What the ....?

I spotted this gem in one of my second-hand shop excursions! 

Merde!

Such brazen audacity. It was sitting next to all sorts of nicknacks. I wonder if some scolding mother threw it out of a child's bedroom, or someone eventually achieved a better job, or someone just ended their life and didn't need the clock anymore, ...

A bargain at 2 Euros.

L'artiste-moi

On return from my art-inspired visit to Aix-en-Provence,  I announced to M and H that I intend to investigate having art lessons. 

There was an establishment in the centre of town that I had spotted. I paused outside, pondering the details posted on the window. .........   ........

My imagination took flight. An artist's easel placed in the garden of my new apartment; the horses flicking their tails under a willow tree; me gentling caressing the canvas with confident flair; the water colours dancing on the paper with colourful abandon. Hmmmm.

Anyway ...... M disappeared upstairs for a few minutes. I could hear her rummaging and fossicking amongst belongings stored upstairs in cupboards and drawers. She proudly emerged with a palette of water colour paints, brushes of various sizes and a pad of thick, quality paper. I squealed with surprise and delight. How did she know that that was what i was thinking. Again, not too distant memories kicked into action. Dad had tried his hand at poetry and water colour paintings when he travelled to distant exotic locations: North America and Africa. His pictures still remain on display in Mum's garage. Originally they were pepper-potted at various locations around my parents' house. I loved the one that he painted of Manu, our beloved Golden retriever. There is something endearing about an animal when it is in a deep, restful sleep. I'll never forgive the woman that criticised Dad's work when he went to art lessons at a nearby location. She also committed a sin by re-touching his painting with her own handy work. This put a stop to dad's artistic attempts.

So with inspiration from Matisse, Cèzanne, Renoir and Picasso; a fair dash of artistic talent coursing through my veins, I braved the desire to produce a masterpiece on the first attempt and brought the watercolour palette to life once again. Here is Viki Runnerström's creation, October, 2013. (I copied the idea from an app on my i pad.)

H remarked, with positive critique, that the water contained movement and that colour of the water looked mediterranean. He didn't mention the naïve quality of the picture itself. Good for him. No room for negative critique.I like to think of it as a child-like fresh perspective. I also believe that it has a primitive Matisse-like expressionism. I think I'll be the pioneer for the "nouveau wave of watercolour- fauvist expressionism." 

Please read into it, the metaphor for making the most of difficult situations. Also please read into it "the cliché-esque iconic symbolism of conflicting emotions. The lack of depth and visual perspective only serves the innocent-like primitive flair of Viki's first of a series of nouveau watercolour -fauvist expressionism."

There now, I can see it now. My own art exhibition, travelling the length and breadth of Nouvelle-Zélande. ...... ....... ........

Champignons et le Gâteau de la banane (white elephant)

H had collected these wild mushrooms, champignons. They change colour as they get older. I think they go a red colour, hence, they are called "sang" like blood.

They were fried with lots of garlic and parsley. Delicious. I was treated to the "lion's share." I didn't put up too much of a fight. Curiously, parsley is persil in french. Sounds and looks like laundry powder, nest-ce pas?

When I saw some bananas getting pretty ripe in the fruit bowl, I decided to make a typically NZ banana cake. From there I began to diverge. I used a french recipe so that I could guarantee the ingredients were what I wanted them to be. In other words, I wasn't sure what the word for baking powder was. Marthe was very generous in letting me use her kitchen and tools. You know what it's like; the kitchen can become quite dirty when making a cake. It used a lot of butter and sugar. I played french music, humming away with the french recipe propped up against a bottle. 

The red silicon loaf tin in the photo filled me with fear, as I didn't want to put it in the oven. I have only used the old fashioned tins in the past. I kept checking with Marthe, to see if it is OK to put it in the oven. She assured me that it was okay.

In the end I found a bigger more robust container in which to fill with the huge quantity of dough. 
I had mixed the butter and sugar by hand. The mixture was very lumpy. Eeek. I hope it works out.

Whew. All went well. I sprinkled it with icing sugar and artistically placed some raspberries on top. I think it would have been sugar overkill I had iced it with lemon icing.

Hervé had the honours of cutting it that night. In this photo his face is frowning as he mocks that it is difficult to cut.

This photo was manufactured to produce the idea of elegance and polite manners. The pinky is thus poised.

We all ate very small, polite slices. None of us wanted to be gluttonous. I then realised that I had a white elephant on my hands. 

How were we going to get through this monstrosity over the next few days???? ( It had to be eaten fresh!)

