I checked out "Paris Was Ours - Thirty-two Writers Reflect on the City of Light" by Penelope Rowlands (and 32 writers) from the library the other day.  I couldn't put it down, reading it cover to cover - that is, until the last chapter.  At that point I had to stop.  I couldn't read the the last story, whatever that may be.  I had to stop and reflect on what SHOULD have been the last chapter; My contribution to the reflections on the City of Light.

I'm very aware of being one of "les etrangers" in Paris.  Mostly from my college experience living near the American University in the 7th., hanging with other students from all over the world, each of us  bringing a part of our country and ourselves to our collective group.  I ran around Paris feeling like I knew the city like the back of my hand (with my trusty Paris Par Arrondissement in the palm of my hand), but, at that tender age, never realizing the depths and layers of history the city had to offer.

After college, many years later, I began to immerse myself in french history.  I read every history book I could find at the library, read Proust and Zola and Maupassant and everyone I could get my hands on.  I studied the minds of Voltaire and Rousseau, read and re-read countless biographies, and know Napoleon as if I served in his Grand Armee.  And then I turned my attention towards the Americans who loved Paris.  I read Hemingway, Henry Miller, Edith Wharton, and yes, I even READ Gertrude Stein, among many others.

I became an endless bore to my family and friends spouting french phrases, facts, and generally claiming everything great in America is French in origin.  But mostly I dreamed of becoming French.  I collected all the (what I refer to as) "how-to" books.  I looked for my "Inner French Girl" and tried to become "Impossibly French"

I walked through "Lost Paris" , "Quiet Corners of Paris" and "Literary Paris".   When reading "Paris Was Ours" today I saw myself in every author's chapter.  I had LIVED every one of those chapters.  And the thing the authors had in common were that they are all etrangers seduced by the city of light.  It's really true that once you've been to Paris you can't go home again.  Paris changes a person.   I've accepted the fact that I will never truly be a French woman, much less a Parisian, no matter how well I speak the language or if I own a pied a terre in the Marais.  But I'm willing to be myself in Paris.  Because that's where I left myself years ago when I was a college student.  I will live in Paris again.  Because now is the time for me to write my own chapter on being seduced by the city of light.  Stay tuned.....

The Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena, California has an exhibit this summer called Surface Truths: Abstract Painting in the Sixties.  Since I have recently been painting abstract pieces myself I decided to visit the exhibition at the Norton Simon this past weekend.  Prior to visiting the exhibition I spent several days thinking about the shifts that art has gone through, particularly since Impressionism shocked the world in the late 19th century, and wondering how did we go from the bold painterly brushstrokes of implied form that we see in Impressionism to the cold and linear approach used by artists such as Frank Stella and Robert Irwin   Maybe studying Surface Truths in person will help me understand.  

Upon entering the exhibit I immediately felt a cold shoulder and distance from the works of art.  There were no crowds of people, no tourists with cameras, no students with notebooks.  If anyone cares about these significant works of art, is it only because the critics told us we can move away from the aesthetic of recognized figures and forms?

In Tolstoy's essay on art written in 1896 he states that art must create a specific emotional link between the artist and the audience.  Thus only REAL art unites people through visual means and communication of such art.   But I wonder, If the artisit is sincere in the creation of his art, will society accept and revere what the artist produces?  

So I started searching for my personal, emotional link to this exhibit.

I tried to see the color as a sensual experience.  In fact, up close and personal these works of art did exude what I would imagine would be the personality of the artist.  This soothing piece is titled Adriatic, done in 1968 by Helen Frankenthaler.  Her use of acrylics thinned with water acted like a wash over the canvas giving it mood, atmosphere and movement.

This painting, by Thomas Downing in 1966, produced a very strong reaction in me.  I was craving  Dots Cupcakes!

But upon study and reflection I was thrilled to see, not only the pencil lines on the canvas, but the occasional drip of paint which made me feel that maybe I was watching the artist at work.  I don't know if these drips of paint were accidents, but it made the painting feel more painterly to me, rather than seeming like a marketing package for cupcakes.

