tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34434796951210372312024-03-13T12:52:00.869-04:00Chasing Hubert...WANTED: Does anyone out there have any information pertaining to this artist?Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-16620443574957258942019-07-27T18:07:00.000-04:002019-07-27T18:07:11.336-04:00"Sometimes a new beginning is even better than a happy ending." 101 Quotes About.com<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For the past ten years this blog <i>Chasing Hubert </i>was dedicated to seeking information leading to the identity of an etching signed by the mystery artist Hubert. I was fortunate to have achieved that goal in 2018. Thanks to a little luck, a bit of pluck and heaps of help from a very astute French researcher/blogger my journey has a happy ending.<br />
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I am excited to announce that <i>Chasing Hubert </i>is moving to<i> <b>ChasingHubertFindingLeonSalles.com</b></i><br />
my new venture to shed light on Léon Salles, a historically significant and incredibly talented French artist whose name has fallen off the art world's radar over time. Because sometimes what appears to be an ending is really just the beginning of something new....Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-11197180310082552122018-09-08T10:31:00.000-04:002018-09-08T10:31:39.266-04:00Good things come to those who wait...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Patience is a virtue. It's a virtue I lack - I hate to wait. When I was young my mother would frequently admonish me with "good things come to those who wait." I heard that quote so often I became curious as to its origin: was it something created by my mother to appease my impatience or was it a legitimate proverb? I discovered that the saying was made well known by Violet Fane in her poem "Tout Vient A Qui Sait Attendre" which translates as "All hoped-for things will come to you, Who have the strength to watch and wait..."<br />
I have been chasing Hubert longer than many people have been married. In a sense my relationship with Hubert has been like a marriage. We've been together in good times and bad, Hubert has seen me through births and deaths, in sickness and in health but, thankfully, Hubert and I have now come full circle before death did us part. What once began as a chance encounter with a single beautiful etching gradually deepened into something much more intense. I grew to admire and appreciate Hubert's skill and obvious passion for his work. I began this blog not only to seek his identity but also as a love note to this artist who will never know me but whose art has affected my life and brought joy to me and many others as evidenced by the comments and emails I've received cheering me on in my quest. It was always my desire to bring Hubert out of the shadows - I want the world to know who this talented, gifted artist really is. Chasing Hubert has bestowed upon me countless valuable life lessons, chief among them the merit of patience and fortitude. And, after 30 years of chasing, I have finally discovered the truth in Violet's optimistic verse (and Mom's admonishment) that good things truly do come to those who wait. Now, thanks to mon nouvel ami Etienne, I have been able to realize one of my life's dreams. That long-awaited "hoped-for thing" has finally come: HUBERT'S IDENTITY!! Introducing.....<br />
LEON SALLES!!<br />
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The real hero of this story is Etienne, a French researcher and blogger of forgotten 19th and 20th century artists. Etienne and I began corresponding in 2016 throwing out different theories about Hubert's identity. None panned out until recently, while researching the artist Auguste Brouet for his blog, http://www.auguste-brouet.org/en/ he came upon a print signed Leon Salles-Hubert strongly pointing to the painter-etcher Leon Salles (1868-1952.) When I received Etienne's email the print was undeniably that of Hubert's. However, there were still many unanswered questions: if Leon Salles is the artist where did the name Hubert come from and why are so many of his prints signed Hubert while others are signed Leon Salles? Upon further investigation Etienne found the most compelling piece of evidence an article in the September 17, 1926 issue of the French newspaper la Vigie de Dieppe which stated "whether signed Menager or Hubert all bear the the mark of the same talent, both vigorous and soft, and the same knowledge, sound and refined, because they are all authored by Mr. Leon Salles." Why then did Leon Salles choose the name Hubert? Most probably because Hubert was his mother's maiden name. Artists at that time often struggled to survive. To supplement their income they sometimes produced works of a more commercial nature. In the case of Leon Salles, he would utilize his mother's maiden name Hubert to sign his lesser works in order to differentiate from his more important works such as those he exhibited in the Salon (famous annual art exhibition in Paris.)<br />
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After all this time I must say Hubert does not disappoint. His story is as captivating as his art. More about his life to come....Merci beaucoup, Etienne!Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-26614354454404058972018-07-15T19:45:00.001-04:002018-07-15T19:54:58.386-04:00Chasing Hubert, Finding........<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Every life is like a book and we all live out our story. Some have many chapters, some are short stories. Some read like thrillers while others are more ordinary. Some have happy endings while others are sorrowful. Whatever the story may be, they are all unique. We all own our own story.<br />
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I can recall sharing this bibliophile's philosophy with my beloved brother, Steve, just before he passed away unexpectedly a few months ago. Steve's response to my theory was "There is no such thing as an ending, just a place where you leave the story," a quote from a recently watched movie. How particularly poignant these words were to become.<br />
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Steve was a wonderful brother, a devoted father, a generous uncle, a loyal friend to many, a talented writer and playwright, a baseball enthusiast, and my first friend. He had a quick-witted, playful sense of humor but was also a gentle and sensitive soul with a heart of gold. In a tragic twist of fate it was his bigger than life heart that ultimately gave out. Steve was a great supporter of my Chasing Hubert and encouraged me to keep the search going even while it appeared the search was going nowhere.<br />
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It is with a heavy heart yet at the same time a joyous one that I write this to share two recent exciting events in my Hubert search. In May, I was approached by art critic John Zeaman who was interested in writing a story for the August/September issue of Design N.J. Magazine on my Chasing Hubert quest. After almost a year of blogging inactivity it was time to go public with my chase with the hope that this new exposure would deliver new clues. Mr. Zeaman captured the essence of my "print mystery" at <a href="https://www.designnewjersey.com/features/a-print-mystery/">https://www.designnewjersey.com/features/a-print-mystery/</a><br />
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Ironically, just as the article hit the newsstand, I received an email from a French blogger and researcher of forgotten French artists of the 19th and 20th centuries with whom I had been occasionally corresponding since 2016. His opening sentence was: "probably got it!" And by George! (or should I say, by Hubert!) I believe he did!!<br />
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Currently putting together all the details - stay tuned...Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-17702607375829552082017-08-28T22:18:00.000-04:002017-08-28T22:18:52.620-04:00"By replacing fear of the unknown with curiousity we open ourselves to an infinite stream of possibility." Alan Watts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OIXG4Z5oLfg/WaTNh5CU2SI/AAAAAAAAAW8/47HJ8zrOLggwwD1IqC2X_lEuC4D7fEq-QCEwYBhgL/s1600/Hubert%2BMorley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="600" height="256" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OIXG4Z5oLfg/WaTNh5CU2SI/AAAAAAAAAW8/47HJ8zrOLggwwD1IqC2X_lEuC4D7fEq-QCEwYBhgL/s320/Hubert%2BMorley.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Eleanor Roosevelt believed we should "do one thing every day that scares you." Not as fearless as Eleanor my belief instead is "do one thing every year that scares you." I was able to check off this years scare in June when I ventured west of the Rockies for a vacation in Jackson Hole, Wyoming with one of my daughters. Looking for adventure my daughter signed us up for a white water rafting trip. Clearly she was familiar with Eleanor Roosevelt's words because she booked us on a super small raft for lots of whitewater action.<br />
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Cymophobic since childhood my idea of adventure was more along the lines of fly fishing on the shore of a placid river, however, I allowed myself to be coaxed into a more thrilling excursion because, after all, if Eleanor could do this 365 days a year surely I could muster up enough courage for one day. Suited up in bathing suit, wet suit and life jacket I prepared to face my fear head-on as we paddled through rapids with hair-raising names such as The Big Kahuna only to find that the action of being caught up in the rapids was so exhilarating that it released all of my fears. I discovered that my anticipation was worse than the reality. Alfred Hitchcock, the king of suspense, said "There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it".<br />