I was urged to take it to school the next day. It was eagerly greeted by both the staff and students alike. I'm glad I wrote the recipe out in french. One of the teachers wanted the recipe.

Eyes wide open

Marthe dropped me off into town one day. On the way, when she stopped to post a letter, I snapped this cute little european vanette. It was selling bread and beautiful pastries. It was a beautiful sight, cute and oh so french. The owner had just opened up and he was placing his sign out by the road. He saw me taking a photo and was not very happy that I had taken a photo. He glared at me, shook his head in disgust and swore under his breath. I giggled with nervousness. I think that I am building up a reputation of taking photos of ridiculous things.

My blog is called, "Meet Me in France". All these sights are new to me. I want to share them with YOU!

On one of my walks I found this gorgeous little shop. A treasure trove of memories.

I stopped to have a cappuccino. The waiter fulfilled the arrogant waiter cliché. The cappuccino was awful. The squirted cream on top only made the cappuccino worse. My goal to diminish my derrière was thwarted.

I bought some delicious raspberries and blackberries. If only you could sit with me and sample these exotic delights.

Whilst taking a promenade, I paused and snapped this beautiful vista.  I try and look at the world with fresh eyes. However, my ridiculous Kodak reputation with Hervé and Marthe is building.

Art History: WOW!

Breakfast:

Pain au chocolat

Coffee

Jus d'orange

Fortified with a far from nutritious breakfast, we returned to the hotel to prepare for the day ahead, and arm myself with a fist full of hankies. My cold was now in full, nasal flood.

Once again, I couldn't stop myself from "snapping" everything in sight. The foyer of the hotel sported a very emotive bust. It's not just the furrowed brow, but the strong line of the nose and the firm thrust of the chin that is a stark contrast to my sweet and gentle face.

I have a soft spot for flowers. These beautifully placed, perfectly formed orchids provide a classy display in the foyer. Looks as though some guest are chatting to the receptionist.

Stephen and I set off for an art museum that had been recommended to us by the "arty" family. The weather had been threatening; everyone shook their head in dismay as they relayed the weather forecast: rain. 

"Er... sorry, Stephen. Please stop for a minute while I indulge in a Kodak moment"; an exquisitely ornate doorway.

At first it began to drizzle and we poo pooed how insignificant it was. 

Here is a shot of the entrance to the museum. Stephen figured things out. It was necessary to buy the entrance tickets from another venue about 5 minutes walk away. It was about now, that the heavens opened and we quickly became drenched in the outpour. Meanwhile we were trying to find the secretive venue in which to purchase the tickets. There was a long queue of tourists from every corner of the world, waiting to purchase their tickets. What a good idea to visit the museum when the weather is foul.

My tiny umbrella hardly shielded one person, let alone two. We stood in the pouring rain for what seemed like about 10 minutes. My streaming nose mimicked the rain. Once we eventually squeezed into the foyer, it was probably another sardine-like 20 minutes before we were able to purchase our tickets. 

We braved the rain again and made it into the foyer, water bottle confiscated and detected for metal.

Once clear of the entry, the scene began to bring me into sharp focus of a truly memorable experience. I soon realised that I had died and gone to heaven. I was looking at, and appreciating,  magnificent roman sculptures. The romanesque bust in the hotel foyer was nothing compared to what I was now experiencing.

 When I was young, Mum was able to borrow art work from the library. We had a piece of wall in the dining room that was allocated to a frequently changing array of contemporary and classical art. Without realising it at the time, I was intrigued as to the story behind the pictures. These were my first lessons in art appreciation. I also had attended art lessons behind Lopdell House in Titirangi. (I was always frustrated at not being able to produce masterpieces.)

I was the world's most attentive student in 6th form art history lessons. I gobbled up assignments and LOVED learning about the art movements and famous artists. (My teacher had the audacity to say to me that I was TRYING TOO HARD!!!!!!!)

Later on, when I was a young adult, I benefited from Mum working in an art framing shop. I adored all the prints that were brought home and framed.

In the bedroom of our bach was a painting, "The girl with the Pearl Earring." I would stare at it for hours,  when I drifted off to sleep at night and then again when I woke up in the morning. There were so many prints that I would contemplate upon for hours!!!!!!

So ..... here I am, standing in front of ORIGINALS!!!!!!!!!!

