while working or not working

my days are now more so spent with a brush and paint than a map and camera; and come this three week marker, I would say it's appropriately so. nevertheless, this is a time of equal welcome, as sitting in my room painting blades of grass and other details is not a far cry from those seemingly recent days of pattern on paper. to be sure, in making the switch from sandy's pieces to my current own, my mind finds little difference in process and thus it is only left with the use of imagery. then, I'm thinking back to a time of bugs and organs, gears and people... am I slowly making the turn?

scattered amongst this studio time, or writing time, or reading time, or researching time; there is still the occasional brief visit to new bretagne outskirts. come rennes, a return trip for more thorough investigation of my original landing location, I see an extension of airport-type shopping backed by the standard findings of a college town. virgin megastores, miles of shoes, and yes, even a mcdonalds are spewed along this historic french architecture; while cobblestone workings and aging stucco that exuded such a delicate beauty in so many of those prior towns are now tagged by (albeit interesting) forms of graffiti. yet, as this is the capital city of the region, the commercial drawl and otherwise modern facade is, i think, to be somewhat expected...
then, behold an internet cafe, and my jaded tone instantly gives way to a more grateful shift in attitude. after weeks of severance from this once daily convenience, I am now humbled even more by the use of its thoroughly french keyboard. once again in a full swing tone of the bretagne region, typing here takes twice as long, and still I remain ever thankful. on top of that and later still, the discovery of la rue de les thrift stores provides a much needed and two week long sought after pair of 1euro glasses. so now I return home with aided sight.

today, i will be transferring a drawing onto another 4 x 4 panel. 97 little people later, i am again reminded of sitting in the UCF studio with neither sleep or food and quite certainly toying with my own sanity. at least here I am more rested, better fed, and (just) possibly of sounder mind.. still, I miss those days.

finishing the drawing with time to spare and using that to work ahead, the next morning is spent in a travel to cancale. my excitement is all too vehement as this will be my first chance to witness the renown bretagne coastline. arriving on the steep incline of a winding 2 lane road; passing small cottages, weathered store fronts, and the occasional industrial style building; we then *gasp* passing over bridges drawn across sea-filled crevices of tumbling boulders and jagged rock.
yet, this must be only a teasing sight as our first stop this morning is the village bound and village wide garage sale to pick out some toys for leon and the new baby. here I keep myself entertained with an eclectic assortment of characters accentuated by their street side blankets displaying an equally varied and cheaply priced bauble. 1 euro for a truck, 2 for a tractor, and arms full of toys later, we're off to see the sea.
arriving at the town's port, I am delighted to find a waveless ocean of a clear, churn-less blue pressed along a store-lined wall and the occasional spot of sand. speckled with an array of brightly colored boats, their arms reaching for the sea, I joke with leon that these are the tractors of the ocean... but he is apparently not amused. much to his dismay, his mom suggests we move on to an even better spot; where despite a claim that the next sight of la pointe du grouin will be of uncompromising beauty, few words can truly express the breathtaking capacity of this most stunning ruggedness. I leave you then only to be witness of its pictures, and a reminder that a sight like this can override even the most crabby of 3 year olds.

and the struggle is...

today, my friends, the beautiful rolling hills that I've spoken so lovingly about kicked my ass on a borrowed bike.

a return to the country.

the following day, I am pleased the to wake up back in bazouge. it's 8a.m. and I hear the church bells toll in the distance woven amongst bird songs and the hushed sound of the wind blowing through my window. from my most delightful room, the cool air is invigorated by a smell of the freshly cut wheat fields, and I breathe deep to take in the morning.

today is the first day that I feel a premature twinge at the thought of returning home... and perhaps ridiculously so as I still have a little more than 2 months to my stay. yet, it remains that even in this short period I have experienced an unparalleled sense of peace and content, and have altogether become extremely pleased with this equal mixture of culture and countryside.