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At the same time Chasing Hubert led me to face a different type of unease. This time it wasn't anxiety of a physical nature but it compelled me to step out of my comfort zone. I went out on a limb and bought another Hubert etching. Only this one was by the artist Hubert Morley, an American artist whose etching caught my eye because in addition to being lovely the character of the image reminded me somewhat of my mystery Hubert. Upon reading further about Morley I discovered that he lived around the same time as Hubert and saw army service in 1918. Could it be possible that Hubert Morley and Hubert are one and the same? Maybe Morley was in France during his army service. Maybe he etched while in Europe. A lot of maybes for sure but it has been suggested that Hubert was a souvenir artist so the possibility does exist. When nothing is certain anything is possible.....Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-54936320691173468372015-12-25T22:03:00.000-05:002015-12-25T22:03:06.621-05:00"Rejoice in the things that are present; all else is beyond thee." Michel de Montaigne<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--oMPkyIWjzM/Vn4C8OUTWWI/AAAAAAAAARw/6pZAjl27gW8/s1600/Blue%2BLagoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--oMPkyIWjzM/Vn4C8OUTWWI/AAAAAAAAARw/6pZAjl27gW8/s200/Blue%2BLagoon.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
November was my month for trying new things. A milestone birthday for daughter #3 was approaching and we decided to celebrate with a trip. Although most people would elect to visit a tropical clime to escape the approaching winter season, we opted instead for an excursion to frosty Iceland for our adventure.<br />
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It was a week of "firsts" from the moment we landed at Keflavik Airport. Glaciers, geysers, waterfalls, hot springs, volcanoes, lava fields, black sand beaches, northern lights - the enchanting landscape was so unlike that with which we were familiar. Iceland completely captivated us with its otherworldly ambiance. Perhaps the most memorable "first" was a trip to the Blue Lagoon geothermal spa.<br />
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It was mid-morning and the sun was just beginning to rise. A cool, crisp wind blew over the warm waters creating a mist that gave the lagoon a surreal appearance. As I bathed in the warm, mineral-filled geothermal waters I let relaxation take over and every worry in the world wholly melted away. It was at that moment that I realized that this was, simply, living in the moment. I was focused on the present with all of my senses, thoroughly enjoying the experience without rushing through the process. How much more meaningful life is when we allow ourselves to seize the moment. The past is over, the future is never guaranteed, and all we really have is this very moment. All we have is right now.<br />
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In November I also attempted a new approach towards chasing Hubert. I came across an online expert question website that connects people with questions to an expert in a relevant field. After paying $38 I sent my question along with one of Hubert's etchings to an expert in Fine and Decorative Arts: Renaissance through Contemporary. Her response was "Hello, these are vintage 20th century views of European cities. They were generally sold as decorative wall art or to tourists...." Duh! Tell me something I don't know. I requested and received an immediate refund. In all fairness, perhaps it was naive of me to expect a resolution to my years of chasing Hubert in a simple email. I did, however, think that I would come away with something more than what's already been posted in this blog. I suppose I was in the moment or, more likely, having a moment...Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-34084272484500498542015-04-13T22:30:00.000-04:002015-04-13T22:30:58.021-04:00"Whoever you are, I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers." Blanche Dubois, A Streetcar Named Desire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A series of unfortunate events intervened and hampered my search for Hubert and my resultant blog postings so I've been out of touch for a while. They say when you fall off a horse the best thing to do is get right back in the saddle. Obviously the best thing is not to fall off in the first place but life is full of surprises both good and bad. When I received an email from another Hubert seeker, her ending note to me "I see you haven't put out anything in a while - don't give up!" was just the catalyst I needed to climb back on that proverbial horse (or le cheval as they say in Hubert's world.) Oftentimes the kindness of strangers can be the impetus to help us through the day. Such was the case when I received L's email which made me realize that it was time to cease wallowing in self-pity and time to resume my search for the oh, so elusive, Hubert.<br />
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To continue where I last left off, my discussion with the graphologist, although fascinating, did not bestow me with any valuable new clues. A person's gender cannot be determined by their handwriting because we all have masculine and feminine traits that have nothing to do with physiology. Nor can we tell a person's age by their handwriting. What we can tell is that the distinctive downstroke at the end of his signature suggests determination, that once he starts something he will follow through until it is finished (as evidenced by his prolific work.) That long vertical line with which he ends his signature also implies isolation: this person is very private and desires to be detached from relationships. No wonder no one knows of him.<br />
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Upon doing a little internet research I found an exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum in 1972 titled "Etchers of Paris: 1850-1900." This was years before Hubert came into my life and I wasn't sure the years between 1850 and 1900 would be applicable but it sounded so promising I contacted the museum and spoke to a curator who disappointingly was not all that interested in my quest and could not provide any new direction. While my interest lies purely with Hubert, here's the link should anyone be interested in reading about other French etchers.<br />
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<a href="http://www.brooklynmuseum.org/opencollection/exhibitions/2204/Etchers_of_Paris%3A_1850-1900"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">http://www.brooklynmuseum.org/opencollection/exhibitions/2204/Etchers_of_Paris%3A_1850-1900</span></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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During a spur-of-the-moment visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art I found myself passing the MET's Nolen Library and impulsively dropped in to make my usual inquiries about Hubert. I stopped at the front desk to pick the brains of the attending librarian who proceeded to enter Hubert's name into their digital archive. After discounting the usual Alfred Hubert, Hubert Robert responses the archives did turn up the name Albert Hubert which sounded very exciting (Albert C. Hubert was the subject of a previous blog post and a definite possibility.) Unfortunately, the publication titled Les petitionnaires du Front populaire, Revue d'histoire moderne et contemporaine was written entirely in French and my best efforts to transcribe in English the single sentence that contained the name of Albert Hubert was "Special Mention must also be made of the Pyrtanee of the Arrow whose four soldiers-teachers: Jean Hugonnet, Albert Hubert, Henri Maugin and Emile Bottigelli sign in 1935 the answer to the intellectuals fascists." Not exactly the information I was hoping for.<br />
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I might be back in the saddle but at the moment I don't have a horse....Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-36061199915493633842013-09-29T20:27:00.000-04:002013-09-29T21:10:28.754-04:00Is it a sign or a coincidence?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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How many times have you thought about a person only to have the phone ring and that very person is on the other end? How often have you had a song pop into your head then turn on the radio and hear it playing? Or come across a bit of information that keeps crossing your path over and over? Is it a sign or is it a coincidence?<br />
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I never really believed in signs. Always the cynic, I tend to believe that the theory of probability is working in these instances. I lean towards the scientific explanation that signs are merely patterns that we are hard-wired to recognize. But something happened this week to cause me to question my skepticism.<br />
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I was at a complete loss as to where to next take my Hubert search when suddenly a light bulb went off inside my head as I gazed at Hubert's distinctive signture. I had this crazy notion that maybe this signature could hold the key to information about Hubert's identity - information that perhaps a handwriting expert could unleash.<br />
