal who occupied with the table settings. She was an expert decorator she told me and was worried that the table clothe did not match the tableware, but had placed some flowers strategically to balance the disproportion.

Lunch was leisurely and conviale. somewhere between a Claude Leluche screenplay and an Oscar Wilde script. They had known each other since adolescence and the sometimes not so nice joking showed it.

Marie Ange did not let on why I was à table, which made the scene more surreal.

Then it was time to and see farmhouse and visit the property.

"You can find some boots under the stairs."

"I think these shoes will be okay. looking down on my e

arth brown walking shoes..

"They won't protect you from the snakes."

I found my size and slipped into them. My head was buzzing.

She got his dog and put him on a leash. A very big German Shepard. He pullled Marie Ange across the field.

I met the guardian along with his wife and children. Their dog, a springer spaniel, had been condemned to his cage.

Marie - Ange was furious that tiles from the birdhouse roof were becoming detached. There are too many. She caught a fat white pigeon and squeezed

ed it from the back of the neck - I watched his mouth open very wide, then his neck slumped over She lay him down and then found another unlucky roof dweller. "I'll freeze them she announced after she had made a pile. Then, she ordered her guardian to take cafe of it, and we were off to the woods to see how the treehouse was coming along.

"Oh that'd be a good place to live", I thought," if I could manage all the prickles." .

Far ahead of me by now, she announced regret for not having brought her machete.

I agreed.

She was pleased on arriving at the tree house and immediately tested the ladder. It was her cache for hunting season. Maybe, she get a moose.

We walked around the etuve (the small lake) and heard a goose wooing.

"Not the season."

Then the answer. "The gander."

"Oh le pauve." He had been killed by a fox or some roving night animal.

Marie Ange promised the wooing goose that she would buy another one for her on the quai next week.

"The goose loosing her gander."

I certainly knew that story.

We separated into groups and walked long and told tales about each other along the way.

By the time we got back to the house I was beginning to understand the strange events that had brought this entourage together. Circumstance and tragedy.

Some of the couples rested while I helped Marie-Ange prune her rose bushes and weed a bit. She complained often about picking up small pieces of fur. The owl on the roof was a persistent night predator. He regurgitated what he couldn't digest.

"Oh my Lucy", I thought and imagined her being swept up the first night.

Marie Ange was basically prepared for the dinner. Either she or Patrick, her companion had prepared a ragout. It had been marinating since morning.

"Where were the other dogs - the old lab and a white fuzzy-"

"They didn't get along with hers."

Another account was that he had killed at least three dogs.

Other guests began to arrive. I encouraged Marie-Ange to change or at least take off her boots.

She told me to go to to the living room and talk with the others.

I'd do my best.

There was a gentleman across the room who could have posed for The New Yorker when it was hyper WASP. Combed Vaselined hair perfectly parted. The ascot. Good posture as he held his glass. When our turn came to talk and I told him that I was an artist, his whole demeanor changed.

"You see," he revealed, " I am a bourgeois" (which means more like - I'm from a rich family. if you say it in French.

"When I was young, I use to love to draw. I wanted to be an artist, but, I looked at the numbers.

I chose banking and promised myself that when I retired I would paint. "Well. two years ago, I retired and set up a studio. And I learned...It's not so easy."

I nodded. The week-end was splendid. When I got back to Paris, I was very happy for what I had and felt determined to keep it.

JAPONESE JOURNALISTS VISIT

2008-11-10T10:32:00.009+01:00

I found this translation from a Japanese magazine printed a few years back and thought it would fill in until I finish my present story. I am surprised at my own enthusiasm.

A Visit to Mary Blake’s Studio

Situated between the historic Basilica Sacre Coeur on the top of the hill in Montmartre and the lap dancing sex shops of Pigalle, we visited artist Mary Blake’s atelier.

Outside rue Tardieu. thousands of people stream by.

Mish mash of languages. maps and guides. Inside the artist’s courtyard, we find a calm serenity.

Two very serious cats observe our arrival. A shaggy dog greets us tail wagging - offering a broken tennis ball – want to play ? We knew we were safe.

Mary Blake’s doors, arched, with tinted yellow glass greets us with a big smile.

“Don’t worry about Nina.”

“We’re not going to play with your stupid ball." she explains to her canine friend.

Nina’s tail stops wagging. Reluctantly, she retreats to her bed and rolls up like a donut. One eye open.We enter. Three steps down. The “atelier” is twenty feet high. Paintings full of color from floor to ceiling.

AKO “This place is great. How long have you been here?”

M.B.“Ten years this month.”

Ako: “How did you find it?”

