Monet, Mitchell & Me Chapter 11 "Across the Bridge"
Note: Here's the latest rough draft of the travelogue/memoir/art reflection book about the art pilgrimage in France I made last October. This chapter takes us to wonder-full Honfleur. Just a couple more chapters before the first draft is complete! Thanks for being an "early reader." I welcome your comments and suggestions. Ellie
In the few minutes it takes to cross the Pont de Normandie, Le Havre recedes and Faithful Fifi directs us to the scenic harbor, le vieux bassin, in the heart of Honfleur. Looking just like the photos I’ve seen online and, so, already somewhat familiar, I wonder, is there any place I can where I haven’t already virtually been? It’s late afternoon and the sun is behind the multicolored slate-faced buildings. We’ll have to wait to see the sun splashed, full color view pictured on the cover of our guidebook; even so, the harbor presents a very pretty sight.
Our apartment, a couple of blocks away, is situated on the Rue Haute. Even though the area is thick with tourists, we have no trouble finding the street; however, the narrow lane is blocked by a white cargo van. A sign says the way is closed for construction. While Roo double parks at the entrance, I go on foot to seek advice from Sylvie, our Airbnb host, in the artisanal shop she runs on the ground floor of our building, which I’m delighted to note is one of those half-timbered Norman dwellings.
I reach the shop to find Sylvie engaged in a conversation with someone I assume is a customer. An attractive petite woman in her early 50s, her chic outfit complete with an eye-catching scarf and tall spike heels, I already find her intimidating. (No matter how cleverly I tie my own scarf, I never seem able to capture a French look.) However, as she turns to me and smiles, greeting me in English, I see that while Sylvie appears sophisticated she’s also very warm, and not at all forbidding. Feeling more relaxed, I explain our dilemma. With an eye roll and a shrug, she raises her voice to be heard above the jarring clang of nearby jackhammers. The work to lay new pipes under the road has been going on for months, she tells me, the road blocked off every day, all of the shops dealing with lost business. Clearly this inconvenience is so much a fact of her life that she’s failed to mention it in her directions. But, no matter. She suggests where we can park until later when the blockade opens for nighttime access. Back at the car, we unload one of our oversized suitcases. I roll it down the street to the shop where I will wait for Roo, but Sylvie swoops in, grabs the bag, and heaves it up the two sets of stairs to our flat. She’s strong and, in those high heels, amazingly agile. And, so kind and helpful. I love that my illusions of French women are being shattered at almost every turn.
Our 16th century bi-level apartment occupies the top floors of the building. Sylvie has updated the abode, designing a space that tasteful and modern while retaining its historic character. The white walls of the open plan layout set off dark timbers made of wood hundreds of years old and reflect light from the few small windows. There’s a modern kitchen (a French press coffee maker like ours at home) and a dining area with a table (for painting!). Down a few steps. the living room area features an eclectic mix of sleek chairs and a comfy white couch. It’s teal and burnt orange throw pillows set off the large figurative abstract painted in rich dark earth tones that already intrigues me. Up a steep staircase, the bedroom loft overlooks narrow street lined which is lined with other medieval buildings hardly more than a stone’s throw away. The new plank floors have been painted a light gray. A thick golden rattan mat—no electric blue shag here!—covers half the floor and can serve as a yoga stretching spot. Plus, there’s a bail-out sleeping space if needed and, importantly, no noisy downstairs neighbor. Sprawled on the bed, I conjure up the memory of a Dicken’s novel and try to imagine a family of ten living here without running water or toilets. We will be far more comfortable here—there are only two of us—and both bathrooms—one on each level—have deep tubs. Such luxury!
As I get to know the town, I wonder if I feel so easily at home here in Honfleur because in several ways it is like home here—and not just because the coffee maker in our apartment is the same. Where I live in Frankfort, Michigan is also a picturesque tourist destination located on a large body of water. Sailboats and yachts anchor in the Betsie Bay during the summer; lush farms planted with apple, cherry, peach, and plum orchards abound. Looking around Honfleur, I realize that if I were still painting landscapes, I would find similar subjects to paint here as at home, with the addition of medieval architecture.
In addition to a history that stretches back centuries rather than decades, there are other differences. Honfleur is more populous, with 8000 residents vs. Frankfort’s 1500 making it much more vibrant. Honfleur bustles in late October in a way my town never does even in the height of the summer season. Many more tourists roam Honfleur, and here there are far more restaurants, bars, cafes, galleries, and shops than in Frankfort. (Sylvie tells us they’re open year round too!) And, it’s warmer here—news of chilling winds in northern Michigan makes the 70 degree weather we have here in Honfleur seem particularly wonderful.
