Category Archives: Art

Boston: an enchanting travel destination

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Boston is known as a city where every corner tells a story. It is steeped in history, culture, academia, sportsmanship, good food and stunning architecture. Throughout the decades as a Boston resident, I have collected an abundance of memories, happy stories written in the squares, avenues, parks, museums, libraries, ballparks and restaurants of the city. I feel blessed to make my home in such an enchanting travel destination. The photo essay inspired by pictures I have taken in Boston, tells the story of a bride who is quickly falling under the spell of Massachusetts’ capital.

Margot O’Reilly woke up in the elegant bridal suite at the Copley Plaza Hotel. Soft sunlight peeking through the partially opened curtains lit up the quiet room. She sat up and stretched, taking in the plush armchairs by the window, the gleaming mahogany bureaus, and the marble fireplace. Smiling to herself, she snuggled back underneath the luxurious bed coverings as happy memories drifted through her mind. Last night, she and Oliver were married at the Boston Public Library. Their friends and family all raved about the unique venue.

Last spring during her school vacation, when Margot and Oliver flew to Boston from Philadelphia to visit his family in West Roxbury and share the news of their engagement, they had spent an afternoon wandering around the Back Bay. At the library, she picked up a pamphlet advertising wedding options. As she read through the glossy booklet, she knew immediately that she had found the perfect place to get married. To her delight, last evening had been flawless. The ceremony and cocktails in the Courtyard were followed by dinner in Bates Hall Reading Room and dancing in the Abbey Room.

“Good morning, Mrs. O’Reilly,” Oliver said. Wrapped in one of the hotel’s waffle robes, he stepped out of the steamy bathroom and crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. His hair was damp and he smelled of lemony soap and minty toothpaste. He had gotten up early to use the hotel’s gym.

Margot grinned at the sound of her new name. She had thought about hyphenating their last names, but Beauvilliers-O’Reilly had too many syllables. She wondered how long it would take her students to get used to her married name.

“Good morning, my darling husband,” she replied. She kissed him and went on, “If you could order us some breakfast, I’ll jump in the shower. We have a busy day ahead of us. Art in the morning and the Red Sox this afternoon.”

Oliver laughed. “The MFA and Fenway, two Boston icons.”

Margot climbed out of bed and walked over to the window. She opened the curtains revealing their view of the library and Copley Square. “It looks like a beautiful day. Perhaps we can fit in a walk through the Public Gardens and the Common.”

Oliver nodded and reached for the phone to call room service. “Margot,” he called after her as she disappeared into the bathroom. “It’s going to be a great day. I’m glad we decided to honeymoon in Boston.”

Margot poked her head through the doorway. “Me too. I love this city almost as much as I love you.”

Campus Life

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One of my preferred travel destinations is Washington, DC. For many years, my husband and I enjoyed a family tradition of spending Columbus Day Weekend in the national capital. Each trip was unique. Some of our favorite sights in DC include the National Zoo, the Phillips Collection museum, the National Mall Carousel and Ford’s Theatre. On our last trip to Washington in 2021, we spent a delightful afternoon exploring the Georgetown neighborhood and college campus. My photos from that day have inspired the photo essay below.

Last year at this time, Sasha was sitting on the lumpy couch in her high school Guidance Counselor’s office. While she waited for Ms. Burns to get off the phone, she flipped through an outdated issue of Campus Life magazine. The glossy pages were filled with photos of smiling students lounging on sunny lawns, laughing in Harry Potteresque dining halls, or listening attentively in high-tech classrooms. She and Ms. B were meeting to finalize Sasha’s college list with Georgetown University right at the top.

Now, here she was on her first Saturday as a college girl, walking across the Georgetown campus. So far, her campus life was nothing like the one enjoyed by the students in the magazine.  Instead of bonding with her roommate, Jessica, and making friends with the girls in her dorm, Sasha was spending most of her free time alone. 

Jessica was nice enough. They just had nothing in common with each other. Jessica was a soccer player and a physical therapy major. When she wasn’t in class, she was either on the soccer pitch, in the gym or in the common room with her PT study group. Most of the other girls on her floor were sporty like Jessica. Somehow, dreamy Sasha who majored in art history had ended up in a jock dorm.

This morning, Sasha had gotten up early, determined to go out and find her people. She would start by visiting the De La Cruz Gallery. She remembered the guide pointing out the art gallery on her campus tour last fall. Maybe she could apply for a work study job or at least a volunteer position there.