increasingly so, the lifestyle here seems quite fitting to my natural own, stressing an economic simplicity and based in conservation. nearly all homes are backed by a garden in which residents grow a portion of their own food; the refrigerators remain small and are often half the american size while still storing food for up to a family of 8; and there is an extensive recycling program accompanied by a general incline to limit the use of your water, electricity, and gas. more pleasingly still, the roads here are utterly devoid of the once pressing dominance of the SUV, and even the utility trucks would be considered small by our standards. that being said and a reinforced claim to $6 gas prices, many people simply opt to ride their bikes across this rolling country in combined use with france's ample train system.
these are just few of the more obvious cultural twists that seem so appropriate to a now familiar mindset, and even those customs in the peripheries are ones far from a more impacting deviation. by example, a trip to the supermarket, where though markedly lacking in faux-vegetarian substance, typically involves passing down aisles of (perhaps even better) whole foods that are fresh in smell and untouched by preservatives. even the comparatively small produce section, intended only to supplement those fruits and vegetables grown at home, provide some of the most delicious organics I've ever tasted. holding to my claim, it was just the other day that I was so overwhelmed by the juicy, sweet flesh of a peach and then later had a most amazing (though unfamiliar) variety of melon. perhaps slightly more unaccustomed to my grocery store sensibilities is finding of two entire aisles of yogurt with an unparalleled variety, and then followed by another of unrefrigerated, fresh milk.
with as minor as some of these differences remain, and keeping perspective that the admittedly limiting language barrier is just a mere challenge to overcome, I already feel such a natural ease in making these undaunting cultural adjustments. with that, I can't help to begin a rambling temptation of various (though some slightly implausible) possibilities to extend my stay. still, only the birds persist in being more encouraging of the thought.

tonight there are thunderclouds approaching, and the sky is cast in that prestorm glow of a golden hue that softly merges with the wheat fields. a swift wind picks up and carries the rumbling sounds from a distance across the rolling hills and to the very doorstep I'm seated upon, and a few overripe pears blow off their ridged stems to land with a pleasing 'thud' on the ground. I wish to myself for a day to share such sights with another; and I think of the history that brought sandy and yann to this point.
as my comfort with this temporary family grows, though admittedly still bearing the awkwardness of sharing their home, sandy now jokingly calls me 'sweetie' and leon delightfully greets me as 'keh-ye' in his 3 year old voice. assuredly, this only feeds my attachment to the setting; and so I try to convince myself that it wouldn't be as pleasant if there was no one to share an english conversation with, nor to be so kind as to guide me around these local sights. no, I must recognize the idealization of it all as I continue to work short days of painting and other pleasures, stopping only to join them for delicious meals, and maybe a little active playtime with leon... of course, of course! who wouldn't fall in love under this context? now, I must only ask myself, "where's the struggle in it all?"

from paris

just the next day, after spending the last two in an experience of some the genuine highlights of the bretange region, I'm on to paris for a three day adventure of working with yann and staying in a rented rooftop apartment.

"these are the days..."

