More letters from Ski Camp

Chers papa, chers maman

Nous avons fait du ski, nous avons fait des bac aloréas.

Nous avons mangé des pizzas, des cordons bleus, des haricots verts etc...

Nous avons fait de la luge.

Mon moniteur de ski s'appelle Fred.

Fred est un moniteur très sympa.

Fred est aussi un moniteur marrant.

Au ski nous avons fait une piste verte,

la piste verte était bien parce qu'il y avait beaucoup de vitesse et beaucoup de pente qui vont très vite parce que si l'on fait un chasse neige, on tombe.

Nous avons pris le télésiège qui allait très haut, nous avons pris le téléski, nous avons pris trois fois le même téléski.

Nous avons aussi vu un château ou un palais en glace et en neige.

On pouvait aller à l'intérieur du château ou du palais.

Nous avons vu des escaliers en neige et en glace.

Gros bisous. Kilian.



Translation:

Dear Papa, Dear Maman

We went skiing, we played word games.

We've eaten pizzas, cordon bleus, green beans, etc...

We've gone sledding.

My ski instructor's name is Fred.

Fred is a very nice instructor.

Fred is also a very funny instructor.

While skiing, we did a "green" slope,

The "green" slope was good because there was a lot of speed and a lot of downward slope and it went really fast because if you do a snowplough, you fall.

We took the ski gondola that goes really high, we took the ski lift, we took the same ski lift three times.

We also saw a castle or palace made of ice and snow.

We could go into the castle or palace.

We saw staircases made of snow and ice.

Lots of kisses, Kilian.



Chers papa, chers maman

A Font Moulin, j'ai fait beaucoup de parties d'échecs.

Là-bas, nous sommes aller en ville.

Nous allons aussi faire une boum.

Nous avon mangé une raclette vendredi 20 février.

Nous sommes allés en ville et nous avons acheté des choses.

Nous avons vu un échequié et les pions était des dragons, tout l'ensemble coûtait 128 euros.

Nous avons aussi vu un échequié et les pions était des champignons et des lutins, tout l'ensemble coûtait 200 euros.

Là-bas, en ville, à Embrun, dans les hautes alpes, Arthur m'a acheté une lettre de notre station de ski.

Notre station de ski s'apelle les Orres.

Là-bas, dans une station, dans les Orres, dans le froid, dans le neige, il y a beaucoup de téléski et de télésiège.

Là-bas, nous avons fait une piste verte et une piste bleu.

La piste bleu était difficile, il fallait quelques fois garder la vitesse et quelques fois freiner.

Nous avons aussi fait un slalum.

Sur le slalum il ne faut pas freiner.

Gros bisous. KILIAN



Translation:


Dear Papa, Dear Maman

At Font Moulin, I've played a lot of games of chess.

Over there, we've gone to town.

We're also going to have a party.

We ate a raclette on Friday, February 20.

We went to town and we bought things.

We saw a chess set and the pieces were dragons, the whole thing cost 128 euros.

We also saw a chess set with pieces that were mushrooms and goblins, the whole thing cost 200 euros.

Over there, in town, in Embrun, in the High Alps, Arthur bought me a postcard of our ski station.

Our station is called Les Orres.

Over there, in a station, in Les Orres, in the cold, in the snow, there are a lot of ski lifts and ski gondolas.

Over there, we did a "green" slope and a "blue" slope.

The blue slope was hard, it was necessary to sometimes go fast and sometimes brake.

We also did a slalom.

On the slalom, you can't brake.

Lots of kisses, KILIAN



This kid has comedic genius.

And Brenna? Yes she has sent us one letter. The letter was short and consisted of how 'jantile' (gentilles, which is nice/kind) her new friends were. There were so many spelling mistakes that Mr C was in a bad mood for the rest of the evening.

Mr and Mrs C: Mysteries Revealed

What are your middle names?

Mine is Ruth.

His ARE François Luc Georges. No lie.


How long have you been together?

