Paris 2013
watercolor and graphite
Summer is almost over. I can feel it in the air. Yes, yesterday the high was near 90 degrees, and the humidity still hovers high as well, but the light of early morning is changing. And there is a little breeze now and then that lets me know: Summer is almost over.
I went to France this summer - part work, part pleasure. One week in Normandy and one week in Paris, and as is always the case when I am in Europe, it was not enough time. I thought of you so often as I walked and wandered, looked and listened. Traveling alone is not a hardship for me - in fact, I quite like it. There is something about the utter lack of responsibility, the knowledge that I care for nothing and no one except that moment - here, now. I carry so much less; and perhaps, in truth, I like the language barrier - it keeps things simpler. Because I can ask for a baguette, read a menu, say Je regrette, please, thank you, bonjour, and a few other things that keep me from starving or getting painfully lost, I find myself liking the limited conversations.
Well chosen words play such an important role in my work: negotiating with colleagues and funders, writing letters and making phone calls to donors, working with ideas. The limit set for me in a country where I understand only a fraction of what is said around me (and have no expectation of saying anything more useful than where is the toilette) is a relief from the daily strain. And there is how little I carry...how few clothes I actually need...how light a paint brush, palette, and watercolor block feel in my backpack...how long a day becomes when you stop to draw and paint on the side of a hill or in a sidewalk cafe long after the coffee cup is empty.
Of course, I think Paris is particularly wonderful because of the art. After I make that first investment in a Museum Pass and a Metro card, every door opens freely and I can come and go as I please. So a day in and out of the Louvre, another visit to D'Orsay, and so many hours in the gardens at the Rodin. I give myself time to see these best examples, these extraordinary works, and then settle down somewhere and step into the stream with all these art-makers, expatriates, and foreigners. Day after day. It feels so familiar. The impulse to capture, to articulate, to address all this beauty without words, but with images makes so much sense to me. It makes me happy.
On this trip, every time I stopped to paint, a mother and child would join me. The child would watch. The mother would sit down. The child would move closer. The mother would ask if I mind the watching, and of course, I say no. And then, in broken English and broken French, somehow, we would have the same conversation: My daughter loves to draw. I hope she will continue. It is a pleasure no one can take from you once you begin. I bought her papers and pens. She loves her crayons. He likes to draw buildings. She likes to draw flowers. This happened every day.
On the last afternoon, I sat in the gardens at the Rodin Museum and in my meager way attempted to draw the sculptures that circle the reflecting pool in the back of the garden. They are typical Rodin with extended muscles and oversized hands, odd postures of strength and gestures of despair. The little girl next to me was trying as well. Her mother said she was frustrated with herself, unable to get the likeness. I showed her my drawings and told her that she must continue.
"The only difference between your drawings and mine, and my drawings and his," I said, "is time. Monsieur Rodin drew and sculpted for so many more hours than we have. You must simply continue. You must look and draw, draw and look, day after day."
The little one spoke quickly now, to her mother, deeply concerned. Her mother translated the idea if not the words.
"She says she is worried about talent. Worried that she has none."
I told her that we can never control talent - it is like the breeze...some days have it, others do not. But we can learn to continue and find the joy in doing what we love.
Rumi said:
Let the beauty we love
be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel
and kiss the ground.
& in another place:
Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love.
Perhaps that is it - in drawing, I am drawn. I let myself be drawn. And when I travel it is a little easier to give myself this gift: time to draw and time to be drawn.
So I admit it now, I love Paris and drawing on the curve of a road in Montmartre. Seeing the city and myself through these line drawings and watercolors. Sitting alone as the tourists pass by and the children pause to look and the day moves along. I love the way it feels to do nothing but draw, look, draw, pray. In my own way, I am kneeling to kiss the ground...
Oh how I wish we had taken a hundred trips together, Miss Kelly. I am forever grateful for the one grand adventure we shared in England. So many memories flood in...what a good time we had in our daily tour of small churches and pubs, watching the next storm clouds move in, telling such good stories, and searching through the book of English cities to confirm where we were and learn a little of each town's unique history. What a wonderful time we had and yes, what a wonderful time I had in France this summer.
Thinking of you, as the summer ends here...and sending you endless love.
We must talk soon.
Yours, of course,
Amanda