M.B.: The grace of God, some charm and a lot of luck. Nobody wants to rent to an artists these days.

Mary Blake invites us in with a big smile.“Wine, fresh orange juice or green tea with mint?

Her studio is a cocoon of colors and shapes.

AKO : “You like color.”

M.B. I am color. I think color. I dream color.

AKO What inspired this fascination?

MB In 1973, I visited a small village in Italy. The landscape was nice, but it was the laundry hanging between the houses… Beautiful. I stared at it until it was dry.

Then in 1977 I visited India - a country intensely saturated with vivid pigments. Their colors became my palette. I can still see images. The train ride -yellow fields - the bright green canaries- the purple saris and the Bengali pink turban - all at the same time!

The earth in Goa looks like it comes from a Gauguin painting. Morning in Agra with gentle contrasts of blue. I woke up in a rose garden across from the Taj.

Or was it heaven?

AKO: What inspires your style?

M.B: I just begin - with a line - a color – Then, it’s the canvas that talks to me.

For the moment I’m in an abstract period, but they all have order and honesty. When I say.

“This water- color is Gurjurait.” No one doubts it.

“Oh yes Gurjurait.” I hear.

Ako:When do you work best?

Mary: After I’ve brushed my teeth. Early in the morning if I’m home.

Ako: How do you start? Do you have a plan?

M;B. I Just begin. The paint is in front of me. My colours begin to whine.

"Me first. Me first."

After the first stroke- The other begin.

"Why not me? Have you forgotten?"

I like the colors that are patient and wait their turn.

WHERE AM I?

2008-10-24T07:32:00.011+02:00

Showing my work is a kin to psychological testing. The most reserved, conservative, methodical collectors are attracted to the wildest of my creations. I am often surprised when Mr. Macho is drawn to a delicate pastel. Then, there are those who like a certain painting because they relate personally to where or what it is."Oh, I've eaten there." The most often asked question while painting this butcher was "Where am I?" That was easy to answer

More men than women have offered to pose for me. I always say, "Yes, but I only paint nudes." The conversation usually stops there.

I'm often taken with a work of art by the mix of colors. Some people look at art to go somewhere and some don't look at all.

FRENCH CAN CAN Jean Renoir

2008-10-12T17:24:00.012+02:00

The festival Vendages Montmartre kicked off last Monday at the movie-house Pathe-Wepler. A double feature - "French Can-Can" and the more recent, "Moulin Rouge" with Nicole Kidman.

I've seen the Renoir film perhaps five times, but, it's been thirty years since it was offered to me on the silver-screne. My memories were the cinematographic mix. This time - my wonderful nights at The Moulin and the scenes from my neighborhood. My landlord's office is in the same building of that historic landmark. Years ago, I had the privilege, of having a front row seat every night to sketch the dancers. Later, I would return home to modify my pastels. I swear that there was not an occasion that I didn't get into the Can-Can joy.

I remember, my first evening sitting in awe of the beautiful filles on stage. Then, my conscience asked, "Would you really rather be there?" I was in my place she decided.

To watch the film again was a joy. Jean Gabin's family was present, as was the mayor, Daniel Vaillant. To create joy is an art.

FÊTE DES VENDANGES

2008-10-11T14:46:00.017+02:00

The Montmartre Fête des Vendanges officially corked off this morning on the gentle hillside behind Sacre Coeur. The vines were golden yellow and The Republician Montmartois were in costume. At moments, traditional songs blocked other traditional songs and finally, the mayor, Danial Vaillant, spoke and the cacophony stopped.

It was a beautiful autumn morning and we were all happy to be there. For the tradition. Not the wine - an elusive cru. Up the hill, there were many stands set up for degustation of wines, cheeses, saucissons and other temptations.

The parade is this afternoon from the Mairie down to rue Lepic enough time to walk it off.

LES NUITS BLANCHES

2008-10-04T16:11:00.024+02:00

The Fête "Nuits Blanches" will celebrate its seventh all-night festival tonight in "the name of art".

Brilliantly initiated here seven years ago by Paris's mayor, Bernand Delanoë, it is a good excuse to stay out all night - in the name of art. One year, all the museums were free with a musical event at many. A painting at the Musée d'Orsay got slashed. The program the following year got changed.

This year, it's les gares et les églises.

In Russia, there will be ballets and concerts galore. Toronto is gearing up for a feast also.

I first learned the term les nuits blanches as a translation for insomnia. I believe the earlier expression dates back Dostoevsky.

At any rate, this is an international night for celebration - in the name of art.

LA RENTREE

2008-08-31T17:45:00.022+02:00

The French have returned to Paris en masse.

