Author: Heather Robinson

Sometimes simple

In a haze of jet-lag, I grabbed my camera and headed outside with a determined gait in order to try and stay awake. And to remember where I was and why. My little village. It looked so scruffy and simple.

 But we all know that sometimes simple is best.

I mentioned that recently and sans doute due to a stray-dog memory, I will most likely say it again.

I tumbled around with a propped-up eye…

…to rediscover all of the details and feelings that made me fall in love with this odd corner of Provence for the first time.
My gaze was radically hungry – down, across and certainly, uppity up. 

For as soon as Remi picked me up at the airport – with les chiens in tow – I started exclaiming about the light. That autumn shift that brings a brighter blue, a softer gold.

And it scratches the sides of surfaces to make them sing.

Architectural traces of better times…

…still give proof to something good.
Colors blend…
…lines sway…

…and I feel plenty of calm just looking out my window.

I feel a hidden promise of doors yet to open…
…and yes, friends (Why does that word now have a corny context? Says who? Banish that! It is a good word!) are still to be made.
Cheers to you. Thank you for all of your kindness and for being here…


PS. Apparently, “sometimes cloudy days are best” too. Woof woof! 😉

Limbo vertigo

The color of the roses is making me dizzy. Leonard, my Mom’s former fiancé and now husband, buys them for her every week. It is a habit that hasn’t changed just because they have said, “I do.” They are grocery store roses but that doesn’t make the meaning behind them any less beautiful nor the curves of their petals any less fluid. My Mom lets me arrange them. “You are good at that…You get roses a lot don’t you?” I look at her for a moment and then reach into the drawer for the big scissors.

Air France was on strike. When I mention it to people here in Michigan, I am met with an “Oh, really?” for it has barely bounced on the American news. And yet tens of thousands of people (according to Air France, the New York Times went for the more dramatic hundreds of thousands) have been stranded. I am one of them.

Of course, we knew about the impending strike before it happened, Remi and I. But still I had no choice but to take the plane for my Mom’s wedding to Leonard, just as Remi had no choice but to stay behind. We couldn’t afford to be two. And yes, it is France so there were jokes about the frequency of les grêves and the greediness of French workers, depending on who was doing the joking but in the end, the strike went on for fourteen days. No solutions were reached between the two parties.

Two weeks may not sound like much but I wonder about the many stories of what happened for others like myself. How many lives were somehow utterly changed because of not being able to get back to a place called “Home.” I have been lucky, of course, in that I have the guest room to inhabit, not the blank walls of a hotel to shut me down and in. “This is your second home,” Leonard often says. It is as generous as he is and he means it. Their love and kindness – along with that of my Sister, Robin, who lives a half hour away – is as profuse as the perfume from a technicolor bouquet. I lean in instinctively to catch the ghost scent in remembrance.

I prick my thumb while cutting the stems. A grimace and a swear escape. I should know better for I do love roses. My mind must be wandering. Back to Provence I suppose, back to Remi and the dogs and that other Home, the first one, that I was only just beginning to know three weeks ago.

On my cell phone are little pictures that I return to, something like memory paintings. Olive trees, tails wagging. Instagram talismans. I realize that it isn’t the color nor the thorns prick that are making me dizzy, it is the pull. Of limbo vertigo. If Air France behaves, tonight I will take the plane. And I will cry to leave this part of my family (age doesn’t shame me into doing otherwise) just as I will crumble with relief into Remi’s arms at the other end.

This is just how it is within an expat’s life. It is full and complex and confusing and I chose it. But for me, this aspect of it doesn’t ever get any easier. There are parts of my heart in many places and I can feel them beating boom, boom, boom.