beginning our 5 hour drive into the city, I once again find myself passing in and out of consciousness only to be woken for a string of engaging conversation and the occasional turkish pit-stop. with one eye open, I watch an increasingly familiar rolling terrain in an instant turn flat, and then to the very valley that cradles a sprawling paris. with sunlit arms reaching out of its roost, the city capital suddenly engulfs us. we are passing now beside the eiffel tower, as the the arc de triomphe can be seen only in the distance behind us. then is napoleon's tomb under that nearly gaudy glow of the gilded dome church, with the assemblee nationale palais-bourbon, and the grand and petit palais of champ-elysees clemenceau to follow. in hindsight, it is an appropriately paced tour as I watch the colorful swarms of people outside each of these sites, and smile to myself in knowing that this time around is a visit of a different nature. for on now passing outside of the palais de la madeline and the that of l'elysees, we are on our way to my workplace for the next three eagerly employed days.
pulling into the tres, tres riche and premier section of the city, we arrive at the antique book store where we will be assembling yann's custom made display unit for the store's upstairs gallery. entering through the old swinging glass doors and onto its marbled floor way, this is place for an authentically french experience, utterly devoid of tourist traffic, and full of wonderful insights to the customs and inner workings of this haute couture area. beautiful people gracefully enter using immaculate pronunciation as they browse through books ranging in the hundreds and thousands of euros. though worlds apart in my blue jean attire and english drawl, I am tempted myself to spend my days looking through the massive collection of art books alone; and I drool over titles of dada in paris and postmodern design. with such a delectable array right at my fingertips, I fall to the envy of those who can afford to take these affluent texts home.
traveling up a spiral staircase, enclosing the dangling spheres of antique lighting, I linger to look at the line of well framed illustrations, vintage posters, and several other artworks. reaching the top and upon seeming mindful miles later, my vision of the owner is turning in full form. yet, before I am allowed these assumptions any longer, my image rests reassured upon our most vivified meeting.
he is an outwardly flamboyant character, wearing dress pants and suspenders that keep hold of his wildly gesticulating arms. tall in stature and of average build, he walks with his hips forward and often has a cigarette sandwiched between his ring and index fingers. lighting another and swinging it in an extension of his arm, he offers us coffee repeatedly and shows us way to his kitchen and la salle de bain. his zest for this business is apparent in his enthusiasm of speech and eagerness to divulge the extent of his collection. he opens the drawer of a cabinet we're working by and an avalanche of books of an impossible cost pours out of bottom. it was in this manner that I continue to make my discoveries over the course of the next 3 days.
continuing still a most intensive work, such occasions eventually become a welcome means for break as yann's unmatched pace gives new meaning to the phrase lazy american. also, stopping daily a for lunch and a beer at a (tres cher!) cafe, my body thanks me for a moment to refresh.

come the close of a solid 8 hour day, we're driving now to the apartment that sandy has rented via online advertising and a handful of phone calls. atop 6 floors of stairs, this compact unit gives a decent view of the surrounding structures and the overall far less massive paris skyline. with a bed in a charlie buckett style loftspace, I watch out my rooftop window as chimney swifts dive in and out the sunwashed architecture. to my bottom right I see a man painting from his balcony vista; below provides an auditory view of a boy playing in the courtyard; and left is a woman calling out from billowing curtains. hot sounds of the streets, the talk of two men blends a melodic dialect with this and the local songs heard from the downstairs radio.
here are my ears transitioning from the jabbing racket of NYC, as I now press softly to these downy sounds. wrapped in a subtle hum, I drift into a welcomed sleep and my body falls from a hard days work.

a completion to my paris stay, I emerge 2 days later from the city's subway bearing a genuine sense of accomplishment and a more tactile padding in my wallet to show. baffled still, I have now earned more money than spent on this entire french juncture, and I look forward all the more to my increased travels to come...
now, in a strait and narrow shot to the TGV station, I wait for sandy and leon's arrival before we catch our intended train to rennes.
sitting on the steps just outside and facing a bustling circular center, I am approached by a man selling comics, one asking for directions, then two looking for handouts. "je suis desole, mais je ne parle pas francais", is my only reply, and for once perhaps the language barrier has worked in my favor.
...thinking of this, I look up to the dingy carousel before me playing an equally worn record to its slow and irregular rotation. there is an old woman straddled on one of the faded antique horses, as her frizzy gray hair wafts in haphazard arrangement. her wrinkled face, a tale of her age, is heavy with make up but far from depriving it of character. situated just some 2 feet away is a young man in a one-handed use old VHS recorder, holding its wavering lens uncomfortably close to her inattentive face. he keeps suave contrapasto, arm slung back around the pole behind him and I watch the pair go round this way through several of the tattered melodies.
from only in new york to now an indication of paris, i dally in the day and am soon glued to the pavement.

