Author: Heather Robinson

The (not so) wild horses of the Camargue

It was one of those moments. Provence is still unveiling them, dropping them into my palm like stones in an ever-widening pond. Even after all these years…

Remi and I had already had a great afternoon in the Camargue, one where we were finally able to push past the tourist tainted scenery into something that made our hearts sing with excitement and feel as if we were both travelers again.

It was a day of business and pleasure with the former rounding out the last of the afternoon light. 
But it was not quite over, no, not yet for as we turned towards north towards Arles…
…we were dumbfounded to find a herd of the horses of the Camargue, the wild horses of the Camargue, gathered right by the side of the road. We pulled over and approached quietly, not wishing to disturb the sleep of those that leant towards each other, nostrils turned away from the saline sea winds.
They have been in the region for as long as man, possibly since the Paleolithic period. It is believed that they were cherished by the Romans and indeed Remi told me that Julius Caesar’s cavalry was composed of not Italian but rather French (then German) riders. Why not think then that he was fond of this sturdy strong breed? It is known that later kings of France would forcibly take riders and these steeds and haul them into combat. The Brotherhood of the Gardians was formed over 500 years ago to end that practice and  yet the riders are still practicing their skills today as France’s cowboys in herding the wild bulls that also roam this delta – half-sea, half-land.
But there were no sun-worn ranch-hands about, just these stately figures on an open plain. They let us observe them and most likely could sense our admiration; these creatures so ancient that they could nearly be ghosts from another time, were it not for their cut short snorts and rippled muscles moving under their white coats covering deep black skins. 
In the ten years that we have lived in Provence, we have never seen them at such a proximity. Eventually they turned tail and waded out into the marshes and left us grinning, gifted. Thank you la Provence, merci la Camargue, au revoir les chevaux…
Have a wonderful weekend everyone. I hope that you have a few fine surprises of the good kind and enjoy these days either turning towards fall or spring…

David Hockney at the Fondation Vincent Van Gogh Arles

Happiness is blinding.
And so I am afraid that I can’t begin to give you anything resembling an unbiased review of David Hockney’s newly opened exhibition “The Arrival of Spring” at the Fondation Vincent Van Gogh Arles as I was too busy smiling instead of analyzing. And I wasn’t the only one.
Mr. Hockney is widely acknowledged as one of our most important and influential contemporary artists. While known primarily for his giving high brow credit to the burgeoning world of Pop Art in the 1960’s, he has continuously pushed his visual boundaries and ours in the process, not unlike Vincent Van Gogh some seventy years before him. Both sensorially and semantically, the mesh of these two brilliant artists aesthetics is a perfect fit for the Fondation. Through the presentation of twelve inkjet reproductions of works created on his ipad, along with twenty-five more traditional charcoal drawings, we are drawn into Hockney’s world (in this case the woodlands surrounding his native Yorkshire, a rich opposite to the white lights of his current home of Los Angeles) all while realizing that we have trodden these same paths before – in line and in bold non-imitative palette – under Vincent’s tutelage.
But again, don’t listen to me, I have already let you know that I loved what I saw, instead take a look at this description from the exhibition’s introduction:

“Both the iPad and the charcoal series of drawings were produced outdoors in the East Yorkshire countryside, which the artist observed attentively as winter gave way to spring. Working with the touch-screen tablet, which Hockney uses as a digital sketchpad, allows the artist to explore a new visual language while at the same time affirming his love for colours, here taken to their most luminous heights: “I don’t know how I see colour, but I see it, and I like it. I suppose I exaggerate it a bit 1”. The charcoal drawings simultaneously invoke Hockney’s fascination for Chinese scrolls, which inspire in him the idea that black and white contain colours, as well as with the compositional changes in the Woldgate landscape over time – an exercise in patience to which he had to subscribe to in order to paint the same view on five different occasions.”