Our first vendange

One of the most romantic elements at our new home is the vine-covered trellis that takes up a third of the courtyard. It charmed me immediately. In the mornings, I would be bathed in a soft green light in the kitchen while my tea brewed…

…this after having pushed back the shutters in our bedroom to sail on a sea of green below. Such a lovely start to my day.
The vine’s branches twist under and over each other like happy snakes and the grapes grew downwards with a lush promise…
…until they didn’t. 
Oh, dear. 
Remi and I watched with consternation as our beautiful bunches turned sour. Within a week, they were shrivelled with disease and began to fall in moldy clumps to the ground. While we scrambled to pick them up, the dogs soon learned the hard way that those left behind were not exactly the tasty treat that they had expected. The sickly sweet odor was attracting a steadily increasing swarm of bees that would dive bomb us throughout the day. Ben is very allergic to bee stings.
Something needed to be done.
The owner had already assured us that as the vine is so old (one friend estimated that it is seventy years of age) that it only produces a decent crop every other year. It was clear that a good pruning job was definitely in order as well. 
Remi and I had already helped a friend pick the grapes for his wine and know what back-breaking work it is. But what to do when the branches are far overhead? We headed to our trusty Mr. Bricolage, the hardware store, for the longest cutter that they had. It was an investment but one that would also be useful for trimming the olive tree in the courtyard at the end of autumn.
 Remi angled the instrument in-between the leaves as best as he could and then with a tug on the red cord to pull the blades shut…snip! snip!…
…the grapes fell to the ground. My job was sweep them into a pile as best as I could. I chased after the rebel rollers with determination. The fruits of our first vendange – or harvest – left little to be desired!
As the hours passed, more of the sky peeked through our previously shaded canopy.
I kept turning my head upwards, missing both the privacy and the touch of character that the grapes had represented.
Eh, oui. Sometimes what is beautiful needs to be sacrificed for practicality. That is just how it goes.
And besides, there is always next year… 🙂
Have a wonderful week ahead everyone.

The Disappearance of the Fireflies – Avignon

I spent my birthday in prison.

Now hold on there, before you hit “delete” and then “unsubscribe”, let me explain for it is not what you think.

I have mentioned that I like to see an art exhibition on my birthday whenever possible. It is just one of the things that gives me the most sparks for the year ahead. And while summer is often the time for many big shows in Provence, I was most intrigued by “The Disappearance of the Fireflies,” which came about as a means to transfer elements of the truly amazing Collection Lambert (each a donation by Enea Righi) during the museum’s current renovations into one of France’s oldest prisons, the Prison Saint Anne.

I felt my skin prickle as I passed the entry, shielded with thick glass riddled with bullet holes. Even though I was walking into prison on my own decision, I immediately felt Barbara Kruger’s demanding, “Who do you think you are?” destabilizing me and challenging my will.

The Prison Sainte Anne is located in the heart of Avignon, directly behind the Palais des Papes – aka the Pope’s Palace – and is an unusual example of “purpose-built” architecture from the late 18th century.
This building was not a conversion of another site. It was created from the ground up for the specific use to be a prison. There is no respite in the architecture.
It was only closed down in 2003. The ghosts are recent. For the exhibition, nothing of its condition was altered.
At the entry, signs clearly warn that a thorough visit can take up to three hours as there are numerous video and sound installations. Remi and I plunged in willingly, giggling nervously at first and then quickly falling silent.
Art can be found throughout the prison, lining the corridors and courtyards but it was in peeking into the over 200 cells that held specific works that I was especially moved.

Each contains a little world…

…just as it had for the prisoner’s that had inhabited them. 
Both direct and indirect expressions of the themes are presented.
The patina on the walls, the history present was at times quite beautiful but was also capable of invoking in me a feeling bordering on fright or disgust.
The currencies of darkness and light clank and ching…
How deeply they must have been both cherished and detested.
The name of the exhibition was taken from a quote by the Italian poet and film-maker Pier Paolo Pasolini in which he used the disappearance of fireflies in the countryside as a metaphor for both the fading light of a bygone society and a past sense of “youth” that can’t be conveyed to the “new” generation – or of as a lost youth, if you will.
 Each piece presented is meant to be a firefly, a fragment glowing tenuously and yet with determination. Within its resistance can be found something akin to a feverish hope.

Walking through the halls, I was chased by the sneaking suspicion of a whisper evaporating two steps ahead of me…
…and yet was also confronted with the solidity of being forced to endure. The day after day, the year after year, the decade after decade. Without choice and yet evolving or sliding, slowly.

