Day 4 Sept 17, 2024

Still oh so excited to be in Paris, I got up early to look out at the world below. The barber across the street was cutting hair, tourists on their cell phones arrived with their noisy luggage, a woman stopped to clean the face of her toddler in a stroller. He was fussing and she slapped him. Twice. He and I were both shocked and I prayed for his sake that he wouldn’t make another sound. Disturbing.

On the way to the Musee Rodin, a French woman asked me for directions. I said “desolee je parle pas francais tres bien” and she walked away muttering to herself. I was flattered that she did not take me for a tourist, or worse, an American. Heavy police presence in front of the hotel just down the street from the Musee. Media waiting across the street. Don’t know what that was all about. Will try to find out.

I am only familiar with a handful of Rodin’s work so Musee Rodin was a real education. He worked in wood, plaster, terra cotta, bronze, enamel, he would even combine terra cotta on bronze, for instance. He was prolific not just in sculpture but in oil painting, drawing, watercolor, etc. He also collected works by VanGogh OMG(!), Monet, Renoir, among others as well as antiquities. The guy had it going on in spite of a rough start, being rejected by the school of Beaux Arts, not once, but three times. He hooked up with Camille Claudel who had as much talent as he but she never got ANY CREDIT even for the works on which they collaborated. Hello? She spent 30 years in an insane asylum and he went back to his wife.* WHAT.A.TRAVESTY.

The last room in the museum tied together breaking, the newest Olympic sport, with the dynamic quality found in much of Rodin’s work. An interesting way of making Rodin relatable to today’s youth I thought. The figures in contorted positions with their arms uncomfortably twisted together expressa lot of tension and pain. Also the female nudes with legs splayed showing their yayas for all the world to see did not go over well with the public back then. So he had his controversial moments, too.

Dined at the outdoor restaurant on the premises accompanied by a pigeon who stared at me from its perch on the chair opposite me. Afterwards I walked around the well manicured garden where Rodin’s major works are masterfully displayed. This alone is worth the price of admission. The Thinker, the Kiss, the Gates of Hell. Which are all connected. The Thinker is actually Dante Alighieri, the Kiss is actually Paolo & Francesca (from the Divine Comedy) and the Gates of Hell is from the first line of, you guessed it, The Divine Comedy. These are the names that Rodin gave them. Why have they been renamed? The garden also included The Burghers of Calais, and a few figures from mythology. The building was Rodin’s house. He actually lived there. And to think he found it through the poet Rainer Maria Rilke who worked for him. It used to be a hotel, so it’s enormous, with decorated ceilings, oval shaped rooms, floor to ceiling windows with grand vistas, hand carved wood paneling and molding around the doors. It’s a mansion. I am so jealous.

While I was walking around the garden I watched a couple, he was posing like The Thinker in front of The Thinker and she was photographing him. I had to laugh and I showed them the photos I took of them. We wound up talking for a while, she, Annette, was from NYC and he, John, had lived briefly in Laurenceville, GA. What a small world. Annette told me about her best friend who had just lost her husband. Her friend’s story paralleled mine so closely that I lost it. Right there in the garden in broad daylight. They hugged me, we talked some more. They hugged me again. They were so nice, the friends I desperately needed for 15 minutes.

Regained my composure and walked home without needing my phone to tell me how.

• Correction: Auguste Rodin and Rose Beuret got married 2 weeks before she died, so technically they were not married when his affair with Carmille ended,

Day 3 Sept 16, 2024

Still oh so excited to be in Paris, I got up early to look out at the world below. Very little activity, a noisy garbage truck, a tall handsome Frenchman with salt & pepper hair rollerbladed past at a pretty good clip. I could not get dressed fast enough to chase him down and marry him. A man after my own heart. What could be better than a Frenchman on roller skates? AND he wasn't smoking!

This morning I went back to St Eustache for a second look. Simply too beautiful for words. A Keith Haring tryptich in a side chapel. A yellow neon ladder suspended from the ceiling, created by an Austrian woman for the Paris Olympics. The church was where St Vincent de Paul got his start, of special significance to me because my mother worked for St Vincent de Paul for 40 years. Not him personally, the Organization.

I decided to make the pilgrimage to 27 rue de Fleurus, home of Gertrude Stein & Alice B Toklas. On the way, I passed Dehillerin, an old world kitchen supply store. To be clear, this is no William Sonoma. It’s dark, messy and dusty, more like a mashup of an old timey hardware store and a culinary hoarder’s paradise. Narrow aisles, floor to ceiling shelves laden with shiny copper pots of every size and conformation. It was heaven. I imagined the chefs from all over the world that have a favorite kitchen utensil from there and a story to tell.

