Skip to main content

Saturday picnic.

 As I wandered the Saturday market I thought up the idea of getting different things in which I could make a picnic for one. I got my usual large madelines with the little bump on the bottom. Some cheese covered in herbs. It acts like a spreadable chèvre, but the lady reassured the ladies in line in front of me that it was actually cheese from cows milk. Then some avocados. Baked crisps with sea salt and seaweed. The quintessential bagette. And a small bottle of white wine.
Everything for a perfect little picnic.

 Except it was a picnic in which everything went wrong. One of the avocados had started to turn and had exploded. And the wine cork had been soaking for too long and just deteriorated every time I tried to get it out. The wrapping for the top of the bottle sliced the side of my middle finger. A cut that looked like a bloody version of the 'crack on Amy's wall.' In the end I was forced to push the cork down into the bottle and drink the wine through my teeth to filter out pieces of cork. It wasn't any good and I left it in a park garbage can half drunk.

I wandered more around the area. I had heard of a park on Rue de Paris that allowed people to walk on the grass and had no restricted zones, so I decided to check it out. A beautiful pond. Filled with ducks and one very large swan.
I continued to wander. Down streets that I had been near but never traveled down. Looking at familiar sites from new and different angles.
In short, continuing to be unproductive because it was too nice out to sit in front of a computer screen.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

New Birth.

Hey. C'est moi.  It has been a few years. Since I last discussed into the void here I attended grad school for architecture at the University of Washington, finished the Master's program by the skin of my teeth, graduated into a global pandemic (I would not recommend this), gave away most of my worldly possessions, and am now flâneur-ing around Europe on the slim budget of my life savings. Allow me to reintroduce myself : I am the artist, Gaston. My interests include ; architecture, sustainability, art, vintage fashions, antiques, and flâneries. All while consuming massive quantities of tea. “I know where I'm from, but I don't know where I'm going.” I recently heard this line at a video playing at the Tate Museum in Liverpool, and it rang strong in me. In the film Casablanca, when Rick is questioned on his nationality he responds that his is a “drunkard,” insinuating that he has renounced his American nationality for that of someone who owns and runs a bar. From ...

Windy Coffee. [part 1]

Fulya was looking at my sketchbook the other day and remarked that she liked the random sketch that I had made of some girl that I saw walking along with a little plastic cup of coffee during the wind storm a few weeks past. As I still have some small pieces of very good watercolor paper [that I had sized to be used for some small frames I had collected but did not have anything to put in them yet], I thought that perhaps I could transfer a little sketch to a little piece of paper to play with techniques. Namely the layering of water colors. Something that I know I have been working on a lot, but practice makes perfect. I also wanted to see how using my new mechanical pencil filled with blue graphite would work in hiding my lines as I initially worked. I forgot to take a picture of the transition between not having the girl inked at all to inking her and starting the background. I was having a hell of a time trying to figure out a setting in which to put her. At first I was th...
French underworld tattoos at the turn of the century. The man sports a tattooed mustache intended to foil the prohibition of facial hair in the Foreign Legion. The World of Tattoo by Maarten Hesselt van Dinter. I can only dream of being anywhere near that combination of badass and crazy. Though at that point the Foreign Legion was probably still the best place for criminals to get their record cleaned so perhaps he is as well quite legitimately scary upon all of that. I find myself flipping back to this page time and time again to romanticize the French underground from around 1900. Give him an accordion, a beret, and some braces. Prostitutes who could easily kill you if you ever come up short and tattoo the names of their ‘actual’ lovers between their breasts, close to their heart. Tattoo ‘Je mother fucking t’aime’ in a tattoo cursive along my collar bones.