Paintings

I’m not sure where my love of landscape paintings began. I have a vague memory of my grandmother cutting out pictures of American landscapes from her mail order magazines. I assume she did that because she couldn’t afford to purchase a painting or perhaps, knowing her, it was because she would never consider spending money on something so frivolous when a cut-out picture would do. Looking back now, it seems sad to me that she wasn’t able to travel in her lifetime. The one exception was when she and my grandaddy drove from Kentucky to California, to pick up their son, who was returning home from Vietnam. I am left wondering, aside from the fact that her son was coming home safe and unharmed, if that trip was for her the trip of her dreams, as my trips to France were for me. In that single trip, she was able to see much of the country that meant enough to her that she literally tacked those cut-out pictures into the cedar walls of her home.

I have another childhood memory of going into a back bedroom of my wealthy Aunt Ruby’s home in Illinois, just to stand and stare at a couple of landscape paintings. Oh, how I wish I’d been able to purchase one of them when her things were sold off after her passing. I hope whoever purchased them stands gazing into them as I once did.

My family likes to visit Leiper’s Fork, Tennessee, a quaint little town with a handful of shops, a couple of country cafes and a decidedly impressive art museum. It was there that I fell in love with plein air painting. Jason Saunders was the artist in residence at that time. The museum featured his practically life-sized oil paintings of round hay bales scattered in golden fields set against dreamy cloud filled skies. But like my grandmother before me, I was unable to afford his lovely works. One autumn, my son told me that Mr. Saunders was offering a plein air painting class the following spring at a price that I could afford. I spent the next couple of months gathering up courage then talking myself out of it. Eventually, I signed up for the course. I purchased the easel, the brushes, the paints and the canvases and showed up for the class. The only thing I failed to bring was the slightest bit of knowledge or talent. A small group of us met in the conference room of the museum where Jason showed us some of the basics of plein air painting. Then we all headed out to nearby Leiper’s Creek to set up our French easels.

He instructed us to get started and told us that he would be around to give us each individual instruction. As I watched everyone else begin, it was only then that I realized my naivety. Every other person in the class was an artist who had signed up to hone their skills under the tutelage of Mr. Saunders. As I stood staring at the blank canvas, holding the paintbrush up in the air, he must have seen the fear in my eyes. He moved over to me, gently pulled my hand down, releasing my pencil-like grip then placed the brush correctly in my hand. He showed me how to begin by laying in the dark colors first. With his constant help, I surprised myself by painting a couple of wall-worthy (in my house, at least) oil landscape paintings of the creek and surrounding hills of Leiper’s Fork. One of the paintings is of the backside of The Judds' farm.

On the drive home after the third and final day of class, it occurred to me that this was the first thing I had ever done solely for myself. I married young, had a baby right away and spent my adult life doing for others. Tears of appreciation and prayers of thankfulness flowed on the two-hour drive back home to my family.

On one occasion, while shopping for artwork for my home, I came across a large painting on a folded canvas, thrown between a stack of prints for sale. In the creased areas, the paint was peeling off and some of the painting had been left unfinished. It was such a rich, gorgeously detailed painting that I could not imagine that someone would leave it unfinished or how it came to be in that stack, but I was happy to be the one to find it. I repaired the damaged areas, taking care to match the existing paint color and then completed the unfinished areas. I plan on adding more detail to the seemingly unfinished stained-glass window in the painting.

In 2008, another one of this landscape lover’s dreams became reality when I was invited by my daughter to tag along with her and her rockstar friend’s European tour, which would end in Paris. No, not Paris, Kentucky. Paris, France! The home of Cezanne, Monet, Matisse and Van Gogh. Our just two-hour trip to Montmartre, the highest summit in Paris, was the highlight of the entire week for me. The Place du Tertre is a park in the little town square where artists set up their easels, paint and sell their works. What a dream to be shopping for paintings while overlooking the city of Paris. We didn’t have much time to spend there, as we had a train to catch, but I was able to purchase a single painting. What a treasure! I am so very thankful to my daughter for letting me tag along.