As in Etretat, I love that at every turn there are roses in full bloom. We walk to a shop to buy a few groceries and I stop often to inhale their sweet fragrance. On a nearby building we discover a mural commemorating the liberation of Honfleur in late August, 1944. Did roses bloom here during the Nazi occupation? I wonder. It’s hard to imagine how something so delicate and beautiful could survive wartime. Honfleur, we learn, was spared the kind of destruction experienced in Etretat. There, a seafront similarly lined with medieval structures was demolished so German guns could get a better shot at the Allies approaching the coast. Today, modern hotels intrude on the beauty there. And while neighboring seaport Le Havre was 95% destroyed, the non-strategic location of Honfleur—small mercy—allowed for the preservation of its beautiful harbor.
When morning dawns clear and bright, Roo and I walk down to the harbor to make sure we catch the view of the harbor in full sun. The cool early light makes the colors of the water, the boats and the buildings and everything sparkle. We walk around the harbor, past the old two-level, prettily decorated carousel. I photograph the “PTite Chine;” the bright red boat with white trim that’s anchored nearby fairly glows. Everything here is so paintable! It’s easy to understand why Honfleur-born Eugène Boudin urged a young Claude Monet to leave the studio and paint outdoors here. The light effects are dazzling, maybe better here than at home.
Soon we find an outdoor table in at one of the many picturesque quayside cafes where we order the full petit dejeuner: fresh squeezed orange juice, un grand café crème, croissants, a basket of bread, and strawberry jam. This is not a low-carb meal, but my sister has asked that we indulge, for her sake; Roo snaps a pic of me toasting Polly with my o.j. and a flaky croissant.
After our meal I set off on my own to explore. While I avoided going out by myself in Paris, I feel so comfortable here there’s no question of wandering Honfleur alone. I walk up and down the back streets for a couple of hours, poking my head into St. Catherine’s Church, but mostly simply absorbing the city’s lively but gentle vibes. My portable studio is tucked away neatly in my small backpack and after scouting a few locations, I find a perch on a ledge below the Saint Catherine’s church where I can bask in the warm sun, surrounded by rose bushes and other flowers. The sound of running water from the Lavoir Leonard, a 19th century public wash house, soothes me.
I could easily be a cat today, lazing about like the gingery one I saw earlier this morning curled up on a sunny windowsill; instead, in what’s become a familiar routine, I unpack my studio. I am not a cat—I’m an artist! I remove the tin of ink sticks and the clear bag that holds my dozen tubes of gouache, and the plastic palette for mixing colors. I check to see if the water brushes are full and unroll the bamboo carrier that holds my bristle brushes. I’m ready to work!
At home I paint almost exclusively with oil paint, but on this trip I’m enjoying the fluidity of my ink and gouache. The paper cards I purchased in Le Havre are well-suited for water-based media—small but textured and sturdy. I paint quickly, intuitively, letting marks appear spontaneously, as much as possible without thinking too much. These are landscapes, but not the sort Monet and Boudin created, and not the kind I was so adept at painting in Michigan. These are inner, not outer, landscape paintings. The way I paint them remind me of a line from a favorite Roethke poem, “I learn by going where I need to go.” One intuitive stroke calls forth the next and, before I realize it, I’ve filled 10 or 15 small pages. I text Roo, “I’m hungry.” He replies, “On my way ….” I keep on painting.
When Roo arrives a few minutes later, I ask him to take my picture again. I want a record of how happy I feel in this place, here, doing art, doing my art. Here, not worrying about BIRDS FLY IN. Here, not considering Claude Monet’s success, not comparing myself to Joan Mitchell. Here, Me, content in myself, content with my painting. Me, with nothing else to do in the world but be me. I know I have many selves, many “me”s expressing the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Now, for the record, this is what Me filled with Joy look like! I want to have more than one picture of this Me! I stash my stack of dried paintings in a plastic sleeve and stow it in my backpack. I’m satisfied. Work is complete—it’s time to eat!
We stop in for lunch at the Salon de Thé “Laurence.” I’d seen this place earlier on one of Honfleur’s back streets. Its storefront window is full of brocante: English royalty memorabilia, including a grinning Princess Di doll and a Union Jack mug, as well as many pairs of costume jewelry, glittery earrings and pearl necklaces. A palm-reading chart suggests a connection with the occult. A sign in the window, “Attention ‘Chien Bizarre,’” and a bird cage by the front step also catch my attention. The menu listed on the blackboard is reasonably priced and piques our curiosity, so we decide to take a chance.
