As an update to my earlier post about Russian Nesting Dolls (aka Matrioshka Dolls), I wanted to show readers Channel’s new Matrioshka Russian Doll handbag, as reported by StyleByMe.net. Take a look at the photo bellow:
Again, I think this really just shows how uncommonly identified with Russia and how iconic an item these dolls remain
But as the StyleByMe blog post says, as a purse, the Russian Doll is kind of a hard look to pull off…
If an artist flairs his temper, showcases some eccentricity, or generally fails to be a dependable adult, most of us (mentally at least) chalk it up to “artistic temperament”.
As far as I can tell, an artistic temperament covers everything from a high-functioning manic-depressive, to an ADD daydreamer, to hedonistic-bohemian searcher, to an anti-social J.D. Salinger. It covers a multitude of sins, so to speak.
And that’s its problem: the excuse, and even the expectation, of “artistic temperament” has allowed many an artist to slide in ways that weren’t good for them or their art. To quote G.K. Chesterton, “The artistic temperament is a disease which afflicts amateurs.”
Jean-Luc begins my novel, The Last Train from Paris, with a serious case of “artistic temperament” – he actually thinks being late by about an hour is not only OK, but better than expected, he routinely skates by without paying rate or even paying for his food at the café. Moreover, he has to be persuaded to actually take a paying job with Matisse.
Now that’s an artistic temperament. But oddly enough, it produces no art worth saving – or at least not for Jean-Luc. Only when he abandons his more irresponsible behaviors and begins working for the greater benefit of all, does he start producing great art.
And regardless of your temperament, that’s a lesson anyone can and should learn. When you start devoting even a little of your time, energy, and money to charity, you’ll invariable find new creative energy within your life. Everyone I know or have asked about charitable giving has attested to it. In fact, it’s been my experience in working with Camp Okizu, the largest summer camp in Northern California for children undergoing cancer treatment, that I have always returned from those experiences with a “helpers euphoria” which invariably leads to increased creative output for me.
So what are you trying to make happen? And is there a worthy cause you’ve been meaning to support?
Could be the two most important, creativity-boosting questions you’re every likely to hear.
“Drawing is like making an expressive gesture with the advantage of permanence.”
- Henri Matisse
Early in my Novel, The Last Train from Paris, my story’s hero, Jean-Luc Beauchamp, is employed as an assistant to Matisse. He is to help sketch the pencil lines that will determine the form of a grand-scale gouache painting, a painting that will serve as the backdrop of a ballet performance.
This may seem like a minor detail until you realize that Matisse was a renowned draughtsman himself as well as a master of compositional form. And while both qualities are in abundant display in Matisse’s gouaches découpés, one can see his drawing abilities most clearly in line drawings such as these:
So for Matisse to employ another artist to sketch out the pencil lines is high praise indeed. In fact, while Jean-Luc’s talents were certainly up to the task, he only got the position through an endorsement by a mutual friend and fellow painter, Joan Miró. And while I don’t dwell on this fact within the novel itself, Jean-Luc learns a great deal through his close work with the master painter and draughtsman.
Between the twin influences of Miró and Matisse, and through the emotional journey he undertakes through the novel, Jean-Luc is able to emerge as his own, brilliant painter. And I think this mimics life in the sense that none of us really makes it alone – especially not those of us working in a creative field.
We all need our mentors.
In my life, I’ve been extremely fortunate to have been coached and guided by a number of wonderful teachers and mentors.
My very first Mentor was my Father, who taught me the importance of giving back. I grew up in Texas, and Texans are known for being “do what you say” kind of people, which I take a lot of pride in. You know? “Walk the talk,” and all that. And I think as a result of both my father and just being raised in Texas I had this drive to emulate what I saw around me. So I was frequently a top fundraiser for charities such as The Cattle Baron’s Ball – getting out there and getting it done while also working to give back.
