The Rest of the Story, Part I … with Apologies to Paul Harvey

I don’t know about you, but I have my favorites. Those photographs that stand the test of time and never bore me. I’ve been photographing since I was eight, and a good portion of that time was shooting film. In the beginning, it was 620 (precursor to 120) black and white; then I graduated to color. When I got my first 35mm camera at age 12, I started using Kodachrome 25. Later, when I turned pro, I moved to Fuji Velvia 50, over-exposing it by a third of a stop to keep it from being too harsh to my eye. I even convinced some National Geographic shooter friends of mine that it was great film. They had been died-in-the-wood, National Geographic Kodachrome 25ers.

Those days are pretty much gone. Most of the great labs in this country have folded or morphed into digital labs. The majority of people have a digital camera. It makes it so much easier to take pictures. But you know me, in our workshops, we keep talking about making photographs, not taking pictures and hoping you come out with something. And making photographs is something I’ve been doing for a long, l-o-n-g time!

All of my favorite photographs have a story, and I thought this week, I’d share a few of my ones from film days, starting with this one. “Misty Islands” is the view from one of my treasured camping spots, itself another island. I am sitting on the rocky ledge on a point. There is plenty of moss, soft ground cover, and well-placed saplings so that I can stake my tent and secure it against a sudden line squall.

I tend to get up early in the morning to enjoy the quiet of the lake. Well, maybe not quite, as I am prone to calling in the loons. Say what you may, but I can do a pretty good loon call. A loon answers my call, and we take turns making that crazy sound as he/she comes ever closer to my part of the island. Although I have photographed many loons over the years, for some reason, I never want to do so after I have called one in. To me, it seems like a betrayal.

My loon is now about 15 feet off the point, and after gliding around for a bit, squeezes in his feathers to remove the air and silently dives down for breakfast. I turn the other way to bask in the early sun and am greeted by this scene of the mists rising. It is magical, and I pick up my camera and find a pleasing overlapping of two islands. I no longer live in New England, so it has been a few years since I camped here. Hopefully, I'll get back there before too long.

“Porch of Lace” was only there in this state for a very brief amount of time. Just a few days. It was part of an old inn that was being refurbished to become what I believe was the second home of PC Connection in Marlow, NH. The stately old New England building had been scraped down to the bare wood. A primer coat had been applied. giving it the textured look you see. I loved the gingerbread on the porch and looked to find my composition. I finally found it in one window that was graced with Victorian lace curtains that echoed the shape of the gingerbread. It took careful composing, as I didn’t want the upper porch elements, nor did I want the paint buckets and drop clothes below. This was my shot. It has been a calendar cover, a greeting card, a photograph in ….

My mother was an artist who worked in oils, watercolors, pen and ink, and even etching. She was a member of some prestigious galleries, including the Copley Society in Boston. She always worked on simplifying her compositions, not recording exactly what she saw, but interpreting it. She and I would go off on scouting jaunts, she for subject matter, I for photographic fodder. We were attracted to the same scenes, so when, as we were chatting, Barney Oldfield, my little VW, suddenly stopped on a narrow dirt road, backed up, and stopped again — all on his own volition you understand — my mother instantly saw what I had seen out of my peripheral vision. “Passing Season” was just that, a moment in time when the colors were rich in the late-afternoon light, soon to morph into the next season, where the branch that had fallen actually added to the scene, where there was a subtle criss-crossing of hill lines. My mother now has dementia, and those days of traveling on back roads with her are gone, but every time I look at this photograph, I think of those wonderful trips, full of laughter and fun. In a sense, this photograph is for her, although she never ended up painting this scene.

In my travels, I have gone to New Orleans, that grand city that has seen devastation and more recently, renewed hope. It has one of the best photographic galleries anywhere, the A Gallery in the French Quarter. Arnie and I have gone in there and been shown the works of Edward Curtis, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Yousuf Karsh (he did a portrait of my Aunt Helen), Berenice Abbott, Margaret Bourke-White, Edward Steichen, and I could go on and on. It is a city that has inspired photographers forever, even during the terrible time after Katrina. I have always loved photographing there and was fortunate to find myself in this city for a national meeting of our photographic association (ASMP).

I always made it a point to get to these meetings a few days early and stay a day or so afterwards. As I rounded a corner, I was struck by this unlikely combination of reds and pinks. While I am not a smoker, it was compelling, and I had to photograph it ... “Marlboro Window.” You may have figured out that I love close-ups of doors, windows, architectural features, etc. This one was made for me and my camera!