Inside, a robust and slightly tousled woman of a certain age welcomes us to sit at the only table available (out of five) in what appears to be not only a restaurant but also a bric-a-brac shop. It resembles an old-fashioned parlor crammed with well-worn, overstuffed chairs covered with faded floral chintz and dressers overflowing with mismatched knickknacks. Thankfully, there’s no bizarre dog in evidence, but there is a well-fed feline who comes to rub our legs. While this quirky café is homey and warm, signs on the table and posted throughout the café sternly warn in English: NO CELL PHONES! NO PHOTOS! While we wait for our food, Roo’s phone vibrates and he automatically picks it up to look at a message, our hostess stares at him and points to the sign on our table. “Ranger ton portable!” she says, clearly not kidding. Then, in a more friendly tone, she assures us the ambience and food are worth setting aside the device. Even though I’d love to grab a few shots of the charming interior, I’m thrilled. Imagine someone willing to risk displeasing her customers on principle! Especially one I wholeheartedly embrace.
Le menu we saw on the blackboard is printed on a small card Madame hands us. As so often happens in France, however, the name of a dish doesn’t always fully reveal its contents. One often sees natives engaged in lively conversation with a server to find out what’s actually on offer. Lacking sufficient language skills, however, I’ve found the next best thing is to order on the basis of the one or two words you might recognize with the assurance that in France almost everything tastes delicious. Here we quickly twig that our hostess is also the chef, and the food fully communicates her warmth. My escargot come sizzling with butter and garlic in a small cast iron skillet. Also piping hot is the creamy sauce atop the blanquette de veau. For dessert, a delicious tarte citrone meringuée brings the rich meal to a light and bright conclusion. We linger over cappuccinos and learn that Café Laurence is typically closed Wednesdays. Our hostess came into town for an appointment and decided she might as well open for lunch—lucky us!
I can’t pinpoint exactly why, but this town attracts me in a way Etretat did not. There, I loved the sea and the dramatic cliffs; but here it is the town itself that I find so appealing. For one thing, I relate to the owners of small art businesses in a tourist town—I am one myself—and I’m interested in how local town life interfaces with transient tourist. I spy in one gallery window several small sculptures of featureless, faceless figures entitled “The Visitor,” hinting perhaps of the symbiosis that is both necessary in a tourist destination and, perhaps, slightly resented. I also relate to the many artists who stand alongside their work in open storefront galleries. I don’t entirely love the large canvases on which some painters appear to have taken Monet compositions of local scenes and rendered them with garish day-glo pigments. I wonder how my own work would fare here. I’ve had success before as a painter of souvenir landscapes and risked departing from that to make my intuitive, expressive abstract paintings. If I lived here, would I find an audience for these? As soon as I ask the question, the joy I’d felt earlier diminishes; I dismiss my doubt and notice joy returns.
I have been comfortable walking the streets and I also feel quite at home in Sylvie’s apartment. We’ve slipped into a satisfying routine: Roo goes out in the morning to walk and returns with croissants. I stay in to do my morning reading, yoga and, by the time he returns, I’ve brewed coffee in the Bodum. Afterwards, he does work on his computer and I paint. Afternoons, we go out to walk the town, and Roo shows me the places he’s discovered on his morning ramble.
On this our third and final full day in Honfleur we climb the steep road to the Cote de Grace above the town. Roo shows me Notre-Dame de Grace, a small chapel built in the early 1600s, featured in paintings by Boudin, Monet, and others who hiked their gear up the hill to paint en plein air. My eye is drawn, not so much to the pretty church, as to the road leading away from it along the Cote de Grace plateau. Although it’s almost November, the meadows and fields alongside the road are still lushly green. Red apples hang heavily in the orchards we walk past and, finding shiny brown chestnuts everywhere we walk, I peel a few and eat them raw, then stuff my pockets with dozens to roast later. As we stroll by a grassy pasture, brown cows nuzzle the fence, close enough to pat them on the nose. Looping back past the chapel, we take in the Mont-Joli panorama before switching back and forth down the steep paved pathway to the city.
