BUTTERFLY

"A power of Butterfly must be ~

The Aptitude to fly

Meadows of Majesty concedes

And easy Sweeps of Sky –"

Emily Dickinson

a lovely weekend to you!

(image inspired by artist Amy Judd)

PAINTER'S ABODE

Stunning, timeless details in the home 

of Oslo-based Swedish artist

Christopher Rådlund.

Rest of the article here. 

LES COLLETTES

It was a sizzling day in the South of France last June, 

when we arrived in Cagnes sur Mer 

to take in the old farmhouse & gardens of Auguste Renoir

~ his beloved “Les Collettes”, 

where he lived with his family 

for the final twelve years of his life. 

The estate is perched on top of a hill 

with incredible views to the Cap d’Antibes

and Haut-de-Cagnes.

As we ascend towards the main building, 

we pass under the shadow of olive trees, 

the kind Northern girl me has hardly seen 

~ centuries old that you can’t resist brushing with your hand 

to feel those enticing grooves, lifelines on the bark

~ etchings of the passing years, 

like lines on a dear elderly face 

with wisdom concealed in the depths.

It’s a surprisingly quiet afternoon, 

as we walk through the main entrance 

~ just one other couple & the two of us. 

We enter an unspoken pact to keep our distance, 

as if all here by ourselves, 

ready to hear the walls speak. 

And the walls  do tell their stories 

~ in unison with the peeling layers of paint, 

the far-flung ceilings, 

the sense of stillness, 

the simply and sparsely furnished rooms, 

that caressing gold-tinged milky light 

that floods through the vast windows 

& fills you to the core. 

I swear I can feel it now.

Renoir’s wheelchair & easel in his atelier 

are reminders of the pain & beauty that intermingled, 

that never ruled each other out. 

The creativity & persistence.

He painted until his death, 

even with his hands curled due to arthritis 

and being left in a wheelchair after a stroke. 

He looked for new ways of expression 

~ changed his technique,

an assistant would place the brush in his bandaged hand. 

He used a moving canvas to be able to make larger works. 

And he began to create sculptures with the help of a young artist. 

“The pain passes, but the beauty remains”

~ he is quoted as saying.

“The work of art must seize upon you, 

wrap you up in itself and carry you away. 

It is the means by which the artist conveys his passion. 

It is the current which he puts forth 

which sweeps you along in his passion.”

– Pierre-Auguste Renoir

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[All pictures shot last summer

at Les Collettes aka Musée Renoir,

visitor information here.]

EYES WIDE OPEN

We had a girls' day out on Saturday.

We visited a lovely garden

& sculpture rooms,

had some lunch,

then poked our heads

in small boutiques

before finishing off with cake

washed down with coffee for me

& strawberry juice for her. 

I cherish times like this with my two.

I love to take them to beautiful places,

where time stands still

for a moment,

as you stare at the way

the light falls through the window,

& the soft, dark corners.

Senses wide open.

On the way back,

a message from a dear friend

lights up in the dimness,

as we pass fields, woods and quiet bays.

It's strange how in the half light

you often see the clearest.

We talk about how we both

want to create more beauty in this world,

and how that feeling has intensified lately

with all that's going on.

A mission to dwell on what's good.

So we make some plans.

Now those plans

tingle a little in the stomach. 

ATELIER CÉZANNE

A visit to Paul Cézanne's atelier

on the outskirts of leafy and elegant Aix-en-Provence.

A studio of silence and light.

Despite dodging the crowds with my camera

during a hot day,

this is the place where once only he would enter 

to reflect & work in peace.

His atelier is filled with light

and objects

(although some recreated I'm told)

he would use as motifs in his works -

 overcoats, hats,

three skulls,

porcelain, fruit, fabric, bottles.

"People think how a sugar basin has no physiognomy, 

no soul. 

But it changes every day,"

he once said.

Crumbling layers of paint,

the walls the most soothing tone of grey,

kissed by the passing years.

He had initially painted everything white,

the guide says,

but the reds reflected from outside

had clashed,

and so he painstakingly mixed pigments

that would form the perfect backdrop.

