Carte Blanche? To moi? Are you NUTS?

Fair warning to potential clients: if given carte blanche, I might come up with something you had not quite expected!

On a very fine morning, Mr. Shinn bestowed upon me the honor of designing a surprise birthday gift for his lovely wife. After meeting him and his hilarious 22 year old son Blake, I quickly realized the word “conventional” would be stricken out of the thesaurus for this specific project (oh twist my arm!) Compelling all funny and outrageous synapses to come forward and volunteer for the mission, I decided to create a Funky Blake Calendar.

Some of the most “daring” concepts were discussed prior to execution, then the photographs of Blake were taken.

The Shinns nicely agreed to let me share with you some of the different months, so here we go:

January

February

May

June (with girlfriend now ex-girlfriend. Oops.)

September

October

November

For good measure, the month of December featured the infamous Mr. Shinn himself:

December

This happened four years ago. Mrs. Shinn was GREATLY amused. I am told the calendar still lies prominently on the living room coffee table.

Nude is beautiful

Boudoir photography: what a delicate affair! What an awesome responsibility entrusted in my petite hands!

I like my subject nude. I believe the woman makes a statement with her body, not Victoria Secret or La Perla.

I like my subject nude, baring all, yet showing nothing.

I like my subject nude, an empty canvas for me to paint.

Sexy can be in the eyes,

Or in a bit of drama,

Or simple curves…

I think some men may prefer to see photographs of their girlfriends or wives pre-packaged in lingerie and showing cleavage or boobs, a more pin-up version of boudoir I suppose, but frankly, I suck at that. I don’t have the feel for it. I want to show beauty, art, sensuality, and in the words of Colbert, truthiness.

Mon six word memoir… or epitaph?

The problem with blogs is that you never know with whom you are dealing. You think your new blogpals are really nice. You exchange a few innocent comments. Then suddenly, wham, you are memed. Just like that.

My memor was Matt who got fired but they forgot to tell him. I take the poor thing under my precious little wing and all I get is friggin’ homework. So I’m tagged. Here are the rules of the game:

So many rules, so few words:

• Write your own six word memoir.
• Post it to your blog including a visual illustration if you would like.
• Link to the person who tagged you in your post and to this original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogsphere
• Tag 5 more blogs with links
• Don’t forget to leave a comment in the tagged blogs with an invitation to play

Here is my homework:

Now the memee becomes the memor. Here are my chosen victims (should they accept the challenge…):

• Artist Extraordinaire Pat because she does not have enough projects going on,
• Monsieur Turkish Prawn traveler fabuloso for his super high silliness quotient,
• Painter Bonnie Luria my favorite Croatian on the whole earth and whom I knew before knowing her,
• Traveler Epicurienne because she has a Monsieur therefore good taste and has promised to adopt me,
• English Rose Nezza because she needs a visual project and shames me into mowing my lawn once in a while.

Voila. Don’t hate me. See it as an expression of your profound moi.

Charlotte and the Circus Pony, a True Story

There was once a traveling circus with a wee pot-bellied pony named Arthur. He was sweet, well-mannered, and eager to please.

Unfortunately, patrons preferred to see proud tigers flying through hoops of fire, Asian elephants balanced on colorful balls and myriads of whimsical monkeys riding tiny bicycles. No amount of wishful thinking could ever turn Arthur into a wild exotic animal.

So Arthur patiently awaited the ringmaster’s decision.

On a cold gray winter morning, Arthur traveled to the slaughterhouse. A dreadful place really…

That same morning, a young Mademoiselle named Charlotte drove by and saw the pot-bellied pony waiting in line for the butcher’s knife.

She offered him a carrot and he sat down, so she offered him a new life in her farm.

Arthur may not be a wild tiger but his spirit has not been broken.

He may not be an Asian elephant but I think he enjoys performing much more.

He doubles up as a very comfortable divan.

And Arthur the pot-bellied circus pony that almost died on a winter day also has the prettiest girlfriend ever. A girlfriend with the mane of a lion. What more could you ever wish for?

My dead are better than yours

Just like any restaurant, club, or bar, the popularity of a cemetery rests upon the fame of its clients. In this case, its dead people. The Pere Lachaise in Paris got off to a rough start. It was inaugurated in 1804 with the burial of Adelaide Paillard de Villeneuve, a five year old girl. Who? Exactly my point.

For years, the cemetery dwindled with an inhumation here, an inhumation there… until 1817 when in a brilliant marketing move, the Mayor of Paris relocated Moliere and Lafontaine to Pere Lachaise. Et voila! By 1830, it boasted more than 33,000 tombs.

Climbing the stairs of the entrance Boulevard de Menilmontant, I realize how American I have become. My first thought does not address the beauty of time passed, but rather crudely the need for good liability insurance.