And the thing about achieving those kinds of things – is that it has to be an everyday thing. You have to be involved in the fundraising every day – you can’t only do it when the mood strikes you. That level of commitment makes giving back much more meaningful.
Finally, my husband has been an important influence and mentor who has really opened my eyes to the global need. As Americans we are very giving people, but we also tend not to look past our borders unless something big happens, like a tsunami. But there are people in devastating need every day, but we just don’t hear about it, because their situation isn’t tied to a news-making event. My husband really opened my eyes to that and his compassion and philanthropy have really inspired me. I’m proud to be a part of it.
Although the term Prima Ballerina is a title commonly day-dreamed about by most young girls, it’s actually something of an antiquated rank that was used back in the 19th century. According to Wikipedia, the rankings for women, from highest to lowest, were:
So a Prima Ballerina was the principal female soloist or lead soloist (aka the star of the show). And a Prima Ballerina Assoluta was more of an honorific title used to denote a Prima Ballerina of supreme talent, skill, and accomplishment. It’s a title rarely conferred and almost unused in modern ballet with no active ballerina’s holding the title. As for active or modern titles, ballet companies now use the following titles:
In my novel, The Last Train from Paris, my hero’s love interest, Natasha, is a Russian ballerina working her way up in a Parisian ballet company, having already attained the title Sujet, she wasn’t the principle dancer or soloist, but an alternative soloist.
Interestingly enough, though, Natasha had been offered a position in Denmark where it was hinted that she would have a chance to become the Prima Ballerina Assoluta within a few years. And although Denmark is a country known for its ballet, it simply did not hold the same prestige as Paris, so she stayed in Paris as a Sujet with the goal of working her way up to Prima Ballerina. A not uncommon choice many of us make in our own careers – to work up a more difficult path rather than accept faster promotion in a lesser field or market. What about you?
Have you ever had to choose between being a bigger fish in a smaller pond and being a smaller fish in a bigger pond (with more opportunity for growth)? What did you choose and why?
In The Last Train from Paris, the first forged or replica painting that Jean-Luc, the novel’s hero, provides to the French Resistance, is a copy of Eugene Delacroix’s The Barque of Dante. And for those familiar with the work, this provides a clue to a turning point in Jean-Luc’s story.
Eugene Delacroix’s The Barque of Dante marks an artistic turning point itself, signaling the shift from Neo-Classicism towards the Romantic Movement, away from pure clarity of outline and carefully modeled form towards an increased emphasis on color, movement, and dramatic content – all elements clearly taking shape within the painting. Take a look for yourself:
And so it is with Jean-Luc, whose painting has just shifted from self-serving, and somewhat clinical pursuit of art for arts sake, to an outward focused and passionate employment of his artistic talents to serve the greater good.
Naturally, this artistic change was preceded by a similar transformation in his own life – meeting and consummating first real love, and finally lifting himself out of his cocooned and isolated existence to see what was really happening within occupied Paris.
It’s fascinating how changes in décor, fashion, hairstyles and such always seem to mirror – or be mirrored by – changes in your life. A new haircut signals a new job, or a new exercise routine, or even a new relationship. Pregnant women are compelled to “nest,” forcing their homes to reflect the upcoming addition to the family.
I really believe that one of the purposes of ritual or tradition is to better unite these aspects of our lives – our outer expression and inner realities. Which is why it’s important to have both deep, spiritual rituals in your life and to also have your own private traditions.
For me, one of my most important rituals is lighting the candles to welcome in the Sabbath. As Judaism 101 explains:
[Shabbat] Candles should be lit no later than 18 minutes before sundown…
At least two candles should be lit, representing the dual commandments to remember and to keep the sabbath. The candles are lit by the woman of the household. After lighting, she waves her hands over the candles, welcoming in the sabbath. Then she covers her eyes, so as not to see the candles before reciting the blessing, and recites the blessing below. The hands are then removed from the eyes, and she looks at the candles, completing the mitzvah of lighting the candles.”
