Month: October 2011

We are out the door–a surprise invitation to spend the day with friends in Aix. Who doesn’t love spontaneous moments like this? It is so wonderful to be thought of, to be appreciated. An issue which I have been thinking too heavily on as of late so this is the Universe’s way of saying, “Oh be quiet, everything is fine you silly goose.” Speaking of, will you take a look at that regal fowl of an armrest? Ah, antiques such as these means one thing and one thing only–the Deballage, or unwrapping of Montpellier. Yes, I have already posted about it…somewhere but can’t find the link! Too prodigious, this one, eh? Why I love this event is that it is a gathering of hundreds of dealers from all over Europe, not to mention buyers from all over the world. The number of Russians was staggering and I can tell you, they weren’t looking at nicknacks, they were more in the market for the man-sized chandelier as seen below.

We, being of zero budget, mainly come to be inspired and dream. But were tempted by this gorgeous, if cracked altar piece. Insane patina.

I was frankly, scared by this ginormous cello case and had images of Houdini using it in a magic trick of some sorts. It looks like the sort of thing that if you stepped into, you could exit in another dimension.

The trend for this go round? Regency and especially anything with arrows. We took a gander at this inexpensive floor lamp from the 50s but found it a bit too…or not enough…

Look at these gorgeous girls waiting to find new lives. A bunch of maidens at a dance–pick me! Pick me! If I could afford to, I most certainly would have brought a pair home. But alas, we have other priorities right now…

…Which means finding a chandelier for the living room. Oh, my. And were there ever some beaut’s to choose from. Remi was taken with this baroque Catalonian one from a dealer out of Barcelona…

And me? Oooh, the Italians always have the best choices. We actually were seriously considering this rather traditional piece but all of the wiring had to be redone. Um, that just made the price go out of our reach. As we were pacing back and forth, trying to decide, trying to communicate in Italian with the dealers we spied…

…this gorgeous and very real, very antiquo, winner. Well, it might be a winner. We are still thinking about it but I think that it is love. We would have to drive to Lyon to pick it up in December but it could be worth the effort. I have seen so many reproductions of this type on the market but the genuine article? Nope. Not to mention one with the tiniest, most delicate beads…Sigh.  We shall see…

All of this dreaming makes one hungry! And truly, I swear that I go to the deballage for the one thing that I know that I will find at the end of the morning: lunch on a huge magret de canard sandwich with fries…and for once, just because I could, a glass of champagne!

On my morning walk with Ben, I was taking in the crunch of my feet on the leaves when I realized that I was hearing something else…floating notes of a disjointed tune and they were coming out of…me. It wasn’t even a song, something solid to identify with to place my mood here or there, “Stormy Weather” or “The Man I Love” but just pure, unadulterated randomness. How lovely to find myself whistling. That has to be an example of a simple joy if ever there was one.

My Mom likes to tell a story from when I was about three years old. She was out, a baby-sitter left in charge. Said young lady suddenly became terrified when she heard someone in the next room. She reached for a kitchen knife (ok, maybe I have made that part up in my memory) and burst in to find little curly topped me sitting on the floor, whistling away, totally lost in my music. 

Have you ever heard a sad whistler? A tragic one? I didn’t think so.

And as if this post isn’t random enough already, a teaspoon more of sugar to make the medicine go down. Further along on our walk, Ben decided that he had had enough. I did not agree and, ah-hem, being the supposed leader of the two, insisted he follow. He refused. I pulled. He pulled back. I finally pointed at him and said, “If you don’t get your act together mister, I am going to give you a kick in the pants!” His ears perked up. I added, “Ok, I know that you don’t actually wear pants but you know what I mean.” He considered for a moment and then kept walking. Yes, it is official then. I am the crazy lady who has conversations with her dog in public. Soon I will be making little outfits for him to wear. I think I need an intervention. 

“I am definitely wandering, not only these streets of Arles that I have come to love so much since moving here in 2005, but also looking for that next step, that sign of the direction of what is next for me. A good a day as any, then to start a blog and share my experiences of living in Provence that I find along the way…”

I have always wanted to visit India during Holi, the Hindu spring festival where colored powders are thrown at passer-by with a jubilance verging on mania. The force of the act, covering someone–a lover, a friend, a stranger–with one gesture resonates with me. I had a similar experience once in Phonm Penh, Cambodia during Full Moon celebrations where white powder is used. Young girls, normally shy, would run up and smear my cheeks with it, locking eyes joyfully with mine as they did so.