Peeked in at the church of St German des pres. expecting more gothic. I was delighted to see the blue ceilimg bespeckled with stars, very reminiscent of churches in Italy and very familiar.

Stood at the doorway of 27 Rue de Fleurus and imagined all the heavyweights from the art, music and literary world that passed through the gates, Paul Cézanne, Henri Matisse, Pable Picasso, James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, Francis Picabia, Jean Cocteau the list goes on and on. Dined on a grilled vegetable salad and creme brulee at the corner bistro called La Gorgee (22rue de Fleurus, 6 arrondissment) Imagined Gertrude and Alice eating there too. Alice was famous for omelets made with a pound of butter. I hope that’s not true.

On the way home, I bought a brioche for breakfast and popped into the Musee Maillol on impulse. There was a photo exhibit by Andres Serrano which was interesting but shocking. Maillol’s work on the other hand, was delightful. His muse and model was Dina Vierny who, as she said, came for one hour but stayed 10 years. He said of her, there are only three flowers: the rose the carnation, and Dina. Pretty sweet really.

Topped off the evening with a sumptuous lobster at the Café de la Paix with my high school friend and her daughter. A delightful evening of catching up and reminiscing about IC High. Her daughter lives in Paris, speaks French, Spanish, Italian and …English.

Day 2 Sept 15, 2024

Still oh so excited to be in Paris, I got up early to look out at the world below my window. Very quiet Sunday morning, no activity, no traffic, not a soul except for a lone pigeon aimlessly walking down the middle of the street with an air of French nonchalance. It needed only a cigarette dangling from its beak.

After coffee and pastry at home, Brad and I walked to the Palais Garnier, an opera house designed by Charles Garnier commissioned by Emperor Napoleon III. Also known as Opéra Garnier, it is a magnificent, almost 2000-seat theater in the 9th arrondissement. The sheer opulence, the grandiose scale, the attention to detail, the OMG auditorium ceiling painted by Marc(!) Chagall(!) the library, the miniature stage sets, the hall of portraits, the oversized chandeliers, the intricate wrought iron hand rails, the bigger than life sculptures of composers, gold everywhere, luxurious floor to ceiling velvet curtains with giant tassels, the magnifcent marble staircase, the OMG it never ends factor, around the corner and everywhere you look, something wonderful that takes your breath away. It is also the place where elegantly dressed young Asian women have their picture made, an impromptu and ever evolving fashion show against a backdrop of over the top magnificence. And a lot of people. Not sure what those photos look like unless they Photoshop out the millions of tourists around them. Even the gift shop was amazing. I floated out of the building into the bright sunny blue sky, mind blown by the sheer beauty of it all. And so grateful to have seen it.

We ate lunch outdoors beneath the white umbrellas of Coco, the restaurant associated with PG. Very upscale too, I had a decadent lobster roll, savored every bite.

Across the street is the Parfumerie Fragonard, a lovely museum similar to the Perfume Museum in Cologne. It featured beautiful explanations of how perfume is made in what must have been a private residence at one time. One room was devoted to a collection of perfume bottles dating back to ancient times. Ever wonder what myhrr looks like? You know, of gold, frankincense and myhrr fame. It’s a gum extract of a tree used for medicinal purposes and there was a small pile of it an ornate dish. The best part of the Parfumerie, other than how deliciously it smelled, is that it is run by the direct descendants of the founder, three sisters. Yes, it’s a women owned business. As we left, we discovered, by chance, a Fragonard gift shop around the corner that was filled with brightly colored gifts and items for the home with a vibe that is a cross between Marimekko and Laura Ashley.

From the top of Printemps, another upscale department store, we got a 360 degree view of Paris, free(!) Nice restaurant up there, too. On the top floor of the Printemps next door, under an enormous, predominantly blue, stained glass cupola was an informative temporary exposition on the history of the jacket. Fascinating! Inspired me to want to learn to sew. And gave me some ideas for how to deconstruct and upscale a dress I have had for 40 years. Can’t wait to try it.

On our way out of Printemps we stopped to get an ice cream at Alain Ducasse. We sat next to a French woman with whom we struck up a conversation. She mentioned that her husband had been a surgeon and I told her that Brad was a doctor, a pathologist who specialized in kidney and liver transplantation. Madame Petit's husband, Richard, was a kidney transplant surgeon(!) They had several mutual colleagues both in Paris and elsewhere. And we just happen to meet in an ice cream shop, mai oui.