Three years later, I returned to The Big Easy, again for a meeting, and took a friend to see “my” window. It wasn’t there, at least in its former splendor. The shop had changed; the displays, while undeniably healthier, were not nearly as photogenic. My brilliant window had turned into a drab, uninteresting scene. The city, however, gave me another surprise. I had seen this door on the previous trip, but it wasn’t the right combination of colors for my eyes. This time, it greeted me with its two black eyes and sad smile. Did “Big Easy Door” know what was to come?

So, the next time you go out and photograph, take your time, turn this way and that. Savor what is around you. See what grabs your attention; then make something of it; don't just record it. Hopefully, your image will tell its own story, but when you have a memory to add to it, it makes it that much better. Even if the viewer doesn't know, the image will convey that there is something more.

Next week, I’ll share a few more of my film favorites and the stories that go with them. All of these photographs have been oft published, been juried into shows, hang on the walls of private collectors, and continue to give me pleasure every time I look at them and remember the rest of the story.

Upcoming workshops: Arches & Moab (UT); New England Fall Foliage (NH & VT); and Lighthouses of the Outer Banks (NC). For more information, go to our Barefoot Contessa Photo Adventures website.

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Creative Juices — The Color Yellow

I have written about getting together with friends and like-minded photography souls either in a group or in a photo workshop, to pick up some inspiration and get feedback on your work. It’s also a great way to jump-start your creative juices.

In our area, there is a group of us, a sub group of our professional association, that gets together every three or four months to share the results of a photographic project we’ve chosen at the previous gathering. We had brainstormed, and I came up with the idea of having a color as the topic. We chose yellow, and over the next few months, I found myself looking not only for yellow subjects, but different ways of using the yellow.

We met at the studio of one of our group. Everyone brought something, and as we sipped and munched away, there was a lot of kidding, as one person admitted to not doing the assignment, thinking he couldn’t make it to the gathering. “Oh, &#@*,” he said that morning, “I can now go and I don’t have anything.” He found a lone yellow flower that he “planted” in a large green field. One very small, yellow flower in one very large, green field.

Another of the group didn't have anything either, but he thought of sunflowers and remembered a field near his house that had some. He drove up and down the road, and couldn’t find them. He was sure it was on that road, and he drove by again. Finally, something caught his eye. The missing sunflowers were, indeed, there, just residing on the other side of the road!

Our host decided to treat yellow another way. Instead of recording yellow, he picked three undeniably yellow objects: a lemon, a banana, and a summer squash and processed them in black and white with just a mere hint of yellow. A woman in the group had some yellow flowers that she shot in a dreamy style and put into a triptych. Another of our group did a shot of a little boy looking cross-eyed at a (dead) yellow butterfly on his nose.

Someone did a strong, graphic shot of the yellow lines on a road with some white paint dribbled here and there, as well as the bottom left portion of a yellow road sign with a yellow sports car that fortuitously streaked by in the distance.

I did a number of shots, all but one of them created during our spring and summer workshops.

The first workshop in the mountains of western Virginia gave us lots of subject matter with spring greens, gentle misty backgrounds, and of course, gorgeous cascades, but they aren’t yellow, so I couldn’t use them for this exercise! I did find an old tree one late afternoon in the misty distance with a yellow cast to it. Yellow flowers were more obvious, so I stayed away from them, working instead with students to help them see flowers in a different way.

Maine produced quite a bit of yellow. In our final scouting before the workshop, I found some lichen making a wonderful pattern across a dark rock. There were, of course, the yellow lobster pots, so the trick there was to present them in a way I had not seen before.



As I was reviewing some of my favorite vantage points at a lighthouse I know well, I was struck by a tidal pool nestled amongst the rocks, the slight ripples in the water highlighting the yellow.


There was the forsythia against a white fence, but I didn’t manage to isolate it to my satisfaction. I did, however, find another lobster pot, an old one with the paint peeling off. While it was not yellow per se, it was the yellow in it that set off the orange. If it had just been the orange against the Styrofoam, I don’t think it would have been nearly as interesting.


Back home, our gardens were in their spring prime. One of the lilies beckoned to me, and I isolated it against the background.


