Not Monet: Vladimir Gusev

The first time I saw this painting

I said to myself, "I didn't know Monet painted that."

Now, I have never claimed to be an expert on the seminal Impressionist painter.  I can say, however, that I probably am more familiar with his work than the average layperson.  At least, I know enough to know that not all of his images are of waterlilies on ponds, lovely as those are.

And I know enough to tell a Monet from a Manet--and, certainly, from a Sisley, Pisarro, Renoir, Degas or Gaugin.  Still, I had to wonder, "Why did I never see this in any of the books--or in the Musee d'Orsay?

The first vehicles most of us would identify as bicycles--or semblances of them--were created early in Monet's life.  The high-wheeler or penny-farthing came along when he was coming into his own as an artist; the "safety" bicycle would be invented in the middle of his life, when he was becoming his most productive and innovative.  And the "bike boom" that seized most of the Western world (and Japan) at the end of the 19th Century and the beginning of the 20th coincided with his etudes of the Rouen Cathedral and his early Giverny work.  So it's certainly not inconceivable that a bicycles would appear in Monet paintings--or, for that matter, works by any of his contemporaries.

But, as far as I know, there are no velocipedes in any of his work.  This painting--of his son, Jean, on a hobby-horse--is about as close as he comes to including a bicycle in anything he did:

The artist whom I mistook for Monet, however, has graced quite a few canvases with his depictions of two-wheelers and the people--women and girls, mainly--who ride, or at least accompany, them.

And I wouldn't be surprised if he turned out more paintings with two-wheelers in them.  Yes, the artist in question is very much alive and working:  Vladimir Gusev.

If his name sounds familiar, it probably means you've been reading this blog.  In a bizarre coincidence, he shares his name with the unfortunate cyclist who--in my opinion, anyway--had his career ruined by the hypocrisy and mendacity of Johan Bruyneel, the directeur sportif of Astana, who threw him under the bus after the Union Cycliste Internationale (UCI) threatened to ban the team (and defending maillot jersey winner Alberto Contador) from participating in the Tour de France after doping allegations. 

Yes, we're talking about the same Johan Bruyneel who managed someone named Lance Armstrong on something called the US Postal Service team.  And, yes, the same UCI that looked the other way when Lance was winning but forced Gusev to drop his suit against them in order to continue his career.

The painter Gusev, of course, has nothing to do with any of that.  And the bicycles and cyclists in his paintings seem worlds away from the scandal-ridden milieu of professional racing.

Happy Mother's Day

I'll admit:  I wasn't always the best kid in the world.  I certainly wasn't the most obedient.  (Confession:  I still take some pride in that!)  Then again, as a rabbi pointed out to me, "The Fifth Commandment says, 'Honor thy mother and father.'  It doesn't say 'obey'."

Of course, that rabbi wasn't saying that I, or anyone else, should be a defiant child.  But he emphasized honor.  And, well, I can say I've tried to do that.  Really, I have.

The thing is, my mother knows that.  She knows now that even when I've done things she wished I hadn't, I wasn't trying to hurt or dishonor, let alone disrespect, her.  She knows there are some things I could only but do.  And she has supported me in what I needed to do.

Does she realize that I see cycling as one of those things I need to do?  Possibly:  She has encouraged me to do it, whether or not I needed encouraging. (She has never been a cyclist herself.) And, in the other things in which I needed encouragement--especially the biggest change I ever made--she has stood with me when others wouldn't.

My mother doesn't do computers, and probably never will.  However, my father might be reading this.  If he is, he will probably show it to her.  So, Mom:  Happy Mother's Day. And thank you.

(Both images are from Eleanor's NYC.)

She Didn't Need A Miracle. Neither Did I.

I've been to Lourdes.

No, I wasn't looking for a miracle cure--not even for the conflicts that raged within me.  In fact, I never planned to go there:  I just happened to pass through.

