All posts by Nicole Sullivan

Granite Pastry Island

Granite Pastry IslandJennifer loves to bake, and everyone loves to keep Jennifer baking. She is a wonderful cook, and her pastrys are particularly tasty. Last year I made a granite pastry island to keep her crusts cool as she works the dough.

We bought a basic island from Kitchens etc. to keep the project economical. I then tiled the top with granite tiles from Roma Tile Co. in Watertown. We used a strong dark gray sandless grout with silicone to seal the tiles to one another. I then put a white maple border around the top and routed a 45 degree angle to give a lighter feel to the edge.

The gap between the maple and the tile was sealed with a matching silicone caulking to allow for expansion and contraction of the wood without cracking. With several coats of varnish and sanding to protect the wooden border from heavy use the Pastry Island was workable.

Henri Cartier-Bresson

Looking at those two photos, of my self portrait, together, I wonder if that one was really the one I made the dots with. I managed somehow to digitally break the original, so I’ll never know. I tried a couple more, of Henri Cartier-Bresson drawn from an article in Newsweek. They had Helmut Newton photograph him to contrast their different styles. Drawing from a photograph is odd, the lighting is often either too soft (in the case of glamor magazines) or too contrasting (in the case of art photography) to be appropriate to draw. In the end I have two decent drawings of older men… but they don’t look particularly like Cartier-Bresson or the lovely photo by Newton. I’ll share anyway.

Drawing of Henri Cartier-Bresson

Second drawing of Henri Cartier-Bresson

Fête de la Musique

Bird of the fete de la musiqueWe went to la Fête de la Musique tonight. I have never seen Paris so exuberant. It was lovely. As nothing is ever done by halves in France, neither was this night. Over 300 bands played literally on every street corner. We arrived at Metro Palais Royale Musee du Louvre around seven, and saw a few musicians playing a bluesy kind of jazz geared towards dancing families with children. A search for tea in a cafe brought us cokes inside the Jardin du Palais Royal, which was just beginning to fill with people. We found a striped concrete “chair” and waited. In a few minutes we discovered surprisingly lovely acoustics. I won’t be able to classify the music, the first song was mainly guitar, drums, and one of those plastic children’s toys that, when spun around, makes a screeching noise. The fourteen member band had the right combination of very melodic moments and more abstract solos. The abstract bits grew less solo and we moved on, walking vaguely in search of an Indian restaurant.

We found one, just before we found a Peruvian band, in an archway near Place Jardin du Bellay, playing salsa music. Around the corner, rock music might have been nice had it not been so loud and offered somewhere to stand apart from the middle of the street. It wasn’t that late, so the cars hadn’t given up. All this was competing with a house party, which had ended up on the balcony, belting out classic French songs on a Karaoke machine, without an ounce of professionalism but plenty of fun. There was so much smiling and so little inhibition, people danced happily to music of inconsistent quality. In France, expressing such strong sentiment is rare and almost never done falsely, because, the stronger your statement the more likely someone will contradict you.

Heavy metal blared and punks moshed (if that’s what they still call it), within a block of hippies, smoking to reggae, in one direction, and in the other, rowdy pub crawlers, blocking a street, singing bawdy old French songs, accompanied by a complete horn section. On more than one occasion bands played within 30 meters of each other with everyone in between dancing to both. The drum section of a marching band had people following them from block to block and found an excellent blend when they arrived in front of a Marais bar, filled with very pretty boys, blaring house music, and spraying foam from a second story window. People bought Moroccan sausage from venders who had set up in the middle of the street. The smoke and fire, from their makeshift grills, made the fireman nervous but heightened the carnival atmosphere.

On this crazy night, the music was not nearly as special as the atmosphere, normally reserved, French don’t show enjoyment of anything. Something has to be REALLY good to make an impression. But perhaps this is the night to be easily impressed, to show exuberance, to allow oneself to visibly enjoy. Maybe they use it all up a few nights a year so they can return to an ordinary cynical state that makes them so damn stylish.

Like fireworks being shot from the middle of a crowd to celebrate the New Year, it was completely disorganized; roads not clearly blocked off but not functioning, police only in the center of town, no extra trash bins and rubbish piling up after the first hour never mind the 12th, beer bottles in quantities that made walking impossible. Waiting in line at the grocery store in Paris can cause riots, yet Parisians deal nonchalantly with utter disorder. People didn’t get upset, when two bands were competing, because they set up across the street from one another. They didn’t seem to notice. Some sort of extra refined taste in chaos.

A tight, yet very loud, punk band, near the Jardin du Luxembourg, had somehow had lost its fans to the much less interesting heavy metal band head banging to detract from their Michael Bolton hair. A question of placement I suppose, though that seemed fairly flexible. Finally we saw two mellow guys playing, not stairway to heaven but that other one, and we decided we were too old to stay up all night and began to make our way home. As an American, I’m used to people being overly-enthusiastic, especially about things of questionable quality. Yet Parisians managed to surprise me again. . . always complicated, often contradictory, and delightfully unpredictable.

(The bird at the top of the entry was created by André François for the festival)

Frida Kahlo

I saw the movie about Frida Kahlo and have been obsessing ever since about doing a self portrait. I never realized portraiture could be so difficult. My first attempt looks nothing like me. I have to revise the head shape and size and redo all the features. But my second attempt, more of a sketch is more accurate. I used a weird method. I took a picture of myself in the lighting that I wanted and then did an outline in dots on the computer. I transferred these dots to my sketch book and then began drawing from life using a mirror and the dots as a guide. When the light had changed too much I went back to the photo and finished it off. It does seem to capture something of “me” but it also doesn’t. Here it is, along with the reference photo, and dots:

I suppose its a bit like tracing. I wonder if it counts as “art”. I saw a talk given about a religious painter (I’ll try to find out who), who used grids of string and mathmatics to draw more accurately. Why not? It shouldn’t be all guess work. These things are, to me, never quite done. Since I took the photo I’ve gone in and made some revisions. I might still do more.

Self Portrait Drawing
Self Portrait Photo
Self Portrait, connect the dots