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Immediately I went online to research handwriting experts and, as with everything Hubert related, this was not as easy as it sounds. I found scores of handwriting analysts, graphologists, and document examiners, but I had no idea who would be the most qualified advisor. I did find, coincidentally, an article posted about " A French Love Affair With Graphology." It seems that worldwide the use of handwriting analysis in the workforce is minimal EXCEPT in France where the last study done in 1991 found that 91% of French companies were utilizing handwriting analysis for job recruitment. Maybe the technique is so popular there because, again coincidentally, the study of handwriting originated in France by a French priest, Jean-Hipployte Michon. Yes, coincidences for sure that my Hubert search has continuously led me back to France but then again, my brain has been circuited to identify any and all data associated with Hubert. These coincidences were, unfortunately, all that I could zero in on while attempting to locate a reputable handwriting expert. This crazy notion of mine was going to require further investigation and a deeper dive into the world of graphology.<br />
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The very next day while at work I just happened to have a conversation with a lovely, bright, and articulate woman who has come into the office on occasion and with whom I've had brief but very pleasant exchanges. It turns out that this very lovely woman is a bona fide graphologist! What are the chances that a certified handwriting analyst should come into my life at the exact moment I was seeking one out? Am I seeing a sign where it doesn't exist? I don't think so. If something is too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence then it's not a coincidence - it must be a sign. A sign of what? I'm not quite sure yet but perhaps when Hubert's signature is analyzed I'll have a better idea. Until then I'm convinced of the truth in William S. Burrough's words "In the magical universe there are no coincidences and there are no accidents. Nothing happens unless someone wills it to happen."Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-48623839137180562452013-08-05T18:36:00.000-04:002013-08-05T18:36:02.583-04:00"A life isn't significant except for its impact on other lives." Jackie Robinson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When neighbors nearest my family's cabin in the woods recently moved it gave me pause. Although I can count the number of times I saw them in a year on both hands their move left me with an empty feeling and made me realize that our connection, although infrequent, was not insignificant. A good portion of the pleasure we've derived from our cabin over the years can be indirectly tied to the company of this lovely couple who provided warmth, support, and an oft-needed helping hand. We all know the important role that family and close friends play in our lives. But do we ever stop to think that perhaps in?significant others play a role just as important? These casual and sometimes fleeting acquaintances can touch and enrich our lives in powerful ways.<br />
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The role they play as in?significant others places them on the outer fringe of our lives as opposed to the inner circle that is inhabited by our family and close friends yet they are no less important. In?significant others are the supporting cast in the film of our life. People, for example, like my hairstylist who though I only visit quarterly is my sounding board for whatever problems are pressing at the moment and whose impartial advice I solicit - better and cheaper than a therapist. The retired man at my gym who always has a compliment despite the fact that I look like I just rolled out of bed (which I did.) The UPS deliveryman who carefully and considerately times the all too frequent shoe deliveries to my address when he knows my husband will not be around. My second-grade teacher, whose outwardly strict and austere manner belied her inner, well-hidden sweetness and dedication. I feigned stomachaches the entire year because she scared the heck out of me but she instilled in me a lifelong love for reading. The woman at the drive-in pharmacy with the dry sense of humor who hands me prescriptions with a laugh. The list goes on and on, too numerous to mention. In?significant others outnumber the significants yet we rarely give them a thought - that is until they've moved out of our lives.<br />
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No movement at all to report on the Hubert chase this month. I suppose I could call Hubert the ultimate in?significant other. He's certainly been an omnipotent presence despite the fact I've never met him nor have a clue as to who he is (or even if he is a "he".) His life may remain a mystery but he's definitely brought a dash of panache to mine - which just serves to illustrate how a seemingly in?significant artist can have a very significant impact...Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-17477804774974694532013-06-03T21:54:00.001-04:002013-06-03T22:01:45.890-04:00"Lesson number one: Don't underestimate the other guy's greed." Scarface<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This past month Chasing Hubert has yielded me not only a few lovely new acquisitions but a few new notions on greed as well. The dictionary defines greed as "excessive or rapacious desire, especially for wealth or possessions." One of the seven deadly sins, greed has been known to drive people to act in unethical, immoral, or illegal ways on a grand scale. But greed can rear its ugly head in small ways as well. Purchasing Huberts has always been affordable - in the world of art Hubert's work does not command high prices - but lately I've noticed that his etchings range in price anywhere from literally a few cents to a great deal of money. Now, I realize that sellers will charge as much as people are willing to pay - it's the demand-versus-supply principle. I also realize that this blog pretty much advertises my interest in these etchings which places me in the assumed willing to pay category. However, when I see Huberts listed at ridiculously exorbitant prices I can't help but wonder if certain sellers view me as an easy target, one who would be desperate enough to purchase them at any cost. My passion for Hubert while very strong does have its limits! I'm afraid greed doesn't pay, even relative to Hubert.<br />
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On the flip side, I suppose I can be accused of being greedy in my obsessive hunt for Hubert but I prefer to to believe that the motive behind my "rapacious desire" for Hubert's etchings is for the greater good, to benefit not only myself but all of Hubert's collectors out there seeking answers. Okay, maybe that sounds like a pontification but I do believe in sharing any inside information that comes my way. And so apparently do certain other Hubert collectors. Recently one in particular very generously and unselfishly emailed me to alert me about a particular etching that she owned which I admired that had popped up for sale (priced appropriately, I might add.) Thanks, Susan, for demonstrating what American writer Marc Estrain once succinctly stated "Kindness trumps greed: it asks for sharing."Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-30649439863737140142013-02-16T11:00:00.000-05:002013-02-16T11:07:44.113-05:00"Politeness is the flower of humanity." Joseph Joubert, French moralist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Is it my imagination or are we experiencing the decline of manners? It might sound terribly old-fashioned but I believe that common courtesy is a thing of the past. If you doubt my statement all you have to do is go to a crowded shopping mall for confirmation.<br />
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Last month I used my last vacation day to do my least favorite thing: Christmas shopping. I drove to the local mall early to avoid the onslaught of holiday shoppers. I pulled up to a prime parking space, signal on, after a kindly person walking past indicated he was vacating said space. I waited patiently as he backed out only to have a car speeding down the aisle in the wrong direction slip into my space. RUDE!<br />
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While browsing in the bookstore I tripped over a young man, headphones blasting and sprawled out on the floor reading, his backpack blocking the aisle directly in front of the book I was searching for. RUDE!<br />
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I was stalked by an aggressive salesperson in the department store, then followed by a shopper coveting the last size 7 pair of black boots I was carrying just waiting to pounce should I put them down for a nanosecond. Then I was cut in line at the register by a young woman oblivious to all except the person on the other end of her cell phone with whom she was having a very loud conversation. RUDE!<br />
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Tired of shopping and inconsiderateness, I met a friend for lunch in the cafe where our conversation was continually interrupted by a toddler allowed to toddle amongst the tables by a mother who obviously believed that every diner would find her child as adorable as she did. RUDE!<br />
