vingt-cinq

vingt-cinq
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

the significance of this number is unknown - it may have been the address - but repeated comme ça, it takes on its own abstracted prominence in an otherwise mundane setting...

la ruche amorphée

la ruche amorphée
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

only in paris can a bin's worth of white plastic cups be simply stapled together into a huge amorphous hive just to display a single pair of shoes...

[the cups may be empty, but art and life are as always full of verve and brilliance here...]

le génie de la liberté

le génie de la liberté
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

high above the place de la bastille wings the génie, delicate in solitude but free in spirit...

[a phonecall from paris at the start of the day's festivities to remind me that liberty is frequently illusionary at best...]

un neuf de coeur

un neuf de coeur
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

stealing upon numbers on the weathered surfaces of parisian walls seems a somewhat rudimentary perception...until one jumps out and like a cambrioleur slips into the orderly intent of our interior requisition...

le monde

le monde
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

the world under french skies always seems a little brighter, a little warmer, a little more generous in spirit...

[paix+amour toujours]

l'art des livres

l'art des livres
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

inside the librairie florence loewy on rue de thorigny and behind the sculptural shelving systems, there is a sign:

'pourquoi fatiguer ton esprit d'éternels projets qui te dépassent'...
words already well lived by, but sound so much better in french...as always...

[the portrait on the wall is scratched out of the gummy remains of a scraped off poster...art on the fly(paper!)]

la royal encore

la royal encore
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

to have been a top contender in such a phallicentric realm must surely reflect a certain evolution of sorts...

[don't let go yet, o brave ségo...]

les globes d'argent

les globes d'argent
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

only in paris are clouds encased in silver to roll around the fountain of a royal haunt...

[pierre hardy was so moved as to adorn such ephemeral caprices on his much coveted shoes nearby...]

etre

etre [2007] oil on canvas, 40 x 50 cm

ma france...toujours douce et simple...

on our way south one road trip, we slowed down for this incredibly classic scene...it couldn't be more perfectly staged...

but france can still be like this...lost in time, tranquil, solitary...

not a care in the world...

paris toujours...

back (very reluctantly) from two glorious and invigorating months in paris...
from sexy summer heat in april and profuse may flowers...
to the resigned acceptance of a new world president for a dated republic...
to the exuberance of riding my bike through the streets of paris, some hectic, some incredibly tranquil...
to savoring that one perfect tarte au citron at the jardin du luxembourg...
to watching "molière" on a rainy sunday afternoon in the quartier latin...
to a may day déjeuner sur l'herbe amongst the muguets in the shady woodlands by l'abbaye de chaalis...
to falling in love with the one berthe morisot painting at the d'orsay...
to taking all the time in the world choosing sennelier couleurs à l'huile extra-fine at the bhv...
to a fête des mères pilgrimage to the magnificent goyas at the louvre...
to a gentle coup de foudre during a late lunch on the avenue kleber...
to evening vespers with the young nuns (and monks) at saint-gervais-saint-protais...
to a midnight romp through the rose and lilac-scented jardin de musée rodin on "le nuit des musées"...
to being fully blown away by the uber-sultry siren ute lemper at the salle pleyel; by the "murs végétal" [vertical gardens] of patrick blanc; by the young talents at the graduate show of l'ecole des beaux-arts; by the eccentric and eclectic castelbajac collection at the musée de la mode; in the frenzied ateliers of the hyper-graffiti-ed frigo art hive; by the absolute raw power of primitive artifacts in the jean nouvel-designed musée de prémiere arts on the quai branly; by the unexpected grunting trophy head of an albino sanglier at the sublimely odd musée de la chasse...
to the inspired and lively frenchmen who make me laugh and laugh so late into many other evenings...
and as always, lovely paris gets under my skin...the divine itch only being slightly relieved for now...