As for what and where to eat in Paris...look for small authentic restaurants.  Review the menus posted outside and check out the kind of people who are inside.  Most of all, try something you don't eat at home.  I've never had a bad meal in Paris doing this. 

I just finished reading "Barks and Purrs" by the wonderful French writer, Colette.  This book is fabulous and fabulously funny as the entire story is told from the point of view of the cat, Kiki, and the dog, Toby.  I looked at my own two cats differently after reading this book.

Colette famously loved animals, particularly cats, and lived here at what is now Place Colette in the middle of Paris in her later years.

People always talk about the dogs in Paris but everywhere I go in Paris I see cats.  This lovely girl (she looks like a girl) was at a window in Montmartre asking to be let in.

This friendly kitty was sitting in a tourist shop in Paris letting everyone admire her beauty.  She even made the tourist prints look attractive and more "Parisian", in some way.

Rue du Chat Qui Peche translates in English to "Street of the Fishing Cat".  Built in 1540 it then ended on the bank of the river Seine and now has the status of being the narrowest street in Paris.  I wonder how many cats went fishing on this street when the Seine would flood?

If you can't read the French sign on Rue du Chat Qui Peche, you can figure it out by the painting on the wall of the street.  The cat sits under the umbrella guarding a fishing pole.

Everywhere you look in Paris you will see the famous Chat Noir.  I'm still drawn to the iconic image even though you can buy it on every mug and kitchen towel in the tourists shops.

I took this photo of a hanging sign of a black cat at the Musee Carnavalet, one of my favorite museums in Paris.  This musee in the Marais is dedicated to the history of Paris.

Back at Colette's grave at the Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris I wonder how many cats visit her in the dark hours after everyone has left for their homes and cafes.  Many cats are known to roam Pere Lachaise, and I keep my eyes open for them every time I visit.  Maybe they are just ghosts.

I checked this book out of the library today: Permanent Parisians; An Illustrated Guide to The Cemeteries of Paris by Judi Culbertson and Tom Randall.

One of my very favorite places to visit in Paris is the Pere Lachaise Cemetery.

With it's beautiful paths it is a perfect place to picnic with some of the great people in history.  Such as Colette, Chopin, Moliere, Balzac, Gertrude and Alice, Marcel Proust and so many more great men and women

MANY years ago Jim Morrison's grave was the easiest to find in this large cemetery.  You just followed the smell of pot until you found aging hippies lounging alongside Jim, smoking weed, listening to The Doors, and scrawling their love for Jim all over the tombstones.  There was even a weird bust of Jim atop his stone.  I wonder who the artist was.

Unfortunately now Jim's grave has been sandblasted clean and there is a little gate around it to keep away all the middle age American's in Dockers with cell phones clamped on their hips.  I'm sure Jim has turned over in his grave.   I'm sure Jim would've preferred the graffiti. 

People come from all over to kiss Oscar Wilde's grave out of admiration.

My friend and muse, Marie Jean, kissed the grave and I immortalized it in this painting.
Acrylic on canvas board.

I thought Spatz was a "writers" cat because he's a polydactyl cat and Hemingway collected polydactyl cats.

See his giant paws with THUMBS!  I think he believes he can hold a paint brush.  He always likes to participate while I'm painting.

But he didn't like this painting of my other cat, Disco, which is in the works here.

Spatz thinks it's a good idea to help me paint in case I walk away and leave a glass of milk unattended

Hummm....."why did she put paint brushes in this glass?"

If Spatz sits still long enough he'll get his portrait drawn.  But he thinks he looks a little crazy in this charcoal sketch.

Ah, finally a photo of Spatz that I can paint!  I love his long white whiskers.

His whiskers are exceptionally long and his paws are exceptionally huge.  Spatz is an exceptional cat.

And here is the final product.
Acrylic paint
8" x 10" canvas board
Palette knife + brush technique