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Limbo

I am so exhausted that I can’t sleep. The switch is stuck on some sort of “on”, one with faulty wiring as thoughts whirl incessantly even if I am too tired to do much about it. Moving day is fast, fast approaching.
Have I packed anything? Not at all. Is our new apartment ready? No, it isn’t. Moving is always like this. As many times as I have done it, there is always more than a pinch of drama involved. Not as much, of course, as the time that I moved in NYC by subway. Yes, that is right and oh, the pitying looks that I received. I had an old Army trunk and I remember how loudly it thunked across the station platform.
So now, as then, it will be one of those down to the wire pushes. Because, frankly, for the moment, we are having too much fun. A fantastic couple that we both adore came from Paris to see the highlights of the Rencontres International Photography Festival. So many shows, spread out throughout Arles. Last night was the “Night of the Year” (well, personally that would be the Oscars, but to each his own) and it doesn’t get more downtrodden glamour than that. Or at least that is how it seemed to me after entirely too much rosé.
The Arena had been divided into sections with running photography slideshows, accompanying music and for some reason, hundreds of smudgy candles, that while appealing, smelled appalling. How insanely decadent to wander the halls of the Arena with invitations of images in each corner. Bands of twenty-somethings swayed to the DJ’s spins on the sands where the bulls run. I loved it, until I had to go home. Immediately.

The lure of the Rencontres was evident the next day as we baked under the roofs of the former factories that repaired the trains on the Marseille line, known as the Ateliers SNCF. More about that another time, as this particularly down-trodden lieu holds the key to Arles’ future. Rusted iron beams, cracked walls make an oddly appropriate setting for the avant garde of the photography world. Apparently, it is a fitting enough for Frédéric Mitterand, France’s Minister of Culture, who toured the exhibits as we eyed his bodyguards. I love that France has a Minister of Culture and that his role is considered to be so important. Let’s hear it for a country that still believes in the power of its creativity.

The issues that I raised in my previous post were present in some of the pieces presented, such as one made of a collage of images that had been taken off of Flickr or the “Chicken Museum” with ridiculous photos from the internet and pecking chickens making a commentary on our society. We were left with much to think about and highly inspired. The Rencontres is running through the rest of the summer and is well worth the time and the effort. But speaking of efforts, now I really must go…my apologies in advance if I post less in the upcoming week! 

A photographer’s rights

Remi and I just returned from participating in a manifestation or demonstration that was organized by France’s union for professional photographers. The point was to raise awareness about how the decline of the droit d’auteur, or the price that a photographer is paid for the use of his images, is drastically hurting photographers worldwide. This is a subject that is very dear to my heart, as it has affected me directly. 
As many of you know, my companion, Remi Benali, has been a professional photographer for over twenty years. His work has appeared in leading publications throughout the world including Time, Newsweek, Vanity Fair and National Geographic. Due to the economic crisis, magazines are producing less content, which means fewer assignments. That loss of income was partially balanced by the sales of Remi’s images that have been distributed to image banks such as Corbis and Getty. However, with the arrival of websites like Flickr, where images can be obtained and used without charge, the image bank sales have also taken a nosedive. Remi has been told of photo editors at magazines that are given a bonus for coming in under budget and they do so by sacrificing the quality of the content by using free or inexpensive images. Everyone loses in that case as the public loses interest in the magazines, as they no longer offer a unique perspective. We know of at least five photographers that have been forced to give up their profession due to this turn in events. Press photography as we know it, is endangered. 
I know that this a tough subject to bring up in the blogosphere, where little thought is given to a photographer’s rights and need to be paid for their work. Why, for example, are there several of Remi’s photographs (along with some of my text) on Pinterest despite the fact that they are clearly marked as copyrighted on his website? Musicians have fought to stop illegal downloads of their work, as has the film industry. Photography should also have the same protection, one that goes beyond slapping on a photo credit on a stolen image.
I was happy to see that Lucien Clergue also participated in the demonstration. As the first photographer to have been elected a member of the L’Académie des Beaux-Arts de L’Institut de France, he is putting a very public face to this increasingly alarming problem.

Nimes, Part Two

Oh my goodness, I didn’t intend for this to be my next post but time is of the essence these days, so I hope that you will excuse this largely visual offering! Remi and I are really making progress on our new apartment. Frustratingly, he is doing all of the painting alone, as my scrawny Olive Oyl arms aren’t strong enough to properly cover the stucco. And of course, we have already had at least one radical paint turn around–we’ll see if there is another! In the mean time, I am scrubbing off years of dirt that is layered on the doors and windows. It feels wonderful to be bringing elegance back to this apartment.

But back to Nimes. Yes, there is more to show of our day but I want to get my facts right and don’t quite have time to do so now. Instead, I hope that you will enjoy the architectural details on buildings in the Historic Centre of Nimes. I found the patina truly remarkable and the workmanship, especially on the massive wooden entry doors, very impressive. Here and there are even Roman era statues that are embedded in the walls. I was fascinated and would only move along when my friends called after me. The quality and timelessness are something that I long for this all too temporary society!

Revealing

Why do something the easy way when you can do it the really, really hard way? It’s my fault, of course. I admit that right up front. We were just supposed to clean and paint and decorate. Basic, non? Well, I found this tiny crack in the stucco behind the double doors leading from the living room. A quick revisit to my vision of the entire length of wall along the street to be in stone flitted through my head. I picked at it, just like that scab that you know will leave a scar but you can’t help yourself. A swath of cream–could it really just be the stone, right there, so close? I called Remi in, sheepishly. We started picking a little more, then a little more, looking for the stone’s joint. No such luck, it was just plaster, but the more that we dug, the more that we could see that in some places, the stone was visible.

