Not far from the Marrakech medina and overlooked by the majestic, snow-capped Atlas Mountains, there is a magical garden combining art with a profusion of beautifully planted trees, bushes and flowers of all kinds.

The garden is laid out with paths meandering through the vegetation and interspersed with astonishing sculptures by various artists, some very well known.

Here’s one by Keith Haring below:

The place has the most unusual vibe: it is at once peaceful, joyful and alive.

The garden is the creation of acclaimed Austrian artist Franz André Heller. Here’s a short bio from the Anima site:

André Heller was born in Vienna in 1947. He’s among the world’s most influential and successful multi-media artists.

His achievements encompass garden artwork, chambers of wonder, prose publications and processions including a revival of circus and vaudeville, selling millions of records as a chansonnier of his own songs, amazing flying and swimming sculptures, the avant-garde amusement park Luna Luna, films, fire spectacles, and labyrinths as well as stage plays and shows that have entertained audiences from Broadway to the Vienna Burgtheater, from India to China, and from South America to Africa.

André Heller lives in Vienna, Marrakesh, and on the road.

There is a lovely café in the garden, named after Paul Bowles, and plenty of hidden benches where people sat reading or just soaking in the atmosphere. There are even a couple of colourful striped hammocks where you can lie in the dappled shade.

A very well-dressed gentleman, above.

My absolute favourite was an alley lined with stone columns, each with a carved animal upon it.

Each more charming than the next.

My one caveat is that there are no identifying labels anywhere, so there is no way of knowing who the artist is, unless they are universally recognisable, like Picasso or Rodin.

So if anyone recognises the artist who made these delightful animals, please let me know.

This visit was one of the highlights of a short break in Morocco, and is most highly recommended. More about our trip in later posts.

As all creatives find out, sooner rather than later, rejection is part of the fabric of life. Of course, that is true for everyone sometimes: rejection of an invitation to dinner, a proposal of marriage, a coveted job. But in the arts, rejections drop upon one, not as a gentle rain, but more like a fist to the gut.

Having completed a mystery novel for which I am ‘seeking representation’, i.e. for a literary agent to take me on, in former times I could have papered a room with rejection slips. These days, they would have clogged up my iCloud storage if I hadn’t erased them, while keeping note on an Excel sheet so that I do not apply to the same agency or publisher twice.

Of course, one has to feel for the agents. They only get paid if they can sell your book, so even if they love it, they cannot take you on unless they can. And that depends on a lot of factors: their contacts in the publishing world, the market at that particular moment, the zeitgeist, etc, etc. Also, the slush pile has become unmanageable since the advent of ‘copy-paste.’ People used to write in longhand, then on a typewriter, keeping copies using carbon paper, making corrections with Typex and having to rewrite whole passages. Now corrections and alterations to the text take seconds. A lot more people are finishing their novels as a result.

Many more are self-publishing. Too many. It is easy to take the plunge before your work is ‘as good as it could be’. The thought did cross my mind, of course—but I am happy I did not go down that route at once, because I have received valuable feedback from a couple of lovely agents, which has improved the book no end. I would have ‘pushed the button’ too soon—before the book was polished enough.

Also what is stopping me is that if you self-publish, you’ve got to sell the book yourself—and there is nothing that appeals to me less. I’d rather be writing, painting, cooking or even mucking out stables than doing blog tours or begging people to buy my masterpiece. Or, horrors, making videos on Tik Tok (which is how many books find readers nowadays). However, I might not have the choice in the end, if I want to see said masterpiece in print, so perhaps I shall bite the bullet one of these days, and see what happens…

Also, indie authors get the most of the (potential) profits themselves, instead of giving half to the agency. However, they first need to shell out for edits, a professional cover design, formatting etc.

Meanwhile, what annoys me more than a rejection is being ghosted. Some agents promise to reply but never do so, others warn you that no answer after a specified amount of time means it’s a pass. Fine—athough how hard would it be to have a polite rejection form ready and just add the name? An agent complained recently on X that some people reply rudely if they get a rejection, so now she does not bother to answer—but surely that is but a part of the job? A rejection, though painful, is some kind of closure; it allows you to move on from that particular slot.

But what gets my goat most is when your writing is praised and you get asked for the whole manuscript, which you send off with all fingers and toes crossed, and a glimmer of hope (or anticipation). Then, nothing. That is just plain bad manners. That is why I am so grateful to the lovely agents who spent time offering detailed advice.

As with everything else, writing takes grit. Rewrite, revise, edit, kill your darlings, read widely, try new things. I have had some short stories published, and that gives me courage that my writing is not hopeless. Onwards.

