I bet this is true: The endless art in French antiques could make the most minimalistic person become a hoarder.

Everywhere you turn at a French brocante, there is something chipped, gilded, hand-carved, or gloriously worn down to its bare wood. It takes zero effort to fall in love with the accidental beauty of things that tumble to a brocante. 

Which brings me to a memory about art, perfection, and my daughter Chelsea.

Years ago, when Chelsea was a senior in high she had to take an art class. I use the words had to very deliberately, because art was not her forte. 

She was a straight-A student, and she was genuinely terrified that Art—of all things—was going to be the class that ruined her GPA.

Sometimes I look at my daughter and shake my head, wondering how in the hell she came out of me. Worrying about an art grade would have been the absolute last thing on my mind at her age.

Anyway, the first couple of grades she got back were worse than she imagined. One afternoon, she came home, slammed her books onto the kitchen table, and let out a sigh that shook the chandelier.

“I don’t understand!” she said, completely exasperated. “I worked so hard trying to create art, and I get this minimal grade. Meanwhile, my friend just put a piece of paper on top of her binder on the way to school, and as she was riding the bus, she just let her pencil jerk around every time the bus stopped, started, and turned. She didn’t even do anything—the bus did all the work—and she got an A!”

Now, I couldn’t help Chelsea with her science, or her math, or chemistry, or Latin, or Greek. Those subjects might as well have been written in Martian as far as I was concerned. But when it came to art? Oh, this was my moment. This was finally my chance to shine and show her that her mother actually had a functioning brain cell or two.

I sat her down and gave her my grand, poetic speech. I told her that art wasn’t about creating the perfect, neat assignment. It was about being expressive, being creative, and letting it flow from you rather than being controlled by you. I explained that when you experiment with different mediums and ideas, and stop trying so hard to make something—that is when true art happens.

I felt like Picasso giving a masterclass at the kitchen table.

That night, for her next art project, Chelsea took my advice to heart. She grabbed a piece of paper, slapped a bunch of glue all over it, scribbled some random stuff across the page, and tossed some things on top. It was an absolute creative, thoughtless mess.

She turned it in and got an A.

When she came home that afternoon and tossed that graded masterpiece onto the table, she looked at me deadpan and said, “I’m sticking with math. It’s reasonable.”

I couldn’t even argue with her. After all, not everyone can appreciate the fine art of a bumpy bus ride—or a perfectly ruined piece of French brocante.

And that is why I am a hoarder of the down and out art at the brocante.

                

Comments

• “Imagination is more important than knowledge” — Albert ... by Ann of Avondale
• This was fun to read! So the art teacher was rewarding ... by Diogenes

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French autumn breathes in gold—

the harvest waves surrender,
a slow unfolding of time’s intent.

Mulberry leaves spin in soft descent.
Sunflowers, once proud,
bow their sun-dried heads.

Chestnuts, in their prickly casing,
and pumpkins dot the fields—
each an autumn testament.

Cèpes rise above the soil,
their pungent perfume rich in the air.
Pomegranates split with grace—
ruby jewels gleam within,

as grapes linger on the vine,
soon to be sweetness poured
or gathered by the fistful,
wrinkled into memory.

Revealing that even what breaks
can nourish.

                

Comments

• If only autumn were immediately followed by spring… by Kathie B.
• Your words and photos are amazing!!!! The pumpkin picture ... by Marilyn Miller

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In Marseille adding it to the list of places to go with my groups.

French country style.

                

Comments

• I would love, love this place. I could see things I couldn't ... by Marilyn Miller
• Lots to like in there! Love the black walls. Love the commode ... by Diogenes
• I spy with my little eyes, so many things, so many things! by Jan
• Mirrors, yes please! by Ali
• Looks delightful! by Kathy

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Their names are carved in stone,

-their bodies and blood fed our fields.

The wind carries the memories farther on.

Children from the town walk towards the memorial, just as others once did-

not knowing what lies ahead.

We read the names of long ago,

not knowing who they are,

and wonder – 

We need not look far

to see that violence still lives.

Will there be more monuments 

To root the sadness they hold?

The earth sleeps.

The stars light up the sky.

Nothing is for naught—

the dead,

the seeds,

and somewhere,

their souls are 

in the air we breathe

Notes;

It began with a single shot,
the drumbeat spread across Europe.
Nations pulled one another into a war
For dominance, alliances, greed
and over 16 million were slaughtered—
soldiers, children, families—

Let memory guide us
to understanding,
and let our lives bear witness
to the weight of what has been,
so that we may always strive for understanding
and acceptance.

                

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• Thank you Corey. Let us learn from the past and build peace ... by Cynthia Thompson

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Butt, of course!

                

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• Corey, your sense of humor just made my day and I have to agree ... by Pat
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• And a nice one it is…. by Ali

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