Days later, the stucco is off of the length of the wall. I assumed my rash act and did most of the grunt work with Remi polishing and brushing down behind. He also took care of the covered over placard, which has a lovely faint greenish tint. I had hoped that when we were finally able to open the top half that there would be a hidden treasure stashed inside–a forgotten Van Gogh perhaps?–but in vain…

How fantastic to be rid of that linoleum in the bathroom! The tiles beneath, though not the loveliest brown are a close enough match to the rest of the tomettes in the apartment. I proposed a whitewashed parquet to go over it but that idea has been nixed…for now. I also took care of one of the sillier things that had been done–the charming glass panes in the bathroom door had been painted over–not any more! Yes, even with the addition of a sheer curtain, those windows will let in light to the hall.

My hands are ripped to pieces and my whole body sore but it feels wonderful to bring out the finer aspects of this beautiful space that has been mistreated for far too long. Remi is over at the apartment as I type, mixing the pigments and materials for the lime-wash that we will hopefully put up today. Then we will get rid of the garbage bags full of stucco and attack the paint. Did I mention that this upcoming week is the Rencontres International Photography Festival and we have friends coming to stay? 

Nimes, Part One

Remi and I spent a truly fantastic day in Nimes recently. Now, I have to say that I have never been a fan of this town. It never clicked. The energy seemed a little flat. Well, sometimes all it takes is the proper key to open the door and we had three! Some of you might remember reading about the adventures that we have shared with this very busy group of friends, who, along with the Arles contingent, make up the members of the Brotherhood of The Wine Tree. A large part of our camaraderie lies in jests over which town is superior. The Nimois gave it their best shot and I have to say that I left highly impressed.
It helps when discovering their Roman Arena for the first time to be taken on a private tour, far from the crowds, by the man who has done extensive archeological searches in it and is a director of preventative archeology in the region. Thank you Marc as well as his stunning wife Bettina who opened the doors for us everywhere! 
Now, I understand the genius of its architecture. How drainage systems were built through the rocks to carry down the runoff from the rain, how a contrast of descending ramps and mounting staircases allowed the rich spectators to avoid the riffraff. We even saw the secret staircase that was used by the seamen that were hired to control the enormous vellum sails that could cover the top to provide shade. Roman technology. Not bad, not bad at all.
Unlike Arles, which has been blanched to a white perfection–not unlike a movie star’s teeth–the Arena still retains a magnificent patina. All the better to feel the sense of time and see why this monument is heralded as the best preserved Arena of the Roman Era!
But oh my, was it hot. The noonday sun was drilling a hole in my head. Rather than stop off at this charming old-school brasserie, which has a perfect view of the Arena (and where I have already imbibed, I’ll have you know), the group trudged through the Historic Center of town and over to our friend Marie’s apartment. 
We passed on the way this magnificent palmier which made me think of the symbol of Nimes–a crocodile chained to the base of palm tree. It represents the idea that Nimes was given as a bounty to the  soldiers that followed Caesar into Egypt (Remi just reminded me that this hasn’t been proven, further fuel to the fire in the Arles vs. Nimes feud). 
Ah, luckily such politics have no place in Marie’s shaded interior courtyard. Another cherished aspect of this so-called brotherhood, an especially important one, is that we are all, down to the last one of us, excellent hosts. Perhaps no one takes that task more seriously than the wonderful Marie, who made nearly everything that we ate (and the table was groaning) herself. We started off with a rather lethal apero of rosé embellished with grapefruit syrup. If you are ever offered this, just say no. It is light, it is cold and trust me, it is impossible to keep track of what you are drinking. Luckily, Marie had baked gougères (think monster cheese puffs), anchovy-filled pastries, and what else? Oh, I don’t know–blame it on the wine!
I snapped to enough to take notes for all that followed. Yes, I will be stealing some of these ideas! Verrines, or yummy things in glasses, are all the rage right now in France. Marie had made two and both were insanely good: a ratatouille and goat cheese crumble and a sun-dried tomato and goat cheese topped with spicy dried fruit with rosemary sprigs. Sigh. I am so piggy, I finished one of Frederique’s verrines for her. How could she not eat that?
What else? Cherry tomatoes stuffed with brandade, a local speciality. Tomate farcie, or tomatoes stuffed with a meat, pine nut and spice mixture. Moules escabeche (mussels) and a charcuterie plate with cured ham and chorizo. Baby pizzas topped with veggies. And one of the few things that she bought at a traiteur, or caterer, round pastries shaped liked champagne corks that are filled with pork, called Patés Nimois. They were decorated with the symbol of the town–it is everywhere! On the street posts and lamps…these folks are proud of their town’s heritage….
Needless to say a nap was in order after all of that deliciousness. Marie’s apartment is a true haven in the heart of town, hidden in the back of one of the grand hôtel particuliers. Can you imagine that at one time this belonged to one family? Well, I can imagine having it all to myself as well! Yes, more patina, here in the beams and stone columns in her kitchen and the wrought iron balconies that grace the main courtyard. 
Once, we had been corralled by the others to get a move on, we once again head out. Our day was far from finished, so I will be posting more about all that we saw soon…there is still so, so much to share…
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