We returned to Maine for a private workshop with a family. Among other things, we had been showing them how to protect their equipment, many of the suggestions, photo hints that have appeared in this blog over the past months. I was working with the wife/mother when it started to rain. Her bag was at the other end of the pier, so I pulled one of those micro-fibre cloths out of my bag and laid it across the top of her camera. It didn’t impede her view, and it worked perfectly! As I was watching her compose her photograph, I realized I had another yellow shot.

In France, there seemed to be green, green, green … lush green vineyards! There were also the incredible roses, but they were various shades of pink and red. It’s not that there weren’t many other colors, too, but yellow was not part of the palette. Think of Monet. How much yellow do you see in many of his paintings?

We were driving along a back road before the start of our workshop, and stopped to photograph the workers in the field. No, no yellow there, just white lorries and people dressed in denim, white, and the occasional red. Then, a little camion pulled up and parked right by me. Beyond it were the vineyards, giving it a sense of place. Very French!

Towards the end of the workshop, we took our group to a lovely cheateau, previously described in an earlier blog. While we loved photographing the water lilies, I found a lone yellow lily pad nestled against two green friends.


As those of you know who follow this blog, we headed to Paris for a few days before heading home. At the market in Montparnasse, there were lots of bananas, but they defied being arranged as people picked among them to take home the best specimens. There were the gorgeous arrays of flowers, mostly pinks and lavenders and reds, until I found a display of Begonias and decided to use the yellow to lead the eye into the quintessential French “price tag.”

There was the yellow table cloth on the river boat (too far and not an interesting shot for the color yellow), the yellow striped musician’s shirt (too boring), the dog’s yellow collar (off and running), etc.

On our night shot from Pont des Arts, however, I was attracted to the warm, yellow light of the bridges. You may have seen the shot last week, and now you know partly why I made it!


It was a fun exercise. It’s one that in one form or another we have given some of our students over the years. For me, that’s one of the joys of teaching…helping students find their own creativity and different way of seeing.

Upcoming workshops: Arches & Moab (UT); New England Fall Foliage (NH & VT); and Lighthouses of the Outer Banks (NC). For more information, go to our Barefoot Contessa Photo Adventures website.

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Adieu, Paris!

Arnie and I had two more days in Paris after la Fête de la Musique. A bit sluggish getting up the next morning, we had a late breakfast around the corner at a sidewalk café before heading back towards the river through le Jardin du Luxembourg.

There was a boules tournament, so we stopped to take in the event. We have watched this game, also known as petanque, enough so that we can pretty much home in on the good teams. We found one, and it turned out that one of the players was a fellow professional photographer.

He had spied our pro equipment immediately and struck up a conversation with us between sets. Because he had singled us out for conversation, we also had exchanges with one of his teammates who, as it turned out, probably ran the whole tournament.


We watched “our” team progress up through the ranks. They were older and cagier than some of the younger teams, and it served them well. When opposing teams had boules that looked to be tied, measuring tapes came out to determine the closest one. Eventually, in the quarter finals, I think, they lost. It was a close match.



Disappointed, we ambled on. In many Parisian gardens, there are a number of chess tables set up. Some matches are played with timers, speed chess, they call it. We found some men playing both kids of chess under a covered pavilion, and we watched them for a while. This pair was playing regular chess, deliberating over each play. One man would start for a piece, hand hovering over the"board" until he changed his mind and retracted it to rethink his next move. People wandered in like us, observed for a while, then moved on. There was a manificent statue in the garden that I liked. Nestled in the shrubbery, it looked contemplative.

Where we had visited the poetry festival yesterday, there was now a photo exhibit. It was fun browsing the books. Some were quite valuable, and we handled them reverently. Arnie found a first edition of Robert Frank's The Americans. To be able to leaf through it was a privilege. No one lurked over us. They could see that we respected these amazing books. We asked the price and gulped when we heard the answer. It was certainly fair, but not in our budget!

We walked back into the park and across to explore the other side. There was a great view of la Place du Panthéon behind a statue at the top of some broad steps. I liked the way the view was foreshortened with the allée between the statue and la Place not showing.

Unfortunately for me, all the tourists wanted a more common variation of part of the scene, sometimes with their family and friends in front of the statue. Every time I clicked the shutter, someone would come in from the right or from the left up above. I shoot with both eyes open to try and reduce such frustrations, but I was thwarted at every attempt. As the steps cleared off, a group would fill in and gather in front of the statue, all rears to me. Not quite what I had in mind!

