Back in the Périgord

Leaving Burgundy, Suzanne and I had the sublime joy of picnicking in the Auvergne, surrounded by wildflowers framing the mountains and volcanoes in the distance. Yes, sublime about sums it up. Approaching Limeuil some five hours after departure, I wondered how I’d feel upon returning. No need to worry. As we rounded the sharp bend in the road, tight against the stone wall, all the joy of this little gem shone anew. In the heat of a sunny June, the bridges and stone buildings glow golden while the rivers sparkle. Our ancient stone house, which has sustained centuries of plagues and pleasures, is even more charming than I remembered. Renovations are underway to make it even better.

There’s an extra thrill about coming to town and seeing your poster on shop windows and your picture in the paper. With the help of my trusty student and great friend Suzanne, the show is up and I’ve had a few painting sessions in the Jardins Panoramiques which surround the chateau hall at the top of the town. Tomorrow night is the official opening, le vernissage, as the French say. I’ve choked and woken several nights after hearing that I’m expected to say something after the mayor and the president of the Rives d’Arts. I feel pretty comfortable muddling through daily life in France, but never imagined a public address. Luckily for me, the president is Dutch and will speak in both English and French, so i can follow her lead, after the French mayor. There will be English speaking people at the event, anyway. The Périgord is riddled with them. And my mantra is “short and sweet”. I’ll smile my way through it and keep you posted!

Voila!

We have a little joke amongst ourselves about having to go to the office. It simply means we’re going to the little cabana between the tourist office and the river where there is town-supplied wifi. After breakfast I headed on down to catch up on email and maybe write a post while everyone else was getting ready for the day. As I walked through the stone arch into the town garden, five beautiful white swans took flight off the river. That little moment turned out to be a good omen. After cleaning out email, I decided to try to transfer my photos to the computer one last time and, voilà, I now have over three hundred images of this magical place on my Mac Air! Still more to go but I’m on the way. Yeehah!

Yesterday as we made a nice loop through the countryside village-hopping, we managed to take in an open-air market, the high gothic cloister of Cadouin, several bastide towns and romanesque churches, not to mention an incredible lunch which included tourin, a local specialty of garlic soup. I think it’s the Pèrigord’s answer to Chinese egg drop soup, a creamy garlic soup with egg whites stirred in. returning to home base, I gave a painting demo at the river as the sun began to set before heading back to the kitchen to cook up fresh fare for our candlelight dinner on the terrace. Whatever problems the garlic didn’t cure the abandoned laughing must have, sending us all to a glorious night’s rest.

Intermission

After a slow start, my first little band of Artistic Adventurers barely made it to their Paris-bound train in time yesterday morning. As I unloaded their suitcases and bid them goodbye, I realized that I’ve been fascinated by this ritual ever since I rode my first train in Europe. As I retraced my tracks from Bergerac back to sleepy little Limeuil, the realization that I was alone in a foreign country swam through my mind. Though it’s a little jarring on one hand, on the other hand, I felt my body decompress with each kilometer I traveled along the swan-studded Dordogne. With nothing but swans, sun and autumn breeze, I realized how exciting it is to be here alone. As much as I love showing this amazing country to other artistic-minded souls, I love the exhilaration of the solo adventure, too.

Back in Limeuil, I began the routine of house-cleaning our medieval, hillside stone house for the next band. Surrounded by drying bedding on the terrace, I pulled out my dozen paintings of the week and began to tweak them, correcting the little details that I missed in the fast pace, beat-the-sun race of painting en plein air. Lunch in the garden and it was time to head up the Lézère River to Chateau de Losse. I snuck in the door on the last tour of the year much like my morning travelers got on their train at the last minute. The country renaissance chateau didn’t disappoint, from the formal gardens of hornbeam and boxwood to the finely furnished chambers. Best of all, as I came back outside, was the low lying sun casting its rays on the banks of the now dry moats filled with cascades of wild cyclamen. Their mauve blanket led me all the way to the rocky foundation of the chateau at the edge of the lazy river. Meandering the gardens one last time filled me with a little twinge of desire to see my own simple garden. Being here, I’m missing its last show of blue and white anemone and belladonna. C’est la vie!

p.s. Well, with the help of my brilliant, computer savvy, French friend, Laurent, I nearly got my photos on the computer. He led me to the app, but it only loaded photos taken at home. Why won’t it recognize the several hundred I took here?!?!?