We've been together since he picked me up at Gare de Lyon station on November 17, 1997.


How long did you know each other before you started dating?

We met in a boozy bar, surrounded by Irish boys boozing. We went on our first date the next day. It was bliss.


Who asked whom out?

Because you really think that we spoke the same language?


How old are each of you?

He's 38, I'm 34


Whose siblings do you see the most?

Mr C doesn't have any. And my family is [mostly] in Canada.


Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?

Certain cultural differences. For example: I can't tell you how many times we've argued over the childrens's homework. I come from a country where kids don't have crippling homework at Kilian and Brenna's age and this is a country that has a lot of it. Because I don't have the memories of working so hard at their age, I often forget that I should be breaking out the whip more.


Did you go to the same school?

Nope.


Are you from the same home town?

Hardly. I come from a prairie town in Alberta and he was born and raised in Paris and the burbs.

Who is smarter?

I've probably got a higher IQ, but that doesn't make me smarter. Far from it. I'm just better at taking tests.


Who is the most sensitive?

This is a tough one. I think I'm the more emotional one (try and imagine my head bursting into flame and then rapidly extinguishing), but Mr C is probably the one that would take things more personally (slow burner).


Where do you eat out most as a couple?


As a couple? Without the urchins? Um.... Dunno. We're more likely to want to try different places rather than get into a rut. We both like couscous and sushi.


Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?

Egypt scared the shit out of me. But technically, Calgary is further from Paris than Egypt.


Who has the craziest exes?

Neither one of us. Mine are in Canada and he insists that 'I'm the first'. Whatever.


Who has the worst temper?

A toss up. I'm more a grumbler which can escalate to war if Mr C has a slow burn going on.


Who does the cooking?

If I don't cook, we eat eggs. I like eggs, but not for every meal. To me, cooking is a boring but necessary chore. I'd rather eat ice cream.


Who is the neat-freak?

As sad as this may sound, but when comparing Mr C and myself, I'm more of a neat freak than he is. Seriously. You should be frightened.


Who is more stubborn?

We both are. I sometimes have to bide my time to get what I want.


Who hogs the bed?

Mr C. Dude sleeps in the middle of the bed and has at least 15 pairs of elbows. Happily, I've got the same amount of knees.


Who wakes up earlier?

On work days, it's me. On the weekend, it's Mr C. Then he accuses me of sleeping the day away...


Where was your first date?


PARIS. We kept hopping in and out of the métro, visiting and walking and necking on the Champs Elysées. The most romantic evening of my life. Pinky swear.


Who is more jealous?

He is.


How long did it take to get serious?

Minutes.


Who eats more?

There are certain things that I can no longer bring into the house. Fruit flavoured yoghurts being one of them. Mr C has been known to get up in the middle of the night and decimate a whole 16 pack of individually packed yoghurts (125 ml each?). Then he'll complain the next day about a tummy ache.


Who does the laundry?

Laundry sux. We both do a bit. Though I have do my wool sweaters first otherwise he throws those babies into the dryer.


Who’s better with the computer?

I am.


Who drives when you are together?

I do. Mr C has a new company car that is swwweeeeetttttttt. It's a Citroën C4 and whenever I drive that thing, I feel like a grown up. It's so comfortable and so far from the usual hunks of junk that Mr C and I buy for our personal consumption, that I've officially named it "George" and have promised to love it forever.


That was fun. Thanks Shutterbitch and Ms Mac!

New Work Monday #4

Orange Appeal
30cm x 30cm x 4cm
Acrylic on canvas




This canvas kicked my ass. My hand still aches a bit from trying to control the little curly-cues.

But I kept my deadline of today. So it's all good.

Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah

We have received the first missive from ski camp. The following is from Kilian (translation further down):

Chers papa, chers maman,

tout se passe très bien à part la nuit dans le train, c'était horrible.

J'ai pas réussi à dormir,

j'était au deuxième lit en hauteur, c'était la pire place des six lits,

j'était à l'endroit le plus froid, quand j'essayais de dormir il y avait de l'air froid qui provenait de dehors qui est rentré,

dès que l'air froid entrait j'étais congelé come un esquimeau ou un glaçon.