at last, I spot sandy and leon, and we're off in a prompt departure from paris to rennes, from rennes to combourg, and then for only a bikeable drive home. all in all, it's a relaxing 2 hour ride, and as I sit in the cool air pressing bittersweet distance from the tres chaud city, and again, my body only thanks me.

continuing, and a birthday surprise...

a saturday full of extensive perusing behind me, I woke the next morning feeling a bit of my age... and perhaps appropriately so as this marks the day I turn 25. I rise to the sound of leon's, then sandy's, then yann's voice telling me to get up and get ready for a special birthday adventure. vaguely coherent, I drag myself out of bed, down a cup of coffee, and am hastily loaded up into their dark green station wagon. riding along and having no clue where we're going, I laugh as leon is now holding the giant plastic crab that his mom so craftily scared him with by placing it under his sheets the night before. it is a pleasant ride, even for being only half awake, filled with this sort of humor and the passing of an increasingly costal terrain.
we're turning the corner now from one of the many small towns we typically drive through along the way, and suddenly my ears receive a collective shout of 'happy birthday!' I look ahead and see on the horizon a birthday cake rising up out of the glistening sands of the couesnon river. a genuine glee comes over me as I realize that this is mont saint michel, one of the many places I had so enthusiastically looked into visiting even before making my flight across the atlantic.

beginning its construction in 706 as a small oratory, this now popular destination (only second to that of the eiffel tower) is a thickened and encapsulating island of architecture. from a spiraling base of winding streets packed with vendors offering to meet any of your touristy needs, rises in stunning contrast the gothic/romanesque architecture of the island's impregnable abbey. untouched by the commercial application of the town below, the very naval of mont saint michel offers the most magnificent observations yet, and I gaze upon ornate stone details washed in color cast from the celtic patterns of stained glass windows. in such a feat of the human hand, I am enamored with its history as I walk in the presence of a previously unfelt age; and here I am only one year older.

during a sociably reflective return home, I say that my hand still feels the residual presence of those comparatively ancient walls I touched. as everyone collectively agrees (but perhaps thinking I'm half crazy for the statement), our ride stretches on.
later in bazouge, those same hands are becoming dirty with gesso as I spend the next few hours preparing panels for sandy. sooner still, they're spotted with a little burnt sienna paint while I begin the under-painting of tiny wigs on tiny heads. I look down to my feet and see the blisters from the past 3 days of extensive walking, and smile to myself in thought of my body as more organic documentation of the journey.

to six days in and feelings of traveling far.

flipping back the ivory and teal floral print cover of my already broken in journal, I half expect to find in these pages of boxy handwriting and cluttered tone the revelations of a months worth of travel. still with much time from being so, but of a certain compensating detail, I read across these rambling sentences documenting my daylong visits to combourg, dinan, and finally mont saint michel. from the small town of bazouge la perouse, where there is little more than bodega-like shops, these ventures are inevitably necessary to fulfill those simple errands and the occasional need for a less pastoral entertainment. combourg then becomes destination for more substantial groceries, dinan for art supplies and a quick visit with friends, and mont saint michel remains a destination in itself (and so deserving of a few sentences of its own). with a sequential increase in size, each one of these locations has acted as a sort of gradual acquaintance to some generalization of the surrounding and often quickly passed bretagne towns.

