Waxwings And Poppies

Waxwings And Poppies

I carried my many parcels under each arm, and with both hands, awkwardly headed toward the deserted Klosque Park la ville Lumiere-- The City of Light. It was my first trip to Paris, and I daresay it was rather adventurous of me, a woman alone in a strange city amongst foreigners, not knowing a word of French, with nothing but time on my hands.

I meandered along until I came to the east side of the fifth arrondissement, where the Botanical Gardens were located. I had to pass many antiquated buildings and found myself particularly fascinated by the ancient look of the university buildings of Jussieu and the Gare d'Austerlitz. I hesitated for a moment, rethinking my plan of action, then continued on, after all, upon my original course.

After coming out of the metro at Jussieu, I passed the fountain which was surrounded by a small group of college students, and headed for the jardin along the rue Jussieu. Finally I came upon the jardin by the entrance to the rue Cuvier. Again, the run-down condition of the buildings amazed me. I had to stop and stare at the first buildings, wondering if they would topple down upon me if I stood in one place too long.

I could see the "butte Coupeau" from there, which, according to my map, was an old rubbish dump, of all things. The "bird cage" is at the highest point in the center of a maze. It was at this point that I decided to slow down. There was still a bit of walking ahead of me, and I didn't want to wear myself out too quickly.

I shifted the weight in my arms and took a deep breath. I passed the Mineralogy Museum, and the Zoological Gallery, now called the 'Grande Galerie de l'Evolution' for some reason. Further down to the right, I finally came to the Botanical Gallery.

I entered the gardens and walked along the designated path, reading the information signs that appeared in front of each flower, first in French, then in English. A waxwing was fidgeting on a nearby branch as I approached the Spring Gentian. Its blue feathers belied the bird it most resembled, the cardinal. Suddenly, its throat swelled and the bird began to trill. I was immediately reminded of a poem by Emily Dickinson: " . . . a bird broke forth and sang, and trilled and quivered, and shook his throat . . . And then adjusted his little notes, and bowed and sang again . . . "

I nodded my welcome to the little creature, then continued on my jaunt, wandering among the various plots of Yellow-wort, Lesser Centaury, Jacob's Ladder, Perriwinkles, Fringed Water-lily, and other exotic wildflowers which are found in England, Ireland, and Wales. I marveled at their bright colors and rich textures, as well as the many different fragrances which fought for my olfactory attention as I moved along.

I found a park bench situated in the shade of a broad tree, which was just what I had been looking for, and as I made myself comfortable, I wondered about the history behind the trees and the flowers and the plants that blossomed all around. I spotted a particular flower with scarlet petals and decided that it would be my first subject. I read the sign: Common Poppy. Hairy annual weed of arable land and disturbed ground. Widespread but commonest in S and E England; scarce in N and W. Leaves are much-branched. Flowers 700 100mm across with four papery petals. Ovoid seed capsule.

I opened my satchel and pulled out several brushes, my favorite palette, a paint box, some opaque liquid, several plastic bowls and containers, a roll of masking tape, and a heap of rags. I unfolded my easel and placed it on the sidewalk. Several waxwings bobbed in the air above, selecting their perches far above my head in the nearby trees. I watched their shadows flirting with the array of supplies I had just spread out before me.

From my portfolio I pulled out a full tablet of watercolor paper and a good sheet of stiff cardboard of the same size, which I would use for backing. I picked up the roll of masking tape and proceeded to tape a sheet to the cardboard then placed in on the easel when I had finished.

I was fortunate to find such a shady spot, for the sun was climbing ever-higher in the sky and the heat of the afternoon was beginning to make itself felt. I pulled out the bottle of drinking water I had brought along and took a long, cool swig.

Then I just sat and stared at the paper.

I looked down at my palette which lay undisturbed at my feet. The board held smudges of blues and crimsons, ochers and umbers, all in untidy little puddles in a dubious assemblage of disarray. It was hard to imagine that with a mere stroke of my brush, a little bit of water, and the aid of that highly unlikely sheet of absolute blankness, I was about to create something remarkable.

I tried to picture the image of the poppies on the paper. I imagined a splotch of red where only whiteness now appeared. I picked up a brush and began to wet the paper. I started at the top of the sheet and let the water run down to the bottom. The paper glistened in the sunlight that filtered through the branches of the trees.

A waxwing suddenly shook its throat and let out a trill. I began my masterpiece.