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The Perks of Being an Artist

Tag Archives: graves

Pere Lachaise Cemetery

01 Thursday Jun 2017

Posted by emilypageart in art, culture, painting, Uncategorized

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art, Emily Page Art, french cemetery, graves, mausoleum, painting, paris cemetery, pere lachaise cemetery, Raleigh artist, travel

After my crisis where I thought I’d try not painting for awhile, I realized that that’s stupid. I just can’t not paint. I’m still in a crisis as I try to figure out how the hell to sell all that art, but I can’t stop making it. Today, I sat down and did a little painting of the Pere Lachaise Cemetery that I visited on my trip to France last month. At the end of our river cruise, my mom and I tacked on a couple days in Paris because our cruise didn’t include a couple of my favorite spots on their tour. One of those spots was the Pere Lachaise Cemetery where all sorts of famous-y-type people are buried. It’s fun hunting down the various graves, but honestly, even if you don’t look for any one marker in particular, it’s a gorgeous, peaceful stroll. There are huge, monument style markers, mausoleums, and small, more modest headstones. Some date back to the 1800’s, and some are more recent, and they are the final resting places for everyone from Moliere, Chopin, Delacroix, and Oscar Wilde, to Jim Morrison.

A couple tips for anyone interested in visiting: if you take the metro, get off at the Gambetta station, not the Pere Lachaise station. That will allow you to enter the cemetery from the opposite end, which means you’ll be walking downhill most of the way through the cemetery. If you’re visiting in the summer, wear bug spray, because the gnats and mosquitos can be intense. Fair warning: if you don’t have a map and wander around long enough, drunk guys will offer to show you to various graves and expect payment when they get you there. Their English is generally good enough to get basics across to you, and, honestly, we had fun chatting with our “guide” as he weaved us through the cemetery, but there is some haggling at the end for how much you pay them. Start low, because they’ll ask for more.

Anyway, here is the painting I just knocked out – one of the shady paths through the cemetery:

Pere Lachaise Cemetery.jpg

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Kick You in the Crotch, Spit on Your Neck Fantastic

28 Tuesday Jul 2015

Posted by emilypageart in death, dementia, family

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Tags

Alzheimer's, asshole nursing home administrators, cemetery, dad, deer, dementia, dementia care facilities, father, FLD, frontal lobe dementia, frontotemporal dementia, FTD, graves, hospice, interment, Monticello, Thomas Jefferson

So, life kicked my heart in the crotch again yesterday. And then it gave it a paper cut and poured Mike’s Hard Lemonade on it, which probably sterilized the wound with the alcohol, but still hurt like a sumbitch.

The dementia care facility where my dad lives announced to my mom this week that, because he’s staging down again, he’s about at the point where they’ll need to move him over to the nursing center. Whatthewhat? When we moved him in, there was no mention about having to totally disrupt and disorient him once he got to a certain point. We were under the impression that he could live out his remaining time where he was in order to make it as gentle and stress-free a process as possible. And we’ve seen other residents do that. Now, suddenly, we’re being told otherwise. To make matters worse, the nursing side of the home is DE-PRESS-ING. Not that it’s all rainbows and bunny kisses on the dementia care side, but we’re used to it, Dad can roam as he’s able, the staff knows him, he (mostly) knows the staff, and it’s now his home. The nursing wing is dark, with narrow halls, and residents lined up in those halls staring forlornly at the linoleum or moaning at anyone who goes past. The only activities are meals and a small TV with room for about 5 patients to watch. And what’s even more f*cked up, is that there are residents still in the dementia care unit that are way farther along in the disease progression, so I don’t understand why they can stay but he can’t. So we spent part of yesterday visiting other nursing care facilities to see if they’re all as depressing as the one they want to move him to (answer: no, there are others that are much more cheerful). But we also learned that skilled nursing centers may not be appropriate for him since he doesn’t require any rehab and we won’t be doing any life-prolonging measures so he won’t need things like iv’s. So now we’re thinking we need to call Hospice and ask their advice about what an appropriate facility for him might be. Then, our goal is to tell the powers-that-be where he is now that, if he is not allowed to stay in the dementia care facility, that he and his dollars will be taken elsewhere, and hopefully when they realize they’ll lose that income, they’ll allow him to remain in his current situation. So cross your fingers.

As if that whole adventure wasn’t delightful enough for the day, we also went to the cemetery where my mom just bought a plot and a bench for putting Dad’s (and, eventually, our) ashes when the time comes. It’s a lovely spot in the cemetery below Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s home. It’s right beneath a tree and has mountain views on either side. And two fawns were playing in the pasture near us. We also have some distant cousins and some family friends buried there, so we figure my dad can have a rollicking party when he arrives. Good company for eternity and all that. Hopefully there will be Scotch on hand for him. For some reason, the fact that it was a lovely spot and quite peaceful made me lose it. Or maybe I would have lost it anyway (this is assuming, of course, that I ever had it). I’m not sure that I can articulate why. But I pictured myself sitting on that bench, staring at those mountains that have always brought me so much comfort and peace, and just aching with missing him. And I started aching in that moment, and did that really attractive thing where you do the shuttering-and-sucking-in-air gasps, trying not to cry. And then Mom said, “It’s okay to cry,” which is just the worst and best thing, because you do. Losing him while you haven’t lost him is so damn brutal. Trying to get this stuff out of the way now, while it’s less painful and there isn’t a hurry, is probably a really good thing to be doing, except it’s still really f*cking painful anyway. Sitting there designing the bench and figuring out what we want to say on it, and do we want a plaque for his military service, and do we want his full dates or just the years, and are there any little decorative things we want on it, and do we want vases for flowers, etc., was just too much, and will always be too much.

So anyway, my heart feels a bit like it sat on the couch for 20 years and then went for a 20 mile run – stiff and sore and in serious need of good soak in the tub and a large bottle of bourbon.

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Emily Page

Emily Page

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