flirting in the dark

On a tenebrous early October evening, you are drifting down Rue Saint-Honoré for a rendezvous with some friends in the beguilingly darkened bar of the Hotel Costes.
Along the way you softly hum strains of Malcolm McLaren's 'Jazz is Paris'*...
"I wore black on Saint-Germain-des-Prés... Feelings in the air, they love today... It's true, I don't believe... In love beyond the grave... But then I listened to a trumpet play..."
Hmm... wrong street, but how prescient with the de rigueur done-to-death hide-the-stains black. The hallway models/doormen at the Costes are also all in black... tight black tee-shirts, tight black pants, sleek dark hair, chic little black headsets.
You feel like a rounded version of them in your tight black shirt and skirt.
Heads are swivelling, but not for you... Gwyneth Paltrow is slinking her way out the door. A pale high-contrast vision in Siberian ice-floe white.
The dimmed lighting throughout the hotel barely illuminates the exotically lush décor, creating a contemporary Cimmerian milieu.
In the bar lounge, it is effectively a virtual black-out. You feel your way gingerly - you don't wish to inflict any unintentional gropes, (yet!) - towards your table, guided by the sound of your friends' voices.
As you sit down, you squint your eyes to try to see who else is amassed around you. When your eyes have adjusted somewhat, you make out a clumped together couple in the next banquette. No body parts are flailing about, so you guess that they are still safely pre-coital... but then again, they could well be exhaustedly post-coital!
As you order your drink from a slender shadow, you sense heads turning towards a more voluptuous shape entering the room. There is the hint of a tear-away buckskin(?!) dress with fringes. Whispers of the name 'Béatrice Dalle' pierce the air...
She fumbles dramatically towards a table, and a man (presumably!) rises to the occasion. She gestures sensually, or perhaps a little bewilderedly, and he helps her find her chair.
Unfortunately, without a spotlight on them, it is hard to fathom how much more is going on in the darkness, but you surmise that the flirtatious stage has been successful when they leave a while later with their arms draped around each other.
And you have yet to make eye contact with anybody at all! As if that will ever happen in this obfuscated world of the parisian demi-monde...

excerpted from "Flirting in the Dark... as dimly heeded by Mme. V" by g. verster, 2003
[*verse from 'Jazz is Paris' written and performed by Malcolm McLaren on his album "PARIS", 1994]

libertin's sleight-of-hand couture

On a cold languorous mid-winter Saturday afternoon and after a luscious lunch at a little Lebanese restaurant near the Eiffel Tower, we summoned the strength to divert ourselves from heading straight home for our usual sieste. There was a particularly zesty event that we simply could not miss... our first subversive (of sorts) fashion show in this consummate city that has seen them all and done them all!
We had met the equivocal Libertin Louison, a young Belgian designer with long black hair and wrapped in a long black skirt, at his tiny boutique on one of the narrow medieval streets in the Marais. The wistful wisps of black fabric hanging vaguely on the two sparse racks and draped, barely, on the one mannequin had piqued us enough to enter this minimal goth meet japanese zen dollhouse.
I had not dared to try on anything in case I insulted the avant-genius by putting my head through the wrong opening... or worse, emerged from the change-tube all twisted up with the confounded piece on upside down and backwards!... (- inside-out would have been a non-issue!)

A surprise invitation came for the debut of his Collection Couture printemps-été, and we had our chance to see how all those nebulous jigsaw puzzle pieces actually fitted together on real live skin and bones!
When we finally found the venue's address that chilly afternoon, the building looked suspiciously in the mid-stages of a demolition. We entered with trepidation through the still standing doorway and followed the thumping music up the fairly stable stairs.
Seated spectators lined the maze of hallways on the top floor. Standing room was three rows deep and we were squeezed in so tight that if the floor collapsed, the many other bodies would hopefully help break our fall!
The pageantry had already begun, as one stunning model after another slung languidly by. All were pasted up in multiple configurations of oddly shaped black swatches and embellished with black prototypical accessories, especially those who were topless... while the bottomless ones, well!... nobody was really looking at what they were wearing! (If I had tried on those pieces at his boutique, I would have doltishly assumed that the openings must be for my head!) Concise instructions were obviously necessary to indicate the purpose of every cavity in each of his cunningly composed poly-apertured habillement!

