I felt love and I made love.

These great pals were the best things I stumbled upon in London this past weekend.

This is Tiki George Kiki. I made him from felt and a needle. Slaving over his yet born body for at least an hour. He started from nothing… and then became the world to me. When he finally came home to his homeland, Paris, he hopped on the front of a bike. There, we learned a lot about Tiki G.K. passions in life. When the bike stopped, Tiki continued to sore. Shouting “LIFE AND LIBERTY!”

To save his own life, we had to take away his bicycle privileges and he’s now magnetized onto a metal trashcan.

Then I created…

Licorne. I discovered a power that I had always possessed, but never knew until now… the power of needle felting.

I have many plans already scheduled in my future to continue to bless the eyes of many with my talent.

Needle felting can touch anyone’s heart, but be careful, it can also consume your soul. Someone, please stop me before I go too far.

All delighted people raise their hands!

Anglet, France (Côte Basques)

Other than another possible visa horror story in the making, my hand is raised high!

And I really do have to say, I’ve made it thus far with the helping hand of my new found love for Sufjan Stevens.

You sold your life to a bike.

La Tour de France!

Along the highway, there was a girl.

I was at the post office when I ran away. I didn’t want to listen any more. So, I got up. And I left. I left something that I didn’t like. But I didn’t know where I was going. All I knew is I had to change something.

So I walked along the highway. I tried calling, but no one answered. I kept walking. Murmuring to myself. My head faced down, looking at my shoes. Thinking, where to go.

Men stopped, slowed down. Offering me a ride. But that wasn’t going to solve my problem. Men, only create problems. Even a young teenage girl knows that.

And I was punished for running. I was lost. I didn’t know what to do. You can’t blame me, and still, I don’t blame her. At least she did something. At least she stood up for herself.

So I was punished. For a week.

And then I didn’t stand up for myself for 7 years.

And till this day, it is one of the most difficult things for me. To leave something that’s rotting behind. To leave, to stand up for myself. To confront the lingering darkness.

my fathers home.

Mais dans mes bras, elle était toujours Lolita.

view from apartment, rue de clingnancourt.

I have moved again, out of a quaint little cubbyhole in Montmartre, down six flights of stairs and up another seven.

I drew the nice woman who allowed me to inhabit her home for two weeks this. It’s a view directly in front of the window, with the views on either side drawn… on either side.

I decided not to paint it because I want the viewer to paint it. I believe it leaves more room for imagination. Plus, I didn’t want to ruin it. Took forever.

newest mountain to climb, Lolita... in French.

I knew I wanted to read the novel after seeing the movie. I was encouraged to see the movie after seeing the Stanley Kubrick exhibit at the Cinematheque francaise. Kubrick, who has directed a wide variety of films from The Shining to A Clockwork Orange, is an obsession of the French. He along  with Woody Allen and Jean-Michel Basquiat,  are just some of the few Americans who are easily forgotten in the United States, but seem to have exploded here.

But Lolita, written by Vladimir Nabokov,  is a story of a much older man who falls head over heals into the loony bin for a young girl of 16 years, Lolita. The novel, movie, takes you into the minds of the characters and dissects the motives for their bizarre choices as the story develops.

It’s quite the tragedy. Youth, a blank slate, will blindly act in ways that will only hurt others and even themselves. But can you blame them… completely? They’re just naive.

Un séjour rapide.

Me at La Tour de France

I waited by the Notre Dame for La Tour de France to pass by.

I was impatient. They were 20 minutes late.

A good friend, my beautiful bike and I were all posted. Waiting. The crowd biting their nails. Flicking their cigarettes. The babies were already beginning to cry.

Then the pack came. And then they were gone.

A goodbye gift (view from her apartment in Republique)

It seems that a lot of wonderful people I’ve met in Paris come and go as quickly as the boys in La Tour de France.

If you were to slow down time. If you were to watch each individual wheel turn. Each gear spin slowly. Each color of each jersey, rush by. There would be too much to see.

Paris for most, is not permanent. It’s a pit-stop. An ending of one short race, of their long lives. Therefore, I try to make a little present. If time permits it.

This has been an art week, with a lot of things to finish. I’ve already stabbed myself with one x-acto knife … what could be next?

Explosions of color

Pont Neuf, oldest bridge in Paris

Jardin du Luxembourg

I don’t like these… there is entirely too much color…

but I’m sharing anyways.