Stopped to see the church of St Augustin, an unusually shaped church completely surrounded by streets with wrought iron buttresses inspired by Eiffel. On our way home, we saw the Church of Madelaine with the largest organ (in the world? I don't know), the Louvre IM Pei's pyramid and the Olympic balloon in Tuilleries Garden. Running out of steam at this point. Split a pizza with Brad at a place across from our apartment called Senza Nome Pizzeria, (without a name) and at this point I am without any more words. Took a shower and went to bed.

Day 1, Sept 14, 2024

I can't believe I'm in Paris! After months of wishing and hoping and unsuccessfully cajoling friends to come with me, I'm here. All thanks to Brad who casually mentioned he would attend a medical conference in Sept and would I like to come, too. YES, I said YES!

The flight went well, we took the RER from CDG into Paris and found our little abode (10 rue de Roule) a short distance from the station. It was almost too easy. The apartment is Ikea chic. From the living room window, just down the street, we can see the spectacular Church of St. Eustache, in the 1st arrondissement. It was built between 1532 and 1633 near the site of the medieval marketplace Les Halles and rue Montorgueil, both of which I will explore further. It is the second largest church in the city, just behind Notre Dame It is also one of the most beautiful churches I have ever seen. And I have seen so many churches. I am definitely going back. Some of the artwork rescued during the Notre Dame fire is being stored there until it can all be returned.

We went into the Samaritaine, a building inspired by the Eiffel Tower and very lovingly restored down to every last detail. A spectacular showplace for high end luxury items like watches that cost 38,000 Euros and champagne bottles mongrammed in gold leaf. Over.The.Top. A friendly salesperson there told us about the church next door so, of course, we went there, too. It’s called Eglise Saint-Germain L’Auxerrois. There was a service going on, very sweet and very humble. Felt like ricocheting from the obscene to the sublime.

Bought pastries for tomorrow morning at the neighborhood boulangerie and milk for our coffee at a nearby market. And oh! Figs and strawberries at the corner fruit stand. Yes, I can feel it, I'm already slipping into a Paris State of Mind, to paraphrase Billy Joel, and it's only Day 1. Très dangereuse.

Prelude: Paris and Pisa 2024

It is no secret that I love to travel. After 18 months of life without the most perfect travel companion anyone could ever hope for, I realized that if I wanted to continue, I needed to evaluate my situation and take action. I was daunted by the logistics of making travel plans, the idea of traveling alone with a heart condition and a heavy suitcase felt risky and filled me with anxiety.

The easiest solution, it seemed, was to ask friends to travel with me. No takers. Then, C’s cousin Brad, who travels a great deal for work, mentioned he was going to Paris in the fall and invited me to join him. I said yes without hesitation. More like YES! I asked him if, instead of returning to the US, he would mind if I went on to Italy to see my family. He generously offered to accompany me as far as the Pisa airport. Amazing.

Voting In Georgia 2020

Based on talk about rigged elections, voter fraud and voter suppression, I decided to record our voting experience for the presidential election in 2020 and the Senate runoff in January of 2021 from beginning to end. We have voted “in person” for over 40 years but because of the pandemic and my then ongoing health issues, we decided to vote by absentee ballot. We are both over 65 and felt that it was the right and safe thing to do.

We received an inordinate amount of unsolicited correspondence related to voting absentee; first from the Center for Voter Information and then from the Secretary of State's office. To be precise, we each received 10 copies of the same letter from Lionel Dripps with a general explanation of voting absentee. We also received 4 copies each of the Application for Official Absentee Ballot after we filled it out and mailed it. In other words, together we received a total of 20 letters from Lionel Dripps and 10 Applications for Official Absentee Ballots, some of which arrived after the Presidential election and the Senate runoff occurred.

Receiving so many applications created a great deal of confusion for us. We called the Secretary of State's office several times to make sure they had, in fact, received our applications. From the day we were assured that they had received the applications and that our Absentee Ballots had been mailed to us, we waited 13 days for the actual ballots to arrive. We filled them out immediately and personally delivered them to a Deposit Box at the Auburn Street Library. We waited a few days and then checked online to make sure that our votes had been accepted.

We went through the same exact machinations for the Senate Runoff on January 5th.

This system was very confusing. Why so many letters? Why so many Applications for Absentee Ballots? Because we received so many ballot applications we were concerned that none of them had been received by The Georgia Secretary of State’s Office. We called FairFight to help us because we had so little faith that voting absentee was working properly for us.