I am afraid that my photos of what came out of that process won’t begin to do them justice but it will give you an idea. Had I never really seen a Hockney in person before? That seems unlikely but in looking at these pieces, most certainly the ipad paintings, I fell into them with a click of “Oh, now I get it.” And yet when Remi, my companion, came to join me later on, he was undecided as to the “why” of using an ipad, the validity of the search. I told him that it had been the subject of numerous discussions in the press when Mr. Hockney unveiled the first ipad pieces, which were done in 2009. At the time he responded about his use of the ipad, “Who wouldn’t want one? Picasso or Van Gogh would have snapped one up.” 

You see? There is Van Gogh again. And I can’t help but think he must be right when imagining poor Vincent trudging out to the fields with his easel and array of brushes on his back that inspired the locals to call him “the porcupine.” How much easier would it have been to simply carry an ipad and no paints at all?

Not to mention there is an immediacy to the works created that is really present in the final result, one that is quite in sync (sorry about that) with our current fast-forward times. One thing that I did notice however is that the technology that Mr. Hockney is using has improved since his first ipad work – the colors are so vibrant as not to be believed now, quite different from his initial pieces which, in their faded state, seemed like copies of an idea wishing to be realized. 

One of the aspects that charmed me most of this exhibition was seeing how the children there responded to the ipad pieces, which seemed almost purposefully hung low on the walls for their enjoyment. And they did, as I did, for in viewing Mr. Hockney’s “The Arrival of Spring” I couldn’t help but be carried away on a whistle of the enchanted hope that such a very fine season brings and the promise of a beautiful new.

“The Arrival of Spring” is not David Hockney’s first collaboration in Arles.
In 1988, commissioned by La Fondation Vincent Van Gogh d’Arles, David Hockney created three portraits of chairs after one of Van Gogh’s most famous paintings – Van Gogh’s Chair (1888). 
“Because of the many viewpoint seen in these pictures, the eye is forced to move all the time. When the perspective moves through time, you begin to covert time into space. As you move, the shapes of the chairs change, and the straight lines of the floor also seem to move in different ways.”
– David Hockney (Hockney’s Pictures, 2004)

If you happen to be in Provence, please do stop by and see this wonderful exhibition.
David Hockney, “The Arrival of Spring”
Fondation Vincent Van Gogh Arles
35 ter rue de Docteur Fanton
13200 – Arles
Tel. (+33) 04 90 93 08 08
From October 11th 2015 to January 10th 2016
Open Tuesday through Sunday, 11am to 6pm
Admission is 9 Euros, 4 Euros for young people and students, free for children under 12
http://www.fondation-vincentvangogh-arles.org/en/
I will leave you with one of my favorite photos I have taken in a really long time. 
Thank you for being here,
Heather

My Stylish French Girlfriends by Sharon Santoni

As some of you know, I came to blogging via a convex route: aka my companion Remi telling me that, as my career as a travel writer had been put on hold, I had to start doing something creative as an outlet because my restlessness was driving him crazy. He suggested that I start a blog. This blog, actually. But at the time, blogs were still…questionably legitimate. Coming from the background of already being a professional journalist, I puffed up as a snob. That is until I started looking further into what they were. The very first blog that I found which clicked with me was My French Country Home. As soon as I began delving into the fine phrasing and poring over all of the lush, original photography, I quickly changed my tune to, “Oh my goodness, I can’t do this!” Finally, I decided to stop reading it for a while until I found my own voice, my own way of doing things.
Interestingly enough, today I am really grateful to call Sharon Santoni, who is the blog’s author, a friend – albeit one that I haven’t met yet in person, as hard as that is to remember sometimes. She is an amazing woman – smart as a whip, thoughtful, romantic yet driven, extremely generous in her support, incredibly funny and has pitch-perfect taste. My French Country Home only continues to grow and accrue enormous success with thousands of readers all around the world. And she deserves every bit of it as she is an unbelievably hard-worker who has persistently pushes herself and her aesthetic at a non-stop pace…all while making it appear…effortless.
Eh, oui. C’est ça l’histoire. And it something that she has very much in common with the subjects of her new book, “My Stylish French Girlfriends.”
Now, listen. I am as over the deification of the French woman as the next person. I know plenty of seriously hot messes here in Provence and remember thinking when I first moved to Paris fourteen years ago that, “New Yorkers dress better than les Parisiennes! Ha!” But…but…I have to admit that when the French woman gets it right…she nails it. Because for her, it goes far beyond appearance to constructing an interesting and interested full life, one that often has been settled on her own terms too.
Does money help in this process? Well, of course it can. And I will admit (with embarrassment) that when Sharon first told me about this project I had a wee apprehension of “Will this only be about wealthy women who have access to everything?” shimmy over me but of course I should have given my friend more credit than that (sorry!) for she was determined to present twenty women of all age ranges with varied careers and economic statuses who live throughout this glorious hexagone called France.
The common thread that unites them is that they are not in search of perfection (an evil, poisonous word if ever there was one) but of authenticity by making specific choices to build a life true to their spirit and dreams. We are first introduced to Alicia, a charming young redhead (a-hem) who left school at the age of fifteen to join a circus and now is a gifted stylist and brocanteuse. Several chapters later, we meet Evelyne, une femme d’un certain age, who, as the fifth generation to run Boizel, her family’s champagne vineyard, is searching for new resources to keep their bubbly relevant in this digital age. Amongst the women there are quite a few designers and decorators of varying tastes, as well as artists, antique dealers and business women with quite different lifestyles.