excerpted from "Libertin's Sleight-of-Hand Couture... as drolly admired by Mme. V" by g. verster, 2004
[regrettably, Libertin is no longer using his sly dexterity with the scissors to conjure up more nimble little numbers, but has since followed his nose back to Brussels where he now dispenses his own line of scents and body creams infused with, yes, I am quite sure I read this right, donkey's milk!...the name of his new perfumery is "Technique Indiscrète" on 21, Rue de Flandre]

miss-tic's hunger for fame

miss-tic's hunger for fame
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

wordplay on the platitude "les fins des mois sont difficiles" [month ends are hard]

graffiti by miss-tic

graffiti by miss-tic
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

gracing the exterior wall of the swiss cultural centre in le marais...

the desirous miss-tic

the desirous miss-tic
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

sexy graffiti

In the City of Love, very sexy things seem to frequently appear around any corner. My radar for such delights tends to be always on full tilt whenever I am here...
Take the unsanctioned public art scene, or what is universally referred to as graffiti. In some parts of the city, hardly a wall, door, doorknocker, and even nail-head has escaped the colorful swirls and pronouncements of such creative ego-marking.
I do not profess to have an intimate knowledge of the French graffiti art subculture scene... [but] much like being on a ten thousand painting tour at the Louvre, I am often stopped in my tracks to appreciate a particularly powerful piece that may be enhancing, or defacing, as the case may well be, a typically handsome set of doors or abstractly weathered wall.
In the Marais district, I had come across a different breed of graffiti work noted for their arresting images of scantily clad and wantonly posed female figures, paired up with short provocative phrases playing on words and double meanings. These are all stenciled onto various vertical surfaces in black paint with red highlights on the lettering.
They are tagged "Miss Tic", a pun, I presume, on the word "mystic" and not referring to the tiny parasitic creature that can easily get under your skin. Then again, that would be appropriate, too!

excerpted from "In Paris, even the graffiti is sexy...as blithely noted by Mme. V" by g. verster, 2003

parc des buttes-chaumont

parc des buttes-chaumont
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

parc des buttes-chaumont [2007] oil on linen, 45 x 60 cm

"riding eastwards... towards the parc des buttes-chaumont, [which melly had noted as one of the "various 'chosen places' revered by the surrealists, ...that astonishing pleasure ground, hallowed by nineteenth-century suicides, which occupies a long section of louis aragon's paris peasant (1926)..."]"*

thereby enter at your own risk... "with a feeling of conquest and the true intoxication of an open mind."- louis aragon

*excerpted from "Rue des Solitaires" by g. verster, 2004 [posted March 30, 2007]

"le parfum sucré de vos roses s'évapore..."

"le parfum sucré de vos roses s'évapore..."
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.
"Le parfum sucré de vos roses s'évapore... et moi je compose... vous ne m'aurez jamais donné... que le baiser du condamné..."*

*excerpted from"Revenge of the Flowers" by Françoise Hardy on Malcolm McLaren's album "PARIS"

heaven on earth...[part I]

On an ethereal day in mid-March, she steps off the plane at Charles de Gaulle into divine French sunshine.
Her wildly impatient amant whisks her off into the Cité de l'amour... where he has an unheralded welcome offering in store.
She is driven towards the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, the City of the Dead... the largest cemetery in Paris.
Hmm... this is highly unusual of him... somewhat eccentric, even slightly ghoulish!
But for her, the Père-Lachaise has always been more hauntingly romantic than morbidly macabre - the perpetual abode of so many poetic souls... inspired lives no more.
Her curiosity is aroused, but needless to say, not just her curiosity alone...
Miraculously, a parking spot awaits nearby... [it could have taken half the day to find one!]
She is led towards an unfamiliar and unprepossessing apartment building.
On the fifth floor, they enter into a small pied-à-terre. It is darkened, a little musty smelling... almost sepulchral, but unused for some time...