Sasha strolled along admiring the spires and arches that adorned the college buildings around her. The campus was quiet. The early morning sun shone down on the grassy quad in front of the library. A woman and her poodle were playing a game of fetch across the lawn. The clock atop the Gothic tower of Healy Hall struck the hour, the clear tones of the bells blending with the dog’s excited barking.

As Sasha wandered past the college’s honorary statue of Jan Karski (another highlight of her college tour), she noticed a girl sitting on the bench beside the bronze figure of the chess playing government and international affairs professor. She was dressed in a calf-length crinkle skirt topped with an over-sized college hoodie. An open sketch pad lay in the grass at her feet. She held her cell phone at an odd angle out in front of her.

“Do you want me to take your picture for you?” Sasha called out.

The girl lowered the phone and smiled at Sasha. “That would be great, yeah. I want to send this photo to my dad. This statue is of one of his professors, who was also a World War II resistance fighter.”

“That’s cool,” Sasha said, accepting the phone and snapping a few shots of the girl. “My name is Sasha, by the way,” she added. “I’m a freshman.”

“Me too. I’m Beatrice.” The girl took her phone from Sasha’s outstretched hand and nodded her head as she swiped through the new photos. “Thanks.”

Sasha started to walk away, but then turned back. “Hey, Beatrice. I’m going over to the art gallery, do you want to come with?”

Beatrice scooped up her sketch pad and pocketed her cell phone. “Sure, why not.”

The two girls chatted companionably as they walked together across the quad, and Sasha’s heart lifted with the hope that her real campus life was about to begin.

Montreal

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Montreal is a destination that offers plenty of culture, delicious food and eye-catching landmarks. My husband and I took a summer trip to this cosmopolitan city in 2015. We stayed in the historic neighborhood, Old Montreal. During our week-long sojourn, we made every effort to see as many sights as possible. Some highlights of our trip included visiting Notre-Dame Basilica, Place Jacques Cartier, the Museum of Fine Arts, and the botanical gardens, as well as two scrumptious meals at a charming restaurant called Jardin Nelson.

After nearly ten years, I still have fond memories of our trip to Montreal. Perhaps, it is time for a return visit. In the meantime, the photo essay below is inspired by the pictures I took in 2015.

“What a wonderful meal in such a lovely setting,” Camille remarked, gazing around the flower-filled terrace and taking a final sip of her crisp white Bordeaux.  She clinked glasses with  her niece, Florette.  

They had just enjoyed a filling lunch of seafood crêpes at Jardin Nelson, a popular establishment in the heart of Montreal’s historic district.  Across the sunlit cobbled square  a cello player serenaded the passing tourists  with a soulful version of  Leonard Cohen’s  “Hallelujah.”

“I’m so glad you liked it,” said Florette.  She folded her cloth napkin and set it beside her plate.  “I’m happy you’ve come to visit too.  I wish I didn’t have to go to classes, so I could show you more of my favorite things in Montreal.”

“Don’t be silly.  I don’t mind exploring the city on my own.  This morning, I visited the basilica where Celine Dion was married.  All of that glowing stained glass took my breath away.”  She put her folded arms on the table and leaned forward.  “Besides, school comes first.”

Florette nodded.  “I know.  That’s what my mom would say too.”

 They shared a laugh.  “Tell me more about your classes at the art school,” Camille said.

Florette sighed and spread her arms in delight. “The Ecole des Beaux Arts is fabulous!  My favorite class is my still life drawing class.  The professor is so talented and inspiring. Last week she said my drawing of a bowl of oranges was nearly perfect.”

As they paid the check and gathered their belongings, Florette chatted on about her other art courses.  In front of the restaurant entrance, she posed so Camille could take a photo.  Glancing at the time on her cell phone, she said, “My next class isn’t until 4:00.  Do you want to come with me to the botanical gardens?  I have to do some sketches and you could take more photos.”

“What a marvelous idea,” said Camille.  They linked arms and made their way down the street looking for a taxi.

Montreal’s botanical gardens were nestled in the city’s Olympic District.  Florette pointed out the Olympic stadium as they rumbled by in their cab.  At the entrance to the park, they hopped out of the car and strolled through the gates.

Florette pulled up a map of the gardens on her phone. “Let’s head over to the alpine garden. I love the flowers there and the rocky landscapes.  All of the flowers are so tiny and sweet.  I’m going to sketch the phlox and the rock roses.”

“Sounds good to me.  I have to warn you though.  I may burst out into an off-key version of Edelweiss.” Camille joked.

“Remember how I made you watch my Sound of Music video every time you came over when I was little?”  Florette said with a giggle.