Through the gorgeous photography by Franck Schmitt, we are invited into the personal spaces that they share with their loved ones, creating an ambiance as intimate as the stories that Sharon reveals about each of her girlfriends. I know her writing well and her naturally calming cadence perfectly compliments Franck’s use of depth of field to softly guide the eye. Is the result quite glamorous? Yes, delightfully so but also grounded and real. The women do not appear to be overly made-up for the camera and Sharon states that the homes were not styled beyond the addition of fresh flowers. For me, that makes it especially appealing. Finely printed, it is a beautiful book.
Another aspect that Sharon fought hard for during its inception was its size. It is big but not too much, just perfect to balance on one’s knees and yet not so small as to be shuffled away on a bookshelf…ça serait dommage. I was given “My Stylish French Girlfriends” as a birthday gift from another wonderful friend, La Contessa. That was in August, so why am I only sharing it with you now? Well, I wanted to savor it. Rather than read it all at one go, I would sit down on the terrace in the end of summer light with a glass of wine and read a chapter, maybe two. It was enough to give me quite a lot to think about or swoon over, both equally important. And I still go back to simmer over the images and the text because in creating “My Stylish French Girlfriends” Sharon Santoni has given us a wonderful resource to something that all of these women exude…inspiration.

To get a glimpse, watch the video below…
This video and all images inside the book courtesy of ©MyStylishFrenchGirlfriends
To buy “My Stylish French Girlfriends” in the US through Amazon, click: here.
To buy it directly through her publisher, Gibbs Smith, click: here.
Pour l’acheter en France, cliquez: ici.
While there is a Kindle edition, I really think that the hardbound is best in this case.

To discover Sharon’s blog, by all means go to: http://sharonsantoni.com/
To follow her adventures on instagram: +Sharon Santoni
Her online brocante shop can be found: here.
For more information about her brocante and lifestyle tours, click: here.
And to inquire about staying at her guest cottage, click: here.

See? I told you that she is a hard-worker!

Sharon has no idea that I am doing this post today. But this month’s By Invitation Only topic – which reunites a group of bloggers around the globe to discuss a pre-determined theme – reintroduced last October’s question of, “What is the one thing that you can’t live without this Fall?” and I immediately thought, “inspiration” which lead me pronto to Sharon’s book. I know that quite a few of you already know and love it but for those of you who don’t, well, I hope that you enjoy “My French Stylish Girlfriends” as much as I do. Brava, Sharon!

To discover what the other bloggers have cooked up for this months theme, please visit: here.