The pale, comatose tourists drinking liter mugs of beer on café terraces have been replaced by Côte d'Azur tans and enthusiastic chatter. It has always been an exceptional moment in this gray city of light.

While cooped up in a hospital for ten days this month, I heard this question asked on a noon-time quiz show.

"Combien des Francais are on vacation this August?"

The reported response was fifty million.

I took my own trips with my sable

brushes, Windsor Newton water colors, and Arches cold press 300 gram papier.

RED BELL FARM IOWA

2008-08-31T17:05:00.003+02:00

Great place to visit...

Ave, Ave, Ave

2008-08-26T14:32:00.026+02:00

I had come within a hair of loosing my studio-living residence in Montmartre. Then got a reprieve until next April. I decided this was not the moment to paint a merry-go-round. I got my gear together and took the 85 bus down to the Cathedral Notre Dame.

After surveying it from different angles, I decided to attack it face on. I saved the flying buttresses for another day. I set up my easel and mused at the notion that I was going to render this mammoth edifice onto a 46 by 55 centimeter canvas. Of all my Paris paintings, this was by far the most daunting. It was so

big. The bells chimed Ave Maria before announcing the hour.

I began blocking out the composition.

"Well, I guess the hunchback is gone." I heard from behind. Blasé or sentimental? To think of the thousands of sculptors that chiseled their lives always to create this gem and it's a writer who immortalizes its name. A great writer at that.

It must be noted in some American tour guide that the birds in front of Notre Dame are people-friendly. Sparrows fluttering around bread basket hands seems to be a favorite among the camera poses. A slight and delicate looking little girl arrived prepared with a baggie full of snack crackers. A pigeon swooped down to snap up her first offer, then perched on her arm. Another lit on her shoulder as a dozen or more surrounded her on the ground. Alfred Hitchcock came to mind.

"Honey, give me the bag." her mother said softly. Then shooed her feathered friends away.

The weather was iffy the next few days, but I was lucky to get a couple of hours work in between the showers. Unlucky one day when I arrived on the scene only to realize that I had left my painting on the bus. I headed back to the Boulevard Saint Michel. I knew that the 85 went up as far as the Pantheon, rested for five minutes and then came back down the boulevard. The bus stop serves seven other lines.

I stood in front of the electric waiting time sign.

Autobus 85 .........7 minutes. "That could be the one I had just gotten off of."

Then, .....6 minutes. I had had a "Do-you-think-it's going-to-rain?" conversation with a nice girl in the back of the bus. I was certain that she would have given it to the driver when I got off the bus.

5 minutes. I should pray all the same. I was searching for the right saint to ask for help. Thorton Wilder! He must be in heaven.

Concentrate. " Thorton. Do you remember me? I told you when we were at The Harborside Bar thirty nine years ago that your writing had changed my life. You told me that if I wanted to be an artist. I must have vitality. Please make my painting be on the bus."

2 minutes. I saw a bus arriving, passing Le Musée Cluny. Not mine. Nor the next.

Finally, the 85 arrived. I boarded the bus, and even with all my painting gear the driver did not make a sign of recognition. I didn't see the painting. My heart sank. I told him the story. He reached under his seat and handed it to me. I sighed, "Merci". I turned when I got off the bus and bowed with appreciation.

I returned to my painting spot. The bells chimed. "Ave Maria", I thought. "Ave Thorton. Ave the girl on the back of the bus."

photographs Damien Boucher

The finished painting is at the very bottom of this blog page.

LE NARCISSE PIGALLE

2008-08-06T17:50:00.027+02:00

Once upon a time, there was a Sex-Shop (former café) on La Place Pigalle that was as cute as a cottage from Hansel and Gretel. I never passed it without marvelling at its unusually pointed roof and the odd shaped buildings behind it. The forms intrigued me as did the name - NARCISSE. Shabby and vain, I thought. It was there for me to paint. Pigalle is a pretty hot district. I thought if I set my easel up across from the famous fountain that once separated Paris from La Commune de Montmartre I wouldn't be bothered. Almost immediately, I was surrounded by a group of cops who were stopping motorists randomly to check their papers. They didn't ask me for mine. At the time, I was sans papiers. The police were ravi with my tableau. I was not and decided that it could only work if it were a night scene. I finished the painting by street lighting after sundown.

