Paris is a terrible fucking cliche in books and movies, with all its despair and poetry and romance and death. But truth is, its a terrible cliche in the flesh. When we travelled around Europe as a family (I was nine), we didn't go to Paris. Toulon, Saint Etienne, Bordeaux but not Paris...Mum said something about a terrorist attack there. In hindsight, perhaps it was just too expensive for my parents to take two hick kids to one of the most expensive cities in the world. We were four kiwi's traveling squashed in a campervan and on a diet of canned tomatoes and packet spaggetti. Where would we camp? Passing its outskirts on our travels, Paris became a kind of mysterious city to me, somehow not of this world. I imagined it walled and sealed off to us and other poor travellers. Back in NZ I built my Mecca up; reading Hemingway, Miller, Nin, Proust, watching Les Amants du Pont-Neuf. My Paris was musty, filled with damp basements lit by candles. Cheap Bordeaux served in tumblers. Absyinthe fueled fights/sex/conversation. Grey stone bricks the size of double beds. Hunched old women in fur; glossy creme brulees; pastel macaroons; extortionately priced toasted cheese sandwiches at tabacs filled with haughty smokers. Every pause and gaze loaded with meaning, with yearning.

I made my first trip to Paris with Andy 11 years ago. He bought a bottle of cheap red wine, a 50c baguette and led me to Sacre Coeur at dusk. Such a fucking cliche. I loved it so much I thought I'd die.

"When good Americans die they go to Paris." Oscar Wilde

My photos of Paris

Pictures I took in Istanbul.  The guy selling tickets is blind.  People were feeding the pigeons and going to mosque.  The bazaar is up the hill and around the corner.  We'd spent hours choosing the right coffee grinder to buy and trying to find out prices of beautiful rugs without actually asking - we knew we didn't have enough money anyway.

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The earthquake in Christchurch was last week and the aftermath is horrific.  So many sad stories.  People gone, missing, dead.  The people who blessedly survived are now having to start again.  The stories on the radio are heartbreaking.  Several companies have announced that they won't be reopening leaving hundreds out of work,  combined with the thousands waiting to find out if they have jobs to go to and small business owners waiting to see if their insurance will help them find new premises, buy stock, equipment etc and let them keep paying their employees until this is possible.

I can't imagine being responsible for a family, for children, a mortgage and not know if I have work nor be able to find other work.  So many people have said "I'd just pack up and get the hell out of Christchurch" but moving away is an impossibility for most of these people right now, they have houses that can't be sold, kids in schools etc.  But they are the lucky ones, so many people have sadder stories.

You can donate here if you like:  www.redcross.org.nz

A great weekend.  Friday night we snuck onto a boat-shed for beers at sunset, the best spot on the harbour, it felt like we were in Greece again, just needed the ouzo. On Saturday I spent the day at pottery, practicing at the wheel, bowl after bowl after bowl listening to strange gypsy baroque music on a radio station with no talking, no ad's. Saturday night  we had friends over, built a fire in the jungle-yard and stayed up til 4am talking about why we do the things we do, about the addictive state of grace that can happen when you create or when things just get perfectly right for a moment. The combination of beer, cicada's, Will Oldham and the hot, lush, peat-y smell made me conscious and happy.

And today we went looking at open homes, nosiness more than actually ready to buy. Fell for a little 2 bed cottage with a big separate recording studio.  Andy is desperate for it and I see his calculations trying to twist and squeeze blood out of a stone.

But this life is good enough for now.

What moves me #1:  Historical photo-portraiture. Collecting portraits of people (and a few dogs!) who pose for someone who loves them.  I have dozens I've picked up from markets all over the place.  Or just wondering about people in pictures from the past, like these 'Portraits de criminels Australiens dans les annees 1920'.  What did they do?  I love the guy who 'refuses to open his eyes'!  They all look like people I'd like to know.





More here.

And here is an incredible story about the 'undiscovered' photographer Vivian Maier.

There's so many blogs out there.  So many with beautiful photography, cute fashion, sweet illustrations & jewellery & craft.  All this lovely stuff.  I'm falling for it in one way and tiring of it in another, and I've only been looking for a few months.  I don't know, it makes me happy and inspired but sometimes it makes me feel hollow and saturated.  What does it all mean?  These little pictures, these windows of pretty things, pretty lives?

It makes me question what really gets me.  From all this stuff, what is it that moves me, resonates, galvanises me?  I'm questioning that.  I'll let you know what I come up with.

Day off tomorrow and I feel like closing off the world and hiding away with books and music and wine and plotting what I'm going to make at my first pottery class on Monday.  I've decided to be a famous potter.  Can't be that hard.

Thanks to my first two commenters (both bloggers I follow keenly). I feel like such a blogging virgin.  Does it get less awkward?

Walking home from work on Thursday I was stopped in my tracks by the reflection on the Civic of the building opposite.  I was so mesmerised by the light I didn't even notice the beautifully dressed women crossing until I looked at the image on my computer.

Andy's napping, wrapped in white cotton sheets and pillows.  An afternoon nap before we head out to watch the Auckland anniversary fireworks and hopefully, a few ciders down by the water.  We spent the morning at the markets where I picked up a strange painting for $5 which I'll photograph soon, bought a watermelon and plums and headed off to the beach, Murawai this time to see the ganet colony.  Ganets are romantics. They perform the most graceful dance to attract their mate then once mated they stay together forever, travelling each year to Australia then returning to Murawai and their same nest to breed again.

Nesting.  We stopped and looked at this sweet relocation home in Kumeu. I loved it.  We are thinking Birkenhead might be affordable, went for a drive and there are some beautiful lush sections.  Just have to avoid the suburbia blocks.  Weird, never thought I'd think of moving away from the city but starting to feel excited about the prospect of our own place...anywhere... with trees and grass and decking. Andy is determined to plant fruit trees as soon as we get a place. Mmmm. Feijoas.

Btw, I know we look like twats with the same fake RayBans but it's ok because fortunately, we are twats.

We made it.

Then Rio.  If you do go to Rio, we can give the name and number for Maria's Rooms in Cocacobana - lovely, airy room in her house - she's lovely and the house is in a very safe part of Rio. xxx