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Bloom

Pay attention. Pay attention, nature seems to be saying to me as of late. Take in all the beauty surrounding you and within your life. All that costs nothing save for a little looking, hope and honesty. For as detached as I can sometimes feel as an American living in a small town like Arles, I am very fortunate to be connected to such beauty and to some pretty amazing human beings as well.

I will admit that I was as nervous as I was excited to see Wesley Fata again. It took me awhile to untangle why. True, Wesley is something of a legend. He danced under Martha Graham, was in the original Broadway production of “Hair” and then went on to teach movement at the Yale School of Drama for over thirty years, coaxing everyone from Meryl Streep to Angela Bassett to Liev Schreiber to inhabit their best selves. I know Wesley from my time there. He taught me more than anyone and saw something in me that he did his best to pull up and out. Luckily along the way, a friendship developed. A rarity, which I knew then and still do. 

And yet he was incredibly supportive when I decided to change lanes by putting the unimaginably hard world of acting aside to have a life and a love in France. When he wrote last February that he would be spending a week in Provence this summer, my heart leapt! It is a rarity for me to have visitors from the States and more so from my “past life”, one that has been largely buried under the new. No one here knows me in that previous context at all. 

I launched into a lengthy exchange with Wesley’s fantastic, brilliant partner Christopher to help make their planning as worthy as it could be. I can tell you, if I may be smug, that their itinerary–whether they stick to it or not–is a spectacular one (and anyone that would like ideas for future visits should not hesitate to ask). It was decided that we would meet the day after their arrival on the steps of Saint-Trophime church.

And here is where the nerves started to vibrate, but not for long. Because I have had an interesting life even if it is not the one that I had bargained for, a really good one. And at 41, it is more than beyond time to embrace that. 

When I crossed the Place de la Republique and fell into his welcoming embrace, I knew that my worries had been for nothing. I have had the experience already in my life of seeing a friend after a long absence and picking up right where we had left off as if no time has passed but this was different. Because neither of us were exactly the same people that we had been before and yet we were still able to have that connection, moving forward. Yes I know, people are always changing but it can be surprising how many from our past want us to stay who we were, which leads to disappointment for all involved. Not the case here, at least on my part. Remi pulled out the stops yesterday evening for a dinner that could not have been lovelier. Out in the garden with the candles lit. Enjoying his stuffed cannette and squash gratin and fine, quiet conversation. Strolling through town afterwards and passing the gates of the church just in time to ring in what I hope is a very Happy Birthday for Christopher. Walking back to the house, my hand in Remi’s, I felt lucky.

I couldn’t stop giggling when I saw my face, a grinning Ben and my living room on the latest post of Brooke Giannetti’s perennially inspiring blog, Velvet & Linen. What on earth was I doing there? Alongside the likes of famed interior designer Axel Vervoordt? Well, Brooke is heading over to this side of the pond with her entire family and we are hoping to meet. Though I must say that it is requiring Herculean efforts on her part to make it happen. Something I am very much aware of and have repeatedly begged her to let it go if it is just too complicated. We’ll see. I don’t need to meet her to know that she is a good egg through and through but it would be fun to make the jump from virtual to “Hello“. And, I admit it, I would love for all of them to see just a tiny bit of this gorgeous region. Certainly now, right on the cusp before the heat starts to wilt the flowers that are gracing my friends gardens that I have featured here. We are making the most of this last month before we leave our own behind. Craning our necks upward to watch the martinets race through the same golden light that Van Gogh admired. It is right now. And perhaps always if you want it. Full bloom.

A walk around Arles, Part One

Arles, formerly Arelate in Roman times, my current home town. The old stones glowing under a féerique light. The brusk haughtiness of red-eyed Gypsies in the streets. Girls with hair dyed too black, clothes too tight. Muscle men in faded Souleiado shirts pounding through the Camargue on horseback, chasing wild bulls. The flock of the world to discover, uncover the Rencontres International Photography Festival. Being blasted by rapid-fire gastronomical feats at L’Atelier de Rabanel, our Michelin two-star. Dancing under the rain during the Féria, the twice-annual bullfights or in the Amphitheatre to Massive Attack. Sitting at Mon Bar on the Place du Forum at sunset with 2€ glasses of rosé, trying to be patient as the heat simmers down. A passing car screaming local boys done good, The Gypsy Kings. The ringing bells of Saint-Trophime calling the faithful on a Sunday morning. Tai-chi stepping through the throngs of Provence’s largest outdoor market. Closing the shutters, then opening them for a new day.

