22.06.02 Samedi
Provisioness of cheese to the presidential palace, Marie-Anne Cantin, was absent from her store, presumably beneath, in her subterranean storehouse attending to her children.
Emmental de Savoie, francaise
Less milky, more socky and woody
Salers
"better than Laguiole"
A remarkable taste gradient. Near the nose/centre, a taste of wine prevails; closer the rind/outer perimeter, there is an alarming bouquet of Chinese dried goods.
Brie de Meaux
Excellent. Well-rounded, dulcet and smooth, precisely imitating the taste of daikon. Is this what is meant by "mushroomy"?
We sit on a bench, truncated view of leg of Eiffel Tower, spectators to a spectacular Magrittean sky - clouds ominously well-defined by dramatic outlines, a vista which you know may just be a bit of a painting, or an illusive suburb or figment of reality, which may be deported away like stage backdrops in an instant; spirited off by the artist's machinations on a whim.
Dichotomy of croissants:
A) Soft cottony fluffy tangle of wispy threads group
B) Charred crispy mille-feuille like group
I think the charred version more suited to eating (as discrete elements) with hunks of cheese. Cottons are more receptive to the spreading of conserve on them.
J's cassoulet d'oie is a frightening molassesey mire of flageolets in fat; redneck-trucker food or its equivalent; the nourishment of the yeoman stock of heartlander France.
The Musee d'Orsay stops at neo-impressionism so no Modiglianis to linger over here, unfortunately.
The Degas, especially the pastels, are opalescently beautiful. His figures, touched by dusky shadows, are best when their faces are not seen, bashfully turned away from the viewer, or backlit in tender relief. Insinuation is his dominant mode. Shimmering light, never flagrant incandescence. His Danseuses bleues have a coy deportment, crucially elliptical outlines of the vaguest sort, wispy, ethereal, cloudy suspensions for tutus.
Some Monets strike me as slapdash, visual jugglery and cantrip. Manet is not a favourite, although two of his still lifes, terse impressions, are quite brilliant - L'asperge and Le Citron. Pissarro's Paysage a Eragny is an ashstorm of colour, a Paddle Pop palette actually.
Cezanne is eternity, stillicide, perfect poise, sculptural repose. His Pommes et oranges: rosy lustre, preternaturally blushed, solid, burnished, statuesque. The large boarish woman in the blue dress, La femme a la cafetiere, rivals Jeanne Hebuterne for inexplicable beauty, a freakish aesthetic. Renoir makes cellulite look beautiful - his bathers, gloriously pudgy, wobbly at the waist, decadently lounging on the grass.
I must revise my opinion of Mondrian. An exposition of his early work contains one gem: Bois pres d'Oele, a Munchian suffusion of sunlight through foliage, recklessly daubed in purple, yellow, turquoise, orange.
Provisioness of cheese to the presidential palace, Marie-Anne Cantin, was absent from her store, presumably beneath, in her subterranean storehouse attending to her children.
Emmental de Savoie, francaise
Less milky, more socky and woody
Salers
"better than Laguiole"
A remarkable taste gradient. Near the nose/centre, a taste of wine prevails; closer the rind/outer perimeter, there is an alarming bouquet of Chinese dried goods.
Brie de Meaux
Excellent. Well-rounded, dulcet and smooth, precisely imitating the taste of daikon. Is this what is meant by "mushroomy"?
We sit on a bench, truncated view of leg of Eiffel Tower, spectators to a spectacular Magrittean sky - clouds ominously well-defined by dramatic outlines, a vista which you know may just be a bit of a painting, or an illusive suburb or figment of reality, which may be deported away like stage backdrops in an instant; spirited off by the artist's machinations on a whim.
Dichotomy of croissants:
A) Soft cottony fluffy tangle of wispy threads group
B) Charred crispy mille-feuille like group
I think the charred version more suited to eating (as discrete elements) with hunks of cheese. Cottons are more receptive to the spreading of conserve on them.
J's cassoulet d'oie is a frightening molassesey mire of flageolets in fat; redneck-trucker food or its equivalent; the nourishment of the yeoman stock of heartlander France.
The Musee d'Orsay stops at neo-impressionism so no Modiglianis to linger over here, unfortunately.
The Degas, especially the pastels, are opalescently beautiful. His figures, touched by dusky shadows, are best when their faces are not seen, bashfully turned away from the viewer, or backlit in tender relief. Insinuation is his dominant mode. Shimmering light, never flagrant incandescence. His Danseuses bleues have a coy deportment, crucially elliptical outlines of the vaguest sort, wispy, ethereal, cloudy suspensions for tutus.
Some Monets strike me as slapdash, visual jugglery and cantrip. Manet is not a favourite, although two of his still lifes, terse impressions, are quite brilliant - L'asperge and Le Citron. Pissarro's Paysage a Eragny is an ashstorm of colour, a Paddle Pop palette actually.
Cezanne is eternity, stillicide, perfect poise, sculptural repose. His Pommes et oranges: rosy lustre, preternaturally blushed, solid, burnished, statuesque. The large boarish woman in the blue dress, La femme a la cafetiere, rivals Jeanne Hebuterne for inexplicable beauty, a freakish aesthetic. Renoir makes cellulite look beautiful - his bathers, gloriously pudgy, wobbly at the waist, decadently lounging on the grass.
I must revise my opinion of Mondrian. An exposition of his early work contains one gem: Bois pres d'Oele, a Munchian suffusion of sunlight through foliage, recklessly daubed in purple, yellow, turquoise, orange.
posted by D at 13:27
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