Brush strokes

This is a rendition of a few walks and a train journey, some cups of coffee and finding Monet. Like them, the sufis, the wise wo(men) who traversed lands as far as the eyes could survey, talking endlessly about the magic that travelling rubs off on them - the Melquidase(s) in the bliss of solitude or in the company of soulmates. Treading long paths, smelling the air, gazing the land meeting the skyline, witnessing the colours changing as animals nestled themselves into a good night as the mystique lulled into a short but rewarding sleep under that tree in an oasis, only to leave at the crack of dawn. This was exactly how we felt when we embarked on a journey to Giverny from Paris. Every step we took was like turning the leaf of a book, a lot of culture and art in every square yard. 

We booked our train tickets to Giverny from St. Lazare railway station. Incidentally, the story starts right at the railway station itself. As they say, the roads  too bear memories as much as the destination does. It was that same station, modernised now, but same in blood that Monet painted. The silvery smoke glistening as light falls only to unravel the steam engine, in royal black waiting to turn the wheels. 

The city faded away very quickly giving way to pastures, thickets and open lands. How true as history books speak of it that Paris and four or other five cities have almost all of its population and the rest is an unending stretch of open land with not a human let alone settlements in the vicinity. 

The train ran 20 minutes late. As we got down at Vernon, the nearest railway station to Giverny, we were treated to Monet’s paintings as if promising us of a trail that would only surprise with more bounties. Giverny is only around 6 kilometres from Vernon and like every other time, we planned to walk. It is something a 10 euro bus ride to Giverny will never give. Before the walk we decided to fill in our hunger pang tummies with burgers and large mugs of coffee and then we were good to go. We crossed the river Seine, but midway took a minute to admire the clear waters of the river with zero cruises unlike in Paris. The river by Paris is like the city itself, city lights reflecting in its waters, resonating the beauty of Paris and its bridges, but by the countryside, it is darker, with stories to say to only those people who are willing to take that plunge. 

 

As soon as the bridge ended, there was a way for pedestrians which we missed. So we walked on the road taking care of the speeding vehicles and wondering why there is no footpath or pavement. But soon we saw  sunlight sieving through the trees creating lemon yellow pastures, light green canopy with woods of burgundy, and emerald treetops where the sun did not grace, only to half surround by a bright cerulean sky with a whiff of feather like cirrus clouds, floating lazily. May be we looked at it all imagining how Monet would have seen these. We continued walking, in a line, saving ourselves from the road only to see vignettes of Monet’s canvases from our earlier readings of his paintings. Again, was this an error of previous knowledge of him, I cannot say. 

It was a half price Saturday and there was a long queue which moved at a snail like pace. We waited patiently and sometimes irritably measuring its length by taking a quick glance at the number of heads in front of us, and occasionally looking back, where a lot many people waited for their turn, and telling ourselves that we are at least much ahead of them. The occasional trivial rationality one uses to placate ones’s heart!

We finally entered his house premises to actually see an overgrown garden. It was not the neatly trimmed, heavily manicured gardenscape, but a forest of blossoms, as if he had arrested a whole segment of nature and its abundant flower bells within his compound wall. On the other side of the road connected by an underground pass was the real treat we were about to witness.

 The Japanese garden! The real image of the water lily series lying there in a tranquility so profound, the bridges telling a thousand stories of his fine brush strokes, while the water in its reflection of the garden itself resounding his ecstatic colours and the sun in all this bearing witness, now, as it did then, at its magnificence. As solar energy is primal so is its photons to the Impressionists. We sat on a bench in absolute silence only to see a person, his hair silvery white, lost in time. I still have not concluded what was more beautiful, the garden and its noiseless conversations, or the old man himself, giving away how Monet himself would have bathed and soaked in the aura of his two creations: the garden and the paintings.

Speechless, we took shorter steps to a nearby cafe and found us a spot among the shrubs. There was something so enigmatic about the whole village. It seemed like everyone lived on a huge canvas. We walked back, not going to the museum which was on our list, thinking it would be an insult to the painter to go to his shrine when our heads were saturated with absolute beauty. We dared not committing such a blasphemy. 

The walk back was through that path, lonesome except for a few people every fifteen minutes. It was a walk of reminiscence. Paradoxically, we felt a lot lighter carrying the weight of this memory. I remember finding a wooden plank, where we sat and looked to infinity, trying to sink in the beauty of this scale. We reached the Seine, now more welcoming. But we had to say good bye as our train was just an hour away. The train took us back to our home where Muzzu cooked us a warm dinner with a dollop of love, as we watched the BBC documentary on Impressionists. The show was brilliant beyond words, historically accurate and aesthetically appealing. As morning dawned, we made a beeline to the Musee Marmottan Monet, situated at a stone’s throw away from our home. To be in the neighbourhood of Monet itself is a blessing. There, right there was Impression Sunrise, a master craft which Monet did the first thing one morning, when the rays of sunlight hit his sleepy eyes. A round swirl of sun amidst the colours it creates. There was the water lily series too, which took us back to the soul of Giverny. 

In the museum, there were other interesting pieces too like Rodin’s Tete de Saint Jean-Baptiste and Paul Signac’s Castellane. This visit was but eventful when Muzzu chanced upon Georges Seurat’s Le Dineur ou le Bouveur , finding layers to it, that I was drawn into it by his exceptional connect with that work of art. We don't know Seurat, but are definitely going to know him better. There was a pause given, to take in, and pensively reminisce the experience. Let it ripe and bear blossoms. Let autumn pass giving way for winter, and let Shelley sing on a cold wintry night, ‘if winter comes can spring be far behind?’ Let the spring bring its breeze home so that we cherry the cake with Musee d’Orsay, together. Till then, the impressionists wait!