And I take heart from reading famous rejections, of writers I could never try to emulate. I bet those agents or publishers had a few regrets (such as the one who rejected the Harry Potter books…) Here are some good ones:

“You’d have a decent book if you’d get rid of that Gatsby Character.” – to F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

 “Stick to teaching.” – to Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

“We are not interested in science fiction which deals with negative utopias. They do not sell.” -to Stephen King, Carrie

“I rack my brains why a chap should need thirty pages to describe how he turns over in bed before going to sleep.” – to Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Things Past

“I haven’t the foggiest idea about what the man is trying to say. Apparently the author intends it to be funny.” – about Joseph Heller, Catch-22

And the best of them all:

“Our united opinion is entirely against the book. It is very long, and rather old-fashioned… First, we must ask, does it have to be a whale? While this is a rather delightful, if somewhat esoteric, plot device, we recommend an antagonist with a more popular visage among the younger readers. For instance, could not the Captain be struggling with a depravity towards young, perhaps voluptuous, maidens?” – to Hermann Melville, Moby Dick

Priceless.

In the last 70 days of his life, Van Gogh produced 74 paintings and 33 drawings! A huge burst of productivity before he sadly put an end to his life.

The current exhibition at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris is the first devoted to this period in his life, spent at Auvers-sur-Oise, which was the home of Dr Gachet, his friend, mentor and supporter—a man who specialized in the treatment of melancholia but was also a lover and connoisseur of art, friend to the Impressionists and a collector and amateur artist. There he could also be closer to his brother Theo, an art dealer.

From May 20 1890 to July 29th, in a frenzied artistic renewal, he painted one or two canvases per day, mostly “alla prima”, using thick pigment directly on the canvas.

In the drawings, he interestingly mixes oil and aquarelle, and sometimes other media, such as graphite and wash.

Luminous landscapes, portraits and still lifes.

Pure colours, and sheer boldness which delivers a huge emotional impact.

The exhibition is well worth the effort, because although not large, almost every painting is a masterpiece—the artist in full maturity and control of his expression.

The highlight, however, of a very special show, was the room with 11 paintings in the rare ‘double square’ format.

In Greece the sea is still warm enough to swim in, but here in Normandy where we mainly live now the weather has turned, despite the steady rain being interrupted by periods of brillian sunshine. At 7.30 am it is still pitch dark; there is a chill in the air that inspires the lighting of a fire in the chimney, although the heating is not on yet.

Autumn is a productive time, with a good harvest of apples and pears

The last of the tomatoes

Dahlias still thriving

The leaves have started to turn

More indoor time means more art making

An interior on a hardbook cover primed with gesso (instead of paper or canvas)

I was inspired by the pears to make an oil sketch on another, embossed, book cover.

In my art workshop we have been drawing shoes!

And a wet and dismal Saturday (it steadily rained all day) drove me to bake a totally unnecessary—but delicious—cake. Of course the apples and pears make lovely crumbles and pies and compote, but I was in the mood for something different. Something I’ve wanted to try for a while. It is Yottam Ottolenghi’s Lemon and Blueberry one-bowl loaf. Only I did not have a loaf tin and the blueberries were frozen, but I don’t think it made a difference.

The trick is to roll the blueberries in flour before putting in the batter—in my case, straight out of the freezer. It was an easy cake and highly recommended.

Quite by chance, on a lovely blog called The Garden Trust, I discovered an artist I had never come across before. Diana Sperling was the daughter of a landowning family in Essex, and kept a sketchbook between 1816 and 1823, recording the daily life of her family in a quirky and charming manner. The colourful, cartoon-like sketches show how people who, while not noble, were genteel, spent their days on a country estate. A privileged, middle-class family life with its activities, fun, and annoyances.

Diana, or Di as everyone called her, was born in 1791 to a family who made had their money in the fur trade. They bought Dynes Hall, a country mansion with about 500 acres, made a lot of improvements to the house and land and soon became part of the local elite.

Di had an elder sister, a younger sister and two brothers. These, together with her parents and her elder sister’s husband and family, are the subjects of her sketches, showing the family going about its daily life. The interiors are also beautifully drawn, as are the landscapes.

Despite having servants, family members did various chores themselves, such as killing flies.

Sewing

But Di also documented their leisure, always seeing the funny side

It is interesting that the family girls rode donkeys instead of ponies

Di married at 41 and thereafter made more ‘ladylike’ drawings, which were less amusing.

The drawings are collected in a book, below

I have always enjoyed and admired graphic journals, but so far have only come across ‘serious’ ones, like Maus, by Art Speilberg, Life? Or Theatre? by Charlotte Salomon, and Persepolis, by Marjane Satrapi. Have you read any of those? They are well worth it. I could post about them, if anyone is interested.