I will tell you a little story. Some of you may know it already but I find that the best stories bear repeating often. Especially if you have a muddle of a memory like I do, it keeps them alive and in a row, like counting beads on a rosary or a mala.
Sometimes good does indeed come from bad, light follows the dark. So it was that we discovered Arles. Remi, my incredible professional photographer companion and I had made the long grumbly drive down from Paris, where we had been living together in very cramped quarters for two years. We didn’t dream of the South like others did, didn’t fantasize about Provence or the Luberon. No. We headed to Perpignan for Visa Pour L’Image, widely heralded as the world’s most important photojournalism festival. But somehow the sadness of the photographs that we saw overwhelmed us that year, the peacock strutting of competing photographers clashed as utterly inappropriate. So we left. Before the final ceremony, before the last pop of a champagne cork.
We drove towards the Camargue with the windows of our old Saab rolled down. Waves of hot wind slapped our cheeks, flamingos flapped off into the distance and white horses stomped through a bleached out landscape like galloping ghosts. It cleared our minds. “Why don’t we stop in Arles?” Remi suggested, breaking a silence that seemed heavier than air. All I knew of Arles was Van Gogh. But that is enough, isn’t it? “All right.”
The doors opened for us. Literally. We found a charming room available at the Hotel de L’Amphitheatre, one that we could afford, on a busy Saturday night, the first of September. Already as we ran our hands over the cool, cream stone walls and gazed out at the whistling leaves of the platane trees dotting the tiny square below, something was stirring. We got our first glimpse of the Roman Arena as we stepped out into the late afternoon. We let ourselves get swept up in the crowds rolling down the hillside towards the remaining exhibitions of the Rencontres d’Arles, another photography festival and yet a world away. A warm, golden light wrapped around us as did the notes from a jazz quartet that had set up camp on the cobbled street. Inside an abandoned church, we looked at the work of Harry Gruyaert’s “Rivages”. We turned ourselves towards beauty and that stirring surged up into tears. We knew. This was where we were ready to be.
It took us over two years to make the move. At the time, we were travelling nearly non-stop as a photographer/journalist team for different magazines in the French press. But it was worth the wait. In 2005, we packed up a truck, arriving in the dark at 1am with a Mistral wind roaring off the Rhone River to welcome us. Eventually, we welcomed an incredible Golden Retriever, Ben, into our family of two. I am as charmed by those old stones, by that light that is like a friend (albeit a moody one) as I was on the first day. And although I don’t know if I will be here forever as Remi and I are nomads in our hearts, for now I am happy to be Lost in Arles.
I want to thank the lovely Vicki Archer at the exceptional blog French Essence for having mentioned me, this blog and Arles today. I thought it only polite to introduce myself with a little curtsy to those of you that might be visiting for the first time. Bonjour et bienvenue!
Hey Heather…..thanks for your note. The MRI came out just fine. I had it only because the doctor went through a list of various "does your family have a history of ________?" questions. I said "no" to heart attacks, cancer, diabetes, etcetera. None of us has ever had any of them. Then, she (surprised to hear that none of us has ever "gotten" any disease) about strokes/aneurysms.
Oh….THAT…" I said, "Actually, all of my grandparents and all of my great-aunts and great uncles died of strokes, all before the age of 72. My father had a major aneurysm when he was 38…but he lived. Anyway, we all die of strokes before anything else gets us". She blinked, set down her pen, and said "you know? I think that consitutes a 'medical history'. Let's get you an MRI….".
In any case, I got a call yesterday, informing me that my brain is just fine. amazing to consider, though, that they can do this sort of preventative testing.
—-david terry
How about them apples? On my (practically non-existent) to-do list today was "send David Terry an email". You, prescient as ever, beat me to the cue, so I'll just write back here immediately because absolutely zero and I do mean zero time must go by without my thanking you for making me not only laugh out loud five times during your comment but positively guffaw (not very elegant on my part) twice. Oh how I do adore you, Mr. Terry. And now that your unbelievably beautiful home is indeed yours (and it looks as though it were always meant to be yours, I can so easily picture you in those rooms), perhaps once you get settled in you can organize your writing into one place? I believe that you do have many writer friends that will encourage you in this endeavour! And please be nice to Herve. We need him around to stave off the end of the world by microbe as long as he is possibly capable of doing.