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All this impoliteness in a mere two-hour span doesn't even begin to touch on the myriad etiquette faux pas that seem to be the rule nowadays rather than the exception. Other notable lapses in propriety include: forgoing the thank-you note; assuming that I want to hear you baring your soul on your cell phone in restaurants, movie theaters, stores, buses, and other public places; cleavage, cutoffs, pajama pants in inappropriate places such as church, school, or Grandma's 90th birthday party; poor table manners; critiquing and discussing the movie while watching the movie; cutting in line, cutting my car off on the highway, cutting me off in conversation; hanging up instead of apologizing for a wrong phone number; neglecting to use two basic phrases most of us learned before we could put together full sentences - please and thank you; any and all airline rudeness - screaming children, oversized suitcases stuffed into an overhead bin above MY seat, oversized passengers intruding in my space, seat mates who had garlic and curry for lunch, reclining your seat so my food tray is cutting off my windpipe; AND, last but not least, not responding to polite, heartfelt email inquiries about a certain unknown but engaging artist...<br />
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I did receive ONE response to the MANY emails I sent - from a very courteous curator at the Albertina Art Museum in Vienna, Austria who attached the above scan from the Thieme-Beckers' artist-dictionary in response to my inquiry about Albert C. Hubert. Although the info is in Austrian and has revealed no new information as far as Hubert's identity, I'm happy to report that manners are alive and thriving in Vienna...Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-63431945209559263752012-12-09T22:14:00.001-05:002012-12-10T22:53:27.452-05:00"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose" Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The more things change, the more they stay the same - Thanksgiving, for one example. Thanksgiving is the quintessential American holiday characterized by food, family and giving thanks for one's blessings. That tradition has not changed since the Pilgrims' first Thanksgiving celebration in 1621.<br />
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My own Thanksgiving, however, has been fraught with change over the years. The guest list alters, the menu varies, my blessings wax and wane but wackiness is the one constant. Thanksgivings past I've experienced more crazy meals than stuffing recipes - one year in particular I can recall the family entertaining Martin, a helicopter pilot from New Zealand who regaled us with tales of his encounters in New Guinea with Pygmy cannibals. No matter what the menu consisted of that year it was a guaranteed success because he was a guest and not the meal.<br />
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Some<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>years I've cooked a spectacular feast made from scratch while other years have been a downright disaster such as the year of the tasteless Tofurkey. This year fell into the basic albeit unimaginative category due to a shortage of time, the lackluster economy, and general holiday burnout. When Daughter #1 graciously offered to donate her free turkey I gratefully accepted. However, Daughter #1 did not deliver the gratuitous turkey until the day before Thanksgiving and the turkey arrived in a frozen solid state. A vegetarian myself, this didn't vex me but carnivorous guests were arriving in less than 24 hours expecting a traditional Thanksgiving dinner so I spent the first half of Thanksgiving eve attempting to quick thaw the bird and the remainder of the night with my hands up the turkey's derriere trying to extricate that frozen bag of innards. Frostbitten hands aside, the turkey eventually thawed, Thanksgiving was saved, dinner was served and the holiday went on with food, family and blessings intact.<br />
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That notable epigram "plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose" also holds true for Hubert. When I recently heard that the brother of a close friend was planning a vacation in France (with a side trip to Strasbourg, no less) I supplied him with copies of all of my Hubert etchings set in Strasbourg just in case the opportunity to do a little reconnaissance presented itself. True to his word he did investigate, kindly devoting a portion of his short stay to visit the scenes depicted in my etchings and he meticulously photographed the identical buildings. Despite the fact that at least 100 years have passed since Hubert etched those scenes in Strasbourg, remarkably the sites have changed very little. Yes, the more things change, the more they stay the same. That unfortunately also holds true for the fact that, still, no one knows my Hubert...<br />
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Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-51145195785617814072012-10-21T17:46:00.000-04:002012-10-23T22:43:25.136-04:00"The past,' he thought, 'is linked with the present by an unbroken chain of events flowing one out of another.' And it seemed to him that he had just seen both ends of that chain; that when he touched one end the other quivered." Anton Chekkov<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Thomas Wolfe once wrote "You can't go home again." Or can you? I found myself pondering this when I received an email from an old friend from the old neighborhood where I grew up. I had long since relegated those old memories to my mental filing cabinet where they remained stored away collecting dust because, realistically speaking, you can never relive the past. Time alters everything - places change, familiar landmarks disappear, old neighborhoods often become unrecognizable. The memories are often all that is left because you cannot experience those times again.<br />
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Then it occurred to me that no matter how much the old neighborhood has changed it's still an integral part of me. When I opened that email the cobwebs suddenly cleared, the memories gradually filtered back and I realized that much of who I am right now has been shaped by that very place I called home for so many years. Time can erase buildings but it can't erase memories. It's comforting to know that even though I might not be able to physically return to the old homestead my memories will always be there to reflect upon. Memories create our legacy. They are uniquely ours to hold and remember, they are what make our lives not only special but richer. So although technically it might be impossible to go home again, emotionally and spiritually it's good for the soul to revisit your roots.<br />
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Which brings me to Hubert's roots - if Hubert is indeed Albert C. Hubert, as has been suggested, then his birthplace would have been Austria. The only biographical details I could uncover for Albert C. Hubert were the date of his birth (1878) and the date of his death (1932). The 54 years in between remain a complete mystery. The only example of his work that I could locate was the above oil painting. To my untrained eye it looks similar to my Hubert's etchings but I'm not sure if that's due to the actual style or merely because the subject matter is similar. Attempts to contact various auction galleries have not elicited any response to date. Hubert's roots may still remain an uncertainty but, as American photographer Paul Strand so aptly stated, "The artist's world is limitless. It can be found anywhere, far from where he lives or a few feet away. It is always on his doorstep." Wherever that doorstep may be...<br />
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<br />Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-42376096649636127702011-10-07T22:40:00.001-04:002012-05-06T20:43:23.561-04:00"Slow down and enjoy life. It's not only the scenery you miss by going too fast - you also miss the sense of where you are going and why." Eddie Cantor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've taken an unintentional Hubert hiatus this summer. Life events took over and my search for Hubert fell somewhere between family, work, and trying to keep pace in a hurried world. Sadly, Hubert fell from an overriding obsession to a random rumination. Hubert's fall from grace was perhaps also due to the dearth of information from any of the many resources I contacted over the last 22 months.<br />
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What started out as a delightful journey to discover the identity of my beloved artist I had, through sheer impatience, allowed my quest to become a chore. So wrapped up in my earnest endeavor to identify Hubert as more than a mystery etcher with a distinctive signature, I slowly lost the joy in my purpose.<br />
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For the same reason I read the last page of a book first, and scan the dessert menu before ordering the first course, and sometimes finish my husband's sentence before he can get the words out of his mouth, I'm anxious to cut to the chase, to reach the final conclusion. A member of the instant gratification generation I expected if not immediate results then surely a positive identification after a year of intensive searching.<br />
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It took a speeding ticket to slow me down. Heading north for a mini-vacation, I was looking forward to a chance to chill out and relax. I packed 3 books to read, a knitting project to finish, several magazines, a few new recipes to whip up and my laptop to complete a work assignment. Anxious to get there, focusing on the ultimate destination, I overlooked everything along the way - including the speed limit. A piercing siren, flashing lights and one stone-faced state trooper ensued writing up a very costly ticket that made me realize my need for speed was instead setting me up for failure.<br />
