Thinking About Paris

   It's summer in Texas. Which roughly means, get out of town if you can't stand the heat...it is HOT now. And I am not leaving...not because I want to stay...I'd jump at the chance if I could afford it but now is not the time. So, because I can't go, I will revel in what I love about Texas, the heat, the mosquitoes (HA!), the sticker burrs, the craggy rocks, the plants which do survive, the political incorrectness, all the general surliness that we Texans wear like a badge of honor, but mostly because we don't have a choice. We can't get away, and each year we survive gives us another notch in our belt. We are so tough.

A billet I found recently in an old journal, from my second trip to Paris

   This year though, I am thinking about Paris. My memories have taken on a certain mythical quality so if I get some details wrong, no matter. The feeling of Paris is good for a moment of escape. I have been to Paris twice but my most fantastical memory is of the time I went when I was 19. I traveled with a wonderful young couple, helping to care for their 3 year old boy. I had been their regular babysitter in Houston. The boy's father's family had an apartment in Paris--and a country house in Chaumont. Not just any apartment. It was in a very old, historic neighborhood, close to the Centre  Pompidou. This apartment was full of antiques and beautiful works of art...I was thrilled--and yet, in my youth--I think back on my brain at that time... I expected the rest of my life to be like that apartment...full of beauty, art, culture, fabulous food and happy family. I don't think at the time I was able to appreciate the scope of what I was exposed to. When I arrived, at evening time in Paris, my body still on Texas time, the table was set with a special homecoming meal. The patriarch of the family was of Russian descent so there was caviar and vodka to start ...which is what I remember most,  I don't remember the main course...I do know that every meal I ate with that family influences all the meals I serve to this day. I learned to make a dijon vinegette, a reliable chocolate mousse, a cold yogurt/creme fraiche cucumber walnut soup. At the country house we hunted for mushrooms, went to buy wine at a chateau...I had my first kir royale and plenty of wine.

But the memory which seems the most mythical is of a sweet romance I had with my young charge's uncle. Did we really climb from the window balcony of that Paris apartment, onto ancient rooftops and wander at sunset from roof to roof? My young eyes only incidentally took in what must have been some incredible view: the Seine in the distance, perhaps the Eiffel Tower in view? I was smitten. I remember a walk to get ice cream on my first day there, on tight streets;  he yanked me out harm's way as cars zoomed past. I remember a funky museum of ancient functional tools, signs, and French cultural relics. Churches, chateaux, a sauna--where he handed me a washcloth instead of a towel (to cover myself). Usually I had my little charge, his nephew, with us. We took him on bike rides, sight seeing, picnics.

Me, summer of 1981 in Paris. I don't really recognize that young woman.

   Memory, now, is a funny thing, like this picture, it's pretty foggy and sometimes I barely believe that these things happened to me. And really, I was so different then. But Paris, that summer, before I transferred to the University of Texas in Austin, holds such sharply bright crystal clear moments of memory, which surprise me, and make me hold my breath a moment so that time stands still just long enough for me to see the apartment on the Rue des Lombardes, and connect to the girl I was.

And I remember this: Precious, The Pretenders, 1980

Memory: Who am I?

1989, Portrait by my great old friend Bill Rainey

2012, portrait by my dear new friend Leon Alesi

This is who I am, sometimes.

 Lately I have been thinking about memory. I want to remember stories from my life and tell them well. Autobiography is a conceit achieved in many ways.

 The paintings I usually paint are essentially self portraits with implied narratives. They are all about my own identity--what I see and how I see it, and then, how I share my mind's eye. I have painted self portraits in the traditional sense--which actually do resemble me somewhat, and it is a difficult task for many reasons. It is so hard to face oneself, so hard to sit still and stare, so uncomfortable to examine that face you think you already know. But I force myself to complete one every couple of years. Self portraits are about the only obligatory art project which I expect each of my students to attempt. They are infinitely revealing. 

 When I was in art school (in the early eighties) I painted the figure in narrative settings (which, unfortunately for me, was not at all in vogue). Now I paint botanically inspired images which I sometimes place in a setting but the action of which is only implied.  My paintings are about humanity mostly, but they also reveal a lot about who I am. My paintings describe me.

 So now that I am older, I feel more comfortable sharing who I am, and who I was. Maybe it is time to turn back to more blatant narrative in my paintings(it still is not exactly in vogue). I'll have to start with a good story and so I am collecting memories from which to begin.

Self Portrait with Leaves, 2002

Self portrait in Blue, 2008

work in progress

Soon to be complete...