Karine Benvenuti: ceramicist/sculpltor

Karine is an artist after my own heart.  If I weren't so wayward I am sure we would see each other more often. 

For her artist's biography let me begin by stating that Karine was born in Marseille in 1959,  lived for some years in Canada , then Paris and has now settled to work and live in the South of France.  

When I met Karine and Olivier as a couple, they were living in a small village outside of Nice and Karine had already begun the study of ceramics.    But for the last ten years her work has gone from strength to strength and she is now creating unusual and powerful works in clay. 

Karine started with a classical education,  learned to work the ceramicist wheel,  then left both traditional worlds behind to throw herself into an art form which is becoming a fresh statement of our times...  that of contemporary sculpting of earth, of clay.   You could say that she works the soil of France like her French forbears.

It is certain that Ms Benvenuti's art is influenced by nature which creates for me a primordial attraction to it.  She starts with nature's panoply of clay soils( some very difficult to come by),  and searches out the hidden secret in each... its foibles and its hidden offerings. 

Karine invents tools and methods,  often using just the force of her own body to pummel the clay towards or against its natural inclinations.  The results are a variety of shapes and forms whose textures call out to be caressed and explored. 

There is a noted subtlety of glazes and enamels in the work.  My guess is that the art is even more about the tending of the fires; the movement and gesture of creation;  the conflict between artist and clay.    With most abstract artists one starts out with an idea of where you want to go but the material may say otherwise.  I imagine it's that way with the material of earth. 

Karine was awarded the prize of the Ateliers d'art de FRance for her oeuvre, Matrice, at the International Biennale of the nearby village of Vallauris a few years back.  

The large sculptures of Karine Benvenuti ( and some of her smaller objects) can be seen at l'Ancienne Poste Gallery, (an hour an a half outside of Paris) which specializes in contemporary ceramics. . http://galerie-ancienne-poste.com/en/    You can also visit her website at  http://karinebenvenuti.com/  for more information and some fine photos. 

And for those who would like to own a smaller piece ,  Karine has some of those works available at her studio in Contes.  These include porcelain tea and coffee bowls and a line of neck pieces on ropes ( I hesitate to call them necklaces). 

My coffee bowl   photo by Mary M Payne

 I use a Karine Benvenuti coffee mug in the mornings.   Monsieur, aficionado of rare green teas, has two small tea cups of Karine's of which he is quite fond.   I also own a small Benvenuti piece that reminds me of all the elements of earth.  

Sculpture by Karine Benvenuti  photo by Mary M Payne

Here are some photos of my recent visit to the studio that Karine shares with Olivier Planchon in the village of Contes.

Mas in which is found" l'atelier de Karine Benvenuti et Olivier Planchon", Contes  photo by Mary M Payne

Entrance to studio of Karine Benvenuti, Contes    photo by Mary M Payne

Thierry, Patrick and Karine Benvenuti in atelier of Karine     photo by Mary M Payne

Necklaces and earrings designed by Karine Benvenuti   Photo by Mary M Payne

Friends admire the texture of Karine's neck piece.  photo by Mary M Payne

Work of Karine Benvenuti    photo by Mary M Payne

A row of tea bowls by Karine Benvenuti  photo by Mary M Payne

Sculpture by Karine Benvenuti    photo by Mary M Payne

Sculpture by Karine Benvenuti  photo by Mary M Payne

Containers by  Karine Benvenuti  

sculpture by Karine Benvenuti  photo by Mary M Payne

I call this one the "hippo"....  Studio of Karine Benvenuti    photo by Mary M Payne

bowls and small sculpture of Karine Benvenuti     photo by Mary M Payne

Olivier Planchon: Luthier

 Not long ago we had the privilege of having a visit from Olivier and Karine, who Monsieur and I are pleased to claim as long time French friends.  