heaven on earth, with apologies to St. Francis of Assisi...[part II]

The shutters are thrown open and she glimpses a bright elysian expanse of Père-Lachaise spread out below.
Small stooped figures stroll along the allées between the crowded tombs shaded by ancient trees whose vernal buds are about to burst open in exuberant observance.
Celestial statuary soars in full melancholic glory... glory everlasting...
She luxuriates in the warmth of the moment, intoxicating beyond relief...

"I often go to Paris to live yesterday tomorrow... because Paris is a place of dreams..."*

The air thins out...

"There's no doubt... in Paris yeah!... There's a girl I dream of seeing everywhere... This way, that way... up against the walls... Voices scream a map of feelings... Everybody loves a Paris lost somehow..."**

Afterwards, subsiding in a blazing state of lightness, a white sheet flutters outside the window, sighing surrender... signing love enacted up on high, where doves aspire...

"Drifting through these landscapes of love... listening to a voice from above... This is a place where you can find... many more of my kind..."**

It is Spring after all, "daughter of Heaven and Earth, coy Spring..." muses Emerson...
Refrains from Malcolm McLaren's "Walking with Satie"* and "Père Lachaise"** intertwine and disperse with predestined abandon into the mood that is Paris...

"And I am walking with Eric Satie... along the boulevards of Paris in the springtime... Un orchestre d'oiseaux every so often breaks this map of feelings... Drifting through these landscapes of love... watching strays from Père Lachaise..."*

[*/** The quoted lyrics are excerpted from "Walking with Satie" and "Père Lachaise", written and performed by Malcolm McLaren on his album "PARIS"]
[copyright 1994, Disques Vogue S.A./World Attractions Ltd.]

"Heaven on Earth, with apologies to St. Francis of Assisi... as blissfully evoked by Mme. V" by g. verster, 2004

the seduction of an antique buyer

On a warm sultry day in early June, Madame is striding along Rue du Bac on the Rive-Gauche with her entourage of two on an antique buying spree for her new home [a star-dusted villa once owned by a legendary Hollywood director!].
She is quite sure that only in Paris will she find the most opulent, the highest status-stacked pieces... a paean to her utmost orgulous taste.
Shop after glorious shop in the Carré Rive Gauche... au coeur de Paris... 120 Galeries et Antiquaires... Passions d'Antiquaires... de Paris, Paris...
Which one of these will entice her in?
Unawed, she chooses the one with the most splendiferous objets d'art in its window - and after admiring her flawless reflection ever so briefly in the glass, she enters the establishment with a mock serious air about her.
Monsieur le propriétaire sweeps in discreetly from his salon privé with a twitch of a close-mouthed smile, his sharp eyes having appraised her thoroughly before she is even fully aware of his suave presence.
A soto-voiced "Bonjour, Madame...[and just knowing that she is American, he projects his voice a little more in English]... 'ow can I be to your service, Madame?"
She lets one of her minions answer for her, all the while assessing his rather distingué demeanor... for a Frenchman her age [the botoxed reduced one, of course].
Monsieur continues to direct his remarks only to her, "Madame, I 'ave enough to fee'l your 'ole 'ouse! I can present you wiz much more z'an your be'eu-tee'ful eye can see... and I will be more z'an 'ap'pee to show you my collection privée whenever Madame pleases..." [He draws out the last few words in a softer voice while crinkling his eyes at her.]
She stiffles a giggle and looks away, but her slight coloring betrays her appreciation of his flattering and not so subtle double sens...
Emboldened, and anticipating her forthcoming capitulation, [and somewhat confident of a transaction of formidable size to follow], he shifts closer into her personal space and whispers the impressive provenances of his magnificent pieces in a conspiratorial tone.
She has to angle her head in towards him to hear, but gracefully, and remembering to profile her lovelier side.
He is now quite sure that she will accept his overture to lunch at his favorite restaurant around the corner on the Quai Voltaire... without the peons in tow, of course.
Always pleasure before business... and perhaps, more pleasure again later on...
Just another sublimely successful day for Monsieur l'antiquaire de la Rive-Gauche, Paris...