“It was your favorite.  Mine too.”  Camille said, swinging her arms and glancing up at the brilliant sunlit sky.  After a moment she went on, “When I visited Austria, I went to Leopoldskron Palace, where they filmed some scenes from the movie. The gardens there are stunning.”

“I’m sure.” Florette couldn’t keep a hint of envy from her voice.  “I’d love to go to Austria, or anywhere in Europe.” She gazed admiringly at her aunt.  

“You’ll have your chance to travel,” Camille assured her. “You’re just twenty-one. There’s plenty of time!” 

As they followed the brick paved pathways, Camille read the signs pointing out the locations of  the different gardens.  “Japanese garden, Chinese garden, alpine garden,” she said.  “It looks like you can travel around the horticultural world in one day here.”

“Did you know there are more than 20,000 types of plants here from all over the planet,” Florette said.

“Amazing!”

They fell into a comfortable silence, walking past the rose garden and the aquatic garden. As they approached the Chinese garden, the carved roof of the pagoda appeared in the distance.  The splash of a waterfall or fountain filled the air along with cheerful birdsong.

Florette said, “When I finish my sketching, we should check out the Chinese garden. The pond in front of the pagoda is filled with lily pads and there’s a gorgeous willow tree.  You’ll get some excellent photos.”

“Speaking of lily pads, I’d like to look at the aquatic garden too, if we have time.”

“Sure.  Of course”

“One of the best gardens I’ve ever been to is Monet’s garden in Giverny.  I was there in April, so the famous water lilies weren’t in bloom, but there were so many other lovely and unusual flowers it didn’t matter,” she said, following her niece into the enchanting alpine garden.

“One of these days, I’ll have to make a summer trip to Giverny.  The water lilies come out in July usually,” Camille went on.

Florette opened her sketchbook and found a shady spot beside a rockery carpeted with a bed of fragrant lavender, pink and white phlox.  She let out a wistful sigh and said, “I want to be a world traveler like you.”

“You know,” Camille said thoughtfully, “next summer after you graduate would be the perfect time for a trip to France . . . we can go to Giverny together to celebrate.  And we can ask your Mom to come along too. ” She beamed at her niece. “A girls’ trip to Europe will be a grand way to kick off your quest to see the world!”

Seashells, Sunshine and Serendipity

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Having family in Maine provides me with several marvelous New England travel destinations. My parents and my sister and brother-in-law live in Brunswick and Harpswell. A trip to both of these towns, along with nearby Freeport or Portland, always promises scenic beach walks, fresh seafood enjoyed with waterfront views, and shopping at farmer’s markets or eclectic shops and galleries. Every August, Brunswick hosts an Outdoor Arts Festival. One summer as I wandered among the booths, I stopped to admire a small watercolor depicting two little girls standing side by side on a quiet beach watching the incoming tide. Although I was tempted to purchase the lovely painting, I left it behind. Later that year, my thoughtful mother surprised me on my birthday. She had bought the painting for me . This charming scene, along with photos I have taken in Maine have inspired this new photo essay.

The late night storm swept a garden of kelp and sea lettuce across the sandy shore. Hidden among the strands of seaweed is a treasure trove of shells, pebbles and sea glass. Now, the late morning sun shines down from the clear blue sky and the churning waves have calmed. Elizabeth Ann and her daughter walk along the water’s edge where the damp sand remains firm beneath their bare feet.

The little girl skips and dances like a sandpiper, swinging a yellow plastic bucket at her side. She pauses every few minutes to bend down and examine the glittering array of shells scattered across the beach. She picks up a perfectly formed scallop shell and calls back to her mother, “Look at this one, Mommy.”

“That’s a keeper, Eliza,” Elizabeth Ann says, admiring the pristine white shell. She holds up a heart-shaped piece of green sea glass. “What do you think of this?”

“Ooh, it’s so pretty.” As she places the treasures into her bucket, Eliza glances over her shoulder at the friendly sound of a dog barking.

A West Highland Terrier trots down the porch steps of one of the homes lining the beach. The dog runs toward them, followed by a girl who looks to be around 4 or 5 years old like Eliza. Her long dark hair is tied back in two braids and she holds a hand to her head to keep the floppy sun hat that matches her purple sundress from flying off in the ocean breeze.

“Where are you going, Callie?” the girl calls out. “Please come back right this instant.” Her voice has a distinctive British lilt, that makes Elizabeth Ann smile. Memories of her college semester abroad in London and her first love fill her mind, as she watches the girl bend down to hug her dog, who has obediently returned to her side.

“Good girl, Callie. You’re such a good dog.”

Eliza skips over to them. She sets down her pail and asks, “Is it okay if I pet your dog?”