Eventually, we got down to the river and returned to the I.M. Pei fountains at the Louvre. It was delicious sitting there in the heat of the afternoon, taking turns lying down and napping while the other watched out gear. Not that people weren’t honest and open and friendly, but it only takes one thief to spoil a photographer's trip.

We went to the restaurant that our boules photographer had recommended. It was quite delicious, but while we enjoyed our meal and the great service, we thought it quite pricey for what we got. We’ll stick to our favorites and explore new possibilities next year.

After supper, photographing the Seine at night was irresistible, and we found ourselves on the Pont des Arts, bracing ourselves against whatever we could find to hold our cameras still. Cities do not look kindly these days on people with tripods sans the requisite permits. Since permits are a pain to acquire and long in coming, we stuck to hand holding our gear.

La Samaritaine, one of the oldest department stores not only in Paris, but Europe, stood magestically above the Pont Neuf and boat reflections in the Seine. Some of the river tourist boats used this area of the river to turn around and head back to their starting point.



To the right, houseboats were lined up along the quay, looking beautiful in the night light pointing their bows upriver to Île de la Cité and one of our favorite parks. I've always yearned to rent a houseboat for a year and ply the various rivers and canals of Europe. What a wonderful way to see this part of the world. You load up a couple of beater bikes (good ones can be stolen), your clothing, and you are all set. Any stopping point has a market or shops where you can pick up food and wine. What more could one want?

The Pont des Arts was filled with people enjoying the beautiful evening. Others used the bridge to simply cross the river, perhaps stop for a moment or two to take in the scene and enjoy the views. Behind them loomed the beautiful Palais de l'Institut.


I am always amazed at these cameras these days. 1/25 second with the wind howling and buffeting us, and clear as the proverbial bell. Wow! And I keep reminding myself of the old days, not all that terribly long ago, when I would travel for two months on a trip with Fuji film and not have the foggiest idea if it would all came out (luckily, it always did).

I was getting chilly, as the forecast did not predict such windy and raw fare when we selected clothing for the whole day that morning. And it was late. The bridge was empty; the benches clear. The scene was only marred by a lone trash bag blowing in the brisk winds. We headed back to our digs and crashed.

The next day after a leisurely breakfast in our pension, we headed back to Jardin du Luxembourg. I still wanted that shot! Perhaps earlier in the day, I would have better luck. Again, every time I clicked the shutter, there was an unwanted intrusion in the frame. I decided the situation was akin to water seeking its own level or probably more like a woman’s purse that defies being empty. This location did not want to be free of people by the statue and the steps at the same time. The statue would clear and I would quickly trip the shutter only to find there was another gaggle of tourists that had slipped in. While being frustrated, I really could not complain. While I have French ancestors, I had no more claim to the city than anyone else.

When my shot was finally clear of people, the light wasn’t right for what I wanted. Finally, I gave up, ran up the steps, and got a shot. Nothing much, only a grab shot, but at least a reminder of what might have been!


We meandered in the direction of one of our favorite parks, this one on the downriver side of Île de la Cité. We had been on Pont des Arts last night, so we hung around Pont Neuf with its newly-cleaned façade. Watching the various wide Bateaux Mouche, Bateaux Parisian, and other tourist boats, I marveled at how their captains navigated against a strong river current through arches not much wider than their boats.


Pont Neuf, contrary to its name "New Bridge," is Paris' oldest standing bridge across the Seine. It was also the first bridge constructed without houses on it. Actually, it is two bridges connecting the right and left banks together at Île de la Cité in the middle. (See nighttime shots above.) Along with Pont Alexandre III, it is also considered one of the most beautiful. Opened in 1607, the bridge, it was innovative with its curved meeting places at each "footing" where one could sit and socialize. We enjoyed the architecture of the bridge, the recently-cleaned stonework, and the views through the arches.



After doing some more photography, we headed down to the park. I’m particularly fond of this park, as one can sit along the quay, dangling one’s feet over the edge, or one can take shelter in the shade on one of many park benches with ample views of the river. As we headed down the steps, there were a couple of interesting views.



After an hour or so at the park, we headed off for la Samaritaine (where Henri took me many years ago) to replenish my perfume that had been discontinued for years. It turned out to be another exercise in futility, since the perfume houses understandably had only the popular brands and couldn’t and/or wouldn't give me directions to the House of Givenchy.