 Recently both artists of this couple have consolidated their studios to the nearby town of Contes in the Alpes Maritime, an art loving village whose mayor welcomed them by offering a beautiful rustic farmhouse (mas) owned by the city that Karine and Olivier bought and are continuing to renovate.

  My friend, Patrick was kind enough to gather a posse of pals to go visit Contes for Karine's studio open house.  I will do a post on both of these artists.   Let's visit Olivier's studio first.

Back of the old house showing the animal pens , photo by Mary M Payne

A new angle on an old dwelling....photo by Mary M. Payne

Newly created steps and hand crafted door to entry to Olivier's Studio     photo by Mary M Payne

Olivier Planchon is a luthier by profession.  For his work as a stringed instrument maker,  he has already been awarded the Finest Artisan in France  (Meilleur Ouvrier de France, 2007) as a maker of instruments that have a recognizable sound......and he hasn't even been at it for that long. 
In a former life, Olivier and Karine lived in Paris where he was an art director in advertising.  They dreamed of leaving that life and starting out in a entirely new field away from the city. 

 Olivier made his first guitar following the instructions of a book and showed it to Daniel Lesueur,  a classic "luthier" who was impressed and offered to became Olivier's guide and instructor.  

  Now Olivier specializes in making handmade concert guitars  and "ouds"( he is holding the beginnings of one in the photo below) for professional musicians and passionate amateurs.  It takes about a year to painstakingly construct an instrument. ... Olivier spending 150-200 hours for each instrument he builds.

Olivier Planchon photo by Nice Panorama

Studio of Olivier Planchon   photo by Mary M Payne

Atelier of Olivier Planchon   photo by Mary M Payne

Atelier de Olivier Planchon    photo by Mary M Payne

"Utiles" de Olivier Planchon   photo by Mary M Payne

Body of an Oud made by Olivier Planchon  ....photo by Mary M Payne

Wood carving tools, studio Olivier Planchon, Contes   photo by Mary M. Payne

M. Planchon is particularly proud of the "finish" ( varnishes and decoration) of his instruments and continues to work towards improving the sound of each one.   Musicians claim appreciation for the quality of his instruments ("good dynamic, powerful, very balanced, very comfortable") and especially the quite recognizable sound that emanates from a Planchon instrument.

The marquetry from specialized woods and the finishes Olivier uses make these guitars beautiful as well as functional.  Each time a new instrument is christens he has had the pleasure of creating a different "rose window" to signal the exclusivity of the instrument. 

If you are hankering for a handmade guitar or oud... it will come to 3500 euros for an Oud and 5000-8000 euros for a handmade guitar.  You will then own an exceptional work of art.

565, avenue Borriglione06390 Contes - FranceTel: +33 (0) 6 11 62 25 85postmaster@olivierplanchon.comOlivier Planchon Website: www.olivierplanchon.com

Les Treize Desserts de Noel

Photo by Mary M Payne

It's a crispy day and I have been out at 6am to have an energetic walk and a thrilling look at a low full moon.    It's Christmas Day.   Monsieur and I did our exercise and then returned to bed until 9am and awakened with most everyone else.  

Not surprising there were only four people out on the Promenade des Anglais this morning.   Two of those were last night's revelers, one singing loudly in Italian, his Santa hat drooped over one eye.  The other two were walking giant dogs.

The reason why our Prom was so empty this morning was that the big feast for Christmas took place last night.  It is called Le Reveillon and folks are probably still sleeping it off.  

There are many French religious traditions left over even in today's somewhat lapsed Catholic population.  The most popular of these is the tradition of 13 desserts.  The number 13 represents Jesus and his twelve disciples.  Everyone at table is expected to taste each of these desserts to insure a good year ahead.  They will stay on the table for three days to make sure one gets a good start. 

If you have wandered around through the various neighborhood street fairs during this festive season you have seen a dried fruit and nut seller in each one.   That is because the first four desserts are different types of fruits and nuts which represent the monastic communities of the Catholic Church.  The dried figs represent the Franciscans.  Almonds stand for the Carmelites.  The dish of raisins are from the Dominicans and the hazelnuts or walnuts stand for the Augustinians.  

