I visited one of my other blogs today, to bid it adieu, and remembered this post, which has references to writing in it.
It seems I’m not the only person who believes that nature, left to her own devices, is a pernicious evil.
In theMusée D’Orsay, Paris’ temple to Impressionism, a period in art history where colors were often delightfully blurry, there is a section of the museum set aside for pastels—a painting form, according to Charles Baudelaire, uniquely appropriate to showcase the charms of the aging woman.
See? This is why I love the French. Where else in the world can you imagine having the Hydra of aging and personal vanity conquered by art? Only the French accept aging with aplomb and approach it with artistic euphemisms. Only in France is the older woman a desirable commodity. Everywhere else, youth and its excesses reigns supreme.
In Paris, however, one is allowed to ‘paint,’ all the while looking for the best, pastel-washed light in which to stand so…
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