In our thwarted search for my perfume, we did see a great example of the wonderfully ornate Art Deco Metro signs, and I did a few shots. It wasn’t, however, worth spending any more time looking for Givenchy, and we were hungry. As we headed back to the Rue de Rivoli to find something to eat, my eye caught a simple shot, a straw hat nestled into a rack at the entrance to a restaurant. I couldn't resist stopping.

We found a sandwich/lunch place with very reasonable prices, so we stocked up and headed over to the shade of Jardin des Tuileries to enjoy our picnic.

We looked across the park toward the Louvre, and thoughts of sitting by the pools again was very appealing. We immediately shed our shoes (flip-flops for me) and stuck our feet in the refreshing water. Couples were delighted when we took pictures of them with their cameras. We watched families enjoying Paris, including an Asian one that took advantage of the slant of one of the smaller I.M. Pei pyramids.

Eventually, we left to once again walk along the river where we found what was obviously a student photographer doing an assignment. Is subject was a very disinterested and stilted “bride” in a gorgeous dress. The poses he had her strike had nothing to do with a happy bride. He never checked the hem of the dress to make sure it was not tucked under. We were amused, and did a few shots of our own!



There was one last shot in Paris that grabbed my eye. A little shop we passed had the most colorful display of yarns, bags, scarves, pillows, and trinkets that I had ever seen. It was a riot of color, and I couldn’t resist stopping.

Alas, we had to pack for tomorrow’s early-morning departure to Charles de Gaulle, and we wanted to organize our things so we could enjoy a relaxing supper.

Since many of the restaurants are closed on Monday, we looked for simpler fare and found a great little mom-and-pop pizza place nearby that was excellent.

We lingered over a last glass of wine as we chatted about the workshop, our time in Paris, and our plans for next year’s workshop.

Adieu, Paris, La Ville-lumière! Nous reviendrons l’année prochaine! Farewell, Paris, the City of Light! We’ll be back next year!

And so, we will! As noted last week, the dates are already listed on our website’s calendar.

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The City of Light — Paris

Ah, Paris, the City of Light! La Ville-lumière! What images it evokes — the Seine, la Rive Gauche, Notre Dame, Montmatre, laTour Eiffel, l’Arc de Triomphe, Moulin Rouge. The arts, the intellectual community, the Sorbonne, café society...

Out workshop was done. Hugs and good-byes followed imaging and final critiques. We loaded the last few things into the car and left the wine country of Bourgogne for the Autoroute to Paris for a few days on our own.

I had downloaded directions, but fortunately, I also had my Michelin Road Atlas, as the signage returning to Paris can be confusing, especially in heavy traffic! And of course, we were right in the middle of Friday-afternoon traffic. At least we were heading in the opposite direction from most of it.

We missed our turn off the Peripherique, the road that circles around Paris. Fortunately, traffic pressing in on us from every side, I was able to fairly quickly find an alternate route that actually did not take us much out of the way. We dropped off the car and keys, and rolled our duffels up to find a taxi to take us to our pension.

I called ahead to alert the family who owned the pension. “We are not expecting you until tomorrow!”

“We’re in a taxi heading to your hotel.”

“We have no room; I have you down for tomorrow’s arrival.”

It turned out that while I had checked and quadruple checked our arrangements for the workshop, I had mixed up the dates for the beginning of our Paris soujourn. The workshop ended on Friday, and I mistakenly put down Saturday for our start in Paris. Wrong! Arghhh!

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“I will meet you in ten minutes,” she replied.

She could not have been nicer. Not only did she call and make reservations for us about a block away, she let us leave our heavy duffels in her office.

Off we went, our smaller duffels and camera gear in tow. We were right in the middle of the Montparnasse area of Paris, the heart and soul of intellectual and artistic life in the city in the 20^th century. People were attracted to the Bohemian lifestyle and sat and conversed in cafés. Greats such as Picasso, Modigliani, Hemingway, Cocteau, Fitzgerald, Henry Miller, and Miro, among many others, gathered here.

It is still full of cafés that open early in the morning and don’t close until the wee hours of the morning in some cases.

We had never stayed in this part of Paris before and found it to be really convenient to most of our favorite areas — the Latin Quarter, St. Germain, Rive Gauche, Notre Dame, the Louvre, and the Eiffel Tower.

Once we were settled in our temporary hotel and washed up, we took to the streets. We love to walk in Paris. We started off by finding a café and ordering a glass of wine to celebrate our arrival. It was lovely to sit and relax, chat about what fun we had had with our workshop group, and talk about some of the things we wanted to do in Paris. We decided to have no plan and simply walk in the general direction of the river, and so we did.