In addition there will be a plate of white nougat and one of black nougat which stand for good and evil.  A bowl of dates will represent the Holy Land.   A loaf of olive bread (which must be torn not severed with a knife) will protect your wealth for the coming year. 

The last five desserts may be freely chosen and will probably be candied or fresh fruits.  The fresh fruit platter... most likely composed of grapes, mandarins, and apples.  

Then comes the Buche de Noel (  it may be included as number 13).   This is a cake shaped like a yule log. It can be made with a center of ice cream, cream filling or be a traditional iced cake decorated like a log with little almond paste mushrooms etc. 

 The tradition comes from the older one of choosing a real log from a fruit or olive tree ...a giant log that was meant to burn until January 1.    It would be anointed by the oldest family member with wishes for a happy and flourishing year to come.  I'm afraid log burning fireplaces are mostly forbidden in central Nice now but can be found in mountain villages.   So this cake has replace the old ways. 

 The Yule log dessert follows a lavish meal that judging from the stacks of boxes at the market probably starts with Oysters.   The main dish may be a turkey or Chapon, ( a castrated rooster) fattened to huge proportions or a big white (commercially raised) duck. 

Monsieur and I will have a Pintade ( guinea hen) for lunch today served with roasted onions and sweet potatoes and chard, a modest lunch by French standards. 

photo by Mary M Payne

  Right now I am sipping my first glass of Champagne and like it or not I will indulge in "fois gras" today and a delicious, runny chèvre (goat cheese).   The French for the most part enjoy their culinary traditions that date back centuries and come from an agricultural society, one that enjoys the hunt ( duck ( col verte), venison, wild pig, pheasants, partridges.)   The day of killing off every songbird is for the most part, a thing of the past but the season of hunting continues. 

I admit I have not been as faithful to my blog this year.  I got a case of pericarditis (probably from a wandering virus) that has taken me 4 months to shake off and that is to blame for some of my idleness.    I am grateful now for my returned good health, my returned good humor and for the outstanding French health system.  

 I want to give thanks also that I continue to have faithful readers to this blog.   To you and your loved ones, Monsieur and I wish you as much gladness and celebration as you can stand and the best of health for 2016.   

The day we arrived in Nice

It's Armistice Day today or Veterans' Day in the States,  the day set aside to celebrate the end of the First Great War.


It commemorates the armistice signed between the Allies and Germany at Compiegne, France.  The signing took effect at eleven o'clock in the morning... "The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month" of 1918. 


 It was on this day more than 20 years ago that Monsieur engaged a truck and a driver, left at 4 am, and travelled down with him to Nice with our parrot,  Digby Willoughby, in a cage beneath his feet.    I took the train down rather than be packed in with boxes and a parrot. 

We were amazed upon arriving that we were able to unload the truck without a soul trying to get past it.  Our street was barely able to accommodate the truck.  Later we realized that it was because of the "jour ferie" which is celebrated in France but not in Italy where Armistice day is commemorated on November 4.   

.

La Galleria, Milano    (photo unrestricted stock)

The week before we left Milan an incident occurred that was sadly not so unusual.    Monsieur saw two young boys about 7-8 years old on the six story high roof across from us, trying to pry open a dormer window. 

 He shouted at the boys and they "flipped him the bird" and continued their mischief.  But "Seniore" continued shouting until they finally slunk away. 
 We knew that the parents of these young thieves used their children to do "break-ins" as the children would not be prosecuted.  Mostly when caught, the kids played dumb about who their parents were and so the problem perpetuated. 

 In August, when the traditional summer holiday came and apartments were empty of residents, there was a major theft of Milan residences each year.   I wonder if that situation has changed since we left as it is still a way of life for the nomadic families that come (mostly from Middle Europe) and make thieving and begging their life's work. 