If you follow the link, you will see that there are other traditions associated with preparation for Shabbat, but the candles are the ones most meaningful for me, since I have the role of lighting them, reciting the prayers, and fulfilling this part of welcoming in the Sabbath.
What kind of traditions have you made for yourself, and how do they help you better integrate your lifestyle with your life?
While there are many conflicting stories on the origin of Russian nesting dolls, many agree that the nesting dolls were first created in the late 1800’s by a Russian man named Murmantov. And if you’ve never seen these nesting, or Matryoshka, dolls, here are a few pictures of these dolls:
Some say the inspiration was a Japanese statue, others say it’s based on a Russian fairy tale, but regardless of the inspiration, the dolls became a hugely popular folk craft and are perhaps the single souvenir or item most closely associated with Russia, not to mention a common child’s toy and gift.
In other words, nesting dolls would be just the sort of thing a young Russian girl might take with her if she were leaving home to go live in another land. And in my novel, The Last Train from Paris, that’s exactly what Natasha does, and the dolls are one of her few, cherished possessions.
There are greater levels of meaning and symbolism within the dolls that apply to the novel, but I can’t really go into that without spoiling some plot twists and surprises, but let me just say that the dolls have captured the imagination of far more than just Russian children and a few novelists here and there. In fact, David Ogilvy, advertising legend and founder and head of Ogilvy & Mather, used to send a set of these nesting dolls to all of his new managers with the following note placed into the smallest doll:
“If each of us hires people who are smaller than us, we shall become a company of dwarfs, but if each of us hires people who are bigger than we are, Ogilvy & Mather will become a company of giants.”
And isn’t that a wonderful thought for anyone who leads, hires, or manages people?
“Why would a Russian ballerina show up in France to dance for a Parisian ballet company? Especially during World War II, when the Russians were fighting the Germans”
That’s the question one reader asked me after getting a third of the way through my novel, The Last Train from Paris. One of the main characters in the novel, and the hero’s love interest, is exactly that: a Russian ballerina living in Paris during the occupation. And, well, unless you know a little bit about the history of Ballet, that may seem like an odd thing.
So I thought I’d show how France and Russia have a unique and somewhat reciprocal ballet heritage that would make a Russian ballerina in Paris a rather expected exchange prior to World War II.
While ballet first appeared in Italy during the early Renaissance, it was the French, and specifically King Louis XIV, who allowed this new dance to flourish in Versailles by offering ballet instruction, codifying the basic movements or steps, and by sponsoring ballet’s first major choreographer and composer, Jean-Baptiste Lully. This is reflected in the largely French vocabulary of ballet, as nearly every movement in ballet is described by a French word or phrase. You even wish dancers good luck in French, saying, “Merde!” (in the same way one tells an actor to “break a leg”)
And from France ballet spread to Russia when Peter the Great brought artists, dancers, and composers to Moscow in order to evolve the arts and modernize the country during the end of the 17th century. Following in that tradition, Jean-Baptiste Lande (not to be confused with Jean-Baptiste Lully) brought his students to Russia to perform for the Empress Anna, who was so impressed with the performance that she decided to start the Imperial Ballet School in 1738.
After 1850, when Ballet had declined in Paris, it continued to flourish in Russia, seeing the composition and choreography of many all-time classics such as Swan Lake, The Nutcracker, and Sleeping Beauty. In fact, it was the Russian Ballet Master Sergei Diaghilev who brought ballet back to Paris with his, Ballets Russes, a ballet company formed in 1909 and made up of dancers from the Russian exile community in Paris after the Revolution. Similarly, it was eventually the Paris Opera Ballet where Rudolf Nureyev settled after defecting from the Soviet Union.
In this way, a common theme of ballet links Russia and France, and it would have been most natural for a Russian dancer to dance for a French ballet company, or vice versa. And that’s exactly the position Natasha found herself in when she came to Paris just before the battle of France.