Several different worlds are presented over three levels..
…representing not only “imprisonment” but also “the passage of time”, “solitude” and yes, “love.”
I have visited the Collection Lambert several times before in its original location but seeing such works as Andy Warhol’s “Electric chair” was an entirely different experience in such an environment. One that heightened meaning…
…and shocked my vision into seeing anew. In another cell, my eye drifted between a framed Cy Twombly and “another” that I could also see traced into the wall. The two were nearly indiscernible.

The exhibition has been conceived to play on the senses and it does, strongly. Despite the fact that the prison had been cleaned for a month before the shows opening, the odours were at times very strong, the sounds and lack of horizon stifling.
Although we started out together, Remi and I eventually and wordlessly separated, each in our little cells of thought and emotions.

By the end of the exhibition, I felt utterly exhausted. I mentioned it to one of the guards and he told me with a short laugh that, “Many people turn straight around to the exit after the first floor!” But I was glad that I pushed through the sense of chaos, past the ragged strips of pinup girl posters and scratched graffiti, to understand so poignantly what it must have been like to have been imprisoned, in the many senses of the term…
…all the better to finally step outside under the great open sky and appreciate what it is to be free.

The Disappearance of the Fireflies
Prison Sainte Anne
55 rue de la Banasterie
84000 Avignon
Running until November 25th
Open everyday
Until Sept. 29th from 11am to 7pm
From Sept. 30th to Nov. 25th from 11am to 6pm
Last entry is one hour before closing time
Admission: 10 Euros
http://www.collectionlambert.fr/en/event/151/the-disappearance-of-the-fireflies.html
I know that it has been kind of a heavy week here at Lost in Arles but I really wanted to present this before it closes, in case there are those of you in Provence that haven’t seen it yet. For Remi, it was perhaps the most important exhibition that he has ever seen and I can’t stop thinking about it. I am so glad that we went. Plus, I feel like it is fitting companion to my previous post (thank you so much for your amazing responses!) as when it comes down to it, both are ultimately about the importance of finding freedom, something never to be taken for granted…
Have a wonderful weekend,
Heather