"The Seduction of an Antique Buyer... as wryly observed by Mme. V" by g. verster, 2004

rilke's panther

rilke's panther
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

rilke's panther at the ménagerie du jardin des plantes, paris...

visiting rilke's panther

On a gray somber afternoon in late November, you walk purposefully across the Pont de Sully and turn onto the Quai Saint-Bernard towards the entrance of the Ménagerie du Jardin des Plantes.
You are here to pay homage to a long caged up soul... one that has seized your imagination ever since you had read about him in Rainer Maria Rilke's poem 'The Panther in the Jardin des Plantes, Paris'.
You wonder if the panther is still here, and if he is the same one, now old and subdued... his spirit withered in this forsaken jail, dying a little more each day.
A Panther in Paris... so far from home, from that jungle that was his to roam.
You commiserate, but you are not forever locked up in a cage like him.
You have fantasies of freeing him, but would he come with you now?

His gaze has grown so tired from the bars
Passing, it can't hold anything anymore.
It is as if there were a thousand bars
And behind a thousand bars no world.

You sense his presence as you approach the large cats' area of the ménagerie.
A sculptor is modeling a miniature jaguar in clay at his portable stand; he ignores you.
You see the Panther...

The soft gait of powerful supple strides
Which turns in the smallest of all circles
Is like a dance of strength around a center
Where an imperious will stands stunned.

You are mesmerized by his beauty and his potency, but you feel his saturnine anger and frustration at the same time.
He does not look at you, but continues his pacing, back and forth, back and forth behind the thick iron bars.

Only at times the curtain of the pupils
Silently opens... Then an image enters
Passes through the taut stillness of the limbs
And in the heart ceases to be.

You sadly contemplate his restlessness.
Invoking the spirit of Rilke, who had perhaps stood in the very spot as you a century ago, you observe in silence, moved by what had inspired Rilke's poem.
You appraise his magnificence, yet disturbed at the infliction of his captivity.
You witness the injustice of a forfeited life, and decry his isolation from his own kind.
You ache intensely for him, all the while helpless to liberate him.
Then you, too, have to leave him to be for now.
The deus ex machina has not appeared, and you have to go.
Night is falling, black as his coat...
The Panther remains behind at the Jardin des Plantes in Paris...

'Visiting Rilke's Panther...a pilgrimage of sorts by Mme.V' by g. verster, 2004

moulin à vendre

moulin à vendre
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

moulin à vendre [2007] oil on linen, 30 x 60 cm

monsieur B's old mill had been on the market for a few years already... the asking price was 20,000 euros, but he could be persuaded...
we were in the neighborhood one bright spring day and made an appointment to see it for ourselves... it was oddly situated, with a tangle of wild brambles and neglected plum trees in full bloom from one direction, and manicured lawns and suburban homes from the other, all in the midst of walnut orchards.
still, it exuded an intriguing and rustic appeal... of a simpler time, slower rhythm, a more primitive disposition...