Remi and I are thrilled to hear that his prints will be in the kitchen. The best place for them! Although I fear will make cheap shots about the hippos being "hungry, hungry hippos". I know that we always put our most treasured pieces in the spaces where we will see them most often so it is a lovely compliment to him, thank you. And speaking of things that makes one blush, un grand merci also for your kindness over at French Essence. I love the image of Vicki and I being some sort of galavanting duo!
I just would like to ask about your MRI. Hoping that it is for nothing serious? When I had mine, I was afraid that I was going to come out of it and be in another dimension or something.
I am so beyond thrilled for you and Herve. Beauty, hope and happiness all under one roof! Hallelujah!
As Gushy as Ever,
H.
Thanks for telling this portion of you&Remi's story, Heather. Like several other readers, I'd wondered how you ended up in Arles.
Ironically enough (given your tale of simply fetching-up by accident where you eventually ended up living)?….
There's a huge set of old keys, delivered to me yesterday, sitting about a foot from my face as I type this. In 2 hours I'm driving over to the town where we're moving and taking possession of our "new" (it's 220 years old) house.
I've spent the past year & 1/2 anxiously, irritatedly, and Fed-Up-edly going through a string of old houses, trying to find one that suited our needs. Back in March, Herve and I visited one which looked fine on the outside, but the inside of the house (owned by a wealthy divorcee with a too-large decorating budget and, rather obviously, too few demands on her time) was fairly appalling….. 18th century chinoiserie wallpaper, chandeliers, Brunschwig & Fils upholstered windowseats, etcetera. Suffice it to say that the whole joint (and this is, after all, just a fairly simple North Carolina, 19th century house)screamed "I'm ready for my 'World of Interiors' photo-shoot now!".
It just wouldn't have at all suited our way of living…which involves a lot of dogs, spilly relatives, actual gardening (all the doors from the back entrances led straight onto a long gallery/room carpeted in a wall-to-wall, blazingly white and obviously very-expensive carpet. I should emphasize that the owner's taste is utterly impeccable by many folks' standards; it was all just a bit too-too overwhelmingly "DECORATOR" for our own tastes and habits.
Having fled the real-estate agent (who, for some reason, kept spreading her arms wide and declaring "Can't you just SEE a wedding here?!?!?!"), we got in the car….and I asked Herve "So, what'd you think?". He flatly said "Oh…she DESERVES a million dollars for her house….but I don't think we want to pay for a bunch of stuff we're going to immediately rip out and throw away."
I agreed. As we were pulling out of the drive, I noticed the house next door….considerably smaller, markedly older, far less "elegant", and set much further back from the street. I dispiritedly remarked "Now, THAT'S the sort of house I want…why can't we find a house like THAT????".
Two weeks later, I told Frances Mayes (yes, that one….the Presiding Captain of the "Under the Tuscan Sun" juggernaut; she and her husband, Ed, live half of each year in Hillsborough) that'd I'd pretty-much given up the notion of chasing-down and prwoling through old houses (I loathe shopping). She asked "Did you look at the Webb House?". I told her that I'd never heard of it. Frances told me to inquire about it with our land-agent. The land-agent called me, a few days later, to say that house would, it turns out, be going on the market (in a village/small town where, often, houses don't "go on" the public market).
We moved in (so to speak)on the house as though we were orchestrating D-Day. Suffice it to say that, three months (and several agents, three attorneys, one remarkably grumpy current-owner, & two insurance underwriters) later, we've finally ("sorta accidentally" might be more accurate) got the house we didn't know we were looking for,since we didn't even know it existed.
And we're very happy about the matter…to say the least.
So, away I go in a couple of hours. My plans for tonight include calling Herve (who's off in Washington haggling with the FDA folks) to tell him that, having been back to The Webb House, I've changed my so-called mind. I've never heard a man have an aneurysm over the telephone before, so this might be a first in my career.
Level Best as Ever,
David Terry
http://www.davidterryart.com
And certainly we wouldn't appreciate the bright moments if we didn't have the darkness as a contrast too…
I don't believe I've read about how/when you and Remi decided to move to Arles before. Thank you for sharing. Oh how I'd love to visit the South of France some day!! For now I'll have to be content with reading your blog & Viki's 😉
~ Clare x
nice idea.. thanks for posting..