Narcisse is still on my wall. The cottage has been demolished to make way for a super sleek structure with a slight resemblance to the prior form. The elite restaurant the builder had in mind never got off the ground. There is a penthouse with an enormous balcony facing north.No flowers. Trees. Weeping willows. I recently learned that the Sex-Shop was where many great painters and poets hung-out at the beginning of the last century including Monet, Bonnard, Appolinaire, and Toulouse-Lautrec. Degas's famous "Absinthe" was painted there when it was called Café de la Nouvelle Anthène. I was amazed by the number of artists who have painted on La Place Pigalle. The list is long. I'm on it.

George Whitman’s Wall

2008-08-04T12:26:00.028+02:00

I found the bookstore Shakespeare & Co. in November 1972 after renting an apartment on the rue Galande, a narrow ally street just behind the store. Some of my newly found bohemian friends introduced me to George Whitman, the celebrated owner. He seemed indifferent to me until I told him that I had just returned from Martha’s Vineyard. George loved Cape Cod and each time he saw me we talked about clams. That was my pass to get upstairs to what they called the reading room or the library, but most of all it was where we hung out, told stories, drank wine, and dreamed of fame. Being poor was part of it all. It seemed to have a poetic air. By spring, when it was really la fin des hairicots, I was sleeping on a shelf at the store.

I remember the day a real dapper strolled in.

“ I’ve just docked my boat on the Seine next to Notre Dame”.

George was sitting at his enormous desk drinking his tea staring out the front window.

“That’s nice” he replied.

“I’m looking for a book on yachts. I can’t remember the name, but it weighs about 20 pounds.”

Still monotone, George murmured, “I’ve got a 16 pound book on trains.”

“No! Yachts. Yachts.”

“Sorry.” George replied still staring out the window.

The next day George announced that I was not leaving for New York. He had found a job for me.

I remember the words. "Chateau. Editor for Le Monde and Colette". He sent me down rue de la Bûcherie to visit Colette. Still stunned by this order, I returned and told him that she wasn’t home. He said to knock harder. She was probably sleeping. Which was the case. I rescheduled my plane ticket and was off two days later to what I imagined would be a glorious experience.

I didn’t know at the time that a parc naturist was a nudist colony, that I would be a nanny on my own for three brats, and my place in the château was the attic. I heard the rats, but never saw them. I managed through the episode. It did change the course of my life.

When I did return to New York my apartment had been cleared out and I had lost my lease. A friend put me up for three months. I worked my way back to to Paris to paint for life and that was it.

I met many people through Colette. She was very pretty. Men never stopped falling in love with her. She died young and broke many hearts.

Thirty-five years later I’m still in Paris. And still painting. George has passed the bookstore on to his beautiful daughter Sylvia. She does a good job, and order is her tour de force.

I stopped by the shop last September and saw that they had lost their kitty cat two months ago. Hopeless it seemed.

Nina had just had 3 puppies. I went to the next Monday night reading, and asked her if they would be interested in having a puppy.

Sylvia seemed enthused, but said that she would ask her Dad.

I had not seen him for a few years. I got a call the next morning. "My Dad said that if it’s Mary Blake’s puppy, it ’ll have character. We have to have it.”

When the puppies were six weeks old, George and Sylvia came up to Montmartre for a visit.

When George entered my courtyard, Nina greeted him with her ball. He laughed. He didn’t say much to me, like "nice to see you" or "your paintings look great", but watched the puppies play with my two cats.

I put Coco Bean in his lap. George barked at him. Coco Bean fell to the floor.

"Daddy." Sylvia pleaded. "You scared him."

Colette, the first-born and only female, had caught his fancy. She was already promised, but I placed her in his lap anyway.

I visited George a few days later. "What a wonderful life you must have" he said sitting in his PJ's amidst a sea of clutter. His bedroom walls were covered with photos of the greats of the last century who had visited his shop. Who was not on George's wall? Mic Jaggar perhaps. Jean-Paul Sartre, Laurence Durell, Jacqueline Onassis were as well as Lawrence Ferlingetti and on and on. There was a color photo copy of me and Colette above his night table. "Well George, I've finally made it. I'm on your wall, even if it did take a dog to get me there."

Colette is now at Shakespeare & Co. Almost a year old.

She is not the mascot.

She is George’s dog and he calls her “Kitty”.

I heard that Kitty got into his birthday 94th or 95th cake last winter and demolished it. George thought it was funny.

They are in love.

MAX JACOB AND THE RUE RAVIGNAN

2008-08-02T21:00:00.025+02:00

"La vie est belle" I thought when I found my sublet on rue Ravignon fourteen years ago. I'd step out in the morning and see all of Paris before me, then walk Ruby down to Le Cafe Saint Jean after finding my Herald Tribune.

The landlord's pitch, when I was searching, was that the apartment was near rue Lepic (my favorite market street in Paris), and that Max Jacob had lived across the street at number 7.