*more photos of the mill on www.flickr.com/photos/zy-xin/

rue des solitaires...[part I]

On a refulgent Sunday morning in early April, the streets of Paris are near empty. A few intrepid souls are wandering about, perhaps on their way home from a long night out, or on their way to early mass. Some may be compelled to do both...
Not you, however. Proudly mounted on your brand new wine-colored vélo, you try valiantly to keep up with the even more intrepid ML, who is riding hard on his well-used blue bike. You are not sure where you are going; you can only follow behind, and happily, the only cars on the road are parked ones.
ML indicates a northeasterly direction, towards the 19th arrondissement. But first cutting through the 10th along the Canal Saint-Martin, criss-crossing over its many short bridges to faire du léche-vitrines (really only pressing noses onto the glass!) of an atelier on one side, and then that of a little shop on the other.
The rippling surface of the slim waterway reflects the fresh greening of mature trees lining it on both sides. This shady ambience emphasizes the stillness of the setting, a setting that bespeaks the distinctive and intimate flavor of this particular neighborhood, which seems an era or two behind the grand boulevards and the cosmopolitan crowds of le Paris chic not so far away.
Here, the inhabitants carry on seemingly unaware of the formal dressed up city that the world knows so well. Here, too, life slows to the murmur of the flowing canal...
In the pale green glimmer of the dewy air, a trio of old men sit on a bench dozing off after le petit déjeuner, only to be rudely awakened by a troupe of pre-pubescent boys setting off fire-crackers into the water and then running away amidst shrieks of laughter.
Yelling after them is an artisan with a cigarette dangling from his lips and looking more than a little worse for wear. He has just settled into a sunny spot outside his workshop to nurse his coffee and his hang-over. Two teenage girls walk quickly by arm in arm and giggling loudly, eliciting a friendly leer from the grubby artisan.
These glimpses of la vie populaire in the numerous "villages" of Paris are what impress the most... this perceived dimension that entices and insinuates its essence into your memory.
Only in Paris, it seems, do the ordinary details of street life somehow manage to emote a staged or at times, dream-like quality... surreal, if you will, and you can see how the Surrealist spirit took flight from the vital and immanent reality of this strangely esoteric city.
Having read George Melly's 'Paris and the Surrealists' [1991], you wholeheartedly agree with his observation that "The streets [...] seemed in Paris to be the place where life was lived, friendships and enmities forged, where lovers recognized each other at first sight." And it is this " 'Mystery and melancholy of the street' which lay at the very centre of Surrealist inspiration..." [and] "...in their haphazard yet deliberate strolls through Paris the Surrealists, when in each other's company, were open to signs and portents concealed behind the banal surface of everyday life..."
Riding eastwards now past the sprawling site of the Hôpital Saint-Louis towards the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, (which Melly had noted as one of the "various 'chosen places' revered by the Surrealists, [...] that astonishing pleasure ground, hallowed by nineteenth-century suicides, which occupies a long section of Louis Aragon's 'Paris Peasant' [1926]...", from which Melly had quoted Aragon's wry comment that "The great Suicides' bridge which, before metal grilles were erected along its sides, claimed victims even from among passers-by who had had no intention whatsoever of killing themselves suddenly tempted by the abyss...")
Hmm... certainly a dangerous provocation worth pondering over before approaching such a disagreeable bridge. You hope that all those hardy joggers and Sunday strollers are well-informed of this assertion and will know to avoid the cursed bridge, come hell or high water!
No riding is allowed within the park, so you walk your bikes for a while, passing a large group of elderly women practicing tai-chi together in an enclosure, like so many awkward flamingos at the ménagerie. Feeling slightly disconcerted by so much determined effort, (and by the thought of all those sad and gullible souls lost in the, well, gully), you head out of the park and wind your way down towards a nearby working class neighborhood around the Place des Fêtes.