 In Nice there have been several visible solutions taken to contain this problem.  Theft and begging by Romani was much more of an issue when we first arrived.  The best avenue seems to prevent the godfather of the clan from sending the families down in the first place.   My sympathy is always with the kids and young mothers who are raised in this system. 

Anyway, Monsieur decided that the situation of the kids on the roof should be reported to the concierge (called a portinaio in Italy) of the apartments being raided and went over to have a word.

 The concierge in Italy is a very important person who is paid very little.  He is usually an uneducated man who raises his family in the small quarters afforded him on the first floor of a big apartment building.  The Portinaio who managed our building on Via San Marco was called Ezio and his wife was Pina.  Ezio had many stories,  among which was that as a small boy he was present at the Piazzale Lorreto when they hung up Il Duce in the square after the war.    see the story: 
http://www.custermen.com/ItalyWW2/ILDUCE/Mussolini.htm

 The day before we were to leave Italy,  Ezio called to tell us we had a visitor.   The man we encountered was the gentleman whose apartment was behind the dormer window. 

 He told us that all of his work on a three year architectural project was on his computer and it had not been backed up.  He realized what the theft would have meant to him and had come to thank us for preventing it. 

 But then he asked an unusual question: Why did you do it?  

We were puzzled but then he said " of course, you are foreigners"("stranieri") answering his own question.   No one in Italy would get involved, he explained.  

 This, I believe, is one of those cultural differences that has developed from one's country being occupied or besieged during war. 
 In America we are blessed not to have these same kinds of fears left over from war.  We have our own tragedies and fears, of course,  but superstition of one's neighbors is not one of them. 

This man wanted to invite us to dinner the next day but alas, after finally meeting one of our neighbors, we were off to our adventures in France. 

PS.  I have no control over the size of the  font.  It seems, today to have a life of its own. 




 

The first time I saw Paris

 I am often asked why Monsieur and I ended up living in France and I by now I have fashioned an answer. 

 This answer includes the fact that Monsieur's father was saved by a Frenchman during WWII and spoke highly of France and its people to Monsieur, then" le petit garçon".  

 It also includes our appreciation of the more relaxed lifestyle and the fact that having been in the wine trade,  we received several invitations to visit some of the famous Chateaux.   We saw then what a beautiful country France is.   

And I think, that Paris is on the radar of every American young person,  from her ideas from films and stories that she has heard from childhood.   Most everyone in America dreams of going to Paris. 

Paris outside the Louvre photo by Mary M Payne

My first trip to Paris occurred when I was 20 years old spending my third university year in Denmark on a scholarship program similar to a "foreign exchange".  

That school term in Copenhagen was formative.  I delighted in the discovery that not everyone on earth thought alike,  lived alike or created alike even if we were descendent Europeans.    

 I stayed with a young couple (in their late 30's) in a beautiful suburb called Birkerold just outside of Copenhagen: Aksel and Hanne.  My Danish "parents" were  curious, well-educated and refined and I got  my own lovely room in their house while attending classes in Opera, Architecture, and Danish language and culture in Copenhagen.

Me , Aksel and Hanne in Copenhagen circa 1967.   Photo courtesy of Mary M Payne

Aksel was the head of a successful rainwear company.  He eventually left that position in his fifties to become a high school teacher which was his real calling.  Hanne ran the whole international student (ISC) program for the University of Whittier.  They each spoke at least four languages and wanted to practice their English (so my Danish did not progress very well).  

    I remember the cold winter ; the walks in the rain (covered in slickers, hats and boots from Aksel's company),  talks together of a late afternoon with tea and cookies after a walk;  an extensive collection of ancient books of engravings which Aksel and I perused while lying on the floor knees bent, feet in the air ;  learning to knit and make Danish "smorrebrod" with Hanne. 