Armed with the little tourist map, as I had no wish to carry any more weight in the form of a guide, however small and discreet, we ziggled and zaggled through Paris streets toward Jardins du Luxembourg. I hadn’t been here since I was a teen, and I’m not sure that Arnie had ever visited it. We enjoyed the cooler temperatures of the shade of the gardens and took in old men reading their papers, mothers with their children in the play area, and couples snuggling on park benches. We saw an area for boules, called bocce in Italy, that wonderful game played with base-ball-sized metal balls on a narrowish strip of dirt or sand. No one was playing, but we hoped we would catch a game or two before we had to head home.

We came out the other side of the gardens to find a poetry festival going on. Book stalls were set up, and small publishers of poetry were selling their offerings. Some imprints I recognized from my days of studying French in Europe. Others were new to me. It was hot, so I kept gravitating to the fountain. There, I found three people enjoying the fountain, and sharing some music.

We found a little place to have supper, and returned afterwards to the poetry festival before heading back to our hotel. I stopped to photograph some bicycles whose chrome caught the night lights. The night air had cooled, and we stood by our hotel window and photographed the café scene below.

Saturday was market day on the Monparnasse. How could one resist? We didn’t go too far afield, because we had to move to our regular pension late morning. The market was perfect. The arrangements of flowers and vegetables, the cacophony of color, the friendliness of everyone, and the hustle-bustle were all wonderful.

There was a charming organ-grinder who gave me permission to photograph him. He had a twinkle in his eye (I think most Frenchmen have a twinkle in their eye for the ladies), and his music was wonderful. He would finish one song, remove the music (think of a miniature version of a player piano’s music) and make another selection amongst the boxes at his feet to accompany his next song. He had such flair; it was a delight to watch. Farther along, a woman was trying on a hat, admiring it in the stall-keeper's mirror.

After making the move to our pension, we headed for the river, again through the rabbit warren of Paris streets. Paris reminds me of Boston in one way. They are both old cities that originally were not laid out in a grid. The streets twist this way and that, and unless one has a good sense of direction, one can get confused.

At the river, the Bateaux Mouche (literally Fly Boats) and other water craft chugged up and down under the watchful eye of Notre Dame. We puttered and browsed amongst the book stalls on the left bank. This was where my English granny, who studied under a famous pianist just outside Paris in the 20’s, would come and pick up wonderful lithographs. I still have many of them. She had quite an eye for the good artists.


As we wandered along the river, we saw a movie being made. It seems that every time we are in Paris, a movie is being made somewhere along the river. Actors and actresses strolled along in late-19^th-century dress; another sat in a little skiff across the river, fishing rod in hand, patiently waiting for the Bateaux Mouche and other boats to pass and for the director to give his signal.


Farther along, lovers sat at the edge of the river, enjoying the sunny day. A young artist sketched a river scene. A father and son looked down from an upper story window. This is Paris.




We ended up at the Louvre. For all the times I have visited that museum, I am always amazed at what an incredible complex of buildings it is. In the various arch ways, we heard opera. The acoustics were fabulous, and the arches were spaced far enough apart, so the different music did not complete with one another.

We came out to the I.M. Pei pyramids and triangular pools that surround them. People were sitting on the edges, legs in the water, enjoying the refreshment it gave. It looked so inviting that we joined the throngs. Although there were lots of people around us, it somehow did not feel crowded. Perhaps it was because everyone was relaxed.

I love the houseboats, so after an hour or so, we left the cool of the fountains and went back to the river. We recognized many familiar boat names. These people either live in Paris or return each summer to enjoy time here. People were getting ready for supper; some were already eating.

We turned around and headed back to one of our favorite bridges, Pont des Arts, a pedestrian bridge built in 1804. No vehicles are allowed, and in the late afternoon or any weekday, groups have laid out picnics, complete with the obligatory wine, musicians play, people sit on the benches in the middle and watch the passers-by. It is a wonderful scene.

What we didn’t realize when we originally set our dates, was that our time in Paris coincided with the music festival we had enjoyed so much two years ago. We wandered along the bridge, photographing, of course. One group looked particularly interesting and bohemian-looking, and I asked permission to photograph them.