[excerpted from 'Rue des Solitaires...as wistfully explored by Mme.V" by g. verster, 2004]

No. 18

No. 18
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

18, rue des solitaires...75019

rue des solitaires [part II]

...you head out of the park and wind your way down towards a nearby working class neighborhood around the Place des Fêtes.
The buildings here are modest in size, the streets are narrower, and worn-out clothes hang to dry outside the upper windows. In a small courtyard, you hear children's voices and cartoon songs echoing from dim interiors, and the smell of cooking wafts out with the sounds. The late morning light is brightening up above the shadowy corners, warming the pale stone walls.
You hear the approaching sound of heels clicking sharply in hurried steps along the cobbled pavers, and then retreating behind the slam of a door. It is a scene that could easily be suffused with Magritte's visual sensibility. Still astride on your bicycle, but balanced on the curb, you take it all in.
This metaphysical tranche de vie that goes on around you while you insert yourself for a brief moment... and then wondering what it would be like to be imbued with it for a while longer, to actually saturate yourself into this vague "surreal-scape" as a sojourner.
Number 18 on the Rue des Solitaires has weathered celadon green walls and grimy white window shutters. Above the front door on the second floor is a large arched niche with a statue of a male nude. His right arm is tucked up behind him while his left arm is raised, with the nicked elbow leaning against the wall and the hand shielding his eyes, as if he is waiting... or searching out for someone.
You feel an immediate pull... un rapprochement...
The latent possibility of "Life itself... summoned into being this poetic deity which thousands will pass blindly by, but which suddenly becomes palpable and terribly haunting for those who have at last caught a confused glimpse of it."
[Louis Aragon in 'Paris Peasant', 1926]
You want to enter his private domain, to behold the lives within... to peruse their solitudes on a street with such an achingly romantic name.
You look up at the three windows on each of the two upper floors, with their shutters now thrown open... and you feel your spirit yearning for a spell in these rooms.
You imagine yourself standing at one of the windows above, breathing in the soft spring morning on the Rue des Solitaires, while tracing the path of a lone cyclist riding by with a warm brioche nestled in the basket of his black vélo... both of you raptly intoxicated by all the nostalgic possibilities that is still Paris...

[excerpted from "Rue des Solitaires...as wistfully explored by Mme. V" by g. verster, 2004]

tuaregs in the gare de lyon

noble desertmen so far removed from their seas of sand,
are, in an instant of transport triumph, deposited into a sea of men
[of such profound dissimilarity]
as in that great disgorging hall of the gare de lyon.

tombouctou - destination - paris

their dark skin still swathed in miles of white cotton,
they push their few soft bundles in high design metalcarts
through indiscriminate pastelpeople
and flashing digital technology.

why this need to leave their saharan vastness and determinacy
for the mediocre madness of western modernicity...

perhaps a onetime shortcircuiting of their ingrained route,
with a wide detour north to the cold tangential eurofall -
they are nomads, after all...

in a jetstream fashion, are we not all nomadically inclined
to follow our own oasis calling,
to find refuge in some distant refulgence,
now and then even meeting tuaregs midway through
our concentricity
as in the humming embrace of the elemental gare de lyon.

'tuaregs in the gare de lyon' by g. verster

objet volant bienveillant

objet volant bienveillant
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

objet volant bienveillant [2007] oil and acrylic on canvas, 75 x 75 cm

sometimes in the french countryside one will come across the odd homebuilt spaceship, or perhaps it really is an alien "flying object" on a friendly mission from afar...

[as spring arrives and the land is ready to be worked over once again, this one may soon leave its secluded wintering stopover beside a benevolent farmer's field in the charente-maritime region - to be sighted later as another inexplicable hovering object somewhere over the cornfields of middle america...]

[coincidentally, or mysteriously as the case may be, as this painting was being completed, the french space agency has just released its entire archive of recorded sightings and documented cases of "objet volant non identifie" online... the agency's website has apparently and understandably exploded due to overwhelming interest... or (to the 'twilight zone' soundtrack)...more likely due to the zap guns of little green extra-terrestrials in silver suits!]

la prunelle du berry

la prunelle du berry
Originally uploaded by gverster_artwork.

heading south on another early spring road trip, the plum orchards had just burst into full bloom...rows upon rows of leafless trees smothered in snowy blossoms...

we stopped for a bag of their famous prunes stuffed with prune paste...it was a mouthful of the sweetest decadence to be rivalled only by the most luscious of chocolats...