Our route takes us once again through the back streets of Honfleur. Rounding a corner we come upon an artist’ studio and gallery. I hesitate, feeling a bit nervous about going in to look without any intention of buying. Is this how first-time visitors feel when they come to visit my Studio & Gallery in Frankfort? Ioana, the artist, is an abstract figurative and floral artist from Romania and her gallery is filled with many fine examples of her work on display. As we enter, she’s working on another. She looks up and welcomes us to look around but continues to work on a painting. I admire that she doesn’t let herself be distracted by our presence, although she may have astutely guessed that we are more lookers than buyers. I quite like Ioana’s work—just as in my own studio/gallery, there’s a lot of it! Too much, perhaps, the impressive number makes it difficult to focus on only one or two. I make a mental Note to Self.
A floral painting catches my eye—she’s into roses too, apparently; but there aren’t enough walls in my home to display my own art—where would I put it? I make a guilty compromise and buy some of her postcards instead. As she puts them in an envelope, is it the nurse or the artist in me who notices the bright red dripping from her hand? I’m startled to see blood in an art gallery; however, is oblivious, so focused on the task at hand that until I get her to look down, she hasn’t yet registered that she’s bleeding. Unfazed, she secures the envelope, now smeared with a drop of her blood, and I will bring it home with me, a sanguine reminder of the heart and soul artists bring to their work.
Before leaving Honfleur I feel duty-bound to this trip’s purpose to visit yet another museum reputed to have a good collection of Impressionist paintings. Although Monet painted a great deal in Honfleur, the city appears to be less impressed by him than other places in Normandy we’ve visited—I’ve not seen any plaques of Monet paintings in Honfleur. Instead, Honfleurais appear to favor, Eugène Boudin, the marine landscape artist who was born here in 1824. A small museum located here bears his name rather than that of his protégé. We stop in for a quick look on the afternoon of our last day here. It’s a small quiet space with nice paintings, mostly by Boudin, and including only one Monet seascape.
Almost directly across the street, there’s another museum that’s seems more intriguing. Maison Satie is devoted to Erik Satie, the creative eccentric—a contemporary of Claude Debussy—who was also born in Honfleur, in 1866, in the actual half-timbered building we are about to enter.
While I know little about the man, for the past few months I’ve been obsessed with painting to Satie’s compositions for piano. This almost-ambient music impels me to produce a new set of responsive marks and colors and I never seem to get tired of listening to it. I first heard Satie’s best known work, Gymnopédie, in the soundtrack for the Louis Malle movie, “My Dinner with Andre.” The film landed in Missoula in 1981 and parts of it, especially the beautiful melancholy of the music, resonated deeply with the emotional and spiritual upheaval I was experiencing at that time. Now more than 40 years later, whenever I hear Gymnopédie and its several variations, I find it captivating and it’s not unusual for me to play the hour-long album several times during a painting session.
Having shown our museum pass, we now enter through a doorway curtained with heavy red velvet, and are quickly immersed in a surreal tribute to Satie. Each room is filled with one what reviewer describes as a “multimedia fantasm of Satie’s artistic spirit.” Indeed, the audio headset we’ve been given is programmed to trigger his music and video as we walk through darkened rooms furnished with Satie’s art and inventions, including a piano automatically playing his music, a Laboratoire des Emotions, and a pedal-powered music-making carousel. In the kitchen, furnished a display of two- and three-legged chairs, we learn that Satie only ate white food. We also watch a film of a ballet Satie created with Jean Cocteau and Pablo Picasso; the premiere apparently caused a riot outside the theater and its creator was arrested for “cultural anarchy.” As we return to the streets of Honfleur, Roo exclaims, “That is the strangest museum I’ve ever experienced.”
And the most wonderful, I would add. Honfleur is a place filled with unexpected wonders, not the least of which seems to be my recently experienced joyful wonder of Me. Gentle in its revelations, Honfleur has reminded me that much of what I appreciate in Honfleur, I have already established in Frankfort, Michigan. I could see myself also setting up shop here, however. With that in mind, Roo and I indulge the fantasy by going an immobilier to see a fixer-upper property Roo spotted in a listing on the window. Clambering over crumbled vine-covered walls to gain access to a dark, charmless wreck of a house, reminds me of how little energy I have for reinventing my life by taking on such a project. But, still, I could imagine spending more time here.
On Saturday we go downstairs to the shop to turn in the keys to our apartment, it seems we’ve been here for more than three days, and Sylvie someone we’ve known for a long time. She fills us in on what Honfleur winters are like—warmer than Michigan, for sure—and what it’s really like to live here. She’s encouraging us to return and offers to connect us with her American friend who would let us know more about life for ex-pats in Honfleur. I feel so good here! Perhaps an off-season month would be a good next step. This is all so very tempting.
On the way to the car park I come upon another bush full of pale pink roses. One more deep breath for the road, I leave Honfleur filled with its fragrance.
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