Aussi les couchettes étaient dur comme du fer et donc pour dormir c'était pas du tout agréable

au contraire c'était désagréable.

Ensuite le lendemain c'était long même très long, nous nous sommes arrêté bizzarement.

Il a falut attendre 45 minutes pour repartir.

Je me demande pourquoi nous nous sommes arrêté.

Dans le train je me suis aussi fait plein de copains, ils s'appellent: Nelson, Orélien, David, Oscar et Josselin.

Après que nous sommes descendu du train nous avons pris le car, le premier jour était bien, nous avons pris le déjeuner puis ranger nos affaires, puis nous sommes allé dans la neige pour jouer à la gamel. Ensuite nous avons pris le dîner l'après midi, nous avons mangé poulet frites, puis nous avons fait le temps calme.

Au temps calme j'ai écris cette lettre. Je vous aime beaucoup. KILIAN. Bisous.

P.S. Papa, nous sommes arrivé à 8h45.



Translation:

Dear Papa, Dear Maman,

Everything is going fine except for the night in the train, it was horrible.

I didn't succeed in sleeping,

I was in the second bunk of the three on that side of the compartment, it was the worst place of the six beds.

I was in the coldest spot, when I tried to sleep there was a cold draught coming from outside blowing through.

As soon as the cold air came in I was freezing like an eskimo (which also refers to ice cream on a stick in France) or an icecube.

Also, the bunks were as hard as iron and so for sleeping, it wasn't very nice.

Au contraire, it was awful.

The next day was long, very long, for some strange reason, the train stopped.

We had to wait 45 minutes for the train to start up again.

I wonder why the train stopped.

In the train, I made a bunch of friends, they are: Nelson, Orélien, David, Oscar and Josselin.

After we got off the train, we got on a bus, the first day was good, we had breakfast then we put our stuff away, then we went outside to play in the snow, then we had lunch, we had chicken and french fries, then we had a rest period.

During the rest period, I wrote this letter. I love you lots, KILIAN. Kisses.

P.S. Papa, we arrived at 8h45.


Needless to say, Mr C and I were in stitches when we got this letter. Mr C seems to think that we have a bourgeoisie complainer on our hands.

I can hardly wait to see what Brenna sends us.

That is, if she hasn't already forgotten that she has parents...

Curious Giorgio at the Museum of Modern Art

I decided to take advantage of Paris a little bit last night...

(...there is always so much going on in this town that I often measure time passing by all the dire DERNIERS JOURS!!! (last days) notices on major exhibits as I pass the adverts in the metro, inevitably muttering "Dammit! Already? Argh!"...)

... and found a guided visit happening (which was supposed to be in English but was decidedly not in English. Poo, that would have been neat.) of the new Giorgio de Chirico exhibition "La fabrique des rêves" (The Dream Factory) taking place at the Musée d'Art Moderne (I am so giddy at having seen an exhibit within the week of its opening that you cannot imagine).

Now I want you to know, just to prove how arty I really am, that I had no idea how to pronounce this bloke's name. Good thing he's dead because I kept butchering it every time I told someone yesterday that I was going to go to the exhibit.

For the record, it's "keer-ee-ko".

I also don't know how to pronounce that blue liqueur that starts with a "C" either. So sue me.

Back to business. I remember being shown metaphysical paintings in my high school art class. Notably, I remember seeing this:


Love Song

I also remember thinking

What.
The.
F*ck.

?

My main query at the time is what in the name of god is a metaphysical painting?

Last night? I had the same damn query. WTF is metaphysical painting and how can anyone talk about their work like that without seriously bursting a blood vessel due to the effort in keeping a straight face?

I've just googled the term. The Art Lexicon says that metaphysical painters aimed to depict an alternative reality which engaged most immediately with the unconscious mind. In this style of painting, an illogical reality seemed credible.

