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.
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.
A single flower illuminates a confit du canard, with a wine glass appropriately sized. Smells and touch; many textures. I miss speaking a language whose melody is sung in alley cafes.
Parts are home in memory. Parts are waiting for new eyes and newer touch.
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.
It was a great week for illustrating and for discovering new pathways of line and paint. Even if I didn’t post as much as usual, I learned a lot from my errors and false starts.
I used to hate wasting a page in my sketchbook, until I realized that my perceptions needed the adjustment. Paper comes cheap, lessons and honesty are harder to find.
Let ‘er rip Let ‘er rip Let ‘er rip.
My eyes are clenched.
Throat-scorched with car pipe fumes
and with rusted sounds
from last week.
The trip was wrong and
the news worse.
We plant and we plant.
I hear muted sounds of
cries and wish I could open
my heart and pour its life
– a drink of god.
Lend my body, make it
fertilizer and give my
eyes to see ahead.
Touch warm. Feel cold.
The ground is cold and
smiles fade brown.
Sleep and dream of blue birds
We plant and we plant.
2012 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015
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 –
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.
on Boulevard Saint-Germain.