Thanksgiving: counting my blessings, counting my Huberts.

Thanksgiving signals the beginning of the holiday season.  Some people revel in it while others dread it. I belong in the latter category. I was reminded of this by a friend/ex-coworker/fellow Scrooge as we commiserated during lunch last week over missing our traditional annual pilgrimage to FAO Schwartz toy store to offset the seasonal doldrums that overtake us this time of year. Perhaps missing our excursion was fortuitous since a previous and somewhat infamous visit to hunt down a Dill Pickles Rugrat doll for my youngest brought the throngs of harried toy shoppers to a standstill when my friend, atop the second floor escalator, spied the the Rugrat doll on display, and yelled loudly to me on the first floor "I found your Dill doll!" It might be time for a new tradition.

I established my own new Thanksgiving ritual. For me, this was a Hubert Thanksgiving. Husband and children off to the Thanksgiving Day Parade, guests not scheduled to arrive for hours, I popped the turkey in the oven and escaped the confines of my kitchen to take advantage of the solitude. Like King Midas (albeit in a grease-stained apron) admiring all of his gold I surrounded myself with all of my Huberts to marvel at and examine again for clues. Like reading a book for the second time there are always new details to discover that might have been overlooked before. This time I focused on Le Musee de Cluny which I have in triplicate, acquired on three separate occasions. One is numbered 155/500, titled and signed with the words "original etching in color, painted copper plate, made in France" imprinted on the frame's paper backing. The other two etchings are titled and signed but not numbered and the colors on these two appear more vibrant.  What is the significance, if any, of this new evidence? I'm not sure but perhaps the books I ordered on the history of French etching will clarify. And the plot thickens!

Midas may have turned everything to gold with his Midas touch but my turkey almost turned to ashes so I quickly returned to the kitchen where, in between basting my turkey and Tofurkey, I composed my Chasing Hubert Plan to quell my impending holiday malaise.  Feeling a bit like Nancy Drew, amateur sleuth, I've compiled a list - a system of order, an agenda, to better organize my hunt. Beginning with contacting museums first (French, Belgian, and American), moving on to art organizations (is there a French Etchers Society?), then universities and art schools, galleries, auction houses, print experts, and finally, anyone who will listen to me relate my Hubert obsession, including, but not limited to, shopping mall Santas.  Hopefully, one of these venues will render a hit or at least a worthwhile clue. A curious side note - none of my Hubert etchings seem to take place in winter. Could Hubert, like me, be averse to the holiday season?

So there you have it, my Chasing Hubert Plan.  Looks like I have my work cut out for me. All the better to take my mind off the fact that the holiday season like it or not is here, that there are only 25 shopping days left in which to fight the crowds and no way to return to the days when a couple of oranges in your stocking was considered a special treat. But on the bright side, my favorite day of the year - December 26th - is on the horizon.  And then I can sit back and breathe a sigh of relief knowing that I have 364 days until I have to do it all over again...

2012

I've been dreading 2012 since Y2K. I remember ringing in the New Year in 2000 cloistered in a cabin armed with my husband's idea of the ultimate survival kit - 50 lbs of flour (but no yeast), cases of Dinty Moore Beef Stew (I'm a vegetarian), enough bottled water to fill a pond, and an abundance of aspirin in anticipation of his ensuing headache brought on by being the only male in the presence of a wife and four daughters all suffering from a severe case of cabin fever.

Y2K came and went without incident (except that of my husband using a chain saw to dismantle our new satellite dish after one too many fights amongst the kiddies over possession of the TV remote) but thoughts of the Mayan's catastrophic prediction for 2012 took its place. Will December 21, 2012 be doomsday or just another day? I don't know but I'll read up on it and prepare - just in case. I even gave my my carpool buddy The Worst Case Scenerio Daily Survival Calendar last year for Christmas. Which, in retrospect, was probably not a bad idea considering his break-the-sound-barrier bursts of speed during our commute that left me picking bits of Starbucks healthy breakfast sandwich out of my hair and Zen green tea out of my lap.