Caves and Cravings

In June, I introduced my clients to Paris by ascending the Eiffel Tower in the afternoon, where we could gaze far across the sun drenched city to the Basilica Sacre Coeur, crowning Montmartre, only to ascend Montmartre late that night  up the steps of that monument and look back the opposite direction to see the illuminated city and tower twinkling back at us. Yesterday bore similarities mirror images. We made our way to Roussignac, one of the many pre-historic caves within 30 miles of here, to see absolute herds of mammoths, horses, capricorns, rhinoceros and bisons drawn 15,000 years ago on the caves ceilings and walls. What overwhelmed me traveling several kilometers underground to see such ancient drawings, was man’s intrinsic, inescapable need to create and tell his story in some visual form. When these caves were inhabited by middle Magdalenian people, they were only high enough to crawl in. Like Michelangelo, these first artists drew their stories lying on their backs.

Back on our hilltop medieval village, a mere 8 or so centuries old, we ambled under a clear and starry sky to a lovely restaurant near the top of Limeuil. Sitting comfortably upright on the terrace under ancient wysteria arbors and garden lights, we savored a perfectly prepared repast of Périgord gastronomic delights. Silently licking the last morsels of walnut cake and crème anglaise from my fork, my mind ambled through the day-compressed tour of civilization, from burrowing underground to the beginning of man to this sublime moment of evening exhilaration. And my soul, whatever that enigmatic thing is, felt as full and satisfied as my stomach.

Breathing Deep

Being in the French countryside is a paradox for me. On one hand, my senses are on overload. My eyes are analyzing everything I observe. It’s just so beautiful on a superficial, basic tourist kind of  level. Then there’s the art stuff added like a cherry on top. Shadows. Light. Shapes. Lines. Capturing the three dimensions in two on a little piece of canvas. Reducing all the beauty to its essentials. That’s the challenge of every artist, wherever they find themselves; I can return from the market at home and find painting material in the vegetables I load into the fridge. Some end up directly in my studio as models for my next study. All’s well as long as I remember to return them to the kitchen.

Speaking of markets, today is market day. As Rochelle and Mike get ready to go, I’m here by the river using the town internet. Imagine having to come to the town hall garden by the river to check your email. Sitting in the chill of the morning as the sun comes up, listening to the rustle of the river to my right[The second option is  going to the restaurant next door which still picks up the connection and have a coffee, beer or wine(if not lunch or dinner) to check your internet]. That’s the other part of the paradox. Life slows down. Many things are less convenient. The rat race melts like chasing tigers turning to butter. Suddenly, with more powers of observation, I better detect the light change as I watch the sun rise and set, not to mention the star-gazing far from any city light or smog. Oh my God, the stars! Last night the sky was so clear, I saw some I’ve never seen before over the ancient rooftops which are my home for these three autumn weeks in the Périgord. Strikes, leaks and missing bed sheets melt like circling tigers to reveal a delectable, buttery experience I’ve come to call, for good reason, Artistic Adventures.

I’ve been slow to blog because I can’t get pictures from my new phone to my laptop. After vacillating, I’ve decided to post blogs without pictures. They can be seen on my Facebook page this time around. I’ll insert them in the blog when I get home. Maybe.

Strike Two!

If you followed my blog through Burgundy this past June, you’ll recall I was trapped in the “little” train strike that turned into a “big” one. Isn’t one strike a year enough?! Obviously not, since I found myself maneuvering the current “grève” of the french Air France pilots this past week. Thanks to my french Facebook friend, Valerie Pillot, for giving me the heads up early in the week and Julie Kapper, my Delta flight attendant painting student, who advised me to follow my gut and rebook my Delta reservation through KLM instead of waiting to see if you-know-who would cancel my flight or not. They did and I was able to side-swipe what could have been a 4 or five day delay and loose only one.

Add to that snafu a complication of assembling a new traveling easel that put me in a last minute tailspin. That set saws spinning and three trips to Lowe’s for wood and Best Buy for the right tripod. What if I hadn’t been organizing my suitcase packing strategy for over a week? Yoga breathing and repeating the mantra “Everything is going exactly as it should” protected my from my own predisposition to simply collapse in a puddle or scream in outrage. Self-pity, is never flattering and I was determined to stay in the moment and increase my stamina for problem solving.

Success. All packed. Decent sleep. Rising early to take care of those last loose threads, I kissed dogs goodbye, rode smoothly to the airport with Jim at the wheel. A line-less bag checkin and I found myself pre-qualified for TSA, to boot! Here in Atlanta I sit a satisfied soul, having savored a lunch of watermelon salad, roasted cauliflower and a dish of giant italian white beans and peppers. And a glass of white wine. There’s nothing like that first glass of vacation wine. The switch flips and the world is right. When everyone in Ohio is sound asleep or awake with insomnia, my students Rochelle, Mike and I will be settling in to our stone house in the Périgord.

Yes, Jim, “I love our life!”

Success Unexpected

 

Peaceful Times, the Perigord. Stebner 30×40 oil on linen.

 

If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.

