Sweep out the cobwebs, shake out those shadows. Sometimes we need to go right back to where we started.
In Arles, after moving in and wandering the cross-caught streets, I fell fast in love with the tales of its shutters and doors. Cliché, absolutely, and some would say that I should now move beyond those facile waters…but…but…there was a day, not so long ago, when the sky was so blue that it tricked me back to the beginning of seeing one street as I had in the before of before, allowing me to dip in just one more time.
Instead of hurrying along the far too narrow sidewalk, I stepped out into the rue de l’Amphithéâtre, camera in hand and lifted. I had easily half an hour to spare before my doctor’s appointment. All was quiet, the tourists still sleeping. The light was flirting. A passer-by gave me a slight nod of recognition, someone else from the center of town. I love Arles before showtime. When history stretches and yawns before settling in to be admired.
Now I can add my own little histories to its two-thousand some years that are more patient than I will ever be. On this particular stretch alone I remember…my mom and I struggling with our suitcases on the bumpy pavement against a winter Mistral wind on an early descent from Paris to visit an apartment that would not work out. Being invited to a party where rooms opened upon rooms until fading into darkness and everyone was trying too hard to be casual. Pulling Ben and Kipling out of the way of a roaring car, music blaring, with only inches to spare. Perfect imperfect these memories, just like the patina scribbled on the surrounding walls for all to see. No need for them right now.
So I snapped back, quite literally with a click-click, present-bound and looked without judging and felt a tiny lift of joy without judgement too. The worn faces above the doorways winked conspiratorially before I turned into the shade of an alley, a short-cut but also a window closing. It is funny that it is no longer one of the more fashionable streets to live on, despite leading directly to the Arena (or maybe because of it); it clearly once was and perhaps will be again. Sometimes, we need to go right back to where we started.
No, the boys haven't been back, Deb. But they both know it like the back of their paws!! Ben spent most of his life there.
Thank you for the kind compliment…
You are right, it has been a while although my fondness for you never fades lovely Catherine. I hope all is going well for you. I wrote recently that I recently started a meditation practice – so I am really trying to slow things down in a positive way!
Gros Bisous
I love your way of thinking about it – but I disagree! In NYC you were always pointing out beauty – the way the light shown on a building, the buds in Central Park.
And I think the face that you are asking about is a mini, handmade version of the Bocca della Verita in Rome!
All ways might lead to Arles, Silke. And I loved that you did see Arles before and after showtime when you stayed there…
Yes, I think that is a French Blue but there are so many! And like with the greens in Stephen's comment above, they change with the centuries too. Plus (I think you already know this) some villages seem to specialize in one blue or another…
And yep, I wanted to go back to the beginning of doing this blog with the post, you understood perfectly. 🙂
bisous
Thank you for your beautiful response, Edgar. I actually have another photo that is even more pointedly like a vine cross that did not make the cut. If I can remember to do so, I will send it to you…
Merci Judith. I know that I have already posted that doorway before at least once but it is worth repeating…hopefully.
It is a really traditional green here. Although I have just learned that the 18th century green was brighter, more of a kelly green.
PS. Thank you for not stating the obvious that we can never really go back. I know that. But sometimes a little comfort is needed…
Susan, I definitely think, actually know that we see France with fresh eyes. Time and time again I have had locals ask me, "What are you looking at?" 😉 I don't think that we are necessarily more romantic…the objects are romantic in themselves!
Your writing is cinematic. As for the images well…I'm going to knock on your door…tap on your window pane…
So many beautiful doors and windows in France, I never tire of looking at them. Better of course with your prose, thanks for that! Makes me want to run over there for the day ….
bonnie in provence