I got chatting with one of the people who was playing some fascinating Asian flute, evoking sounds that reminded me of our native American flute music. I asked him about the flute, and we got to talking music. He offered me his flute to play, but it had been so many years since I had practiced, I thought I would save myself the embarrassment of trying and mangling any music I attempted to play.

“Won’t you have some wine?”

Silly question! I’m in France. This is, after all, the country of great vineyards!

I'm going to say, "Non, merci?" Definitely not!

Two glasses were pressed into our hands, and we chatted some more. It turned out that Oleg and his Russian friends were part of a well-traveled music group who had come to Paris to play in the festival. It was fun talking with them and listening to the flute.

The wine and cheese reminded us that we were hungry, so we bid our good-byes and headed to one of our favorite restaurants in the Latin Quarter after listening to more groups on the way.


After a very satisfactory meal, we started back to our pension but got waylaid what we think was either a Greek or Russian group. It had that Balkan tone and feel in the music and dancing. We were captivated by the energy and enthusiasm of everyone there.

We were not to get much sleep that night, as the revelers reveled well into the wee hours. After all, it was la Fête de la Musique, and it was Summer Solstice. It was a time for reveling and celebration!

We had two more days in Paris; sleep could wait.

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The Last of Bourgogne...For This Year

It was Tuesday, and we were half way through our workshop. We always try to alternate shorter days with longer or special ones, and it was time for one of the latter. I had received a telephone call the previous day from the manager of a large-but-very-select winery with an excellent reputation among connoisseurs both in the region and well beyond. On the property is a very grand house that is not open to the public. As those who have been following this blog will remember, Arnie and I had been given permission to photograph in their gardens when we were scouting the week before.

Phone systems are different in various countries, so when Florence, our hostess, rang the room and said I had a phone call instead of ringing it straight through, I ran downstairs to get the call. I didn’t realize that Florence was going to patch it up to the room, so like something out of the Three Stooges, I ran back upstairs. Fortunately, the manager called back. Not only did we get permission to photograph the outsides of the buildings and the private gardens, but we would also be able to photograph anywhere on the private grounds. We agreed to come by the next day (Tuesday).

After a leisurely breakfast (actually, I can’t think of a breakfast that wasn’t leisurely) we hunkered down to process some of the numerous megabytes of images in our computers. There were funny comments as people discovered this or that or echoed one of the principles we had given them. In order to get to the winery at the appointed hour, we had a picnic at the hotel. Roast chicken, avocado, cheeses, and fruit bought at Sunday’s market made for a wonderful feast. Of course, we added the obligatory bottle or two of wine that we had bought at one of the tasting rooms.

Sated, we headed off to the winery in a nearby town. It turned out that we had been granted permission to photograph in many more areas that we had requested. The barn and both the white and red caves were open to us. Row after row of oak barrels greeted me, along with that wonderful, damp, slightly musty aroma that I associate with wine cellars, as the manager took me down and introduced me to Jean-Francois who was in charge of the whites. He was busy scrubbing the areas around the barrel plugs/stoppers (not corks, as they would be too porous). He also dipped into the barrels to check on the fermentation process. Each time we visit one of these wineries, we learn yet more about the art of making wine.

When we were done in the white caves, we migrated over to the red cellars where they had to put up 5,000 bottles of very fine wine before the end of the week. This meant, alas, there was no tasting to be done, but again, they gave us carte blanche in the caves. While there were barrels of wine here, too, what interested us were the many bins of assorted vintages that they had put aside to see how they aged. Some had been there for quite a few years!

Later, in the same little village, we tried to visit one of the famous chateaux for some tasting. Instead, we met the only ungracious person in our whole visit. The gates were open, the ropes in place, and the signs up welcoming us and directing us to the tasting room. My French is more than passable, and people usually think I am Dutch or English, or occasionally even from another part of France.

I was accosted by a woman on a broomstick who summarily dismissed us, “Nous sommes fermés!” Not even a "Je suis désolée, Madame, mais nous sommes fermés. Pouvez-vous retourner demain ? Nous nous ouvrons à…" Translated: "I am so sorry Madame, but we are closed. Can you come back tomorrow? We open at…" I restrained myself from pointing out that they did not close for another half hour, and we walked across the street where we had a tasting down in the cave of another vintner. We relayed our experience across the street, and he said they were geared for the busloads of tourists and weren't known for being very nice.

We found some selections we liked and headed off to find a restaurant that would allow us to bring in our own bottles for an understandable uncorking fee. After a very tasty meal, we enjoyed the evening a bit in the town square by the fountain before heading back to our hotel. The evening sky was gentle, and I was struck by the reflections in the fountain.