dinan in particular was pivotal on these grounds. being sizable enough for a good days exploration, it truly caters to the need for some monumental architecture and a wide selection of french dining and cafes. here I was able to swing a pedestrian navigation through its more picturesque streets; passing various street venders, performers, shop-walking people, and a myriad of aesthetically cluttered windows. through this timbered maze I make my way to a 14th century castle, whose 4 euro fee was well worth the panoramic view, and then I'm on to the town's 15th century romanesque church. here I watched a wedding preside and climbed into a back alley that utterly resonated under the church bell toll. eardrums still ringing and an equalled sensation in my gut, I then make the journey down the steep cobblestone path to the town's historic port. along this extended and winding crevice, I stop occasionally to pay brief visit to a few "hippie-art" galleries of which, according to sandy, there are many throughout bretange. she then goes on to tell me that the french government commonly supports artists of any nature via welfare and other public financial programs; and I suppose to myself that even the making of polymer jewelry and wooden incense burners is considered of equal worth in this socialist setting.
either way and passing by, I'm pulled onwards to the boat-lined river, where the plethora of store fronts and now small hotels continues in an assuredly different aesthetic. with a massive stone viaduct and its huge arched supports in the background, this stretch of dinan is in all aspects colored by the waterside activity. I watched vaporetto-like boats joust each other for sport, slews of people awkwardly easing themselves into kayaks and canoes, and then a caravan of tiny micro-cars honking their way through the riverside street. in a sense of this charming french bustle and the smell of the bakery I'm sitting next to filling the air, I close this invigorating trial of a day with good spirits and weary feet.

La Boucharderie

for the next two months, I will call la boucharderie my home.
in 1764, the rectangular, two-story, cobblestone structure was best known to be a masonry, both in practice and in residence. small details in the arrangement of the stone around the doorway and amongst its massive fireplace gives indication to this, accompanied by a verbally passed down history of the generations.
situated just fifteen minutes west of the village bazouges la perouse, it is in a location that was once site of several downhill streams. though the water is now redirected through a single channel, it is possible that one of these streams passed directly beneath the structure (a feature typical of several of the homes in the area this day). if this was indeed the case, then it is thought that the fireplace and the kitchen were placed in such an arrangement to the stream so as to create a certain triad, thus leading questions towards pagan belief and other customs of the times.
in regards to the more practical layout of this residence, its original construction was modeled so that the now modern living room would function as a sleeping quarters for the masons. in planning for cold, wet winters and cool summers, the original north wall completely lacked in windows, and instead pressed against the bulk of the masons furniture. also, the structure was and remains naturally insulated simply by leaving a small gap down the middle of all outward framework... as I sit in my cool room uncompromised by air conditioning in the midst of summer, I am amazed at how well this slight moderation works by all modern standards.

la boucharderie's story is retold as best as possible via sandy's husband, yann, who in being a furniture maker/woodworker of the highest degree, has a great passion for the home's history. taken by this aspect and the quiet setting, they purchased their portion of this countryside hamlet only one year ago, while still being in need of a sizable amount of work, even despite its original craftsmanship.
with a hayloft as a second story and little way of accessing it, an amazing amount of handy work now provides three upper level bedrooms and a bathroom. my own room within this group is truly beautiful in its simplicity, having the same hardwood floors that exist throughout the house, and one complete wall consisting of loosely spackled stone. with the approximate dimensions of 3 x 9 meters and a trapezoidal wall to ceiling line; a massive, single-hinged window rests in the slant of the roof above the short, outer wall of the room... I open this window during the day and a cool breeze fills my pleasing space. closing it at night, the breeze is kept within.
this is just one of the many new additions to the already impressive home. soon to come also is the conversion of the remaining 9 x 9 meter storage space into a massive first floor kitchen and second floor studio. so to, and hopefully sooner, will be doors for the bathrooms (no accounting for privacy now), and the remaining two bedrooms. the walls will be painted, and a grand staircase will replace the temporary but nevertheless well crafted one. finally will be the extension of the laundry room and the expansion of a garden, for I have discovered that growing your own fruits and vegetables is a common french standard.
with such a strong impression already and a genuinely blessed feeling to call this my summer abode, I look forward to watching these transformations occur. unlike my urban setting in new york; here I find a more familiar vision of envoutante, authentique, naturelle, se vibre la lumiere at habille de couleurs les grands espaces.

begin.

with a solid fifteen hours of sleep to compensate for those two days without, and a comparatively more coherent state to go along with it, I only hope now to provide a somewhat lucid account of these first 30 hours of my journey. I just pray their explanation neither be as long nor as tedious.