So I suppose that explains this:


The Soothsayer's Recompense

And this:


Gare Montparnasse (The Melancoly of Departure)

Which my gut reaction said: Is it just me, or does this guy's work sort of suck? Am I a complete git because I don't 'get it' even remotely?

When the guide brought us over to some other weird stuff on the walls that was marginally better (the marriage of pastries boxed in with maps with unverified destinations that don't exist along with drawing tools), I had that feeling of not being privy to the joke.

Which is probably likely in that I never lived in a time where André Bréton was alive and spouting his surrealism theorism.

Yawn. He may have started the Surrealist movement, but from what I've picked up from books and museums, it appears that he was especially an expert on his own damn opinion.

Psst: Apparently, André and 'ol Giorgio didn't get on all that well. In fact, there was an out and out rift! A spat! A whoknowswhat where Giorgio decided that "Modern Art" was killing art so he started moving on to other things. André didn't like this and so went out of his way to humiliate Giorgio in the speakeasies or whatever the hell of the times which pleased Giorgio to no end because Hello! Free advertising!

"Oh! André said that about my work? How interesting. Would you like me to help you carry that painting out to your carriage?"

This explains why Giorgio? We only know about the weird shit at the beginning of his career. Because André Bréton was influential enough in the art world to declare Giorgio's work afterwards OF NO CONSEQUENCE.

Stunning. I know.

Fortunately, Giorgio didn't give a rat's fart about what the guy thought. He still kept painting and once you get past the first room filled with his early work, you are astounded at what 50 more years of painting can produce.

Some of it is damn right weird:


The Archeologists

And some shocked me by their sublimitude. Which is a word I just made up à la Kung Fu Panda. When I walked from the room with the bizarre Gladiator scenes and came across this Self-portrait, I small part of my brain screamed and then danced maniacally. Dude could actually freaking do realism!


Self portrait

This Edgar Allan Poe-esque portrait blew my mind. How I loved the way the only colour in the portrait is in his face and that the rest of the portrait is positively leached of life. We shall leave the large hands to your imaginations. Apparently Giorgio had quite the ego.

He actually did a lot of self portraits. A great deal of them in funny clothes from other eras because the clothes were much nicer to paint. More frills.

He also did a lot of "copies". Some of them amazingly like those of the original painters. There is one based on work by Veronese that is absolutely stunning. I tried to find a picture but with no luck. You'll have to trust me.

Later works from the 50s were mostly replays of the weird stuff from his youth. He made so many copies of his own work that apparently there was quite the black market industry going on. When questioned on this step backwards in terms of his work, his only comment was that the only thing that mattered was that his paintings were successful. And they sold like hot cakes.

Researchers studying the entire body of his work are confounded by how many turns his muse took him and Giorgio himself never saw fit to enlighten them. These studies led them to the idea that perhaps his only muse was the joy of painting.

And to hell what anybody else thought.

Leaving on a Jet Train

Wait a minute. That's not right.

The train? It was a slow one. A trundler that runs through the night as one sleeps.

But somehow, imagining a group of 7-11 year olds, I cannot imagine that ANYONE got much sleep last night. The excitement was probably enough to burst blood vessels in the brain.


Last night, Mr C and I put our lovely urchins on the night train at Austerlitz station. They had been hyped up FOR DAYS that they were going on VACATION... SKIING.... WITHOUT THEIR PARENTS or THEIR GRANDPARENTS!

This excitement of going on an ADVENTURE (ski camp! OMFG!) made them truly difficult to deal with for the last few days. Can't say as I blame them per se. But man, I was sure glad that we managed to get to the train station without coming to blows.

Last night was different from all the times we'd passed the kids off onto Mr C's parents for vacations to Italy, Corsica, or any of the other destinations that turn my MIL's head (god those kids are lucky! They're going to Corsica in July BTW. Again! I've never been, but nevermind!).

As a parent, putting them on the train felt very weird.

As though I was giving up my responsibility or was being negligent with them... As though I was giving away MY JOB or something.