“Of course. She’s quite friendly.” The girl smiles at Eliza and goes on, “My name is Maisie. That’s my dad.” She points to a man standing on the wide front porch of the white clapboard bungalow. “What’s your name?”

Crouching down beside the terrier, Eliza says, “I’m Eliza Grace, but you can call me just Eliza. My mom likes to call me Eliza Grace sometimes, so I’ll have two names like her. She’s Elizabeth Ann.”

“How funny.” Maisie grins up at Elizabeth Ann and gives her a little wave. She takes a tennis ball out of her pocket and hands it to Eliza. “Callie loves to play fetch.”

Eliza tosses the ball and the little girls giggle together when the dog chases after it. Elizabeth Ann watches them play, taking pictures with her cell phone. Through the phone’s video screen, she spots the man descending the stairs of his front porch. He jogs across the sand toward them and as he draws near she recalls a weekend trip to the beach in Devon on the south coast of England. His tall frame and loping stride seem awfully familiar.

“Maisie, it’s almost time for lunch. Come on home,” he calls out and Elizabeth Ann’s heart skips a beat. She knows that voice. She remembers the first time she heard it in that London pub when Sebastian introduced himself. From that moment, they had fallen into a whirlwind romance, but in June had gone their separate ways.

Elizabeth Ann studies him, her heart swelling with bittersweet emotion. She knows that Sebastian recently lost his wife to cancer and hopes that he and Maisie are coping well.

“In a moment, Dad,” Maisie says. “Callie and I are playing with our new friend, Eliza.”

“You’ve met a new friend then,” he says glancing from Maisie to Eliza and then finally Elizabeth Ann.

Standing beside her daughter, Elizabeth Ann slips her phone into her pocket. “Hello,” she says quietly.

Their eyes meet and his spark with surprised recognition. “Elizabeth Ann?” he says. “My God, it is you. It’s been a long time.”

Elizabeth Ann smiles up at him, hardly able to believe that he is standing right in front of her. There are a few lines on his face and his shaggy hair is now neatly cut, but his warm sherry colored eyes and engaging grin are the same.

“And this is your daughter?” he goes on, turning to Eliza. “Pleased to meet you,” he says with a formal bow.

The little girls giggle and Maisie says, “Dad, you’re being silly.” She waves an arm toward the gently rolling waves. “Can we go for a paddle?”

Sebastian glances at Elizabeth Ann. She nods and he says, “No going above your knees.”

The girls wander hand in hand to dip their toes in the water, Callie following at their heels.

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Sebastian quips, quoting Casablanca.

Elizabeth Ann draws in a deep breath of salty air and grins at Eliza and Maisie’s shrieks of delight as they run and skip in the shallow water. She laughs and says, “I think so too.”

A Sunny Morning in Giverny

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My fondest travel memory is of the day my husband and I visited Claude Monet’s house in Giverny. We were spending a week in Paris and took a day trip to the artist’s home. Strolling through his beautifully cultivated gardens was like a dream. We were surrounded by vibrant colors, exotic blossoms and enchanting birdsong. In the water garden, we paused to marvel at the famous Japanese bridge that we had seen depicted in one of Monet’s paintings the day before at the Musee d’Orsay. The house was just as inspiring as the gardens. My favorite room was the blue-tiled kitchen with its copper pots and old-fashioned iron stove. Upstairs in the bedroom, I was able to gaze out the window down onto the garden and imagined the artist himself standing there each morning drinking in the view before beginning his day. In the photo essay below, my character, Cerise, makes a fresh start, beginning a new chapter of her life on her first day on the job at Fondation Claude Monet.

After working in a Paris advertising office for twelve years, Cerise Dior was ready to return home to Giverny. Commuting on the crowded Métro had become tiresome and navigating office politics a headache. During her Christmas holidays, while sipping coffee and flipping through the local newspaper in her older sister Esmé’s sunny, yellow kitchen she had spotted a job notice for Assistant Director of Marketing at the Fondation Claude Monet. Expecting nothing to come of her inquiry, she applied for the position and now to her surprised delight, she was here in the village where she grew up ready to begin a new chapter of her career.

Carefully pulling into the employee parking lot, she parked her sporty blue Peugeot. Beside her on the passenger seat was a crisp white bakery bag holding flaky almond croissants and pain au chocolat. Enough to share with everyone in the office. Esmé had baked the pastries first thing in the morning. Their buttery aroma filled the little car.

The clock on her dashboard reported that it was only 7:20. Cerise sighed. She couldn’t show up 40 minutes before they were expecting her, but she didn’t want to sit in the car. Maybe she could do a bit of exploring.