in that light, and in consideration of its generally watered-down impact on my trip, I will only give brief acknowledgement to my initial flight out of orlando international airport. palm trees bending in the wind along tourist-friendly roads with big letters, brightly coordinated colors, and plenty of forewarning; these are all familiar sights. in the anticipation of new sights to come, I stare through it with eyes weary of their comfort.

instead, I begin here with a 7:10p.m. flight out of new york's JFK and in destination to dublin, ireland. despite my delusional state and a mind failing in the face of 34 sleepless hours, I remember that first moment of an untainted and previously unattached enthusiam.
as I'm looking out my window, flying from a location I've traveled to and away from several times before, I was suddenly swept over by the thought of having never flown this way before. granted, within this incoherent context and given that I was already attempting conversation with the girl sitting next to me, I certainly wasn't thinking in eastern-bound terms. after all, it was only a short time ago that I was on an eastward route back to florida. more so though, my thoughts were spurred by the visual cues of an unfamiliar stretch of land combined with the re-realization of my journey. I turned to tell this to my boeing 767 neighbor.
she's an irish girl about my age, with a gentle smile that made obvious her soon to be told stories of working with kids. we exchange and compare experiences throughout the extended evening, leaving many pleasantries to digest at our lap-size tables... omitting, of course, those 'surprise' airplane consumables. as she pronounces 'skewl' and pokes fun at the riverdance, I continue to ask heaping questions in big american doses. weaving memory and my present reality, our flight carries on.

at 7:10a.m., our plane arrives in the greenest country I've ever seen. a pastureland puzzle of irregular shapes hugging gently rolling hills and lush valleys, all contained within a stunning boulder-lined coast. at that moment, I am sorry that my stay is not longer for a leisurely drive through this verdant terrain.
rather, my next 7 hours are spent in an airport, passing in and out of consciousness, and waiting for a delayed flight to rennes. men are called gents, great is grand, a lady's a las, and I wasted 10 euros attempting a means to call home. also, the stores along here are some of the most fashionable I've seen, as far as airport shopping goes.


at last, my aer lingus plane is ready to board. walking out to the flight, my weary body is spurred by the nip in the air and my equally tattered mind habitually attempts to recall if I was just in 90 degree weather. I wish for my sweater, but the need for sleep overrides the want.
for the next two hours, I would continue to be teased by a deeper slumber, as I would awake so often to voices amongst the cabin. they are louder than usual, a mixture of foreign tongue, and I notice that everyone likes to give a collective 'whoop' when the plane encounters some turbulence. though there was none, I half expected that there would be a round of applause once the plane finally landed.

walking across the runway and entering the rennes customs office, I encountered my first occasion of the fearfully predicted language barrier. being able to neither prove when I would leave france, nor having the knowhow of expressing this, I am granted an additional 10 minutes to my time at this gate. I could only assume that the next 5 were due the mistakes made on my embarkment card and, yet again, I stress that this is only an assumption that neither myself nor the man behind the glass could understand.
20 minutes pass and all the while my ride home stands waiting on the other side.

after a quick greeting and a most delirious first impression, we are driving now; myself, sandy, and her 3 year old son. with eyes now alert strictly for the sheer curiosity, I take note on how all of the cars are small... aside from the truck full of pigs that just passed by. also, there are fewer traffic lights, fewer parking lots, fewer buildings, and a sprawling countryside to compensate. rolling fields of varying greens and yellow grasses... sandy remarks that I'm looking at monet's haystacks. I spot a scattering of sheep and cows, and a less than occasional cluster of trees amongst wildflowers, while flocks of birds persist in a winged feeding of the pre-harvest wheat fields. there are a smattering of cobblestone houses, some larger than others, and many with perfectly dilapidated farms and old wells in the back. in this quilted view, I rest my eyes... and then we pull up to my temporary own.