With all of my Best from Provence,
Heather
PS. It goes without saying that, especially as he is a ladies man, Ben gives his hearty approval to “My Stylish French Girlfriends”…

Apple song

It is funny the frustrating things that slow-motion blur into helpful, then hop into good in the long run. 
I don’t tend to expound too much on Kipling’s rougher nature but it is something that we live with everyday. Our adopted dog was definitely beaten in his previous life and bitten too. So let’s just say that he tends to strike first when in doubt. I have learned to be as careful as a CIA agent when out on our walks for good reason, certainly as many folks tend to just open up their doors and let their dogs roam unaccompanied in the South of France. I tighten my grip on his leash and scan the horizon; I pay attention to the snap of each twig breaking, ready for what might come up at the next turn in the bend. Frankly, it can be a little exhausting but it is just a part of love. And over months – certainly since we have moved out to this village – I have come to rely heavily on my instinct. I listen hard to that inner voice far more than I used to. It can be uncanny how a “Wait. No, stop here,” has continuously averted potential dangers. 
I trust my instinct.
And it serves me for light-hearted pursuits as well. 
It was already late yesterday evening when I decided to ride my bike out to the garden. A big storm had been announced for today – yes, one that hit hard and had both dogs, including Kipling, hiding under my desk – and I wanted to make sure if there was anything that needed to come in. Remi had given me the black vintage bicycle for my birthday present. It needs huile somewhere up front – I am the veritable squeaky wheel – and so call my ride The Cricket. It was already wheezing heavily when I made a last minute right turn after la pharmacie to take the back road out. It is much longer, so much so that I had never ridden that path before but something had tugged me, go. 
I weaved around speed bumps and passed houses spinning chimney smoke before bumping down a dirt path next to an apple orchard. Yes, it was good that I had come as there were several newly tumbled tomatoes to rescue. I didn’t linger, the light was blooming. I pushed the pedals, rose up in my seat and caught my breath as I pulled up alongside the apple trees once more. Their perfume was calling me in a way that I had been too rushed to feel upon arriving. A smell that was far more complex than the rubber band word apple can convey, it was a song that ran from blossom to fruition. I stopped, awkwardly as I am still not confident on my bike and fished in my pocket for my camera, any modern testimony to something so time-worn and true.
Breathing in, breathing out fast, I cut across the pétanque court, wheels wobbling, light fading, straight to home, grateful for hearing and believing what I do.

Ambling after the moon

“Do you ever walk through the village at night?” C’s question surprised me, I had to think. “No, no, I don’t really…” “Oh, it’s wonderful,” she responded with that soft Southern accent belying her to be “the Other American” (in truth, she is L’Americaine and I am the other but no matter) here. “I do it all the time, it is so quiet.”
She went on to tell me of how she loves to take visiting English immersion exchange students on evening strolls, including a young girl from Monaco who delighted in the ability to do cartwheels through the empty streets…such freedom to be seen unseen.

C and I had been chatting about the upcoming arrival of the Supermoon, the Blood Moon, so rare. 

She imparted that she had been charting its progress this month along with her two children, who were coloring its stages nightly for class and told me the best place to see it at the top of the village. I wondered why I had never had such cool and engaging projects in the Midwestern schools I attended as a kid.

Just after 7:30pm, the time that Mr. Moon was supposed to be on the up and up, I was sipping a glass of wine and listening to Miles Davis. I was feeling mighty comfy in that Sunday evening cook a chicken way. But the image of that whirling girl enticed me enough to walk up the two flights to grab my camera and attach its 300 mm lens. All right then, go see, go see…

I climbed the hill and breathed out a “Oh there you are” at the glowing bone ball. I was standing on what had been the cemetery, long ago. The description seemed appropriate and yet C had been right, I felt no fear. Only that quiet that she had mentioned, sinking in, calming my breath and steadying my often shaky hands as I lifted the heavy apparatus time and time again. I shifted the manual settings with squinting eyes as the dark settled in. “If only Remi were here,” I thought nearly automatically, “he would know what to do.” How many times I have literally seen him run to be in the right place at the right time to catch the light, such a precise hunter. Well, instead, I just ambled after the moon – I played, I was a little artsy, at other moments I felt like a grand reporteur on a mission, I leaned into the fuzz of the sunset – and all the while the moon just rose and rose, shifting shades and cutting clouds. I stayed until I was content and paused before swinging the camera over my shoulder and trotting down the hill to whisper “thank you” – to C, to the daring girl, and to the beauty of la lune. Such a mystery still and how I love it that way.
to listen to:
Have a wonderful beginning to your week everyone…
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