After a moment, she climbed out of the car, remembering to grab the bakery bag and retrieved her shoulder bag from the back seat. She paused, gazed around the deserted parking lot and then set off for Monet’s gardens. She strolled past the shuttered gift shop and café, which inevitably would be bustling with tourists and local visitors in just a few hours. Crossing the road, she walked briskly along the sidewalk that ran behind the artist’s home. The April sunshine winked against the upstairs windows and warmed the rose-colored facade.

As she turned the corner, she held her breath in anticipation of her first glimpse of Monet’s spectacular garden. Stepping out of the shadow of the house into the front courtyard, Cerise clasped her hands to her chest, still clutching the white bakery bag and let out a delighted sigh. A kaleidoscope of colors and scents invited her forward. Rows of well-tended flowerbeds lined the wide gravel walkways

Slowly, she circled a garden of tulips. The pink and white blooms danced in the gentle spring breeze on gracefully tall stems. On the opposite side of the garden, cherry blossoms shaded plantings of forget-me-nots, lilies of the valley and jonquils.

“C’est splendide!” she murmured dreamily. Her mind raced with ideas for how she could promote this lovely place.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle!”

A cheery voice pulled her back into the present moment. Cerise smiled hesitantly at the rosy cheeked woman who seemed to be about her own age hurrying toward her from one of the walkways.

“Hello,” Cerise said. “I was a little early for my first day of work and decided to do some exploring,” she explained in a sheepish tone.

The woman waved her hand dismissively and shrugged. “Don’t worry. I often start my day with a walk in M. Monet’s garden. My name is Suzette. I’m in charge of social media for the Fondation. Are you Cerise Dior?”

“I am,” Cerise confirmed. “I suppose we will be working together.”

“Yes, yes. Welcome!” Suzette looked at the silver watch that adorned her narrow wrist. “We still have a few minutes. Let me show you the garden.”

Together, they strolled up and down the garden paths while Suzette pointed out some of the more unusual blooms. Finally, they headed back across the street to the offices.

“Whatever you have in that little white bag smells heavenly,” Suzette remarked as they walked past the restaurant.

“I brought some croissants from my family’s bakery. Enough for everyone,” Cerise said.

“Ooh! Tres bien,” Suzette crowed. “I think we will be great office mates. Tomorrow morning, I will show you the water gardens.”

As they approached the wooden door leading into the administrative offices, Cerise quickened her pace and smiled up at the sunny, blue sky. Her new chapter outside the city was off to a promising start.

Celebrating Picture Books

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Did you know that November is National Picture Book Month? I treasure my personal collection of picture books, many of which I reviewed for School Library Journal.

At the beginning of this month, I blogged about picture books (the ideal fusion of words and images) on my school library blog site. Here is an excerpt:

Listening to a bedtime story and examining colorful illustrations in a picture book is often a child’s first step into the world of literature.  Growing up with a personal library of kid’s books is essential for four reasons: picture books introduce children to the magical joy of reading, they stimulate a child’s imagination and provide emotional touchstones.  And finally picture books showcase an endless gallery of amazing artwork.  Read more . . .

Today, at the end of November, I have created a tribute to the best kind of picture book, the alphabet book. Take a look!

Never forget that words and pictures go together like peanut butter and chocolate . . . Happy reading!

Home again, home again . . .

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Reading is one of the great joys in life.  Visiting new and intriguing literary destinations in the pages of a novel has always been a favorite pastime for me.  Even as a young girl  I would never go anywhere without taking along a book.  I gloried in getting to know some of the world’s best-loved literary heroines from Jo March and Laura Ingalls to Mary Lennox and Elizabeth Bennett.  I was particularly drawn to the talkative orphan with long red braids, Anne Shirley, reading and re-reading L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables series many times.  Although I admired Anne and was entertained by her mishaps and antics, I was equally enchanted by the village of Avonlea on the north shore of Prince Edward Island. 

 In June, I finally visited Anne’s beloved home.  My husband and I set off on a Canadian road trip as soon as the school year ended.  We visited St. Andrews-by-the-Sea, NB, Cavendish (Avonlea), PEI and Halifax, NS.  All three destinations were delightful, but Prince Edward Island was by far my favorite.  As we settled into our rustic motel in Cavendish, I felt immediately at home.  That sense of welcome along with the photos I took during our visit inspired me to write the following photo essay.

lupines

The lupines were in bloom, lining the roadsides all across PEI. (photo by L. Walkins, 2018)

From the top deck of the ferry, Luna spotted her sister on the shore.  Stella’s bright blonde hair stood out like a beacon against the deep blue sky.  Slowly, as the ferry chugged across the Wood Islands harbor, the features of Stella’s smiling heart-shaped face came into focus.  Luna took off her straw sun hat and waved it over her head in greeting.