The incredible truth of the moment was beyond words. I paused in front of Cezanne, Renoir, etc. as my art appreciation moved into a multidimensional, personal experience! The Fauvists, cubists, impressionists, etc became alive. The colours exploded in my head; the clarity and sharpness of the lines, forms, textures and interpretations of subjects were a sensory melange. I floated between exhibits on a cloud of surreal estacy, oblivious of the thronging tourists. (Trying to find a dry spot on my hanky was a futile task.) 

In a way, it was good thing that I wasn't allowed to take photos. That meant that I could just focus on what my eyes were experiencing directly. When I spotted a quote from Cézanne, I couldn't agree more; forgive me if my translation is not 100% accurate.  " I have returned to Aix and this country that I have found so beautiful I had forgotten again the ( advantage)?

Yes. Yes. Yes. All these artists had lived in the South of France or had visited it. I could now understand why and how they were so inspired.

What an incredible coup de la chance that enabled serendipity to play its cards for me to end up in a visiting exhibition of pioneering artists. 

Meanwhile the heavens poured a torrential burst of water onto the roof of the museum. Unfortunately, it was time to go and we once again became drenched whilst negotiating our way back to the hotel. I decided to leave Aix en Provence early as I was feeling very much under the weather; the pinnacle of a torrid /horrid cold. 

I caught the midday train back to Gap. I sat on the train exhausted, watching the moving countryside with intrigue but with none of the gusto that I exuberated in the morning. I was disintegrating into a miserable, self -pitying mess. My cold had won a victory as it painted the countryside with a dull, faded blue. All I wanted was to close my eyes for a rest. However, I daren't, as I could have missed my stop.

As you can see by this insignificant and boring photos, I was shrouded in self pity. From ecstacy in the morning, I was now experiencing the other end of the spectrum.

I humped my backpack, shoulder bag and large handbag away from the station. I walked through the desolate township of Gap, (Sunday, everything is closed), to the other side of town to catch the bus home. I slumped in despair as I realised that buses don't operate on Sundays. Oh well, I'll just have to burn some calories and walk home. After walking for about 10 minutes my bags became 20 kilos heavier. I stopped at every bus stop for 5 minutes to gather my strength for the next trek. Eventually, I swallowed my pride, texted Marthe and asked for a lift. By the time she arrived bright and breezy in her little white car, I was a mess, to say the least. 

Once I arrived home and downed some Panadol, the world began to lift off my shoulders. 

Closing my eyes before drifting off to sleep, I was incredulous that in one day I had flown with the angels, and also, scraped the bottom of the barrel. 

First Day in Aix

After placing our backpacks in the hotel dining room, we walked about 2 blocks into the main drag of Aix en Provence. The noise and clamour of thousands of people swarming the popular tourist destination was an unexpected blow to our senses. The music and joie de vivre from these buskers was awesome. SNAP! What a shame I can't share their cool "sound" with you.

It wasn't long before my innate ability to sniff a street market came to the fore. Yep! A market of all sorts of nic nacs. As I have become a connoisseur of this kind of thing, I enjoyed the browsing, but not buying. They were definitely priced for the tourist. I eyed up a cool hand-painted picture of a wolf. Smile turned to frown when the vendor said that it costs 100 Euros.

After the market, we found a side road and fed our rumbling tummies. Cool ambience. Please note, I drank water. Unlike throughout my posts so far, where I sport a red wine in hand.

 It was about now, that I realised that the tickle in my throat and the dull thudding headache was more than imagination. All the classic symptoms of a cold descended, and the afternoon  was painted with more than a tinge of "blah." I was dismayed that Aix didn't provide the "wham" that so many people had mentioned. I was lamenting the conviviality of Gap. The impersonal, blank faces and high price tags meant that Stephen and were only able to window shop or as they say in french, "léches les vitrines", lick the windows. I saw my fair share of very chic, elegantly dressed women. Sadly, I was not one of them. I wore the uniform of the tourist: jeans, T-shirt and tightly clutched handbag.

We plonked ourselves down at a roadside restaurant, engaging in that wonderful pastime of people watching. This is a very cultural experience, as I stereotype people and make observations that are probably grossly inaccurate.

That afternoon, I was probably the worst companion for Stephen. I didn't feel like walking or talking much. The impending storm clouds of my rapidly approaching cold loomed heavily in my head and on my shoulders.

I didn't feel like taking anymore photos. Hmph!

However, we enjoyed dining in a cute restaurant that had been recommended by our hotel staff. We ordered a 3 course meal at a reasonable standard price. Vegetable soup, fish with vegetables and of , la piéce de résistance, crème brulée.