During the 2008 trip, I had journaled our daily experiences and printed the few pictures that we took, but they didn’t accurately tell the story of the trip so I decided I would attempt to paint a collaged history of each memorable detail. I made a list of what I wanted to include and drew it out on paper, overlapping the memories. I drew many sketches, using colored pencils, until I was satisfied with the composition. Only then, did I attempt the painting. I love looking at it. It brings back to life such wonderful memories and reminds me to be thankful for the experiences in my life.

Collaged painting of our 2008 trip

While riding the Eurostar during that trip, I got a 180-mph glimpse at people moving about the French countryside. Wondering about their lives, who they were and where they were going, was the inspiration for my trip back to France in 2012. I had enjoyed Paris but wanted to experience living in the countryside of France.

My 2012 trip to France included, of course, another trip to Montmartre. I had described this magical place to my sister, Kathy, and we decided it would be our first stop when she and my mother arrived in Paris. Yes, before the Eiffel Tower. Yes, before the Louvre. As soon as the luggage was placed in our tiny hotel room next to the Arc de Triomphe, we started the upward journey of 300 steps. But it was worth every single solitary step, at least to Kathy and me. Our mother wasn’t quite so convinced. After resting our calves for a bit on a half-stone wall, we continued to the square where we met the artists and browsed their works. After looking at hundreds of paintings, we made our purchases before starting the downhill trek.

One would think that the descent would have been easier, however, we were tired and were forced to walk briskly to avoid ruining our newly purchased paintings in the coming rain. We had barely made it through the door of our hotel when we heard the downpour outside.

The following day, we visited the Eiffel Tower then walked to the Louvre. During the 2008 trip, I had fallen in love with the Histoire du Louvre section of the museum because it is full of paintings of people throughout history, dressed in period clothing, visiting the Louvre, enjoying some of the same paintings that we were. So, of course, it was the first exhibit I wanted to show my family.

After a couple of busy days in Paris, we headed south to the countryside. One of our favorite things to do was to stop at every open brocante we happened upon.

One of our many stops included a large depot vente where we spent hours combing through mountains of junk, inside and out. I had placed quite a stack on the counter and was preparing to pay when my stooped-down mother held up a couple of dirty paintings and said she was surprised that I hadn’t wanted them. I had overlooked them as they were under a table, buried in a box of junk. They were everything I love... Old. Landscapes. Sheep. Cattle. And cheap! Only five euros each! Those paintings are my most prized purchase from my trips to France. The frames had been damaged through the years, but I think they are perfect. Thanks, Mom.

We met such interesting and accomplished people during that trip. One of our neighbors was a painting restorer who had worked on Picassos. As we were packing to leave, he offered us some boxes from his barn to protect our paintings. I sometimes wonder if my paintings may have shared a box with a Picasso.

My husband and I travel to many small towns with our business and like to spend an extra day or two seeing the sights, visiting local shops and restaurants, but my favorite thing is to seek out local artists, supporting them when we are able.

I discovered my love of art later in life and get enjoyment from trying new things. I recently took a free online course on painting portraits, something I never dreamed I’d be able to do. I was able to paint a couple of faces, though they don’t resemble their subjects much. But I'm learning.

There are those that are born with natural talent in whatever form and there are those like me that are born with simply the desire to paint or sing or write. What I have come to learn is that unless you are trying to sell your art, what does it matter if it pleases anyone other than yourself? So, I’ll keep trying because I love the art of creating. When I am gone, my children can use them to start a fire, if they so choose.

Gardens

What is a garden? My mother and grandmothers grew flowers but never referred to them as a garden. They called them flowerbeds. I grew up thinking of a garden as just a place to grow food, a vegetable garden. I can still see my paternal grandmother, Margerite, bent over in her garden, picking vegetables then placing them in her upturned apron.

