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“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!

 

We all have our favorite weekend activities and I have read about several on the net that have left me tinged with jealousy–apple-picking in the States, gardening in Normandy (I actually enjoy the grunt-work), and simply nesting all over the world. Sigh. Personally, nothing says weekend more to me than heading out to browse at an antique shop. It doesn’t have to be fancy, actually I prefer a dépôt-vente or consignment shop, where all manner of items can be found.

Does that mean that there is always something to take home? Of course not! But the fun is as much in the hunt, as any brocanteur or brocanteuse can attest. Hmmm, so what was to be had for the offerings on our last trip? I was fascinated by this over the top Rococo cabinet (note the small skull on the fronton) that held a stuffed white cobra and a screeching owl within its doors as if to keep them from attacking the public.

Don’t be fooled by the German Shepherd, he isn’t there to guard but sneak up and give bisous on your hand! I thought that the pair of colonial style low-slung chairs behind him were similar to things that I have been seeing in several design magazines and blogs. I could easily picture them on a stone veranda in California.

I would have been tempted by this chair, sorely tempted if those gorgeous arms would only fit under my desk. I am a sucker for a worn animal print–in chenille no less. Just imagine the fine prose this could inspire me to? Alas, no.

This pair seemed to me to be the buy of the day at 80€. Beautifully sculpted, I believe out of Rosewood, nor could I see any nails, so probably more ancient than one would think. Do we have any place for them, chez nous? Absolutley not!  The same can be said for the romantic lithograph and the golden applique below but it doesn’t stop me from redecorating in my mind.

Drawn by the insanely kitschy photograph of a very literal interpretation of Coq en pâte, we bought the massive tome, “L’Art Culinaire Français” and were delighted to find that the photographs were the only thing dated about it. “This is the kind of book that my Mother had,” Remi assured me. The recipes are written simply in paragraph form and cover absolutely every French basic that you could ever wish to whip up. I have casually left it out, just laying around, so that Monsieur le Chef can be inspired at will.

“You aren’t going to write about this are you?” Remi has locked eyes with me to make the point. I lower the camera clutched in my hand back down into my bag. No, I don’t need to write about everything. I don’t have blogger fever. It is his birthday and some things are best left in the realm of the personal.

And so we lingered. My back was to the rest of the tables but I could hear the bubble of conversation starting to fade. Having waited tables (something that every member of the population should be forced to do at one time or another), I dread being the hated ‘last table that won’t leave’ so we offered to settle the bill so that our waiter could go. No need to vex a man who offers free bubbly, now is there?

We left behind our private little kingdom for another. The exhibition “Le Temps Retrouvés” featured the works of Cy Twombly as well as a selection of complimentary masterworks. I am a Twombly fan and was grateful to see the last exhibition curated before the artist’s death. It was lovely to slide in between the layers of his paintings but also to watch the light play off them and the architecture as well.

We wandered from room to room gazing at stark Cindy Shermans, moody Louise Lawlers and a haunting series by Sally Mann. 

At every turn, the light played as much of a role as the art in charming us. Softness, whispers and again the absence of noise. It wasn’t until we had reached one of the final rooms that we realized that we had seen the entire exhibit alone. We hadn’t crossed another person save for occasional security guards that would nod at us, each in varying stages of a seeming Zen like state.