Picking up her overstuffed backpack and hooking it over her slim left shoulder, Luna hurried down to the main deck and joined the line of passengers waiting to disembark.

When the crew had the boat safely tied up in port, Luna followed the crowd out into the June sunshine.  As she stepped off the metal gangway onto her island at long last, a sense of peace flooded through her.

“Luna, over here,” Stella called.  She stood beside two bicycles leaning against the weathered wall of the marina office.

Luna joined her sister, dropped her backpack at her feet and the two girls shared a warm hug. Barely a year apart, they were often mistaken as twins.

“I can’t believe I’m back on PEI,” Luna said as Stella simultaneously cried, “Welcome home!”

They laughed and Stella continued, “I’m so glad you’re here.  How was Halifax?  What about art school?  It must have been so awesome.  You haven’t turned into a city girl, have you?”

Luna held up her hands to ward off her sister’s torrent of questions.  “Whoa,” she said. “I’ll tell you everything when we get home, and of course I haven’t turned into a city girl.  No way.”

Nodding at the bikes, she went on, “Is this how we’re getting to White Sands?”

Stella shook her head as Luna grinned at her.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  The car’s over there.”  She waved vaguely toward the parking lot.  “We definitely should go for a bike ride later though.”

“Sounds good,” Luna agreed.

Stella grabbed the backpack and led the way to the yellow VW bug the sisters shared.  A few minutes later they were cruising down Shore Road.

Luna rolled down her window and drank in the view of the countryside rolling by.  Blossoming lupines lined both sides of the road, creating a pink and purple picket fence in front of the white clapboard houses and farm yards they drove past.

“Do you remember that old picture book, Miss Rumphius?” Luna asked her sister.

“Is that the one about the librarian who went around the country scattering lupine seeds?  I love that story.”

“Exactly,” Luna said.  “The illustrations are really amazing.  I can still picture some of them so vividly even though I haven’t looked at the book since we were little.”

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Prince Edward Island 2018  (photo by L. Walkins)

“Your paintings are just as good,” Stella said loyally.  “And maybe some day, you’ll publish a picture book that everyone will remember.”

“I hope so.”

The sisters fell silent and Luna continued to gaze out the window.  When they slowed down at the traffic light by the red and white lighthouse, she sighed in contentment.  In a few minutes, she would walk into her mother’s cozy kitchen where Mom would have tea and her favorite scones waiting, and later she would take a long bike ride with Stella.  It was good to be home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wishes and Waterlilies

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While traveling in the U.K. several years ago, my husband and I, along with my cousin, took a lovely day trip from London to Paris.  Looking forward to exploring the French capital, we boarded an early morning Eurostar train at St. Pancras station.  As the train sped through the tunnel beneath the English Channel, we planned what we would see in the City of Lights.  Claude Monet is one of my favorite artists.  Although, I had been to Paris before, I had never seen his famous waterlily murals at the Musée de l’Orangerie.  When we disembarked at the Gare du Nord, we set off to the Jardin des Tuileries where the Impressionist art gallery is located.  Memories of standing in admiration before the enormous panels painted more than 100 years ago, inspired me to include a scene set there in this excerpt from a short story featuring my character Elizabeth Ann Martini.

Les Nymphéas at the Musée de l’Orangerie 2010 (Photos by L. Walkins)

Sebastian kept a firm grip on my hand as we strolled through the Tuileries Gardens. We followed a path past flower beds of tulips and daffodils. I paused for a moment to watch a group of children sailing wooden boats in the basin of a pond-like fountain.

​ “After the museum, what do you say to a cruise down the Seine?” Sebastian said, pulling me along. “We should totally play the part of weekend tourists.” He squeezed my hand and I gently extracted my fingers from his.

​​ “Look,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at Maude, who trailed behind us. “The Eiffel Tower.” The shadowy silhouette of the iconic landmark shimmered in the distance like a dream. “I can’t believe I’m actually here in Paris.”

​​ Maude caught up. “Just wait until you see the waterlilies at the Orangerie. Les nymphéas sont très . . . magnifiques.”

​I had to suppress a grin. Her labored attempt to speak French was admirable but slightly comical. Maude herself admitted she was dreadful at foreign languages. Since my high school Spanish obviously wouldn’t be much help, we were lucky to have Sebastian along. My brilliant boyfriend was practically fluent in French, so he had done most of the talking at our hotel the night before and in the café where we had ordered coffee and the most delicious croissants for breakfast.

