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.
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.
posted by Kellie Moore at 8:00 AM
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