"That's great!" I said, though I didn't know who he was. Eventually, I learned that Max Jacob was the son of a Jewish tailor who came to Paris from Quimper, a small village in Brittany, at the end of the 19th century. Not happy with his studies, he temporarily became an art critic and met Picasso. They became buddies. He also hung out with Modigliani, Gauguin, Apolinaire, Matisse, and the other artists and poets who lived up the street at the famous Bateau Lavoir. In fact, he was the one who gave that famous shack of creativity it's name.

He was a poet and painter himself and had a reputation for the art of conversation.

A few years later while living up on rue Gabriel, he had spiritual visions and converted to Christianity. Picasso was his godfather. After many years of monastic life, he returned to Paris, and soon after was denounced and deported by the Gestapo. He died at Drancy two months before its liberation.

He mysteriously reappears running in my Bateau Lavoir painting.

IS THERE NOT A PLACE FOR EVERYONE ?

2008-07-16T16:58:00.059+02:00

Paris was virtually, historically, and sadly, sunless last August. Then la lumière de septembre made Hollywood stage lighting dim. Everyones's mood changed. Approaching La Place des Abbesses was frappant. The turquoise of the carousel and the orange brick of the l'eglise Saint Jean spotted with the shining near New England yellow leaves scattered on the pavement U-turned me as I started down the Metro steps.

I returned to my studio, canceled my appointments, got my gear, and set up my easel in front of the Metro sortie.

It was 3 o'clock and the sun was shining directly on the famous METROPOLITAIN art deco insignia.

Of course, I was the patsy for all the tourist looking for looking. That was okay.

I loved the group of Japanese back-packers who

pulled out their compases. Luckily they found The North. I helped a little pointing upwards.

Two oil evangelists artists from the quartier sat on a bench behind me and scrutinised my method of mixing my acrylics with my new found Golden mediums. "Not bad." they remarked. That was the best complement they had given me in ten years, so I was grateful.

Then along came Gigi, who has been around the 'hood for years and has invested his life savings in amplifiers. He began his interpretation of Jimmy Hendricks. One note at a time.

I was in agony. I tried and tried to ignore the pierce, but finally packed up.

The rains came. Two days later me and the sunlight returned to La Place.

There were less leaves, and a young accordionist to highlight the atmosphere..

The instument was small and repeated a sound rather than song.

The girl was cute as pie, but off tune if tune was what she had in mind.

Tourists surrounded her. She overheard my annoyance and approached me.

"You don't like my music?" She asked.

"No" I said, not looking up from my tableau.

"Your sounds are driving me crazy."

"They're my compositions."

I felt bad, until she told me that my painting was ugly. Then she left. There is a God, I thought.

Sunday and sunny, I returned to find a great jazz duet a piano and sax- both very good.

A crowd had surrounded them and there was great applause.

My spot was in the middle of their circle of admirers.

I shrugged meekly and pointed to my pavement paint stains.

The musicians were not amused, but when the rains came they took off.

It was not a Gene Kelly revival.

I stayed, because it was a light rain which really doesn't hurt my paint.

Then the African juggler arrived.

He's quite incredible and works with two goldfish on his head in a bowl of course.

He's asked me if I'd put him in my painting - juggling and looking at my painting at the same time.

"Your coulers are not in my palette."

He laughed. I had the impression that the fish would have preferred to be home.

They're not social animals.

THE PARIS DREAM BASTILLE DAY AND IOWA

2008-07-13T18:16:00.014+02:00

I am a débutant blogger, an unpublished writer, and a persistent down-and-out-famous painter. A fellow artist not so-down and out remarked, "Mary, you don't SELL your work. You place them."

SO the the joy of blogging is that it can go anywhere. Anywhere. Even Iowa. Now that I have a counter, I learned that My biggest following is in Iowa, USA. I do not understand why. But I say thank you.

I have a new neighbor, Vincent, in my building and in the "welcome-wagon-American- style", I invited him and his pretty girlfriend into my dumpy studio for a glass of wine.

He looked at the mess of paints and brushes and said " Wow. The Paris dream."

"Ask my landlord." I replied.

Vincent said that his mother had always dreamed of having a life like this.

"Ask my landlord." I sighed.

So for the most celebrated night in France. I was in Paris . In Montmartre.

I, slept in the bath tub with my dog, Nina, who was trembling from the boom-boom of fire crackers. Certainly she would have preferred Iowa or maybe even Kansas.

I would have preferred to dance. So, for all my readers who wish they were here...

a night in the tub is no picnic.