​”Come on,” Maude said. “No dawdling. We have a lot to accomplish this weekend. We want Elizabeth Ann to see as much of Paris as she can before she has to go back to San Diego.”

Her words hung in the air and suddenly I had a lump in my throat. In less than a week, I would be home and Sebastian would be thousands of miles away. I reached for his hand, matching my steps with his as we followed Maude’s determined figure through the garden.

​Claude Monet’s waterlily paintings spanned the walls of two galleries in the Musée de l’Orangerie. I stood in the middle of the spacious, airy room and pivoted slowly marveling as the swirls of sage, mauve and periwinkle shifted to bolder shades of navy, gold and forest green. I felt like I was inside a kaleidoscope. ​Sebastian and Maude stood on opposite sides of the gallery, each studying one of the humongous murals.

​ “Elizabeth Ann, come look at this,” Sebastian said.

​ I crossed the room to stand beside him. He draped his arm across my shoulders. Swirls of cottony white blended with luminous shades of blue to depict clouds reflected on the surface of the water.

​ “Tell me if you can spot a woman’s face in the lily pond?”

​ As I let my gaze wander over the massive canvas, a shadowy silhouette of a beautiful woman seemed to float up from the depths of the pond.” “Ooh!” I pointed at her. “Is she right there?”

​ “Exactly,” Sebastian said with a grin, pulling me closer. “Smart and observant as well as beautiful.” He leaned in and let his lips brush lightly against mine.

​ I stepped away and gave him a wistful smile. “These paintings are awesome,” I said clearing my throat. “I can’t wait to see Monet’s water gardens in person tomorrow when we go to Giverny.”

​ “Just wait until you see his house. You’ll love it. He lived there for forty-three years. He designed two additions to the original house and chose all the colors for the different rooms.” Sebastian led the way into the next gallery. Standing in front of one of the murals, he grabbed my hand and went on, “Someday, maybe I’ll build us a house just like it in the Cotswolds.”

​ Was he serious? My heart fluttered and my cheeks grew warm as he talked, describing in intricate detail a country home with a large kitchen and wild garden out back. Although he did his best to project a worldly and cosmopolitan image, Sebastian was not a city boy. He had grown up in a tiny English village not too far from Stratford-upon-Avon.

​”Maybe we could even have a conservatory. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Elizabeth Ann?”

​I stared at him and tried to imagine living anywhere but southern California. My heart warmed as I pictured us having tea in our conservatory surrounded by African violets and ferns.

Would Sebastian and I really become an old married couple settled in an English country village someday?

Family Resemblances

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While visiting Montreal in August 2015, my husband and I spent a rainy afternoon in the Musée des Beaux Arts.  We enjoyed strolling through the galleries of Canadian, American and European paintings and inspecting the unique items in the decorative arts collection.  In particular, I admired several intriguing portraits including Abraham van den Tempel’s  seventeenth century painting of Odilia van Wassenaar and her dog.  

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Musée des Beaux Arts, Montreal (photo by L. Walkins 2015)

 

Annelise van Strum  hurried  along the rue Sherbrooke clutching her umbrella.  The red and yellow tulips decorating the rim of its clear plastic bubble danced in front of her eyes as she splashed through puddles on her way to the Musée des Beaux Arts.  She didn’t mind the weather.  A rainy day was ideal for exploring the museum galleries.

She was on a special quest this afternoon.  For the past few months she had been  researching their  family tree for her mother.  She had traced the family line all the way back to seventeenth century Holland.  Just that morning she had discovered that the portrait of one of her ancestors was hanging in the fine arts museum around the corner from her apartment.

Pulling her umbrella closed as she stepped into the museum lobby, Annelise handed it over to the girl behind the coat check counter.

“Passez une bonne visite,” the girl said with a smile.

“Merci.”  Annelise accepted the thick plastic disk numbered 143.

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Portrait of  Odilia van Wassenaar, Montreal Museum of Fine Arts (photo by L. Walkins 2015)

Making her way to the Hornstein Pavilion for Peace where works from the Dutch Golden Age were on display, Annelise wondered what her ancestor Odilia’s life was like.  She located the correct gallery and began perusing the portraits hung around the softly lit room.  The expressive faces painted hundred of years earlier by the Dutch masters peered out from their frames.

At last, Annelise paused and looked into the eyes of a young woman seated in a sturdy chair with a small dog on her lap.  The girl looked to be in her twenties.  Her light chestnut hair and dark eyes were of the same coloring as Annelise’s own.