  We visited their two summer houses in Malmo, Sweden and one on a Danish Island (I forget which one of the many) and went on many excursions together.    It was an episode in my life that I treasure. 

 Near the end of the school term in Amsterdam all of our group was  invited on a trip to visit other cities of Europe including Amsterdam, Paris, Rome and Florence. 

 My 50 year old memories of Paris include the grandeur of the boulevards,  the view from "Le Tour d'Eiffel",  the majesty of Notre Dame Cathedral,  the magnificent museums and parks and French bakeries (Patisseries).  Paris soon met my expectation of what a great city should be.  

The memory that stands out on this trip, however, was the announcement that we would not be going to Florence.   That was the year ,1966, when the Arno River overflowed its banks ( Nov. 4, 1966),  flooding the city and destroying over 1500 rare manuscripts and paintings. 

 When we were told the news we plunked down on the nearby steps and sobbed.  It seemed grossly unjust that we had waited 20 years to see Florence and its treasures and now they were presumably lost to us and the world.  

As you now know , a host of restoration angels descended on Florence and much of the damage was reversed in years to come, but that first alarming announcement still is recorded in my brain's rolodex.  


 But thinking back on that first trip to Paris,  I was quickly captivated by the beauty, strangeness and harmony of the place and the people... who yes, were brusque, distant... and so distinctly "other".    This combination, the lilt of the language, the pouty chic of the women... was alluring and repellent at once.  That made it seductive to me.   

 I am less fond of big cities now and am glad to be near the warmth of the South,  but I can always get excited about a trip to Paris and have an appreciation for the French and their way of life. 

 And I can still be tempted by an excellent "tarte de citron", enclosed in its little box,  wrapped in traditional parchment paper and tied with ribbon as a little gift to oneself.  So French... so wonderful.

Where Pigeons go to Die

Lately I have been noticing the serendipity in my life....that is the  connections between thoughts and events that happen by chance and usually illicit a " deja vu" moment.   

Today I found a dead bird up on the top of garden wall.  Oh, no.  I wondered if the mature and magnificent Mozzi had been honing his feline skills.  

 On inspection it turned out not to be one of our two resident collared doves but a pigeon.  I say resident doves, because ever since we have been in this house there has been a pair of doves that sleep in the bay tree and are fed wild bird seed on the balustrade by Monsieur.  

Monsieur started this practice years back when the neighbors were putting out rat poison and the male dove of the couple died from ingesting it.  We somehow took it upon ourselves to put seeds for the lone female.  She thought it was a dandy deal and the couple-dom has been kept intact ever since.... either by aggression or by passing it to the next generation, we can't be sure. 

  I tolerate this practice out of habit now.  Monsieur does not seem to mind the fighting that goes on in the garden.   It turns out that doves are "not the brightest bulbs on the block" and that they are territorial and waste most of the seeds fighting over their patch from dove intruders.  

But even before the doves arrived,  there have been at least four pigeons who have come here in distress.  Two of them survived as Monsieur was able to help them.   The other two we found already dead. 

 The first survivor's foot was tangled with fishing line and he asked Monsieur to see what he could do.... hopping up to him without fear.  Monsieur, the animal whisperer,  was able to untangle the mess with cuticle scissors but the damaged leg dropped off anyway.  

This pigeon he named " Mutor" (as I suppose he looked liked some kind of mutant) and he visited us with his stumpy leg for about 4 years.  He came for seeds, of course.  The other injured or sick pigeon stayed over night inside in a basket, then asked to be let out and stayed one more night between the pillars on the terrace (risking the cats) before he flew away, seemingly healthy.   

This morning seeing another pigeon dead I remembered that when I lived in Carmel, Ca. there was a writer who could regularly be found having his coffee break in the Carmel Cafe.  His name was Robert Wright Campbell and at the time he was working on a book called: Where Pigeons Go to Die.   
 I see from Wiki that he was born in 1927 and died in 2007 in Monterey.  He did publish the book and it was made into a movie directed by Michael Landon.  The connection there is not only that I knew Robert Campbell and that he was writing this book but that I knew Michael Landon as an acquaintance from the Buckley School.    I was a teacher and his children were students there.