White bird in the snow

When the world keeps sending me a message, I try to tune the radio in to listen. Certainly when it  insists with a pin-ball urgency sliding me down the chute from source to source and yet each rings true.
My Sister, Robin, gave me a subscription to Tricycle magazine and it was with a profound sense of fascination and then relief that I discovered the article “No one special to be” by Ezra Bayda in the Fall 2014 issue. The tag line is “escaping the prison of your own self-image.” “Oh dear,” I thought, “this could be helpful…A little scary too.”
You see, as I was growing up, my Dad, in his well-meaning way, expressed his love for me through my accomplishments and even those had to not be simply good but exceptional. So I associated being something “special” – in the sense of doing something that only I could do – with getting love in return. It was a lesson that I learned so early on that I am still trying to free myself of its grasp and I find myself often seeking approval. It is an acquired behaviour. We moved around quite a bit during my childhood as well, so I also grasped on to certain identities in order to make my presence felt in a new environment. That too stayed with me but has been surprisingly sliding away all on its own in the past year or so.
I was especially aware of the loosening of the identity grip while visiting in the States this past summer. For while I have always been labelled “fashion forward” and “a good dresser” by my family, I saw that it was not really the case in how I presented myself. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone, not even myself. And that felt surprisingly ok. “But isn’t that an important part of who I am?” I wondered. Well, no, not really, although it has been a part of my personality for a long time and might be again.
In the opening of the article Mr. Bayda explains that, “One of the main characteristics of a life of sleep is that we are totally identified with being a Me. Starting with our name, our history, our self-images and identities, we use each of these things to solidify the sense that we are living in our own subjective sphere. We experience ourselves as “special” – not in the normal sense of being distinguished or exceptional but in the sense that we feel unique and subtly significant. Interestingly, our feeling of specialness is not just from having positive qualities; we can even use our suffering to make us feel unique or special. Yet not needing to be special, not needing to be any particular way, is what it means to be free – free to experience our natural being, our most authentic self.”
Isn’t that interesting? What a change from the stories that I have been telling myself and propping myself up with! Very much in the lines of “I am __ because of __.” Easy to do, a little too easy. It also brings to mind one of the best pieces of advice that I have ever read about insomnia in the book, “No more sleepless nights.” It was simply to be aware of and let go of the attention that “being an insomniac” brings you. If I no longer define myself as an insomniac, then what does that make room for in my life in return? It helped me sleep better far better than warm milk did.
As someone who has experienced several truly different phases of life, I am aware on a surface level that we have many selves, many feathers to our personality. They are sometimes ruffled, sometimes smooth. But at the same time, I have struggled with a very American phenomenon (it feels American to me) of being characterized by one’s profession, by what we do. I was “an actress” then “a travel writer.” Now I am neither of those things. Does that change who I am? Am I less of a person now? It doesn’t feel so, just different. 
On the blog A Cup of Jo, I saw a quote from Nora Ephron at about the same time as I had read the above article. While waiting in line, say at restaurants, she and her family would play a game where they would “define” themselves in five words. She came to realize that the words that she would have used in her twenties never overlapped with those in her 30s, or in her 30s to her 40s and upwards. Ever. We change. Especially if we let ourselves. Certainly if we open up our perspective.
My Sister then sent me a link to a post that has been floating around the web from the amazing Glennon Doyle Melton’s blog Momastery. The post is called “Give me liberty or give me debt” and it is one of the most fantastic examples of shifting perspective that I have seen in a long time. Plus, it is hysterical. You can read it by clicking here. Once on her website, I had to look around more, listen to her very inspiring TED talk and then found a true gem of a post, “Beauty Routine” in which she redefines (literally) what it is to feel beautiful. Certainly, of all of the self-images and identities that we create and then cling to, those concerning our looks and our bodies are incredibly forceful. As someone who was always “skinny” and is now not, I can raise up my hand in recognition of that.
This is why I was really moved to read the photographer Carla Coulson‘s update on her battles with several auto-immune disorders, including Graves disease. Despite her doctor’s initial reluctance, she has basically cured and/or drastically improved all of her conditions through radically changing her diet and lifestyle. She was true to herself, she was willing to look beyond the obvious story of what both her docs were telling her and her own loves of pasta and coffee and the like, things she believed to be true but she made the changes anyway. While I understand that some of you might be tired of hearing about the “No Sugar, No Gluten” bandwagon, I can see all around me that many people are suffering due to their choices. Is that too how they want to define themselves? Maybe. As an added bonus, Carla  no longer has chronic headaches and her husband has rid himself of terrible eczema through this shift. It takes courage. She has put together an amazing batch of resources and information that is good reading even if you are in fine health. You can find it by clicking here.
Perhaps some of this is just my age but I am nearing the point where I am willing to look at my own long battles in the eye. Or at least to try and shyly side-glance at them clearly. Just try. Lately, it has been the acknowledgement that “Fear is running the show.” Not a great defining force and something that is definitely getting in the way. I want to have a greater awareness. If I do strive for that, where could that take me? As Ezra Bayda writes towards the end of the article, “When we do this repeatedly, the sense of who we are, with all of our stories, loses its substantiality, its heaviness. There is a transformation out of the narrow subjective sphere into a more open experience of reality. When we bring awareness to our cherished self-images, such as our need to be special, they begin to lose their power over us. No longer puffing ourselves up or trying to stand out means we are coming closer to living like a white bird in the snow. That is, we no longer feel the inner compulsion to see ourselves or be seen in a particular way – there is no ulterior agenda. The result is true humility – no one special to be.”
So why this long post? I realize that this isn’t a subject that touches everyone and that there are plenty of you that are already living true to your authentic selves. But it is interesting to me, now. And I am listening. And besides, what is the underlying force that lies at the root of us all? Connectedness. It is, wonderfully, what is always present in our ever changing world. You are a big part of that in my life and for that I am happy to spread out my thoughts just in case that someone else is helped by any of these interesting sources as I have been. We never know and it can be good to explore blind terrain from time to time as just maybe, maybe we will sense those nearly invisible territories in front of us, as yet indiscernible as the white bird in the snow.

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