I loved the décor, and I loved how they cooked the meal on a huge open fire in front of the guests. I soon learnt that it is not necessary to use a plate for the bread.

It was interesting to listen to the conversation of the four americans at the table next to us. In fact, I couldn't hear what Stephen was saying at all; the american conversation was quite overpowering.

Would you believe it? I didn't pack any Panadol. It was back in Gap. Sleeping that night was intermittent. You know what I mean. A terrible night of struggling between headache, sneezing, honking my nose and feeling like merde!

Bloody marvellous. 

Sixth form art history lessons emerge. Art appreciation.

Two charming young men rounded the corner in the picturesque central Place Jean Marcelin, Gap. One was a fellow Immersion Award colleague, Stephen, visiting France for 5 weeks. The other was a teenage young man, (I'll call him "T"), who lives in a relatively nearby town called, Chateau-Arnoux. T was a host family member that went to school in Gap. He departed for about 45 minutes whilst Stephen and I had a quick "Kir". 

We were then literally whisked off the street and piled into a 4 wheel drive, speeding off to Chateau-Arnoux. The ride was jolly as two teenage boys, their mother, myself and Stephen had a lively conversation aquainting ourselves, amongst other topics.

We drove along the main highway, turned off onto smaller country roads, drove through the small township and began a winding, narrow ascent up narrow roads. By now the light had faded from murky blue and established itself into a starlit warm, balmy evening. We climbed winding roads for about 5 to 10 minutes and pulled up in the driveway of a beautiful, rustic and charming french home.

I plonked my bag in the guest bedroom and congratulated myself on winning the lottery. As you can see the bed was large, there was a beautiful ensuite and the house was teaming with arty books, post cards, posters, framed art work, artefacts, sculptures and tastefully decorated furniture. Even the toilet room was an adventure. I was able to relax whilst surrounded in even more books and REALLY interesting art, both contemporary and classic.

We joined the youngest son, about 14, who had succeeded in preparing and cooking a gorgeous Tarte aux pommes, via telephone instructions from his mum.

Shortly after arrival, we sat in comfortable chairs outside on the terrace. The alcohol, banter and goodwill flowed.

After we all had relaxed into each other's company, dinner was served: delicious, hot home-made ratatouille, traditional to the south of France, with soft fresh pasta and green salade.

Voilà!

Next was the light and delicious Tarte aux pommes, followed by a stunning selection of a variety of fresh frommage.  Yum.

When I woke up the next morning, I luxuriated in a heavenly shower, excited to inspect the property as Stephen had told me that it was pretty cool. 

I wasn't disappointed. I was in PARADISE! The house sported its own rambling fruit trees, 

studio,

swimming pool,

and a view that would rob you of your breath. A visual banquet.

With my i pad tucked under my arm, Stephen and I embarked on a short excursion to the top of the nearby hill. The ancient buildings beckoned with alluring charm.

I couldn't stop myself from snapping this brightly painted truck parked by the wayside. If you think that it looks as though it could be serving Mr Whippy ice-creams, I'd have to agree with you. For all I know, it could be a truck that sucks effluent out of public toilets. he he he.

We encountered the familiar and typical narrow passage ways. Steps, stones, flowers, tables and chairs, shoes outside doors, etc.

On reaching the summit, Stephen and I became silent to inhale the magnificent 360 degree view.  My eagle eyes spotted a bush of wild blackberries. I don't think Stephen was too impressed, but distant childhood memories of Mum delighting over wild blackberries came to mind. (Roadside spraying soon stopped us from eating them.)

Snap!, another Kodak moment.

I savoured the sharp, sweet flavour with child-like abandon.

 I must have awoken and aroused the curiosity of the neighbour with our english voices.

I turned around to be confronted by a tall, good-looking gentleman with chestnut brown eyes and a warm smile. I apologised for disturbing the peace. He quickly refuted. He was aware that we were the visiting NZers. He was the father of the three teenage boys. He lived in a neighbouring house. He offered for us to join him with a coffee. I was gutted that we didn't have time. However, I eagerly agreed to his offer of tasting some green grapes growing at his front door. Cool, ay?

Before we knew it, our bags were placed in the boot of a cute little manual car, and the 19 year old boy and his father were chauffeuring us to the train station a few minutes away. It was an opportunity for H to further his driving his skills in a manual car, (driving lesson with foreigners aboard). 

At the train station, I learnt how to purchase a ticket. We bid farewell to H and his dad. 

The train to Aix en Provence was a good excuse to relax and imagine what adventure the weekend will bring.