 

Henry David Thoreau

 

Here in my sixth decade, more and more, I find myself surrounded by remarkably comfortable cushions of success. Labor day weekend was one of them. The most delightful assortment of people, familiar and new, arrived throughout the afternoon to see my art show, “Blissful Bounty”. As much as I love the act of painting, there’s a marvelous fulfillment in seeing viewers response to my canvases and watching my paintings find their home. I’m just a facilitator in that process. Success.

My good health report earlier that week. Success.

Making final preparations to return to France next week, I realize that I spend about two months  a year discovering and sharing the beauty of that special country with others. Something that I only dreamed about as a child has come to fruition beyond my imagination. It still fills me with boyish glee to pack my bag and anticipate the adventure. Success.

Packing one more art event in the days before departing, I’ll be at Chentini Gallery in Hudson, Ohio tomorrow, September 12th, from 5-7 or so, as a featured artist for the monthly town art walk. If you missed Blissful Bounty on August 30th, why not take in the Art Walk? Laura Centini has done an amazing job creating her own jewel of a place. I’ll have more paintings as well as my easel in tow, painting a new canvas. Lovely people, places and art all in one spot are just one more success unexpected.

 

 

August Angst

Peaceful Times, the Perigord. Stebner 30×40 oil on linen.

The end of August has a lot at stake for me. I’m nearing week eight after surgery, when I have a PSA test to confirm that surgery was the last step in my cancer treatment. And since the beginning of July, I’ve been painting up a storm for my end of summer art sale August 30, two days after my checkup, which carries with it some of the same anxiety as the unknown blood test result, believe it or not. No matter how you plan the event, you never know who will show and if you’ll have a piece they find irresistible. Insecurities can bubble. All the stars have to align just so. It seems that, art aside,  a good show requires the perfect mix of faithful followers and new devotees. Throw in a great gallery contact for the future and it’s a winner!

Early Hours. Stebner 18×24 oil on linen.

Anxiety aside, there’s a certain exhilaration in taking blood tests and planning art sales, that’s like a good trip. The unknown created by hills, valleys and turns are what make a journey memorable, paintable even. Whether it’s wondering what your blood draw will reveal, or watching to see who has responded to the invitation to see your new art, the antennae are tuned. In truth, it’s why I prefer Normandy, Burgundy and the Perigord over the plains between Paris and Limoges. Seeing for miles ahead becomes all too predictable. But just as I hope for that irresistible hamlet around the next bend, I long for success unexpected those last days of August which usher in a clean slate and full coffer in September as I set off for a new Artistic Adventure on the Dordogne River.

Boats and Water Lilies, Giverny. 20×30 oil on linen.

Neverland

I’ve never seen more hornbeam hedges in my life than here in Bavaria.

Maybe not quite Neverland, but one of the joys of painting en plein air or any other creative effort, for that matter, is stepping entirely  outside time. Both yesterday and today, somewhere in the midst of trying to portray on a tiny 2 dimensional panel how I felt about  what I was seeing, I couldn’t for a moment remember where I was. Within a split second, I thought, for a moment, I was in France…then Germany…or was I home painting the covered bridge? Reality takes on a dimension apart from space and time, when painting. It’s pretty delicious, as our friend Anne would say.

And speaking  of delicious and Neverland(I digress to the profane), I found strawberries in the tiny market around the corner today, like I found in a tiny town in the Perigord last summer, the likes of which I hadn’t tasted since I was a little boy on my grandmother’s farm. The same color inside as they are on the outside and delicious, through and through. I’ve already had some for a snack and will finish them off after my late afternoon painting session with a glass of my new favorite wine: Blauburger. Something old and something new for this somewhat weathered boy. Most of all, something to really look forward to after another trip with brush in hand to  Neverland!

Twilight Hours

Often when Jim and I are sitting in the garden on a summer evening after dinner, alone or with friends, he’ll pronounce “I want this night to never end!”. Summer evenings in France were made for him. They start at six and it doesn’t get dark until eleven. I’m thinking of that because this is our last evening in the Perigord. It will end.

It dawned on me at noon in barely-a-tiny town where we painted in the field behind an eleventh century church that might seat fifty. I was walking the intersection while Grif finished(discovering a painter/sculptor next door as well as a house to rent for the summer) when the bells started to peal and I realized I wouldn’t be hearing that in a few days. A homesick sort of melancholy pulsed in my veins… Happily, the lunch spot I’d scouted out didn’t disappoint and my cassoulet a well as the hilltop hamlet tour of honey-colored stone houses afterwards  buoyed my spirits and restored my grateful heart.

After a siesta, we toured a magical garden maybe a mile up the hill from here which Libby, a Brit, mind you, had recommended. Now as I sit at a happy blue garden table sipping the last of a Quercy rosé, the doves are lulling the town into the long gloaming hours of our last evening in the Perigord. For this summer, at least.