And this feeling was compounded after I jumped up in the air and did one of those air guitar moves for the pure joy of it.

That was probably unnecessary. But I did it when Kilian and Brenna weren't looking so I'm not completely heartless after all.

After dropping them off and ensuring that they got in the right train (honestly, Brenna is capable of anything), we peered in the windows (we are sickeningly sappy it turns out) to see how they were getting on.

Brenna found herself delegated to the absolute top bunk (of three) in a compartment with five other little girls. One of whom had thought ahead and brought Barbies. Brenna looked relaxed and was chatting away as though she had known these girls for ages already.

It took a little longer to find where Kilian had been put (the windows of the train could use a good washing) but we saw that he had been put into the middle bunk of his compartment. He didn't look lonely. He looked ready. I don't know how to explain it better than that. He looked as though he didn't know what was going to happen, but that the humiliating caning initiation practices could begin and he would just get on with it and would be stronger for it afterward.

He kind of freaked me out.

He managed to spy us spying on him (through the grossly darkened windows) and he waved. We waved back. I threw him kisses and then we slowly backed away so as not to prolong the agony any longer.

The house sure felt empty when we got home. The constant swirl of troubled air as they breathed the sleep of children wasn't there.

I sort of miss it.

New Work Monday #3

Three Mondays in a row. Go Me!

The Grouch
Ink on papier

I haven't yet finished my next painting but I made a promise to myself that a Monday wouldn't go by without some kind of new work. If it's gotta be sketches or kooky illos that I haven't yet put up, then that's what it's gotta be.

What's makes a "Dream" a "Reality"?

Sometimes I let myself stumble into the future by dreaming of what may become.

I don't allow myself to do it often enough though. I realise this. It may be linked to a fear that what I dream might not come true if I do: I have this crazy idea where 'life' likes to surprise (as though life is sentient, oh my god the hell) so if I've thought it, then it certainly cannot come true.

Oh, how I limit myself.

Dreams dreams dreams. We all have them in various forms. One dream I've let it be known here is that I dream of never having to take the effing métro to get to work ever again.

But that isn't a good dream.

That's a dream born of angst as I freeze my ass off on a train platform because all the trains are stopped due to a fire at a station that isn't even on my route.

BUT NEVERMIND!

Even last year's 'dream' of moving back to Canada was more one based on angst rather than on anything positive. A rainy winter in Paris with an evil job anyone?

That dream was just as bad as the métro one.

While some of you may think it, coming to live in France wasn't a 'dream' per se. It was largely an accident. I met a bloke in a bar and decided to stay. Because I could. Because there wasn't anyplace else that I needed to be back in Canada.

And he was cute.

Sure I had thought about living in France after a school trip in high school, but it didn't have any hooks in it. It just sort of clung to my brain like a cobweb in the corner of a room right up near the ceiling does. Flitting about on the whisper of stray draughts.

But maybe these little dreams have more power than that. Maybe that thought/dream about coming to France made itself into a conduite to the universe where little cogs started pulling themselves together to make it happen.

Don't they say that it's the little things that count?

Does dreaming make these dreams accessable to whoknowswhat and as such, does it incite the chain of events that makes the dream a reality?

I'd like to think so.

As an example, I had this little dream of having some of my work published. It was hardly conscious since dreams relating to 'art' make me feel out of my depth. But there it was, a silky cobweb in my brain again.

A friend that I hadn't yet met at the time caught the scent of this slip of a dream and sent it over to someone she knew who was looking for someone who had what I had to offer. This person sent my link to her publisher and there you have it. Catherine Dix's book'll be out sometime this year. Apparently. A watercolour that I did will be on the cover.

Damn. Maybe this dreaming thing works better than I thought if you let your dream carress your brain with the lightness of a feather.

Recently, I was over at La Belette's blog and I saw that she was asking everyone for "Secrets".