  The serendipity for me is that Campbell's provacative title has turned out to be a kind of truth for us.  Pigeons do seem to come here to die....(or be treated).  And the amazing thing is that even though we are close to a city full of pigeons, very few of them ever find their way up our street despite the seeds available.   That is a little miracle in itself, non?

Another episode of what I call serendipity happened on the train from Eugene to Seattle this August.  A woman said to me while I was sitting in the viewing car:  "I would have thought that was my bag if you had been coming from the other direction."  It transpired that we both had a very unusual German tote bag.  Mine had been bought in Nice.  Hers was a gift from a friend who visited London. She had not been to Europe for years and neither one of us has ever seen another bag like it. 

Elizabeth and I with our polka dotted tote bags on Amtrak

It turned out that we chose to sit together the rest of the way and  chatted on our many common interests.  She was on the way from L.A. to Seattle for a workshop called "dreamgates" by Robert Moss.   I had recently taken a workshop with Charley Morley called  "Lucid Dreaming".  I would say these are obscure interests.  So yes, I added this encounter to my "serendip" list of happenings   

By the way, the origin of the word Serendipity is from a fairy tale written in 1754 by Horace Walpole.  It was called The Three Princes of "Serendip". The heroes of this saga were always making discoveries "by accidents or sagacity, of things they were not in quest of".  I like this definition better than any other and I do look for these little connections in life.   Its my kind of optimism, I think. 

Smoked Chicken with Wild Rice Salad

Smoked Coquette with Wild Rice Salad photo by Mary M Payne

Just because it's hot doesn't mean I have given up on my pleasure for good food.  In fact, I am a great concoctor of salads and put this skill to use  when the weather is blazing.

  I have Monsieur bring home basic ingredients and then I improvise with what he finds. 

I got the idea for this preparation from an old favorite book called Christopher Idone's Salad Days published by Random House in 1989.  

 I didn't really know if I could find a smoked chicken but in fact we did find a fat little "coquelet" (young male chicken) instead.  It made enough for three large servings. 

The principal ingredients for this salad are:

a smoked chicken, 
a cup of wild rice cooked in chicken broth
one bunch of scallions ( often confused in French: onions vertes ou scallion being the most common terminology)
walnut pieces, toasted in butter
dried cranberries. 

Sauce: 
pepper
salt
sherry vinegar
juice of ½ orange
vegetable oil ( I used sesame oil and olive oil)
"Espelette" red pepper fine flakes

The original recipe called for kumquats, fresh cranberries , oriental sesame oil, hot pepper oil, grainy mustard and a garlic clove.  

I always hate to shop for just one recipe so sorry.... no kumquats or fresh cranberries ( they aren't even cultivated in France) were in the house. 

 I left out the garlic on purpose because I find raw garlic can easily become over-powering and the mustard was unhappily encased in ice in the back of the "frigo" ( but that's another story).

    I put hot pepper from Espelette on the table and Monsieur went for that.  He always likes his dishes hotter than I can stand.  Jack Sprat. 

Wild rice is not really a rice but a grass and I like the way it adds a chewy element to salad.   I also had a bunch of young green beans lying around so I steamed some of those and added them.   And I just happened to stock dried cranberries which added a nice sweet touch ( they always add sugar to them in France).

The trick with the scallions is to slice them and cut them into long strips and then put them in ice water to crisp them up.   And of course, the salad is better if the beans and rice are refrigerated a bit before serving. 

Wild rice and smoked coquelet can be found in Nice at Galeries Lafayette at Cap 3000 and maybe other stores. 

 We found this meal delicious with a cold glass of rose.  Bon Appetite.