I remember sitting with her in metal chairs in the front yard, shelling “shelly” beans. I will never forget the delicious meals she prepared from the food she grew for us to eat on all year long. “Garden to table” before it was a hashtag.

It wasn’t until my trip to France that I learned that when the French speak of a garden, they are probably referring to an outdoor living space that would more likely contains flowers than vegetables. The French don’t have the perfectly manicured and weedless green lawns that we Americans strive for. Their yards seem to have a planned casualness about them. Bushes are planted willy-nilly throughout the yard. Patches of flowers are planted here and there, not contained within a mulched bed. Flowers and bushes alike grow in the middle of gravel paths and into them. Mismatched pots of vibrant colored flowers are scattered everywhere. Doorways are often rose-draped.

My maternal grandmother, Gladys, would have loved that. She grew climbing roses and always had a bottle of rose-scented eau de toilette on her dresser.

When the French plant a vegetable garden, it often contains a scattering of flowers throughout. My friend and neighbor in France, Monique, let me help her plant her vegetable garden, which we fit into her existing flower garden. I counted it a privilege when she asked me to keep it watered for her while she and her husband, Jean Louis, were away to Italy for a couple of weeks. Monique’s garden was the inspiration for my own.

As soon as I was back home, I set about designing my French-inspired garden, keeping in mind casualness and low maintenance. Once I had settled on the design, I sketched it all out on a large chalkboard, which I still have hanging in my bedroom as a reminder to finish the garden as designed. Then the real work began. It has taken several years and is nearly complete. I had many helpers along the way, but have worked on each and every inch of ground.

“How fair is a garden amid the toils and passions of existence.” Benjamin Disraeli

That certainly holds true for me. My garden is the place I go to when something is troubling me. It is the place I literally ran to when I heard about the sudden death of a friend. It is the place I have raised my voice to the heavens, asking, “Why?” on more than one occasion. But it is also the place where I thank God, the place where I praise Him in song, however off-key. It is where I petition Him or ask for forgiveness while pulling weeds. Symbolic, yes? And always, after working in the garden, I sit in my porch-style garden swing which is hung from an 18’ tall branch, making it glide more than swing upward. As I glide, I close my eyes and listen for Him. Often there is a sudden and strong wind that blows through and I take that as a sign that He is with me, literally there with me.

Fancy garden shoot. This is not how I usually look while in the garden.

“One is nearer God’s heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth.” Dorothy Gurney

My garden is also my place of refuge from the modern world, a place where I can disconnect from my phone and my schedule, a place to unwind, to daydream, or just to zone out. I recall one Sunday after church, during a particularly stressful time in my life, that I sat out in that swing for the entire afternoon. What I can’t recall is one single thing I thought about during those hours. I just sat there enjoying the view, the breeze and the sunshine. Many evenings I am out in the garden late, not realizing the hour until I try to walk back to the house, finding it too dark to see. Often, my husband will ask, “Where have you been?”. Silly question.

“Castle or Farmhouse, it is the garden that makes it feel like home.” Unknown author

I grew up in a very old farmhouse. My mother did her best to make it a nice home for her family. She built and installed a window box under the window beside our kitchen table so that we could enjoy her flowers up close while we ate. She also planted a line of gladiolus along a dilapidated shed that was in view of that window to pretty it up. She loved to photograph her flowers, zooming in close to show the intricacy of the patterns and colors. She would sometimes capture a tiny insect living his best life on that beautiful flower.

Gen 2:8 Now the Lord God had planted a garden in the East in Eden and there He put the man He had formed.”

Adam belonged in a garden and apparently, I do, too. My three-year-old grandson once said, “Grandma, let’s go to your garden. You belong there.”

I agree, Isaiah, I agree.

I am French. Oui?