Some of the secrets were naughty, some were cheeky and some were funny. I decided to tell a secret dream that I hadn't told anyone yet because it has to do with the 'art' thing:

"I have this secret dream that I haven't told anyone. I dream that I am successful enough as a painter to warrant the renting (or buying) of a cute little boutique in a pedestrian street in the old quarter of some French city/town (it is a given that the street will be paved with cobblestones). My little shop would be the place I'd work out of in the showroom and it would have huge glass windows and an open door with a sign "entrée libre". People/tourists could come in, walk around, chat, and hopefully buy... Sigh..."

You see that Sigh on the end? I imagine that at the time of writing, I thought that idea was pretty damn unattainable.

Probably as I thought moving to Europe was unattainable right after I finished art school.

And the idea of ever getting a piece of work of mine published.

But what if it isn't? What if it's got 'feather's kiss' written all over it?

On looking at this dream again now, there are a couple of things that I noticed. I would no longer be in Paris and as such, no more bloody métro. I would be my own boss, however I wouldn't be a my own boss who has a penchant for flitting around my home in my pyjamas (which sort of scares me in that I would probably be more prone to doing (or pretending to do) housework or NOTHING rather than working).

So we shall see.

_________________________

What about you? What are your dreams?

Or maybe your dreams have come true!

Either way, I'd love to hear more.

We're All Saints

Friday I was trucking through the métro on the way home from school work, my nose tucked in my book as I went through the Auber/Opéra station, when a fellow stopped me, asking for directions.

"I'm sorry. I don't know where that street is."

The fellow looked at me, his eyes roving me, up and down.

"You're totally hip. Do you work out? You look buff."

When he laid his hand lightly on my arm, I knew. This guy? Totally gay. As flaming as the day is long.

And blind.

Or something. Me? Buff?

Funny.

"Is that Stephen King you're reading? Oh mah lord. He's heavenly."

Then he said, "Let's look at the map together!" And hooking my arm, we were off to see The Wizard.

I peered at the map. "I'm not sure where the street is that you're looking for."

"Honey, I'm not interested in finding a street. I wanted to talk to you. I like you. You're a bookworm and I like bookworms. And you remind me of the redhead on Sex & The City. Do you know that show?"

"Not really." (I've seen a couple of episodes, and man is it boring.)

"Really? Anyway. You've got a nice ass. You married?"

"Um. Yeah."

"Golly. Lucky fellow. Redheads are said to be 'hot' in the sack. He must be a happy man. Been married long?"

"Ten years."

"You are totally shitting me! How old are you? 27?"

"34."

"Girlfriend, you're carrying it well. Keep up with the moisturizer. Anyway. Do you prefer sex or reading?"

"Reading. Totally."

He looked at the sky, gave a little epiphanic gasp, grasped my arm and said, "OMG. We are officially BFFs, 'kay?"

"You got it."

"So. Because I like you, you've got a nice, open-minded face, I'm going to give you something."

RADAR RADAR! Nobody gives anything away in the métro, but I'm past caring. This fellow has flattered me up good.

I'm having fun.

He takes off his backpack and pulls out some books. Two books called Toutes des Saintes (All Saints) and another called Les femmes parlent de leur sexualité (Women talking about their sexuality: Pulsions, Desire, etc...). He has me read out the titles.

"Toutes des Saintes is for you and a friend. The other one is for you. Your hands are full. Here, let me put them in your carry all. Wait a minute. Do you read in French or in English?"

"Usually in English."

"OK. Whatever. Promise that you'll read these books."

"OK."

"Naked."

"Right."

Then he asked me for a "donation". I had no money so I gave him a couple of restaurant tickets and each of us were on our merry way. Me with a sense of having totally had the wool pulled over my eyes and not caring one. freaking. wit.

You know what I would love? I would love seeing some flirty or saucy comments here. In French or in English. Best one wins a copy of "Toutes des Saintes". Just think: Your own copy of an erotic book that you may never read that was passed off in the métro to a shining eejit like myself.

What do you say?

...

Bueller?

New Work Monday #2

Here I am. Already at the Second Edition of New Work Monday. How the time flies.




