Kate Butler

Drew this man while walking around Paris on new year’s...

Tue, 07 May 2013 17:45:00 -0400

Drew this man while walking around Paris on new year’s eve. We didn’t make it into the Louvre that day, not with this man was playing his cello under the archway between one stone courtyard and the next. He, after all, made a better subject than any master painting.

Photo

Tue, 07 May 2013 17:33:35 -0400

Photo

Tue, 07 May 2013 17:29:00 -0400

Photo

Tue, 07 May 2013 17:26:14 -0400

Inspired by Imogen Cunningham

Tue, 07 May 2013 17:22:30 -0400

Inspired by Imogen Cunningham

Mother and Daughter

Mon, 04 Mar 2013 23:09:00 -0500

Mother and Daughter

Marion

Sat, 02 Mar 2013 21:57:00 -0500

Marion

Remembering coming home from class to these autumn leaves and...

Sat, 02 Mar 2013 21:34:00 -0500

Remembering coming home from class to these autumn leaves and crisp provencal light. My french host mother’s voice and the whistle of the tea kettle downstairs.

Opinion: Why you should study art (or any 'soft' major)

Tue, 19 Feb 2013 15:14:00 -0500

Opinion: Why you should study art (or any 'soft' major):

Twenty years removed from her college graduation, Mary Hamilton never would have predicted that she would leave her lucrative job in finance to pursue painting full time.

“I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life,” she said of her college years. “I only knew two things: I wanted to move to New York City after I graduated and I needed to make money to do this. So I chose to be a business major.”

“I was working so hard, everyone at the firm was, but I wasn’t happy,” she said. “The difference was they all really loved what they did. But I knew what I loved to do and felt it was time. I wasn’t married and did not have children so it was much easier for me to quit my job and say, ‘Hey, I’ll try this.’ It still felt like I was jumping off a cliff.”

In doing so, Hamilton defied what voices everywhere — parents, Forbes rankings, politicians — tell us is the successful life. It’s a life of financial security, expensive vacations and for Hamilton, a “beautiful shoe habit.” But this vision of success mistakenly uses a bank account as its measuring stick.

I dream of Giverny

Thu, 31 Jan 2013 22:47:00 -0500

I dream of Giverny

Pictures from a week in Paris.

Sat, 12 Jan 2013 10:55:00 -0500

Pictures from a week in Paris.

At the close of a semester abroad in Aix-en-Provence, France, my...

Sat, 12 Jan 2013 10:49:00 -0500

At the close of a semester abroad in Aix-en-Provence, France, my family met me for the winter holidays. Before we left for Paris for Christmas, I showed them around city and countryside that I had come to know and love.

Sketches from a visit to Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris

Thu, 27 Dec 2012 12:33:10 -0500

Sketches from a visit to Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris

Monsieur Gasparach

Tue, 18 Dec 2012 13:46:00 -0500

Monsieur Gasparach

Here is the Unsayable

Tue, 04 Dec 2012 18:08:00 -0500

One day in Paris, as we made our way downtown from the Palace Royale metro stop, Andi, Hilary and I came upon a strings ensemble of men and women seated in a round in one of those silvery street squares you find in front of a cafe with streets leading in and out of roads overlooked by the city’s colossal limestone masterbuildings. A cello hum led into rapidly vibrating violins, striking up a magnificent, sublime dance of desire and disquiet. The three of us had already stopped in our tracks, dazzled, and we stood. L’Amour Sorcier it was called, I noticed looking over the shoulder of one player.

The light cast itself across the busy street between walls and onto the players, illuminating the bow of a violinist as he leaned into his instrument, this way and that. It was one of those moments when one revels in the rarity of the circumstances, finding it almost impossible to be alive in this time and place, here where symphonies play on sunny Paris avenues. But then it seemed to flee from my eyes and ears as soon as it began; barely graspable the way birds fly off when you try to chase them. A violinist slid his bow across one final note.

There was applause. We nodded at each other and began to mosey down the sidewalk. Should we go find lunch? I noticed Hilary still held her sketchbook with paper handouts sticking out, reminding me of the poem that our professor John had read that morning after we’d looked at Monet’s water lillies at the Marmottan. The Ninth Elegy by Rainer Maria Rilke: Hil had even read a section out loud when we were on the Metro, it so poignantly describing what we’d been experiencing at art school over the past few months, particularly during this five-day museum tour where we’d spent so much time just looking. And how much power there was in that, it had left me without words. Rembrandt’s self-portraits, Cezanne’s mountain and Monet’s Camille still lingered in my consciousness, and though we’d discussed them for hours, the mysteries of their existence always moved me more than I could ever articulate.

Behind us the strings ensemble drew their bows in a slower, more measured tune. Wait a minute, would Hilary read Rilke’s poem? I asked. Yes, she answered, absolutely loving the idea. We whipped back around and stood in a kind of reverence as she began. Words, cello and violin, light on the city noise and passing car. This and everything, all at once…

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