Hardly. My given name is Reneau, spelled in the original French. I have traced my genealogy all the way back to 1600 Bordeaux. However, it has been over 330 years since my ancestors unwillingly left France, as Huguenots, fleeing first to London then travelling thirteen weeks by sea, settling eventually in Virginia.

My family has been in America since 1688, nearly a hundred years before it even became a country. So that would make me wholly American, right? Of course, it does.

Then why is it that I feel such a yearning, a literal pull toward all things French? What could explain the tear-inducing sadness that I’ve felt on more than one occasion upon seeing a picture of an ancient French homestead? Why is it that I’m drawn almost exclusively to antique French décor?

It isn’t only French things that capture my attention. It's more about French ways. I recently read the statement by a French language professor, “The American way is to live in the 'faire' (to do) or in the 'avoir' (to have), but the French live in the 'etre' (to be)." Don’t get me wrong. I am a good American in that way. I make lists. I love to cross things off those lists. But I am most content when the list is emptied, and I am able to just “be”.

My perfect day would be spent at home, a pot stew on the stove, cooked in red wine, the aroma meandering through the house. No television. No electric lighting. No artificial sounds, just the wind or rain or simply the birds singing their happy tunes. Most importantly, that perfect day would include time. Time to create, whether that be painting, writing or designing a garden. Time to soak in the bathtub and just daydream. Time to turn on the music of Rufus Wainwright, Laura Fabian or Edith Piaf and dance in the kitchen. Time to hang out with my adult children. Time to play like a kid with my grandchildren, unencumbered by the clock or a phone or the pressures of the world. Time to go antiquing with my best friend. Time to play cards with my parents and sisters, laughing with abandon. Time to sit in the dark and watch an old movie with my husband. Time to live full on. Time to be, to just be, (etre).

I believe that we Americans might just live a little too comfortably. We say, “we’re starving” if we’re the slightest bit hungry. We say, “we’re freezing” or “we’re burning up” if we are just a couple of degrees off perfectly comfortable. I have always loved to feel the warmth of the sunshine and the coolness of the wind. The combination of the two are my favorite. Don’t misunderstand, I appreciate having heat and air conditioning during extreme seasons but feel it’s okay to not live in a consistent temperature at all times. In fact, I prefer it.

During my trip to France, I stayed in a four-hundred-year-old house with no heat or air conditioning, just a warm breeze blowing through the opened windows during the day. In the evenings, it became quite cold. Snuggling under the piled-high blankets made it more real, more memorable, more wonderful.

The French believe it is okay to feel things; hot and cold, joy and sorrow, pain and release. My oldest daughter once told me that she wanted to fully experience childbirth. She wanted to go into labor naturally. She didn’t want pain medication. She wanted to deliver her baby the old-fashioned way. It made the birth of her child more exhilarating, more real. She said, “The greater the pain, the greater the relief, how much more magical the birth.” I wish I had done that. She has a little French in her, too.

While I was in France, I saw the French take time to celebrate every meal. There is a mandatory two-hour break when all business close for lunch, except restaurants, of course. When one makes a dinner reservation, the table is reserved for the entire evening. No one rushes meals in France. And neither do I. My husband, on the other hand, consumes his meal before I get myself situated. It isn’t a problem when we eat at home but is very frustrating when we eat out. My pet peeve is when the waiter takes my husband's empty plate, leaving me to appear to be the only one eating dinner. This would never happen in France.

So, what could explain my similarities, my connection to all things French? My husband was the first to explain it. He had watched his wife of over forty years, me, moi, slowly peeling off the layers of American culture, eventually revealing her French self. I’ll never forget the day he said these profound words to me. “Of course, you’re French. It is literally in your blood.”

My ancestors were forced to leave their homeland. I'm sure they wished they were able to return. Maybe that is why I feel a pull to be there. As crazy as it sounds, could it be that one day we will discover more about our DNA and the marvelous, God-created things that could be hidden therein?

I may never know for certain during this lifetime, but I am content just knowing, “It’s in my blood”.