And yet, we have these types of interactions all the time, every day. We are constantly moving amongst others and they too leave their marks on us, on our eyes, our hearts, albeit invisibly. How many times have I come home from a walk with Ben in foul mood because another dog tried to attack him or conversely, buoyant after having witnessed the small act of a father lifting his giggling daughter into his arms for a kiss?

Like a pinball in the machine, I know that I am too sensitive, too susceptible to these moments but prefer it than to be utterly closed off. I can’t stop looking even if sometimes I see more than I would like–thoughts, hopes and deceptions. Nor can I stop thinking about the seemingly random comings and goings in our lives. Why we invite certain people to be friends, to come into our private circle at certain points rather than others. And how we know when to let them drift away. Because they will inevitably, laisse des traces. And sometimes, unfortunately, wounds. It takes courage to open our hearts.

Digging down a little deeper, I have become increasingly aware of how flexible our personalities are, those outer traces of our inner spirit. I might be nearly unrecognizable to some of my companions of years gone by. How would I see them now and they me? For we see what we want to, we pick and choose and turn a blind eye. Would we still find the desire to be a part of each other’s lives? Continuity in relationships can be a blessing as it necessitates that a certain flexibility is built in, one that involves seeing beyond personality and the temporary swoosh of life. Being fairly nomadic, I haven’t experienced that type of long-standing connection as much as many but that doesn’t prevent me from appreciating it when I do.

We are heading into winter, so maybe that is why I am wondering about what remains, what is solid inside us while all around me the leaves are falling from the trees. A real autumn, finally. Certainly so in the golden light writing secrets in the sky, running over rooftops, pressing on upturned faces that are all too eager to inhale the last of its warmth. A contact as certain as the powders of Holi. And when those revellers return home and wash off the vibrant colors, what traces remain? Everyday we bump along, as day follows night and season follows season, finding our way, through others and ourselves, clutching the cord of life that connects us.

So I will instead keep shopping because isn’t that something that all of us do virtually in perpetuity anyhow? I originally took these photos for my lovely friend Brooke Giannetti. Yes, she of the Velvet & Linen blog fame, she the co-author of the “sold out on Amazon for three months” super-seller book “Patina Style” that is alas, still unavailable to many of us in Yee Olde Europe (and no Brooke, that isn’t any sort of sneaky plea for a special delivery!). But I don’t think that she will mind if I share them with you. They were taken on just a whim actually.

But how can one look at such worn cabinets and armoires and not appreciate their patina? All of the hands passing over their handles, pastries pushed out on their surfaces, the best china carefully handed up to the top shelf. Pieces that have lived and are still living for us if we only give them the attention that they deserve.

All of these objets were found at one antiques shop that I adore, the Galerie de la Gare, located in Molleges, beyond St. Remy but before Eygalieres. Now, I truly don’t necessarily love this shop for the antiques (even though they are fantastic and we did buy our one “good” piece here in better times) but and oh, how hopelessly American this sounds, for the experience. Trust me, I am wincing as well. But Remi and I have the best conversations here. Either with the owner, who has been in business for around twenty-five years or his Zen Buddhist nephew, from whom we recently bought a light fixture for our bedroom. There is none of the posturing “Monsieuuur, may I help you?” here but smart talk about the economy and certainly, politics. Taboo at the dinner table but apparently not in certain antique shops. We are usually there for at least an hour chatting or, at least, until a more important customer strolls in.

The shop was emptier than usual when we went to pick up our little alabaster light. A sign of the times. Business has dropped drastically for all of the antique dealers in the region–even on the lower end of the scale according to a friend in Arles. But what lovely things remained–especially those from a dealer on the Côte d’Azur who rents out a corner of the gallery. Photos are not usually permitted so I am being a bit…sneaky. I had asked to take them specifically to take to share with Brooke so please, no Pinteresting, no pinning. One thing very worth mentioning is that the doors inside of the white cabinet are plastered with letters and photographs from long, long ago. I did not have light or time enough to read those forgotten words but hope they were old love letters. Well, they are for me, no matter what they were.

Remi is what he is, that is, a photographer and a brilliant one at that. I was so touched that when we stepped out of the shop, he took the image below, just so I could share with a far-away friend, one that I haven’t even met yet, how glorious our light is here. So, just a little side trip but hopefully one that kept your interest–I would hate to lose you! And so, in the buoyancy of imaginary shopping, I will ask–did anything catch your eye? And if any of you actually did have a true coup-de-coeur, I jotted down most of the prices, just in case!