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And so, here I am again, bolstered by the realization that sometimes you have to simply let life run its course and wait patiently for the benefits of hard work...Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-10951172014432550332011-05-13T21:19:00.003-04:002011-05-24T22:44:03.422-04:00"The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery." Francis Bacon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6atXL7Tv-AU/Tc3XoJfpBxI/AAAAAAAAAIU/XPm281vxaDQ/s1600/Montmartre+Basilique+du+Sacre+Coeur.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6atXL7Tv-AU/Tc3XoJfpBxI/AAAAAAAAAIU/XPm281vxaDQ/s320/Montmartre+Basilique+du+Sacre+Coeur.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>I've noticed a preponderance of publications lately on the subject of happiness. There are entire sections in bookstores devoted to achieving happiness. Newspaper articles and magazine features tell us where to live to be happier, what foods we should eat to make us happy, what colors induce happy moods, even the amount of income we should endeavor to earn to be a happier person - the list goes on.<br />
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But is it really necessary or even desirable to be happy ALL of the time? If we walked around in a perpetual state of bliss wouldn't that gleeful high lose its effect and become mundane? Would we appreciate a sunny day as much if we didn't have a little rain now and then? Am I the only person who thinks there is something very wrong when a person needs instruction to be happy - doesn't everyone have an innate capacity for happiness?<br />
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A close friend recently related a story that reinforced my belief that you don't need an instruction manual to learn happiness. Standing under a cherry tree while walking the dog, my friend was caught in a sudden wind burst that caused thousands of cherry blossoms to rain down creating a maelstrom of pink petals and making them the living centerpiece in a spring snow-globe. It was a moment of sheer bliss, one of those ordinary extraordinary moments that remain forever etched in your memory.<br />
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A few days later on my way to work I found myself stopped at a stop sign that happened to be under a cherry tree. The wind blew and cherry blossoms formed a funnel cloud swirling around my car simulating my friend's blissful experience. As I attempted to snapshot the feeling, the car behind me began honking wildly, the driver giving me a very un-blissful-like gesture. Moral of the story - one man's bliss is another man's miss.<br />
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I did have my own blissful experience this month though, when I discovered an amazing blog devoted to forgotten, under-appreciated or little known artists. I emailed the blogger and was thrilled to receive a quick response and ecstatic to hear his thoughts. Once again, the question arises as to whether or not Hubert really exists or is merely a random name assigned to etchings to make them appear more authentic and desirable. Although I must accept this as a possibility, I can't help but believe that there really is a Hubert because all of the works are of the same style and seem to be created by the same person. It was also suggested (and here it gets very interesting) that a good match for my etchings might be Albert C. Hubert (1878-1935), an Austrian artist. The dates match up, however, I could only find one example of his work with which to compare likeness to my Hubert. The style was quite similar but the work was a different medium, making it difficult to tell for certain. So far, I've had little luck in obtaining information on Albert C. Hubert but I'm just happy to have a new road to follow, even if my road to happiness is filled with potholes...Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-73684564244450529782011-03-20T20:29:00.000-04:002012-05-06T20:46:45.532-04:00"Happiness is not so much in having as sharing." Norman MacEwan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Losing Hubert was inevitable. After years of admiring, collecting, and chasing Hubert I had grown to believe that he was exclusively MY mystery artist. After all, I was the one who saved him from oblivion when I found his etching hidden beneath an old mirrored beer sign. I was the one who started a blog to track him down. I was the one who spent endless hours contacting strangers all over the world to find the identity of this elusive artist.<br />
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For a long time I was the lone person who showed an interest in Hubert ...... until several weeks ago when I noticed a Hubert etching in an online sale. I was the first and only person to place a bid and I was confident that I would soon have another etching to add to my collection. Because I would be at work and unable to log on for the final crucial minutes of bidding, for insurance I foolishly placed my highest bid higher than my affordability, never dreaming that there would be anyone else as interested in Hubert.<br />
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You can imagine my anguish when I arrived home and logged on to discover I was outbid. Someone won my Hubert and paid a pretty penny to acquire it. I felt like a jilted bride left at the altar. After experiencing four of the five stages of grief - denial, anger, bargaining, depression - I eventually arrived at the final stage of acceptance. Losing Hubert, although extremely disappointing, was an encouraging sign that others adore Hubert as well. It was time to relinquish my possessiveness towards Hubert and embrace the possibility that Hubert has grown a following. The Hubert Fan Club does have a certain ring to it....Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-31352602037662620242011-02-02T18:17:00.001-05:002011-02-02T18:20:57.671-05:00One man's priority is another man's paltriness.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7NX2eDdv4F0/TUnkf_DrmyI/AAAAAAAAAIA/_fCqiCrjpLE/s1600/Cathedrale+de+Chartres2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7NX2eDdv4F0/TUnkf_DrmyI/AAAAAAAAAIA/_fCqiCrjpLE/s320/Cathedrale+de+Chartres2.jpg" width="191" /></a></div>We all have our priorities. I've been guilty of neglecting Hubert lately. Daughter #2's wedding has taken precedence - most of my time over the last several weeks has been consumed with wedding plans. When did weddings become such complicated affairs? Steve Martin said it best in Father of the Bride "I used to think a wedding was a simple affair. Boy and girl meet, they fall in love, he buys a ring, she buys a dress, they say I do. I was wrong. That's getting married. A wedding is an entirely different proposition." Truer words were never spoken.<br />
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Weddings are complex, costly and time-consuming ventures that most girls spend a great deal of time fantasizing about. Most, that is, except for Daughter #2 who regarded her impending nuptials as a tremendous imposition and who would be completely contented with merely signing the wedding license and doing away with the ceremonial hoopla. If the definition of a bridezilla is a difficult, perfectionist bride, then Daughter # 2 would qualify as the blasé bride.<br />
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Nothing was a problem for this bride-to-be. Then again, nothing much excited her either. Nonchalant during the wedding dress selection, apathetic about the reception venue, indifferent towards the music, photography, flowers, you can imagine my surprise when this passive bride-to-be came out of emotional hibernation with an impassioned opinion about...garlic mashed potatoes! It was a simple spud that finally roused some emotion in this impervious bride when faced with making the menu selection for the reception dinner. She stood her ground through suggestions for wild rice, chive buttered new potatoes, twice-baked stuffed potatoes and requested - no, demanded - garlic mashed potatoes.<br />
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I guess we all have our own priorities. I suppose that's true of the galleries, libraries, hotels, organizations and people I've emailed over the last several months about Hubert. Hubert may be my passion but he's just not that important to most everyone else. I can't expect everyone to equal my enthusiasm in my search for Hubert. Yet, every once in a while, someone will come forth and renew my fervor to further the cause. Recently, someone contacted me via email with a "I think I have a Hubert" message. Bought at a bag sale with the intention to re-sell, she came across my blog and contacted me giving me the opportunity to purchase the etching and add to my collection for basically the cost of shipping. Hubert may be my priority but it's truly rewarding to discover another's understanding and appreciation for that priority. Thanks, Kate!Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-471887424282669372010-11-11T23:13:00.001-05:002010-11-14T19:09:26.934-05:00"You can't think you are going to win all the races by being quicker, because it's not possible. So you need to find another way." Alain Prost, French race-car driver<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7NX2eDdv4F0/TNy-v--CB_I/AAAAAAAAAH0/g-DUTg_A_Rs/s1600/Cars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="47" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7NX2eDdv4F0/TNy-v--CB_I/AAAAAAAAAH0/g-DUTg_A_Rs/s320/Cars.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>This week Hubert research has taken a backseat to my car woes. My nine year-old Volvo has been experiencing the aches and pains of old age. Like the old wives tale about dogs, I believe that one car year is equal to seven human years. Which would put my trusty Volvo at somewhere between 63 and 70 years old - past its prime but certainly not ready to be relegated to the junkyard.<br />