As I’ve blogged about previously, The Last Train from Paris, eventually sees the novel’s hero, Jean-Luc, using his painting talent to protect The Louvre’s masterpieces by swapping the originals with his own forgeries. And the first painting to receive this protection was The Barque of Dante.
Yet while The Barque of Dante may have been the first painting that Jean-Luc was able to provide to The Resistance, that was almost an accident – Jean-Luc initially set out to paint something entirely different and he only painted a replica of that masterpiece by accident, with no intent of using it as a forgery to protect the original. In fact, he had no idea doing so was even possible, or that anyone was attempting to thwart the Nazi theft of the Louvre’s most important treasures. It was only because Miró saw the painting and recognized the opportunity such a replica afforded the Resistance, that the forgery was eventually used to protect the original.
So what famous painting was the first that Jean-Luc knowingly forged in order to save it?
Endymion Asleep by Anne-Louis Girodet de Roussy-Trioson. 
And for those with some knowledge of mythology (or art history), this is an ironic – and telling — piece for Jean-Luc to forge.
Here’s the mythic backstory:
Endymion was an indescribably handsome shepherd – so handsome as to rival his son, Narcissus – and he was also the mortal lover of the moon goddess Selene. Each night he was kissed to sleep by her, and Selene begged Zeus to grant him eternal youth (and life) so she might be able to embrace him forever. Zeus complied, putting Endymion into eternal sleep. In some variations of the myth, it was Endymion that requested eternal youth through sleep.
Now, here’s the thing, Endymion remained young – and beautiful – through sleep. Sleep allowed him to throw-off the cares of the world and to remain in his lover’s arms. But for Jean-Luc it was the opposite: only by awakening from his pretty-boy womanizing, and by “losing” his first real love, did he come to see the evil (and not merely the inconvenience) of the Nazi occupation. Before then he slept-walked through the occupation, blind to the troubles and hardships of those around him.
Once he wakes up and begins actively fighting the Nazi occupation, Jean-Luc is asked to help prevent the theft of some of the Louvre’s most prized pieces of art. And the first such piece is nothing less than a symbol of his previous existence.
Some people feel that it’s only in novels that these kinds of things happen – that this kind of symbolism and synchronicity is nothing more than a “trick” planned out by authors to punch-up the emotion within their stories.
But I don’t believe that. I don’t believe that this kind of symbolic coincidence only exists in literature or that real-life examples are nothing more than stray connections made up by over-active imaginations.
Life IS meaningful. And the connections that we make, cause, and find in life carry a great deal of that meaning. Seeing the symbolic significance of events, items, etc. is an important part of authentic living. One great example of this from my own life is when I met my husband.
Although I didn’t learn about his feelings until later, I had the strongest feeling that I had met him before or had somehow known him previously, even though we had only met that evening. The strength of it was well beyond normal déjà vu – so much so that I had none of the kinds of questions one has when she meets a potential romantic interest: it simply felt like all my questions were already answered, like I already knew the answers.
And as it turns out, our birthdays are only one day apart. And my husband felt the same way about me on our first meeting, exactly as if he had known me before. Some might say our birthdays are just coincidence and that our feelings are normal for a “love at first sight” meeting, but I see the thumbprints of fate. And I think everyone has had those moments and experiences in their lives.
So what symbolic moments or little signs or significant coincidences can you remember from your life? As always, I’d love to hear from you.
For a forger, it all depends on how well-known the original artwork is, and who you have to fool.
Attempting to forge and sell a Matisse to Sotheby’s and having to pass through their forensic experts is an entirely different matter than forging some relatively unknown (or even made up) Russian realist from the late 1800s and fooling your garden variety gallery owner and unsuspecting buyer. The latter would probably be within the realm of possibility to most decent painters who wished to devote the time and effort.
If that sounds startling, try this one on for size: Art World and Forgery experts estimate that a startling 40% of the art on the market are either “half-forgeries,” genuinely old works that have been doctored to fit a more valuable style or artist–or are outright fakes. There are even how-to books on forging paintings available on Amazon.
