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No, really, this is a docudrama of the travel grant. As you can see I was painting on a Hollywood backlot at an old movie set of An American in Paris. My beret and mustache had just fallen off, though I continued those Gene Kelly steps without losing the beat. Actually, I saw not one other plein air painter working in Paris or the environs we visited. This was in stark contrast to my visits here in the 70’s when there were easels filled with views of Notre Dame, and when Montmartre reeked of linseed oil, not what it smells like today. I can only guess it’s some combination of the change in the goût of art school teachings and the advent of digital cameras, ubiquitously and obnoxiously pushing all other image making techniques into the égouts de Paris. As a digital sinner myself I have 2331 captures from this trip!
My goal in all this is spelled out on the first painting page, so, quoting Jimi, let me bore you a bit while I take a solo here.
In search of Père Corot, the acknowledged master of such luminaries as Picasso, Monet, Matisse et al, I studied the Louvre’s collection of his landscape oeuvre. Being a plein air painter, I also found plein air oeufs, the oeuvre of poules raised in what I’m guessing is the equivalent of France’s fresh air fun?
What can I say? I always crack myself up. Nietsche, lui-même à dit, “To create you must destroy.” ....And If you want to make an omelette you have to break a few oeuvres. The best omelette, by the way, can be found in the plein air cafe on top of the Beaubourg museum. Iris and I went there on the first Sunday of July, a free admission day, so splurged on a nice lunch overlooking the city.
Trip weather was unbelievably perfect - 70’s with gorgeous clouds and sun, to which my paintings attest, and only two days of rain in five weeks. This was great for a plein air painter, but not so good for the nose as one walked the little streets. I was often reminded of NYC in summer as the odor of dried urine wafted at the not unsuspecting walkers. The French seem to have less inhibition towards public urination, even to the point of absolutely public displays -homages to Il Fontana di Trevi. If one follows a Freudian tack, it’s not too far from plein air painting itself; spattering of clean pavement/canvas, being somewhat interchangeable.
As we planned to rent a car for two days, I threw in a visit to the little town of Ville D’Avray where Corot’s parents had bought a refuge from the tumult of Paris. There is a wonderful little landscapade of it in the Louvre that intrigued me.
So, on our way to Barbizon - news to me: there’s an actual town that the School of Barbizon painting is named after, we made a side trip to Corot’s place. (n.b. Our kids Samantha and Jesse, were in Europe on their own trajectories, but were each kind enough to join our adventures on several occasions.) At the little town hall Samantha found out
that the house still existed, largely unchanged, but was occupied by a private family. We half heartedly tried to find it, stopped at the charming church in the now bustling town, and saw the Corots there - one large religious landscape, and five pieces fitted into the transept. Even those had a masterful simplicity, perhaps enhanced by the darkness of the interior.
I was struck by a piece of falling sculpture; no, it had fallen off earlier and didn’t hit me, but the Rude plaster for the bronze in the Madeleine was there along with notable other works. One does often find masterpieces in the most unassuming churches of Europe, and we did here - as in St. Gervais in Paris, near our favorite “brick” crèpèrie.
While searching for the Corot house we discovered the “etangs” which are small ponds that grace the edge of town. There we came upon this monument to the master:
Some guy in an orange shirt kept getting into the pictures. Here he is later at Fontainebleau, to which he must have followed us.
Though we enjoyed walking around one of the etangs, eating bread and cheese on its banks, and guessing we had found the road in the painting from the Louvre, Ville D’Avray held no thrall for us. Auvers Sur L’Oise, on the other hand, was thoroughly enchanting. The last town that Vincent lived in before the unfortunate incident of his demise remains mostly authentic. It’s buildings and streets are quite similar to the ones Van Gogh strolled, and its fields and farms welcomed us with the same benificence he must have felt from them. But that is another story.
Yet another story is Monet’s Giverny, which was an original replica/authentic recreation of what some misguided people had imagined it to be. Unless one is a horticulturalist I recommend taking a pass and moving on to other sites. If one wants to commune with Monet, his paintings are better vehicles. No magic here as you can see from this truly pedestrian pedestrian bridge photo:
