mypaintings2014

 

 

Friday blinks, pigeons slowly stomp on sidewalks, in moist air froze indecision. Want something fresh, invigorating and penetration. And certainly cozy.

And all this in one word - France.

Croissants, cafe, bridge, low, throaty voice with trills wraparound "p-p-p ...", the romance of narrow streets and large squares, mutiny little people with huge showers ... So you want to wave back without looking, straight from the carotid Friday in vigorous-p-ryaschuyu vendr r-redi!

 

 

 

 

 

I resigned from the dry rocks my house

To prefer the kittens was my home,

And the mice became too sweet my house

To pigeon grain found in it,

That the sun schurilos there over all angles,

When it is my home,

To the kids play in it,

With whom -

With anyone,

With cheerful draft,

And that joy was in my house all.

 

Without a roof and it's fire, my house,

And without you, without me, my home,

And no it's servants, and asked the gentlemen in it,

And quite the contrary therein,

No items No, no there is no fear, no walls,

No weapons or threats

Neither captured,

And neither relics nor religion will find in it -

That's why he's so good, my house.

 

Andre Freneau

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life compose passing

spring rain - and in a way;

life - a breeze hundred promises

impracticable and path

hundred daring and defeats,

and again the movement, and the wind, and the life

so affectionate, if he wants.

 

Andre Freneau

 

 

Artist from France Maria - Claire Houmeau