Taking a walk in Pere Lachaise constitute a wonderful reprieve from the city’s crowded parks. Peaceful and artsy. That’s the one place where you can safely shush a child who does not belong to you. Respect for the dead trumps exclusive parental rights.

Some tombs appear dilapidated. Some wrestle with precarious balance. It’s charming.

Ancient mausoleums still bear the signs of remembrance.

Then of course, there is the mingling with the famous. Chopin in the above flowery tomb. Across from him, Laprade holding a very small bouquet in comparison. Not as well-liked I suppose.

But the numero UNO reason why Americans all over the world know about Pere Lachaise is of course… The one and only Jim Morrison. Well, not to re-ignite the fire of resentment towards the French and spark a new freedom tomb controversy, but I surmise Jim Morrison got robbed.

Clearly. His tomb is lodged behind a mausoleum and wedged between two tombs. And what’s the point of being buried in Pere Lachaise if you don’t even have a commemorative statue adorning your place of respose? In all fairness, there was a bust but it was stolen in 1988. I opt for a life-size rendition. Preferably circa “young lion” years. With the leather pants s’il-vous-plait.

The Ham in the Alley

Wrapping up a session at the Arboretum (meaning walking back to my car, evaluating time from parking lot to bed for well-deserved nap), I stumble upon two exotic-looking wee girls in an alley. An estimated four-year old model and her matching mini-me.

“Aaaah don’t move! Hold that pose! No, no, don’t move!” I say, trying really hard to hypnotize them into stillness while digging my camera out of the bag.

By the time I adjust my exposure, the lovely portrait I had in mind turns into the following:

Since inadvertently precipitating the fall of tiny daughter (but happy to have recorded the event), I figure it would be rather proper at this point to introduce myself to the mom. The least I can do. Really.

Joy seems definitely more receptive to my Belgian devilish charm than cohort Ivy. Ivy does not like me much. Coming across as a freakish photographer barging in out of nowhere may have something to do with it.

Joy is a HAM. She gets up, works her angles and gives me… Zoolander’s Blue Steel. I swear!

Then, prima donna-like, breaks into an aria…

And bursts out laughing.

My five minutes are over. I love my life.

El Altar de la Muerte – A dog’s artistic vision

Living with two Jack Russell Terriers ain’t for the squeamish. Peyote did not get his nickname “The Alligator” out of thin air. He earned it. Sadly so. Dead birds. Dead opossums. Dead rats. Dead cats. Dead “you name it”, it has been brought into my house with pride and enthusiasm to thank me for the deliciousness of all the canned food.

The Alligator exhibiting his usual reptilian smugness

Peyote’s killer instinct apply to non-living things as well. Sadly so. Carpeting. Window ledges. My talking PeeWee Herman doll, my Pinocchio with retractable nose. All is fair in love and war.

He obsessed non-stop over a minuscule stuffed lamb doll my mom had sent me for Easter along with life-sustaining Belgian chocolate. If that doll laid on a high table, Peyote would sit and bark and whimper at it it for hours. He drove me NUTS.

One early morning, as I walked into the living room, I noticed a black mass on one of my leather seats. I turned on the light. There was a dead black bird stuffed head first in the corner of the seat. Nice!

Then something got my attention on the adjoining seat. Something white. Stuffed in the corner.

There it was. The Easter Lamb. Jammed head first in the corner a la black bird.

An artistic vision by The Alligator. Mirror images of death. The virginal lamb and the dark raven. Good and evil. Passing on the Cantoni furniture. Talk about a statement…

That previous week, I had switched to “the more expensive than that you die” Cesar cans and I guess he felt compelled to show more appreciation than usual. We have since reversed to the cheap cans. For obvious reasons.

Hi Nat! Howdy? Your horse has cancer.

May 12 – 3 am – Brussels. The phone rings.

“Hi Nat. It’s Daniel. Virus can’t walk.”

Daniel, valiant Keeper of Virus the Schnookie Pookie and Peyote the Alligator when I’m away. Fantastic with my two aging Jack Russells but not so much with keeping track of the 7 hour time difference…

“What do you mean “he can’t walk?” I ask, suddenly wide awake.

“He can’t walk on the hardwood floors. He takes a step, then slips and he can’t get up no more.”

“Daniel, please go to Target, buy 20 bath rugs and put them all over the house.”

Virus the fabulous Schnookie Pookie

Same day, 6 hours later, still Brussels. The phone rings.

“Nathalie? Hi! It’s Anita. How are you? Toy has cancer.”

Not to dwell on cliches, but when it rains… Toy. Dinky Toy the Stinky. My little 27 year old horse. A happy Belgian retiree since my departure to the States, 17 years ago. The horse does nothing. He eats twice a day, goes to pasture, and he lives in a damn castle. I’m not kidding. He lives MUCH better than I do. That horse leads a charmed existence and has no right to get cancer.

