Although it only takes three hours to get from Paris to Mougny- Bazolles, it’s a trip from one world to another. All the overt stimulation of civilization Paris offers is usurped by a subtle, gentle one which seeps into your pores unknowingly in very little time. It’s the act of coming in tune with the rhythms of nature instigated by the gentle Burgundian breeze and sun.
Ringing Jim yesterday at his breakfast time, the first sound I heard at the other end was a singing cardinal. I was momentarily confounded, feeling we must be in the same place, hearing the same birds and feeling the same breeze. But no, they were Ohio cardinals chirping in one ear, while I was hearing unknown ones in the other. As a very late sun set about us that evening, Agnes assured me I’d be lulled to sleep by the nightingale, to which I asked if this part of Burgundy is also home to the cuckoo. As sure as the nightingale sang to me as I climbed the stairs over the donkey barn to my garret above the house, I awoke to the cuckoo at the sun’s rising.
The rumbles of Paris streets and subways are a distant strain as I finish my second painting of the morning. Soon I’ll be collecting the last three students from the train station to join this world of gentle beauty. Together we’ll learn from the capricious sun how to paint it’s light on our canvas.
OK, I blatantly stole the title for this blog from one of the three most annoying movies I’ve ever endured, just because it takes place in Paris. Happily, my agenda before sunset changed from a museum marathon into an attempt to see through the eyes of one of my favorite painters, Pierre Bonnard. Much more fulfilling than a day shredded away with Ethan Hawke-Julie Delpy hopeless misunderstandings.
So what if I only saw one exhibit? That one made me very, very happy because it was another chance to stroll with Bonnard, oblivious to the throngs of others about us. Several years ago, it was the Bonnard museum in Le Cannet, on the Mediterranean. Today it was the Bonnard exhibit at Musée d’Orsay.( If you followed that day on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram, you were right in my pocket. If you don’t I’ll plug for signing on. It’s going to be a much more direct way to feel like you’re right there with me, as my dear friend, Nancy Sampson, commented today.)
But the point of the day is this: although packing things in, as I mentioned yesterday, can sometimes be stressfull, it can also make any journey worthwhile. And as you know, striding through my sixth decade, I’ve snatched onto the concept of sucking the marrow out of the bone more than ever, because we never know when the sun will set. I’d rather be tired from doing than regretting I didn’t. When sunset comes in an hour or two, I’ll be sipping wine and savoring bistro fare with a soul as content as my belly. And that should be as good a remedy for jet lag as any. If I should waken, I’ll be seeing all the beautiful colors of Bonnard’s paintings as well as those of a sunset on the Seine.
Packed: The past weeks were scheduled “comme d’habitude”- as usual. Work. Concerts. Company. Parties. Add a last minute mural job that filled two days. Add a trip to Sharon Weiss Gallery in Columbus to exchange work which took one day. Round it out with a last minute overnight to NYC to pick up the paintings that didn’t sell at my show at the gallery of St. Mary the Virgin, and there’s a week’s worth of time stuffed into my last two weeks before leaving for France.
Packed: France this round adds one more dimension. Beyond 5 weeks of clothes and painting supplies, three weeks before taking off, a one-man-show was negotiated in the Chateau Hall of Limeuil in the Périgord. That means I had to figure out how to fit finished work into the suitcase, as well. And the days of two free suitcases for international travel are over, which means I’m on a fifty pound limit, plus carry on luggage.
Packed: Stress was mounting the last week, right up to the ticket counter, when I discovered my suitcase weighed fifty-seven pounds instead of the forty-eight it weighed on my scale at home. Of course that may have something do with the suitcase hanging over the sides of the scale. Thankfully, there was no line, so I had time to repack, transferring seven pounds from my suitcase to my backpack. But the mission is accomplished and I’m listening for my Paris-bound plane load in Toronto. Twenty minutes late so far. Happily, I have no connection to make. Just two art exhibits to cram into one day, before mounting the train Wednesday morning to head to Burgundy.