France

Onion tart

France, Onion Tart, Pencil Drawing of an Onion Tart, Provence

onion-tart

Does eating something French cuisine qualify as a mini-tour for the heart? I’m hoping, because lunch reminded me of a dozen or so trips; all with special memories.

Rich in texture, an onion tart reminds me not of Provence (name of restaurant – http://brasserieprovence.com), but of small conversations with people in “my” neighborhood, friends made and forgotten and smells. Oh, the aromas. If one could live by scent alone, France replenishes the heart of your nose and emotions for memory.

Each intertwine.

Missed reservation

Badass Artist, Barry Comer Artist, Cafe Sketches, cafe sketching, Chairs, Dr. Ph. Martin's Radiant Concentrated Watercolor, France, Il Cinq Heures, Jacques Dutronc, Lonely, Love, Paris, Paris Cafes, Reservation, Rue Saint Germain, Spring blooms

il cing heure

If you have ever been to Paris, you know how ubiquitous café chairs, tables and people dining are. It is part of a daily routine and one I could easily adopt here. Somehow, the noises from the street and pollution never reach my table and cup of coffee.

It is a magic trick only the French know.

All day, I wondered how my favorite cafés and streets felt. The more I thought, the more angry I became. It took all morning to find peace in my heart and find a realization within. Only I can change my reality and how I felt. Anger does nothing but breed more anger.

I have chosen to feel only hope and love for my friends who live in and around the city. After all, a city is nothing without inhabitants. When I think of Paris, I think of them, their voices and laughter.

There is a song I love by Jacques Dutronc. It is called Il eat cinq heures, Paris s’eveille. It is Paris. Be safe Aline, André, your parents and sisters, Merlin and your parents, all my friends in La Fontenay sous Bois and Paris.

 

 

Almond croissant and coffee

almond croissant, Art, artist, Barry Comer, Barry Comer Artist, Cafe, Cafe Sketches, cafe sketching, Coffee Bar, coffee cup, Coffee Cups, Coffee Shop, Coffee Shop Sketching, croissant, line art, Urban Sketching

almond croissant

What can you say about the perfect breakfast at any time of the day. Complement with black, organic coffee and perfection erupts.

Loving my Dr. Ph. Martin watercolors.

Garbage of song list memory

Self Portrait, selfie, Selfies, Sketchbook, Sketching

boygirl

She walks with dead in her eyes and

speaks of dead in her throat – that

lovely woman with cigarette forests in ashtrays

and swirling ravens for hair.

Where are you going sweet one, dearest fawn

of darkened pathways at noon.

You were laughs of lunch, you the stuff –

so much for that.

Nighttime driving seeing double dippers and naked romps –

so much for wildings – they count for nothing now.

Garbage of song list memory. Rotten the secret twinkle and

lost, are you to me.

Shoo Bop Shoo Bap

I have learned not be afraid of me

Boulevard Saint-Germain, Leonard Cohen, Paris, Self Portrait, Selfies

Selfies are very difficult and was afraid of facing myself in the mirror. I have avoided the subject for as long as I have been doing art.

However, with encouragement from everyone and a special friend, I tasked myself with courage and abandon.

While doing them, I became more accustomed to “the me” on paper and began to let loose. With lines dark and light, pencil or pen, they started to come more easily.

Some were the fool on the hill, but some honestly spoke my name. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXa0MAfOsoU

Also, I have resolved to begin writing poetry again. It has been over a year and believe my drawings and words will dance well together.

Blushed Romance and Foreign Lip-Lock

We sail smooth runners iced and swelled,
in teas of black with Chinese talk-talk.

Lay your hands on me, such smoothness tickles;
my fuzz and temptations –

you feel.

It’s our room on Boulevard Saint-Germain
where hush-hush is our language
of blushed romance and foreign lip-lock.

Les femmes de la noir – tenez ma queue et tordez.

We watch the sky and count the drops
and swirl our fingers over cups
and sculptured hair.

Saturday afternoons
on Boulevard Saint-Germain.

Me Cold