Back in 2000, I took a ride from France into Spain and back, through the Pyrenees.  Yes, I pedaled up Tourmalet, Hautaucam, Aspin, Portillon and Peyresourde, all of which have been part of the Tour de France at one time or another.  But I also pedaled through some cities and towns full of history and culture, including Toulouse (where I started) and Foix.  And, of course, Lourdes.

Now, I didn't think that a visit to the shrine would do anything that a good masseuse couldn't.  Still, I figured it would be interesting to stop there.  Even with all of the hawkers selling the tackiest souvenirs imaginable, it's lovely and charming--and offers some rather stunning vistas of the mountains and river valleys, not to mention great cycling.

The latter is known to many, including Rachel Atherton.  However, the ride she did is, let's say, just a little different from what I did:

 

Sometimes A Longer Crank Arm Is Only A Longer Crank Arm...

Time spent with cats is never wasted.

Truer words were never uttered.  (All right, very few truer words were ever uttered.)  Who said them?

The same person who said,

Everywhere I go,  I find that a poet has been there before me.

Hey, I can get with that, too.  Or:

Dreams are most profound when they are the most crazy.

Such a pronouncement is ironic, coming from a man who hated radios and telephones--he would use the latter, but only when absolutely necessary--because of the noise they made.  He even hated music!  He also hated motorcycles, which came out in the middle of his life, for the same reason.

He also hated bicycles, which no one--not even his closest family members and associates--could explain.  He never explained it himself.  However, I think it may have had something to do with his being a control freak, a label attached to him by everybody who knew him.  Or it may have been about his relationship with his son, who was an avid cyclist.

Ahh, father-son conflicts.  Did I hear "Oedipal"?  All right...now, perhaps, you have a clue to whom I'm referring.

Yes, I am talking about none other than Sigmund Freud-- who, if he were alive, would be 160 years old today.

What would he make of the fact that so many cyclists, particularly males, are riding longer cranks these days?  What would he have to say about wheels, and what our choices about spoke patterns--or discs--say about us?

About his hatreds:  Here's one that, perhaps, overshadows the others:

Yes, America is gigantic, but a gigantic mistake.

What would he make of the current Presidential race?
 

What I Will And Won't Do On Cinco De Mayo

I have it on good authority (i.e., some Mexicans of my acquaintance) that one sure-fire way to give yourself away as a gringo is to eat Tex-Mex or Cal-Mex or Nuyo-Mex food and drink Corona beer on this day, Cinco de Mayo.

From what they tell me, outside of Puebla, the holiday is not widely celebrated in Mexico.  It's not seen as "Mexican Independence Day" any more than 24 December, the day the War of 1812 ended, is seen as American Independence Day.

From Pinterest

In fact, according to my authorities/acquaintances, Mexicans have actually taken to calling this day "Drinko de Mayo" and "Gringo de Mayo".  Somehow I'm not surprised:  The vast majority of folks who get drunk on St. Patrick's Day aren't Irish, or even partly of Celtic heritage of any sort.

And, in another parallel to Cinco de Mayo, St. Patrick's Day is celebrated more robustly in the US, Canada and Australia than it is in Ireland itself.  The day celebrating an Anglo-Roman who converted Ireland to Christianity has become, more than anything, an ostensible celebration of Irish heritage, just as Cinco has become a celebration of Mexican pride.

(Likewise, Italian-Americans see Columbus Day as an occasion to celebrate their roots and culture.  But why, of all people, do we choose someone who got lost?)

Photo by Can Turkyilmaz, from Oak Cliff Advocate

Anyway...I promise I won't wear a sombrero or fake moustache.  (Having had a real moustache--and beard--for long periods of my previous life, I get no thrill out of sporting facsimiles.)  I won't even wear a sarape or any of those brightly-colored dresses or shoes.   I might eat something Mexican because, well, I like Mexican food, even in all of its bastardizations.

"Working Relationship"  by Nick Mc Coy, from the Oak Cliff Advocate

But I'll probably go for a ride after work.  That's one thing that translates into almost any culture, and therefore isn't culturally insensitive!

From the Downtown Mobile Alliance

(That bike shop certainly looks OK to me!)