Wednesday was our next-to-last last full day, so we went into Beaune in the morning for market day. People wanted to do some shopping for presents to take home, and the hustle-bustle of the market is a great place to find some treasures.

It was late morning, so I found a little café on a quiet square where I enjoyed a cool drink and watched people drift in and out of an art exhibit across the way. After relaxing there for a bit, I found a little spot across the square and sat down on a wall in the shade of a plane tree. It was a great place for people watching. To my left was a young, teenage couple, obviously quite smitten with each other, stealing kisses. Across the way, the café filled up. Mothers pushed strollers with their small children, older siblings tagging along. Old ladies shuffled along with their two-wheeled shopping carts. Life in a small town. As I walked back to meet our group after they had finished shopping, I passed by a window that caught my eye. It was an interesting blend of reflections and offerings within.

We went to one of Arnie’s and my favorite picnic spots in a little village not far from our hotel. Set in a park above the vineyards, there is a lovely view down into the valley. Unbeknownst to one another, we had all picked up things for a picnic.

We settled down on the wall and benches and shared our goodies with each other. It was fun watching the little French vineyard tractors buzzing along the roads, until one entered the field below the park to spray the vines. It was fine in the beginning until the wind shifted and we started sneezing. We quickly fled to the safety of cleaner air!

Since we had already had a nice chance to relax and enjoy our lunch, we drove to an area that is famous for its windmill as well as for its wines.

We explored the streets of the town, making photographs and enjoying, as always, the history of this very old part of France. Everyone was drawn to the beautiful flowers everywhere, the wonderful textures of the stone buildings, and the ancient, weathered, wooden doors.

Later, in the hillside above the town, we wandered amongst neat, graphic rows of vines, visited the moli, and took in the patterns in different parts of the valley.

After imaging on Thursday, our last full day, we headed over to our favorite little café about ten minutes away. This was probably our third visit there, and the waitress was quite funny. Since a couple of us collect bouchons (corks) and had asked for them before, she immediately and triumphantly brought over a couple for us before we even had a chance to review the menu. It was a great lunch, and being our final one together, we didn’t rush.

When we had sipped the last of the wine and scraped the dessert plates nearly clean, we walked down the narrow road to a grand chateau. It was a gorgeous day, so we weren’t interested in heading inside for a tour of the building where we probably could not have photographed anyway. Instead, we stayed outside in the beautiful gardens. As Arnie quipped, "Zee wine biznees haz been good to zee wine makers."

The highlight, of course, was the lily pool. I have never seen so many varieties of water lilies in one spot. They ranged from white to coral and peach to deep, variegated pinks. Some looked as though they had been painted; they were almost surreal. We were entranced by all the different colors and shapes, and we wandered around the pool finding different ways of photographing these stunning flowers.

It was hard to leave, but we wanted to return to the little village where we had enjoyed our picnic, hopefully with the spraying completed. Everyone had final assignments, and Arnie and I had fun working with them and watching them make discoveries on their own.

When we regrouped around 4, no one was interested in leaving yet, in spite of the fact that we had a 6:00 dinner reservation. So, we walked the little lanes together. There was a very old, abandoned stone house that had caught my eye, so we headed up the hill. Some really narrow, steep steps greeted me, but I think they discouraged the others. I clambered up, and explored around a bit. I must admit, it was pretty hairy going back down those steps. It was one thing to climb up, as I could walk on the balls of my feet. Going back down was another matter, as I had to walk down à la Charlie Chaplin, toes aimed straight out to the side!


Down the hill, we all ended up at some old baths or washing station. We didn’t know which, as there was no sign. The late-afternoon light streaming through the columns, however, was magical, and we enjoyed the peace of it all.

I am always amazed and delighted at the connections we make with our "students." Yes, it is tiring running workshops, but it is also energizing. We gain inspiration from our students just as we hope they do from us.

So it was with regret that we approached our final evening. Everyone had voted without hesitation to return to Arnie’s and my favorite restaurant just down the street for dinner. It was every bit as good as the first dinner there, and we laughed and chatted well into the evening. We bid a sad farewell to our hosts, but told them we’d be back next year.

And so we will! The dates are already listed on our website.

Meanwhile, we were headed for a few days in Paris, the City of Lights, before heading home. We'll be writing about that for next week's blog.

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