Chronic worrywart that I am it was probably not in my best interest to see the movie 2012. However, plagued by recurring nightmares of tidal waves since I was a child, morbid curiousity got the better of me and I just couldn't stay away. The movie evoked the expected fears of impending disaster but it also brought a new worry to mind - that the end of the world will arrive without my discovering the identity of Hubert. Knowing that I might only have 1,125 days in which to find Hubert convinced me that I need to pick up the pace of my chase. As any good survivalist knows the key is to stay informed and have a plan. Till now, my efforts to find Hubert have been capricious but currently I am in the process of formulating a winning game plan. Because as another artist - Pablo Picasso - knowingly once said "Our goals can only be reached through a vehicle of a plan, in which we must fervantly believe, and upon which we must vigorously act. There is no other route to success." With his words in mind I set to work on my Chasing Hubert Preparedness Plan....

"What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything." Vincent van Gogh

Hubert may be my current obsession but as a child I was a bonafide bookworm. If a  book wasn't handy I would read the back of a cereal box. One of my most memorable childhood reads was "The Diary of a Young Girl" by Anne Frank. Her quote "In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart" remains etched in my mind (no pun intended) because 1) it's so inspirational and 2) it's so far removed from my own philosophy. I believe people intrinsically suck. I'm not including all of the human race in my theory but if mankind were represented in a pie chart then a Weight Watchers slice would represent all that is good. A pessimistic view, for sure, but expect less and you're pleasantly surprised, expect the most and you're consistently disappointed.

Since going public with my search for Hubert my faith in people has been somewhat restored. I have received suggestions, support, advice and encouragement in my quest to discover the identity of this obscure artist. Some of this even coming from perfect strangers.  One in particular signs off with the simple word "courage" which gives me just that when things look bleak. I've attained the dubious distinction of the world's foremost collector of ......... someone?

To all my fellow Hubert collectors/admirers out there please feel free to to post your comments/ advice/suggestions because the more people that get involved the greater the number of clues, the more information gleaned and the greater chance we can crack this case. More importantly, if Hubert's art can have such a positive effect on me, a reformed misanthrope, imagine what good it could do for the rest of the population! Courage....

Timing Is Everything

I've always had problems with timing - from cooking Thanksgiving dinner when the turkey wasn't edible until after dessert was served, to not quite making it to the delivery room in time to give birth, to being the first car stopped after the last car in front of me made it over the bridge when it was shut down for hours due to a jumper. On my birthday. Making me the only person not present at my birthday dinner.

My poor timing followed me to Paris. I planned my investigative Parisian excursions carefully, beginning with a longshot and ending with what I thought would be a sure bet.  I was anticipating a slow build to a resounding crescendo when I reached that climactic moment of  discovery. The location I believed would yield the answer to my Hubert questions was Montmartre. Several of Hubert's etchings were set in Montmartre, the area in the 18th arrondisement noted for the white-domed Basilica of the Sacre-Coeur AND the premiere artistic center of Paris.

Montmartre has always been known as the artists colony and since the 19th century thousands of artists have set up their studio on the hill with the panoramic view of the city. Along with the likes of Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet and Renoir, Hubert set up his easel here to sketch what would become his etchings titled "Montmartre-L'Eglise Saint-Pierre", "Montmartre-La Place du Tertre", and "Montmartre-Le Square Saint-Pierre". When I read about  Musee de Montmarte, museum of cultural history, housed in the oldest dwelling in Montmartre, containing a collection of paintings, photographs, posters, and manuscripts documenting Montmartre's history, I knew this would be my best shot at unearthing clues about Hubert. At the very least, perhaps someone there could guide me further along in my quest. At best, perhaps someone there knew of Hubert or would recognize one of the crumpled, sweat-stained copies of his etchings I'd been carrying  in my purse since my arrival in Paris. Like a new mother who carries an album of photos and obnoxiously subjects any unfortunate victim in her path to a photo op of her darling newborn, so did I break out my copies of Hubert's etchings to any French citizen who even glanced in my direction.

That Monday, our last day in Paris, I awoke early to the sound of heavy rains hitting the window of our hotel. Not to be deterred, armed with umbrellas, raincoats, a map, my French dictionary and my etching copies, my husband and I set out for our trek to Montmartre. Three connecting Metro rides, several blocks in drenching rain, 2 glasses of wine in a cafe to dry off where I unwittingly mis-translated a phrase for my husband who proceeded to say something rather profane about the waiter's mother, hundreds of quadricep-building steps, and a steamy funicular ride later we arrived. Only to discover that Musee de Montmartre est ouvert tous les jours sauf le Lundi. Yes, closed on Mondays.

I refuse to give up. I'm sending off an e-mail to le Musee to beg for information. In English this time. I just hope they can read English better than I can speak French....