Despite the crowds,

you sense his presence

& feel inspired by his passion,

 enduring hard work

and humility.

"I could paint for a hundred years, 

a thousand years without stopping 

and I would still feel as though I knew nothing."

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VAN GOGH'S SAINT PAUL DE MAUSOLE

We arrive at Saint Paul de Mausole just outside Saint Rémy

during the hottest hours of the day. 

This former monastery is the asylum 

where Vincent Van Gogh

committed himself voluntarily

for a year, a week & a day.

It's where he received treatment & rested,

at times not being able to work at all,

but when he could,

churning out piece after piece,

including masterpieces like Starry Night and Irises.

We first enter a simple chapel,

then into the the main building

and a reconstructed kitchen. 

The asylum is centered around Romanesque cloisters,

which envelop an inner garden.

The buildings still house a psychiatric hospital today,

and there's a very special, tranquil, 

somewhat fragile feeling,

as you quietly walk and take it all in.

Upstairs, Van Gogh's small, modest room -

a simple green metal bed, his easel,

barred windows that overlook fields at the back.

Old windows

distort the view down towards the inner garden

like a daguerreotype. 

And behind,

wheat fields, poppies, lavender.

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CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON

A brief visit over here

in the middle

of a perfectly ordinary Wednesday

marked by intermittent

rain & shine.

I'm churning out words on the keyboard,

lots of words,

& when words begin to take over,

I have an urge to escape into images even for a brief moment.

I'm quite good at fluffing up a cumulus cloud

from a duvet,

but this guy is doing the real thing!

Pieni piipahdus tänne

aivan tavallisen keskiviikon lomassa,

jolloin vuoroin sataa ja paistaa.

Nakuttelen sanoja,

paljon sanoja,

& kun sanat tahtovat ottaa tekemisestä ylivallan

täytyy edes hetkellisesti paeta kuviin. 

Olen aika hyvä pöyhentämään täkistä kumpupilven,

mutta tässäpä ihminen, joka loihtii ihka oikeita!




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RODIN ON HOLY SATURDAY

Something pulled me out of bed

at the crack of dawn today.

I tiptoed to the kitchen to put the coffee on the boil,

while the others were still fast asleep.

A night owl gets a glimpse

of what it is that

morning people get all jazzed up about.

A walk through a town

adorned with a veil of mist,

music streaming through my ears

- like a promenade in some strange, faraway land,

near enough to utopia. 

Rodin at the art museum.

I'd been saving him 

for the right moment,

a tranquil day

with nothing pulling me away.

His masterpieces,

they creep under the skin,

penetrate the soul,

bring a lump to the throat,

even conjure up images

of pictures I want to take one day. 

Afterwards, the lady behind me in the café queue

gasps that you don't always get choked up at exhibitions,

but this time you did.

Her friend replies that

ye-ep,

sometimes it just depends on the day of the week

or the mood that particular day.

Today, all those pieces aligned,

I think to myself.

Heräsin aamulla kukonlaulun aikaan,

keitin kahvit muiden vielä nukkuessa. 

Iltaihminen havahtuu siihen,

että näissä omissa aamuhetkissä on puolensa.

Kävely halki sumuisen kaupungin

musiikki korvilla

- kuin olisi käyskennellyt vierailla mailla,

lähestulkoon utopiassa.

Ateneumissa Rodin,

jota olin säästellyt sopivaan hetkeen,

toivonut seesteistä päivää,

kun ei ole kiire mihinkään.

Nuo taidonnäytteet tunkevat ihon alle,

syöpyvät sieluun,

kohottavat palan kurkkuun,

loihtivat jopa mieleen kuvia,

joita joskus vielä haluan ottaa. 

Kahvilajonossa joku huokaisee,

että aina ei näyttelyissä pääse fiiliksiin,

mutta nyt pääsi.

Ystävänsä kommentoi,

että nii-in,

joskus se vain riippuu 

päivästä ja omasta mielentilasta.

Tänään kaikki nuo palaset kohtasivat,

tuumaan mielessäni. 

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