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I refused to accept the advice of my favorite (and uncharacteristically honest) mechanic friend to trade it in for a new, less expensive, lower maintenance car. Believing I needed a Volvo specialist to save it, I brought it to the Volvo dealer for a second opinion. Big mistake. Hundreds of dollars and a suspiciously broken dipstick later the bangs and clunks were still there.<br />
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Unable to accept the grim diagnosis about the faithful vehicle that transported me safely and comfortably each day, I brought my ailing automobile to yet a second Volvo dealer. Huge mistake. Here it was diagnosed as having a compromised breather box, injured tie rods, loose motor mounts, and a multitude of other problems. I was determined to rescue it from a slow death but thirteen hundred dollars later it was still banging and clunking so back again to dealer #2 who then proceeded to diagnose transmission trouble, the coup de grace of coupes. If I had been told at the onset that my car issues were due to transmission trouble I would have issued a do not resuscitate and taken the advice of my first (and favorite) mechanic friend. Now, with too much money invested, I have no choice but to hang onto my debilitated Swedish sedan.<br />
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With cars currently on my mind, I have noticed that Hubert has etched an occasional automobile into some of his scenes. I've been trying for quite some time to date Hubert (numerically, not romantically) but because only one of his etchings is titled with a date (1914-1918) it has been difficult to pinpoint his lifespan. Perhaps cars could be the key to placing Hubert in a specific time period establishing a chronology of his existence. Now, I just have to research thousands of cars to isolate the few that Hubert etched. I might be taking the slow lane but it's not how fast you drive, it's how you drive...Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-90045088342194817792010-10-11T20:22:00.001-04:002012-05-06T20:52:57.765-04:00"Stop thinking in terms of limitations and start thinking in terms of possibilities." Terry Josephson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Question of the week - when do we accept our limitations and when do we stretch a little further? It was a long, hot, Hubert-less summer. Every minute lead I gathered over the past months seemingly evaporated in the oppressive humidity of the dog days of summertime. Even my hope went on holiday. But it was the words of my yoga guru that led me to doubt the likelihood of ever finding Hubert<br />
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My co-worker, good friend and current car-pooler, and I recently enrolled in a yoga class to limber up and de-stress. During a particularly challenging pose, our instructor's chant "accept your limitations" seemed directed exclusively towards me in more ways than one. Nearing the one year mark of my search it was time to face the realization that I might never find Hubert.<br />
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A last ditch effort to contact the bouquiniste society resulted in a terse reply from the man in charge. Emails to three different hotels that were depicted in three different Hubert etchings has yet to yield a single response. My attempts to locate a library, gallery, or museum in the same town as the hotels has been an exercise in frustration due to my French language impairment. Downward Dog may be a popular yoga pose but it could just as easily describe the downhill direction my Hubert quest has taken.<br />
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The yoga guru might have me submitting to that which is beyond the realm of possibility but it was the words of art teacher, part-time French resident, and Hubert supporter whose email gave me the shot in the arm I needed to realize that your limitations are not an excuse for failure. Along with some valuable suggestions she pointed out that waiting was also an alternative, "be patient and persist, you might be a pioneer in exposing Hubert." So for now, I persevere AND wait because, as they say, good things come to those who wait....Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-63744971888168120672010-09-14T22:41:00.000-04:002010-09-14T22:41:31.727-04:00Patience is bitter but its fruit is sweet. --French Proverb<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7NX2eDdv4F0/TJAxpGu_bKI/AAAAAAAAAHk/_m7RIA_mqsM/s1600/LaPetiteFranceStrasbposted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7NX2eDdv4F0/TJAxpGu_bKI/AAAAAAAAAHk/_m7RIA_mqsM/s320/LaPetiteFranceStrasbposted.jpg" /></a></div>Patience is a virtue - one that doesn't come naturally for me. For the past month I've been impatiently wracking my brains for a new angle to find Hubert. My search, relegated to weekends now that I'm happily employed, has been moving along at a snail's (or in this case, an escargot's) pace. Last weekend the escargot didn't move at all because I had to make a three and a half hour trek to help move one of my daughters into the sorority house near her college.<br />
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The female version of Animal House minus the togas, my anticipation for a leisurely dinner at a gourmet restaurant after a quick move-in was cut short at the sight of the driveway, overgrown with weeds and littered with bottle caps. Somehow I knew this move-in was going to be anything but quick. That thought was confirmed once I saw the state of the kitchen. Dirty dishes with petrified mac and cheese filled the sink, empty wine bottles decorated the soffit above the cabinets and, what first appeared to be singed food residue, was actually mouse droppings strewn in Jackson Pollock-like fashion on the white stove-top. I could go on and on but suffice to say it took me three hours to bring the kitchen to conditional status.<br />
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During my cleaning frenzy, I did get a glimmer of an idea. Maybe it was the collegiate climate, the educational environment, or maybe just the first symptoms of hanta virus from the toxic effects of mouse excrement, but the business textbooks on hotel management that were piled on the kitchen table suddenly called to mind several of Hubert's etchings of French hotels . Might not one of these places of lodging still be standing? And might not one of these hoteliers recognize Hubert's work? After all, he might have set up his easel right in front of one of these inns to capture the image on paper. Perhaps someone in one of these hotels might remember Hubert or remember someone who might remember him. It's a remote possibility but it's all I have to go on for the moment.<br />
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Exhausted and dirty but still swept up in school spirit when I arrived home I mustered some moxie and emailed my daughters' favorite teacher - who just so happens to be une professeur de francais - to ask for assistance in sending a proper French email off to the hotels that are hopefully still in existence. But the email will have to wait a bit longer because le professeur est des vacances. All the platitudes of patience - "slow and steady wins the race", "good things come to those who wait", do not allay my growing vexation that this chase is still moving at a snail's pace....Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-30293200544350072532010-07-11T19:16:00.000-04:002012-05-06T21:05:32.137-04:00"You have to accept whatever comes and the only important thing is that you meet it with courage and with the best that you have to give." Eleanor Roosevelt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been a real slacker the past month about Chasing Hubert. June was filled with activity - graduations, weddings, engagements, new jobs - and I had barely enough time to sleep much less search for my mystery artist. I took a fatalistic approach to my Hubert hunting. If I were destined to find Hubert then surely one of the numerous emails I sent out would respond to me. In my sleep deprived state I rationalized that after spending the past nine months chasing after Hubert perhaps now it was time to throw it up to fate and see if Hubert would come to me. Illogical maybe but it was self-justification for my slacking off.<br />
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Instead I entered a dead zone in my hunt for Hubert. I would probably still be in that dead zone were it not for the drink contest I participated in on July 4th. The drink contest I refer to is a contest for creating - not imbibing - a winning cocktail (although one does have to sample one's creation to perfect and produce a winning entry.) My worthy opponent began to experiment a month ago testing combinations of ingredients until he arrived at the perfect concoction. He proceeded to work on his presentation, purchasing real coconuts and laboriously hollowing them out to serve his creation in, adding fresh fruit swizzle sticks, an island-themed stirrer, and finally layering the coconuts in nests of Hawaiian leis. It was the Mona Lisa of alcoholic beverages.<br />
