Hommage

This delightful little snap of my gorgeous husband and I, pays hommage to Kevin. I thank him from the bottom of my heart whilst I flit around France, he keeps the home fires burning, doing the chores and keeping little Bandy-poo fed and walked. He has quite a few little issues to deal with. Meanwhile I post  on my blog about all the interesting things on the other side of the world.

Thank you, Kevin, for allowing me to live my dream. May these experiences be enriching, enlightening and beneficial to all parties.

MERCI. Thank you. xxxx

The dancing cow.

I have no idea what this contraption is called. I have decided to call it, "La vache qui danse." The cow that dances. The reason for this is revealed when one fills one's cup with a sachet of supermarket purchased Cappuccino, fills the cup with 100 mls of hot water, inserts the dancing cow into the cup and push the button. The little whisk at the bottom brrrrrrrrrrrs away creating a storm in a teacup. The result is light frothy cappuccino. Voilà!  Faites accomplis. Délicieux.

What cool find in a supermarket. Batteries not included.

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.