One can only imagine the temptation for a talented but broke artist who grasps at the possibility of making 100s of times what he could get for his original by producing a fake. And in fact, that’s exactly what you hear in the interviews with captured forgers, who go from being unable to pay their rent to selling paintings in the mid-five figure range.
Of course, what stops even the most talented forgers from going for the multi-million dollar jackpot and trying to pass off, say, a fake Mona Lisa is the fact that everyone knows where to find the real painting.
And that’s what was so intriguing to me about the situation I managed to put my hero in during the latter half of my novel, The Last Train from Paris. First, it was interesting to me to see the forger become the good guy – not to mention having the forger already becoming successful in his own right. And second, it was even more interesting to have a forger in a position where he no longer had to worry about what I’ll call “the Mona Lisa problem.” So here’s the situation:
Jean-Luc, my novel’s hero, is attempting to thwart the Nazis in their attempt to loot the Louvre (and indeed all of Europe as well) of many of its most important works of art. So he’s able to forge these masterpieces, make the swap, and allow the Nazi’s to grab the fake while he and his accomplices keep the real artwork safe.
In this situation, the museum patrons are easily fooled, because the very context of the painting being in the museum means the viewers would never think to critically evaluate the painting for authenticity. And the Nazi thieves would be even easier to fool. Indeed, it turns out that the Nazi Herman Göering himself was conned into buying a forged Vermeer.
Indeed, this museum/gallery/context principle seems to be behind most other forgeries as well: if you can get into a high-end gallery, most of the collectors will just believe the painting belongs there. Don’t believe me? Turns out the strategy and the power of context has worked to sell paintings from kids as young as two – in high-end galleries no less.
“Write what you know” is probably the most common piece of writing advice ever.
For me, I bent that advice to, “write what you’re passionate about and fascinated by.” In following that advice, I ended up writing a historical romance. And while there are many great pieces of literature that could be classified as such, great literature isn’t what typically comes to mind when you mention the words “historical romance” to someone.
No. The words that usually come to mind are, “bodice ripper,” or “Harlequin” – not the kind of things usually associated with “Literature.”
So I couldn’t help but ask myself: “Is The Last Train from Paris really a ‘bodice ripper’? And if not, what’s different about it. What makes it a more substantive read than other historical romances?”
The short answer to that question is “Character Arc.” That and my choice of a Miró painting instead of a shirtless Fabio on the cover.*
Seriously, though…my novel is fast-paced like a popular read or adventure romance. It starts off in the middle of things and every chapter advances the plot and keeps things interesting. My novel also has enough love and action scenes to be a popular romance. And The Last Train from Paris is certainly set in a romantic, dramatic, and adventure-filled setting (were talking Casablanca-like Paris in WW II, after all), like many popular romance novels.
But the big difference is the degree to which the changes and inner growth of my hero, Jean-Luc, are intertwined with the novel’s fast-moving plot, as well as its many main themes. Most “beach reads” and guilty pleasure novels just don’t have that. For those novels, it’s all about the narrative arc – moving the story along at breakneck speeds and revealing the gasp-worthy twists. Oftentimes the protagonists change very little, if at all, in these novels.
So I like to think that The Last Train from Paris kind of offers the best of both worlds. Page-turning action and plotting with character-developing depth. And the payoff for that character arc really comes at the end. An ending that I’ll bet most readers find far more resonant and meaningful than what’s offered up by most historical romances.
All in all, The Last Train from Paris strikes me far more as a classic (and character-driven) hero’s journey than anything else. If you’re currently reading, or have already read, my book, let me know what you think?
How would you categorize my book?
* P.S – Just as a funny side note, I actually got directions from Fabio once when I spotted him on a street near my friend’s house that I was going to see for the first time. He knew exactly where the street/area was that I was looking for. And, yes, he does actually wear shirts when he’s not posing for the covers of romance novels.