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I, on the other hand, formulated a recipe in my head and, whistling "Que sera, sera" the night before the throw-down, ran around town searching for the vital ingredient of my creation - a bottle of coconut vodka. I never imagined how many versions of vodka there are on the market. Nor did I imagine how difficult it would be to locate the coconut version. Finally, with minutes to go before the last liquor shop closed I chased a salesperson down and he located what was probably the last bottle of coconut vodka in the state - a thirty dollar bottle of Ciroc premium coconut vodka imported from France (in my Hubert dominated world amazingly all things lead to France.) The next afternoon, an hour before the contest, I attempted mixing various juices to create a layer that would resemble a sunset. Scientifically, this has something to do with juice density about which I know nothing so all of my juices melded together. My presentation consisted of dipping the glass rim in shredded coconut which unfortunately didn't fully adhere to the rim, then inserting paper drink umbrellas cast off from a previous party.<br />
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I forgot to chill the glasses and when the drinks were brought out for the competition my drink was served at room temperature which, considering it was an outdoor barbeque during the recent heat wave, was 95 degrees. Not only was it not refreshing but my glass was raining melted shredded coconut over my paper umbrellas causing them to wilt. Needless to say, my opponent was declared the winner. Surprisingly, I didn't lose by a landslide and my drink was actually quite tasty but my fatalistic approach of leaving it up to chance cost me first prize.<br />
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Somewhere in my drink is a moral. So I decided to take a cue and begin anew Chasing Hubert, this time leaving nothing to chance. I contacted a French teacher to assist with translating notes attempting once again to elicit a response from the bouquinistes of Paris, I emailed an art museum that specializes in prints, I'm pursuing the Art Appraisers of America, and I sent a follow-up email to the charming print expert at the New York Public Library. You could say I've gone from slacker to tracker...Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-79960448981602004522010-05-31T21:59:00.002-04:002012-05-06T21:09:16.465-04:00The thrill of victory, the agony of de-feet.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last Saturday was the annual 5K run. When daughter #2 asked me to join her in the race I acquiesced though somewhat reluctantly. Although a regular at the gym I've never run before and religiously avoid the treadmill. But secretly, I've envied those cheetah-like marathon runners and yearned to be among them sprinting gracefully towards the finish line, feet barely touching earth, wind in my hair, the theme from "Chariots of Fire" blaring as I cross the finish line...and so, when my daughter burst into my bedroom Saturday morning at 7:00 a.m. and asked me to join her at the starting line at 9:00 a.m. I thought why not, another item I could check off my bucket list.<br />
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I was the poster child for how NOT to run a 5K - no previous training, wearing five-year-old sneakers, no sunblock, no sunglasses, and no vital warm-up exercises. Inexperience, however, didn't stop me. I began to run at maximum speed and two blocks later almost passed out so I stopped to fake a quick chat with my nine-year-old neighbor in order to catch my breath. But when a grey-haired older woman sprinted past me I somehow pulled myself together and took off again trying to catch up with daughter #2 who had left me in the dust. Throat dry, calves burning, knees aching, a massive headache from sun glare, and sunburn on my nose and head, the only thing that kept me going was the thought of that senior citizen pulling ahead of me. Determined, I kept at it, and crossed the finish line ecstatic at actually finishing my first 5K run. Unfortunately, no one from my family was camera-ready to document the moment because they assumed I'd be arriving home by ambulance - no one dreamed I would complete the race.<br />
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My elation was short-lived because the next morning I woke up in pain, ankles swollen and massive purple bruises on both heels, a severe case of shin splints and a possible stress fracture. Every cloud, however, has a silver lining. Sitting with ice packs affixed to both legs gave me the opportunity to do some Hubert hunting on my laptop. After hours of intensive researching I finally located an address to email the booksellers on the Seine. The first response I received (in French, of course) was the usual "sorry but we do not have these works." Emboldened by my recent accomplishment I was undeterred, and determined not to let the trail grow cold, I sent off another email inquiry. As Charles De Gaulle once said "You have to be fast on your feet and adaptive or else a strategy is useless." Obviously, I'm not all that fast on my feet but if my computer fingers were nimble enough to evoke a response from one of the booksellers then perhaps there would be someone else who might respond as well.<br />
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And there was - I received an email from another bouquiniste who also responded with a negative. I persisted, asking if he could suggest another contact but by his return mail "Non aucune idee, du fait que nous sommes uniquement specialises en Geologie, Mineralogie et Paleontologie" (No idea, owing to the fact that we are only specialists in Geology, Mineralogy and Paleontology) my strategy as per Charles De Gaulle appears useless. My daughter thinks it's time to enlist the aid of a French teacher. I'm thinking it sounds like a far better idea than the 5K....Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-42566152568528499282010-05-10T21:16:00.000-04:002012-05-06T21:11:28.940-04:00"Unlucky people are stuck in routines. When they see something new, they want no part of it. Lucky people always want something new. They're prepared to take risks and relaxed enough to see the opportunities in the first place." Richard Wiseman, "How to Make Your Own Luck"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's been almost one year since I first joined the ranks of the unemployed. When my job was "eliminated" (the carefully contrived, thinly disguised, excuse to oust me by a bullying boss of the worst kind; the crazy kind) my first reaction was one of panic - no salary, no health benefits, no 401K, no Cream de La Mer anymore. But then the panic slowly abated as the realization hit me - no more long commute, no dysfunctional coworkers, no 9-5 grind in corporate hell - and made me think that maybe, just maybe, I could somehow make lemonade out of this grove-full of lemons handed to me.<br />
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And so I began to make up for time lost. In between job hunting I spent more time with my family, I reconnected with friends, I exercised, I read more, I enrolled in some classes, I began Chasing Hubert, and, in general, I started living again. Now, with a new career on the horizon, I look back and recognize that I should have been bold enough to make the change on my own and sooner rather than allowing myself to remain stuck in a rut.<br />
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Although it's been a challenging year it's also been an enlightening one. I haven't learned who Hubert is yet but I have learned some pretty worthwhile lessons - the following is my top ten list of wisdom I've divined during my year of living freely, frugally, and fearlessly.<br />
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1- Change is inevitable so embrace change, don't fear it. Without change life would resemble the movie "Groundhog Day". Boring people get stuck in routines.<br />
2 - Never lose your sense of humor, you can always find something to laugh about. Sometimes you just have to look a little harder to find it.<br />
3 - You really can survive without the expensive shoes, the designer duds, the fancy car. Stuff doesn't make you happy, experiences do.<br />
4 - Exercising is a great way to avoid the doctor when you lack health benefits and it's also a great way to get your aggressions out without getting into trouble.<br />
5 - No matter how bad things seem they always look better in the morning so hang in there because things will change (see #1).<br />
6 - It's never too late to re-invent yourself. Grandma Moses didn't start painting until she was in her 80s.<br />
7 - Don't let your job define you. Don't get so caught up in your career that you forget the other ingredients in your life.<br />
8 - Live in the moment. Life is short so worrying about what's down the road keeps you from enjoying today.<br />
9 - Money and jobs can disappear but true friends don't leave when the chips are down.<br />
10 - Never lose sight of what's important to you and never give up!Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-23128086143915720212010-04-27T22:12:00.000-04:002012-05-06T21:15:11.826-04:00"Knitting is very conducive to thought. It is nice to knit a while, put down the needles, write a while, then take up the sock again." Dorothy Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There's been a severe Hubert drought lately. So much so, I found myself questioning whether Hubert's etchings are nothing more than pigments of my imagination. To atone for my recent bout of doubt, in a rare moment of repose, I sat down with my laptop (and a wine spritzer for fortification) to catch up on some Hubert hunting. Lo and behold, a Hubert etching for sale on ebay popped up on my screen, coincidentally of a scene set in the very location along the Seine where I've been seeking out bouquinistes.<br />