The plaque beneath the painting identified it as Portrait of  Odilia van Wassenaar.  Stepping back and hugging herself, Annelise murmured, “There she is, my tenth great-grandmother.”

Annelise carefully examined the painting, searching for clues about who Odilia was exactly.  The gold trinkets adorning her ornate fur-trimmed gown and the pearls encircling her throat and wrist spoke to a wealthy upbringing. Odilia wore an intelligent, almost mischievous expression on her pale face.  The way she cradled her dog gently on her lap convinced Annelise that her ancestor must have had a kind heart.

Raising her cell phone, Annelise snapped three photos of the painting.  Odilia’s portrait reminded her of an old black and white photo of Aunt Phillipa, her mom’s older sister.  In a family album, there was a picture of Phillipa, aged 15, with their Jack Russell terrier sitting on the front stoop of their childhood home.  Phillipa and Odilia might almost be twins.

Annelise laughed softly to herself as she retrieved her umbrella and made her way home. The rain had stopped but the pavement still gleamed with puddles that reflected the clearing sky.

She felt like she had connected with a long-lost relative and couldn’t wait to show the photos to her mother.  Together, they could go online to find out more about Odilia and her family . . . their family.

 

 

 

 

Quintessential Sketches

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Paris is known for its atmospheric sidewalk cafés.  Locals and tourists lounge at the small tables, sample delicious French fare and watch the world pass by.  In 2008, my husband and I stayed in a wonderful hotel near the Place des Vosges.  This lively square, formerly called Place Royale and one of the oldest in the city, is home to art galleries, shops and restaurants, as well as the Maison de Victor Hugo museum.  While we were strolling through the park on a sunny afternoon, I snapped this picture of a busy café.

Place des Vosges 2008 (photo by L. Walkins)

From her strategic spot in the northeast corner of the Place des Vosges, Camille has a fine view of the outdoor café.  Through the arch of the stone arcade, she glimpses a trio of round tables, two of them empty and the third occupied by a pair of chic girls.  Camille admires their floral sundresses and the silk scarves wrapped insouciantly around their necks.

One of the girls  waves her slim hands about and leans forward, her heart-shaped, freckled face luminous with delight.  Listening with a smile on her face, the other girl tucks her bobbed auburn hair behind her ears, and bursts into peals of laughter. Camille wonders if they are sisters or simply best friends.

Opening the sketch book on her lap, Camille takes a Faber pencil from the small backpack on the bench beside her.  She pauses to think about what Claude, her art instructor said this morning in class.  He wants her to sketch a quintessential scene that captures the Parisian spirit.  What could be more Parisian than a sunny afternoon relaxing at a sidewalk café?

A waiter materializes to lay plates of neatly folded crêpes before the girls.  Camille studies his classic profile and slightly shaggy dark hair.  He wears black and white just as she imagines a proper Parisian waiter would.  Setting pencil to paper, Camille begins to sketch.  With fluid, easy strokes she captures the flirtatious glances of the girls and the faint dimple in the waiter’s clean-shaven cheek.   She frames her models with the outline of the arcade and adds some details.  At last, she looks up and then back down at her drawing.  With a satisfied nod, she carefully closes her sketch book.

Leaning back against the weathered wooden slats of the park bench Camille glances around her.  A black and a grey poodle chase each other around a graceful fountain.  One of the little dogs leaps up and trots along the rim of the basin as sparkling drops of water rain down.  The poodle stops to shake its damp curly coat and tumbles into the pool with a surprised yelp.   Camille laughs and wonders if she should submit a sketch of the poodles to her instructor instead.

A cellist sits on a stool beneath the shade of the chestnut trees.  As if providing a soundtrack for the cavorting poodles, he plays “Carnival of the Animals.”  Humming along to the music as the dog scrambles out of the fountain, Camille files away the ironic moment.  She will tell her sister, who loves Saint Saens, all about it later tonight when she calls home.

Across the park, the dormer windows of Victor Hugo’s brick home gleam beneath the bright blue sky.  Camille imagines the author emerging through the front door of No. 6 to clear his head with a brisk walk around the park after an intense session with Fantine and the unfortunate poor of nineteenth century Paris.  Perhaps he would be in search of a sustaining meal.

Camille turns her attention once again to the café.  The girls sit back in their chairs sipping wine.  The waiter takes an order from an elderly couple, who hold hands across the table.  Camille stands and walks briskly toward the restaurant.  Enjoying a  sustaining meal herself will be the ideal way to cap off her quintessential afternoon.