“Nathalie? Are you still there?”

“uhu”

“Toy had not shed his winter coat so the vet told us to clip him. Well, that was a whole ordeal! We did what we could but you know Toy… He’s kind of clipped. Under all that hair, he did not look good. The vet is coming back later. Would you like to be there?”

When I arrive at the stables, I am truly horrified.

Had I seen the poor thing in a field, I would have suspected abuse and called the SPCA. The vet arrives and examines him. He says it’s Cushings Disease (which perhaps is NOT cancer!) He also says the horse appears very skinny but it is due mainly to his loss of muscle tissue. He is not suffering. If we manage to make him retain some of the food he scarfs down, he could still have a few years in front of him.

The next day, I visit him in the field. Out in the open space, he looks a tad better. But not much.

My instructions are: “The day you actually manage to catch him in the field, I guess that’s when we’ll have to start really worrying. Until then, you’ll just have to keep on running after him every evening…”

When I return to the States, the two dogs greet me at the door. The house’s hardwood floors are covered with bath rugs of varied vibrant colors. I guess I should have mentioned one color only, beige or black… but at 3 am, it just did not come to mind. I just hope that when my time comes to slip and fall on the hardwood floors, someone will love me enough to make that special trip to Target. I hope this person will have good taste.

Good children. Misbehavin’ adults.

When young children take me more seriously than their parents do, I know I am in for a wild ride.

From the onset, the kids appeared anxious to please me (a first!) and show their best profile.

The parents and the grand-mother from California, on the other hand, were not inclined to follow suit.

The progressive granny almost fell in the river.

The mom kept playing peek-a-boo with the stone structures of the park.

Grand-ma and son expressed a wish for a portrait together and made me wonder what kind of Christmas cards they sent to family and friends.

Still the children kept delivering… shot after shot.

Mr. T

The Little Mermaid

Then… the adults’ giddy spirit got to them.

And since the kids were already wet…

Final shot!

So glad I did not have to put these little drenched ones in my car.

I’m a soccer for love!

“Wayne Rooney? Oh yeah. Manchester United right? That’s the brat who stepped on Carvalho’s testes during the last World Cup.” And that’s how you leave a man flabbergasted by your awesome knowledge of soccer!

I once dated a soccer nut. One of the few things he left me (besides an irreparable crushed heart) was a collection of random sport facts.

He lived in DC. I lived in Dallas. Probably not the best premise for a love story nevertheless we tried to keep it entertaining (which meant a lot of efforts on my part and a lot of cheating on his…)

On a dreary winter day, a Saturday, a bummed out D. had to spend the whole day at his office. Working on a Saturday feels great when you are a photographer, not so much when you are an investment banker! So I decided to open up and tell him about my previous career as a famous soccer player.

This is what I sent him (because I’m silly and hardly ever take myself seriously.)

“I have a big confession to make and I hope you will forgive my secrecy. I have not always been a manager, private investigator, interpretor, voice-over, photographer… I was actually a VERY famous soccer player. I could not tell you before because I did not want you to like me for my sport abilities. I wanted you to see the woman in me, not the athlete. Yes, With an H, that was me. Great career. Over many decades. Then I had to retire my European career amidst scandal. I’m not proud of it. I’m sure that right now, you are somewhat hesitant to believe me so I will pepper your day with many proofs.

This is the first proof. A picture of me as a proud soccer player, with my favorite ball. Forgive the quality of the photograph, it is quite ancient.

The following is a photograph with Zito from Brazil (I played for Brazil sometimes) when I made a pass at him and he scored against Czechoslovakia! We were elated!

Playing for France was a great opportunity for me. They bought me from Brazil. Muito dinheiro!

Playing for Brazil one day, against Brazil the next…

Playing with France gave me the opportunity to study their great players’ weakest points. When years later, I played against Capocannoniere Michel Platini, I knew exactly what to do to divert his attention from the ball.

This brilliant move got me knee-deep in trouble!

My methods were modern. They were not always very well accepted by my peers.

This move also was a tad innovative for the period. After my yellow card from last time, they gave me a bright red one this time. I protested. Vehemently.

Check out the idiot referee! Threatening to pull something out from his pocket. What was he going to give me this time? A purple card? Anyway… It would be a fair assessment to say that things went south for me after that game.

I recognize now that this move may have been just a tad ahead of its time (even if soccer rules do not specifically prohibit the use of a Tintin umbrella on the field.) The European clubs wanted nothing to do with me after that scandal. I had to move to the States.

Now I have tea with Beck and Vic. My life is more peaceful.”

The things we do for love…