Spiral Effect
Acrylic on canvas
20cm x 20cm x 4cm

I have this thing for spirals. Mr C sees them as escargots coiling in on themselves and as such hiding away from the rest of the world, but I've always always always used them as a representation for myself.

Not because I'm sluglike.

But because I have curly hair. Spiral curls if you will.

I remember how panicked I was after Brenna was born because my hair wasn't 'right' anymore. Something during the pregnancy had changed my hair's kilter and it seemed to take forever for it all to go back to normal.

And just out of curiousity, I asked Mr C which way was up with this little painting. He said that he thought that this was the right way up:



That man cannot help but be contrary. No but seriously, there isn't a right way up since the painting is square. It depends on how it sings for the person who hangs it up.

So I shall be putting things up on Etsy. I just cannot figure out how to price these babies. Once I've figured that out, it'll go up there.

So there you have it. New Work. Yay!

The Good, The Bad and The French Bureaucracy

I have been tired for weeks. I'm not sure if it is the weather or the commute, or if I'm so stressed out (from what I'm not sure) that I've been waking up in the morning with ear aches.

It appears that I've started clenching my teeth when I sleep again.

It's time to break out the plastic teethguard. So sexy but I need to retrain my jaw to relax while I sleep. Mr C calls it my "love killer". I sure as hell hope that it isn't moldy, it's been in a jar a long time.

So anyway.

Last night Mr C and I had a discussion. Of sorts. I was listening while painting. He told me all about his atrocious day. At one point he said that he was so furious that he told his boss that he wanted a transfer to Lyon.

He was asked "Why Lyon?" His answer?

To be closer to my mama. (Pour être plus près de maman.)

We were both in fits with that one. He said that his boss had to go off and smoke a cigarette to calm his nerves after more than 20 minutes in Mr C's presence.

We discussed what he was planning to do this year professionally and then, we started talking about me.

I don't like to talk about me "professionally."

It makes me aware of how miserably I'm handling my professional life. I have day jobs that pay the bills. They aren't fulfilling. Getting to them makes me miserable but I don't know anything else.

Unfortunately, these day jobs pay well. Very darn well in a country that only values what diploma you have (the closest equivalent of my BFA is a License en lettres - which is a three year diploma) and as such, what I do is painfully close to being unskilled labour since I don't have a diploma in typing, filing, and other odds and ends. And yes, that diploma exists here and I know a girl with 10 years experience who can't find a job in the boonies of France because she doesn't have this stupid diploma. No lie.

"It's really time that you had a job where you do something you love," Mr C told me in all earnestness. He looked at the painting I was working on.

"Drawing jobs don't exist," I said. "I've looked. Drawing jobs go to freelancers. Salaried jobs like that don't exist."

"You aren't looking hard enough."

"You don't know the market."

"I'm not sure you do either."

He may have a point here. I sniffed around a couple of years ago and then gave up. The other option was freelancing. But how can I effectively freelance, throw myself out there, when I have responsibilities like food and shelter and clothes for the children?

However, that being said, when I was looking for a job, there were a couple out there but I had mixed feelings about "graphic designer" jobs. I did an internship as a graphic designer and was bored silly. I was glad when it was over because designing corporate logos sucked.

At the same time it was intimidating. Graphic designers do beautiful work and I don't know if I'm hip enough. Also? Tragically, graphic designers are paid peanuts (barely over minimum wage for beginners).

Which may be the real reason why I gave up looking. Partly because I didn't think I had the snuff to do that job but also because I didn't think that a peanuts-paying job would help us at all financially and we were looking to buy a house then. However, I probably really gave up the ghost because I had (and still have) this status as chief bread-winner in the family.

It appears that I am a total whore.

My bad.

A couple of years later, I figured that I would try the concours for art teacher in Paris. Another dead end. 10 jobs, 800 hopefuls. An essay (that I couldn't prepare for beforehand, hello! the French concours system) about French post-modernism and I was on my way out the door without even trying to string together a couple of sentences. Bother.