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With only hours to go before the auction ended, I was due at a friend's house for our weekly knitting group during the very critical last minutes of bidding. Already the black sheep of this wild and woolly group, as soon as I arrived at Knitter 1's house I announced that I would have to leave early to monitor the auction bidding. Wayward knitter that I am, the baby blanket I've been working on for 2 years has been getting smaller and smaller each week because I'm continuously pulling out rows with dropped stitches. Hence the reason for my husband's increasing skepticism as to what we actually do each Wednesday night - he suspects knitting is really a cover for a ladies' night of watching porn and drinking cosmos.<br />
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My announcement to bolt early was met with protest and Knitter 1, loyal friend and Hubert supporter, dragged out her laptop for me to log on and commence bidding for the coveted etching. As the final moments of bidding grew near, the screen suddenly turned black; the battery power ran out. Knitter 1 scrambled for the power cord, Knitter 2 cracked jokes to keep the tension level down, and Knitter 3, used to my obsessive-compulsiveness, just shook her head, rolled her eyes and continued knitting. Fortunately, the power came back on and the computer booted up just in time for the final countdown. I anticipated a last-minute bidding war on the ebay front line but I was the one and only bidder and as the last seconds ticked by, up popped that familiar ebay slogan: "Congratulations, You are the Winning Bidder!" Winning Hubert was easy, if only finding Hubert were as simple...Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-6541339497113163542010-04-11T21:07:00.002-04:002012-05-06T21:18:41.887-04:00"I hate to be a kicker, I always long for peace, But the wheel that does the squeaking, Is the one that gets the grease." Josh Billings, American humorist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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With the exception of the wonderful, helpful, and brilliant researcher from the D'Orsay, I've had no response from any of the sites I've just emailed about bouquinistes along the Seine who might recognize a Hubert etching. Something recently occurred that made me think perhaps I need to change my attitude. Last Saturday I attended a cocktail party given by a close friend and former carpooler. In my long and arduous commuting history I've been a member of three separate carpools and consider myself fortunate to still maintain close ties with all of my ride-share buddies. An anomaly if the old adage "familiarity breeds contempt" is true. Surely spending up to 3 hours a day, 5 days a week, in close quarters with the same person in rush hour traffic, should have bred enough contempt to spontaneously combust the vehicle.<br />
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Carpooler 1 and I maintained silence. Neither one of us a morning person, we drove each a.m. in a silence punctuated only by an occasional road rage expletive. The ride home was much more animated with conversation, rehashing the events of the workday all the while attempting to psychoanalyze the personality disorders in our workplace sprinkled with a little justifiable boss-bashing for good measure. Once, when the office dynamics were intolerable, we fabricated an overflowing toilet bowl in order to breakfast at the diner so as to delay our arrival and avoid the ever watchful eyes of the self-appointed hall monitor of the office. Then, there was the time Carpooler 1 and I were assigned to a photo shoot and carpooled to our destination in monsoon conditions only to discover we left the cameras in my car one state away. Carpooler 1 and I might have occasionally courted trouble at work but never in our friendship.<br />
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Carpooler 2 was a free spirit and compassionate soul, moved by the plight of a homeless woman we passed each morning who sat on the grassy embankment adjacent to our exit. Deeply affected by the woman's situation, Carpooler 2 prepared a food basket for her and concocted a plan to toss the package from our speeding car as there was no place to stop. I decelerated as we drove by the indigent woman sitting in her usual spot and Carpooler 2 hurled the food basket in her direction. Unbeknownst to us, the homeless woman had relocated and a dog walker now sitting on the embankment was the unwelcome recipient of our meal on wheels. It was not long after, that Carpooler 2 shucked the corporate workplace for a position abroad teaching English as a second language. I'm willing to bet the traumatized dog walker found a new occupation as well.<br />
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I hit the jackpot with Carpooler 3 who, to my delight, assumed the driving while I sat in heated seat, sipping tea and reading the daily horoscope in Driving Miss Daisy style. If you really want to get to know a person well just commute with them. On one agonizingly long ride, having exhausted every current events topic and listened to every song on a 2 gigabyte ipod, I regaled him with details of my pregnancies, deliveries, and breastfeeding anecdotes. I can still recall the blanched look on his face as I persisted, fueled on by a grande cup of Starbucks Zen green tea. He enacted revenge by subjecting me to a litany of graphic details of his recent eye surgery. The paramount reason we carpoolers have remained friends is the fact that we are privy to enough intimate details to blackmail each other for life.<br />
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At Carpooler 3's party he introduced me to someone who authors a work-related blog. Loyal comrade that Carpooler 3 is, he instantly pulled out one of the many Chasing Hubert cards I accidentally intentionally left in his car and handed it over to his friend who, good to his word, checked out my blog and emailed me with kind comments describing my blog as "very nice and very civilized." And therein lies the problem - perhaps I've been too civilized about this quest. If it's the squeaky wheel that gets all the grease, then maybe it's my low noise tires that are holding me back. Maybe it's time to start squeaking and I'll eventually garner more grease....Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443479695121037231.post-75499226950978746912010-03-29T20:06:00.000-04:002012-05-06T21:26:30.587-04:00"The afterthought is good, but forethought is better." Norwegian proverb<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A good friend told me about a pseudo antiques roadshow to be held in her town in a nearby assisted living residence, according to an advertisement she came across in a local store. The flier stipulated bringing no more than two items per person and the antique appraiser would give the estimated value of your treasures. Willing to try anything at this point, I arose early on Saturday morning ready to make the 45-minute trek.<br />
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I had my Hubert packed up and ready to roll and as I ran out the door I grabbed an old cast iron bank off the bookshelf as an afterthought for my second item. It was a beautiful day and after meeting up with my friends we rushed over to the residence. We were anxious to beat out the throngs of collectors and be among among the first in line when they opened the door hoping to meet the appraisers while they were still in fresh form and not beaten down by the hordes of money-hungry treasure seekers. Not that we had anything to worry about - we were the only ones to show up for the event.<br />
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I waited patiently as my two friends had their JFK inauguration program and tickets, their Charles Lindbergh commemorative plate complete with vintage chip, and their signed children's book illustration, authenticated and appraised. I pulled out my Hubert etchings (yes, I cheated and brought more than one) and cast iron pilot's head bank for examination. Everything was appraised at the $50 mark except for my bank which surprisingly was valued at approximately $150. Ironically, my afterthought took the prize for the item of greatest value. Not a windfall but certainly a bonus for an afterthought. I came anticipating a Hubert revelation but as the saying goes, you can plan a pretty picnic but you can't predict the weather.<br />
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When it was my turn to take the floor I proceeded to give a detailed history of my Hubert search as I handed over my Chasing Hubert business card and proudly displayed my etchings. The appraiser was warm and friendly and gave me some background on the history of etching, however, had nothing new to add about Hubert although she did say the name sparked a note of recognition. She took my phone number and promised to do a little digging into her antique resources to see if she could turn up any new information. Hopefully, she'll get back to me one way or another and my Chasing Hubert business card won't wind up in the bottom of a collectible vintage trash receptacle...Chasing Hubert...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06093220187391299717noreply@blogger.com0