It all worked out in the end but it was an angst ridden experience for no obvious reason.

The Artist as a Child or the Child as a Prescient Artist...

I was probably 5 years old when I drew this picture. There is no telling what was going on in my mind then but what’s strange about it is that it predicted some aspects of my life with a naive yet uncanny accuracy. 

There are three figures in the foreground: my father, my mother and I. My Dad is walking in one direction on a path that is different than my mother’s and mine. My mother is standing behind me as I run along the road that leads to a steep incline and then, beyond the crest of the hill, to a bride approaching a groom. His head is the only one that has been erased and drawn twice, suggesting a second marriage(?) His foot is at the entrance to a garden, with a tree, grass and flowers; a paradise of sorts that is self contained and isolated from everything else. A solitary blue bird flies overhead, the sun shines brightly in a blue sky and, in the background, stands a mountain colored in black.

 My Dad’s path originated in the shadow cast by the house and ends abruptly. He died suddenly at the age of 59, and my mother married a second time several years later. I also married twice. Our time without my father far outlasted our time with him. In the meantime, I worked several different jobs, lived in various places, had medical issues, perhaps the many paths, some that disappear over the hill and some more tortuous than others. 

And the black mountain? It took me quite a while to understand its significance because it is rendered, oddly enough, without a hint of danger or menace. The only interpretation that makes sense to me is almost too simple. For many years my mother traveled extensively around the world and to her home country but when she reached her 80’s, she reduced her travels to summers in… Black Mountain, NC. 

Request From A Favorite...

The LaGrange Art Museum has requested I make my collage, ”Accept This,” available for use in their Call For Entries mailer. I’m honored and pleased to do so. The LaGrange Art Museum, in particular Lanora Yates, Gallery Director & Curator of The Lamar Dodd Arts Center has been very appreciative of my work in the past and this is a nice gesture by the museum. This museum is a wonderful regional art center, certainly top tier in the southeast. I’m happy to spread the word.

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Chronicle Of An Immigrant: My Father's Story

August 21, 2015

What I found out about my father’s childhood both surprised me and inspired me to make this collage. His relationship with his older sister and his mother always struck me as strained but he died before I could ask him about it.

A few years ago, on a trip to visit family in Italy, a cousin gave me a handful of letters written to my father, Dante by his father, Francesco. The letters had been in the attic at least 70 years and were discovered while cleaning out the attic to prepare the house for its new owners. Unfortunately the letters my Dad wrote in response were lost. 

So, I was able to piece together this much: 

My grandparents Francesco and Adelia emigrated to the United States and took their first born, Maria with them but left their son, Dante, my father, in the care of Francesco’s sister, Isolina, and her husband. I had known of this vaguely but learned from the letters that my father had been left in the care of his aunt & uncle… for 10 years(!) During this time, Francesco wrote lovingly about America in beautiful penmanship telling Dante to study English. America, he wrote, would give him a better life than a poor country like Italy. As far as I can tell, Dante did not want to come to the United States and Francesco and Adelia never came back to Italy to visit their son. He came to the US as a teenager, his parents and his sister were strangers to him and shortly thereafter he went back to Italy to stay with the only family he had ever really known, his aunt & uncle and their two daughters, Lucia and Giovanna. 

However, when Mussolini rose to power, Francesco became concerned for my father's safety and feared his certain conscription. According to a letter written by my dad in August of 1944, Francesco arranged for him to travel to Marseilles where the Nieri family helped him to board the Saturnia, bound for the United States.

Lucia lived in her parents’ home until she was in her eighties, which is why the letters were not discovered until a few years ago. I will never know why so much time lapsed before my father was reunited with his sister and their parents other than his initial desire to return to the more familiar.

My grandfather died of pneumonia at 57 years of age on Christmas Day, 1945 in New York City, shortly after my parents were married. My grandmother Adelia died in the early 70’s. As a child, I never witnessed any affection between mother and son.

My father, the only member of his family to graduate from college, became a successful businessman and died at the age of 59 in 1975. At his death he was only two years older than his father.

I finished this collage within days of the 40th anniversary of my father’s passing, August 21, 2015.  It’s an homage, divided in three parts, with the colors of the Italian flag as a backdrop. On the left panel is a photo of my Dad as a young boy with his friends, the middle panel, my Dad at 23 years of age, on the ship Saturnia bound for the US and the right panel, a photo of him split in half, as a young man in NYC.