"You have to figure something out."

I felt a bit unstable here. "All I know is that I cannot give up."

I have to admit though, that I'm sort of afraid to my own boss too. I'm afraid that if I didn't have any constraints on my time, no place to go in the morning and whatnot, that I would stay in my pyjamas all day, watch bad daytime television or troll the net all day rather than work. I probably would amuse myself by trapping stray cats for food.

I still need a day job. Or at the very least. Deadlines.

So.

Mr C then took this painting and analysed it. "This is Jennifer to a 'T'. She's complicated, wants to branch out, wants to reach out to the sky, but still, she internalises and stays in her escargot shell."

Damn he's good.

"Do something."

"OK."

"Good. Don't put off what you need to do for the rest of your life. And especially, don't do that and then say that we hindered you."

OK.

Internets. You are Mr C's witnesses.

So this morning, I started checking things out on the internet.

I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I had this grand plan to do new work for a contemporary art fair. The only "hic" is that I would need to "declare" myself as an artist.

So far so good. I can do that.

But wouldn't you know it that I decide to make this decision right after a new law on entrepreneurship was put in place in France. I don't know why. To make things easier or something... Ha. Ha. Ha... And now, after reading the auto-entrepreneur site, I AM TOTALLY CONFUSED.

Especially after reading this thread (in Fr) on the freelance statutes between the Maison des Artistes (the old) and the Auto Entrepreneurs (the new) and whether a discipline is considered a "liberal profession" (don't even ask me what that means, because it's freelance but it totally isn't (ie. lawyers are profession libérale)) I think that it would be advisable to just kill me now and be done with it.

I can't make heads nor tails of anything anymore.

And I have no idea what to do now.

Gads, French bureaucracy can be ugly.

The Future's So Bright...

"Did you see that guy?"

Brenna's head swivels to follow the teenager that Kilian is pointing out as we drive by.

"O. M. [F.] G."

"Geez! He looks completely ridiculous!" Kilian exclaimed. "What the heck has he got going on in that brain of his? Did you see his pants? They look like they're going to fall right off!"

"Totally," Brenna continues. "And his hoody? He looks like a thug!"

Silence. Then I hear an audible sigh coming out of Kilian.

"The really dumb thing? In a couple of years time, I'm going to be just like that guy."

I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing. The bemused foresight of knowing that soon he would be just another adolescent git was too wonderful.

New Work Monday

Everybody hates Mondays because it means going back to work. The Daily Grind. The Train Train.

Right?

Well. I've decided that I'm going to embrace Mondays in a Mary Poppins saccharine sort of way. Because on Mondays? I've decided to post "New Work."

[...that I've managed to pull together during the prior week and photographed during daylight hours on the weekend. Except for yesterday. When I sort of forgot about it and went to Provins instead to wander around in underground holes that were carved out of the hill 1,000 years ago. Where free-masons and pagans were well met by their fellows [probably not together] hundreds of years ago [have you read Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum? Apparently, this is the crazy place where the idea germinated...] and where graffiti was more impressive because you had to work at it by carving into the rock walls rather than flicking out a bic.

So the photo was taken at the unholy and wholly unphotogenic hour of 9 pm....]




Tree with Golden Limning
Acrylic on Linen canvas
30cm x 30cm x 2cm


This was one of those times that I saw the linen canvas in the store and decided that I wanted to paint a tree. In Bronze paint. Freehand (ie, something I'm too afeared to do most of the time. It's a control thing and I didn't want to mess up the lovely linen canvas background.).

And then I agonised because I didn't know how I wanted to set the bronze tree off from the linen canvas and lo' I remembered my sparkly gold paint. Yum.

Hmm. Maybe you don't want to know about my agonising over colours and how I can lay awake at night, thinking about these things. Obsessing about these things. Dunno. But this probably explains the state of disorder in my house. I'm off with the fairies on much more important things.

Technically, this piece of work is for sale. E me if interested.