All of this is Arles, if just a tiny slice of the pie. But if anything, the Arles of my everyday is best experienced while walking with Ben, our Golden Retriever. Certainly on the Rhône, which makes its last sweeping curve towards the sea just yards outside my front door (and which I am so attached to that it calms the voice in my head that beckons me towards the chic St. Rémy). Strolling with my friend Frederique and her yippy-sweet mutt Galinette. Or alone, or with my companion, Remi, in all seasons. And since it has been far too long since I have written about my town, I thought that I would take you with us, especially as the day was as lovely as they come with a slight breeze puffing around mushy white clouds. So this is what I saw on one typical day but I will divide it up into two parts, to start, to leave a bit of room for the future.
Before we hop up the stone steps on the quay to breathe in the river, we pass the Thermes de Constantin. Built in the 4th century AD by the Emperor Constantin, the thermes or baths, were only uncovered in the 19th century and were a part of his palais or palace. Didier, the wood-carver on the corner, remembers playing in it as a child when it was still largely abandoned. Archeologists have come to realize that the structure stretches out across the neighborhood and originally included not only hot and cold baths, but a library and community meeting rooms. Personally, I prefer the architecture of the Musée Reattu that lines the quay. Formerly a Grand Priory of the Knights of Malta, the 15th century structure was saved by the painter Jacques Réattu after the French Revolution when such monuments were sold off to the public. It is currently home to an avant-garde collection of sound based art as well as a series of fifty-seven drawings that Picasso gave to the museum in gratitude for the wonderful moments that he had spent in Arles.  Gargoyles stand guard over the treasures.

I love this random arch on its roof and wonder if it previously held a bell for the priory. The street below offers the perfect balance of light, shade and protection from the Mistral winds. More importantly, it is also piétonne, or closed off to cars for most of the day. Ben knows this and usually kicks into one of his rabbit hops of delight just beyond the red light. Safe to run as he pleases. There are petitions that circulate every so often to close off the entire historic center of town, what a miracle that would be if it ever becomes law.

Winding away from the museum, we pass the gates of the Hôtel Montblanc. Remi and I wishfully tried to imagine squeezing into a small apartment that is for sale in one wing of this Renaissance monster with its courtyard stuffed with sagging orange trees. Alas, not possible but I really need to post photos of the front hall if I haven’t already.

All roads lead to the Place du Forum. Two stately columns are all that remains of what was previously the entry to a sprawling complex that was the heart of Roman Arles. They are firmly entrenched in the walls of the extravagant Grand Hotel Nord-Pinus, famed for having welcomed the likes of everyone from Henry James to Stendhal to Yves Montand and Jean Cocteau. The fabulously sexy photograph of Charlotte Rampling sitting naked on a dining table was taken by Helmut Newton here as well, which says not a little about Arles itself. Speaking of celebrities, yes, there is also the Café Van Gogh, once represented by a certain Vincent in the painting Le café, la nuit. Charming as that might be, as I have voiced before, no, no, no. Don’t be tempted by the shade of the plane trees nor the wily smiles of beckoning hostesses. Do not eat here. Or anywhere on the Place save for the new Chez Caro. Otherwise, a pastis, a glass of wine, ice cream if you must. Ben and I will keep walking.

I often turn up the Rue des Arènes as it is is lined by some of the finest hôtel particuliers in Arles. What  examples of grandeur remain in this fine city and I can only imagine what lies behind such finely carved doors. Exceptional details are everywhere. Best to walk slowly enough to take them all in.

The street eventually narrows into a cobblestone alley that squeezes you out with a pasty-chef style plop, où? Where? At the Arena, of course! It is something to behold, isn’t it? I’ll leave you here to explore, picking you up soon, I promise, to tell you all about it and then continue our walk…

Taking away

Some of you might have already heard the Diana Vreeland quote that “Elegance is refusal.” And in my mind, I am capable of stripping things down to their essence but in reality? Well, not really. I came to realize this while reading the “Moody Interiors” post on the blog From the Right Bank. I loved every single one of those complicated rooms. All of that tactile velvet, worn parquet and massive chandeliers. Proportions out of whack and a little messy. I wrote in response that I am so earnestly trying to force myself towards a cleaner aesthetic but that is not who I am. I am a complex person living with an equally complex man. We have picked up things from all over and love the stories they tell. So I tend to add not subtract most of the time. 
However yesterday, we were forced into doing a little simplifying. As I have mentioned, it is stipulated in our rental contract that we can not put any holes into the structure of the apartment, something that we have gotten around with our artwork by gallery hanging from the ceiling. This too, is technically a no-no and as the estate agent was arriving to do her first visit, we carefully removed everything. She has an eagle-eye. All went well but we were given the gift of rediscovering the beauty of the space. More open,  more peaceful. Remi has promised me that we will try to not put anything up on the walls for a bit in our new place. Something I find it hard to believe as it is usually the very first thing that we do. 
Spaces are not always what we think they are, nor people, nor objects. Oh, the candelabras that I brought home looked so scruffy the next day. Black with soot and forgotteness. I don’t know what their history is to have arrived in such a state but I am slowly erasing the traces of the past. An act that is as beneficial to their appearance as it is to my peace of mind. 
Remi felt the same last week when he launched into taking care of our little garden after an especially stressful day. It too had been abandoned and we moved in was completely overrun by les petites bêtes--insects, slugs, potato bugs that had grown fat from free reign (the previous renter only used the garden as a storage space). We had to bomb everything so strongly that nothing bloomed. Not being horticulturists, we couldn’t even figure out what some of the plants were. But in clawing away the parasites, everything could come back in fine form this year. The chest-high green thing that Remi nearly pulled is actually one of the biggest hortensia, or hydrangeas that I have seen. We still don’t know what the tree is next to it and naturally are open for answers.
This morning, as I was beginning my yoga practice, I had a surprise visitor. With a calamitous rumble and a showering of ashes, a pigeon fell down the chimney, scraping wings as he went and landed with a plop next to me, just behind the fire grate. I kept my breath as calm and spoke low to him while shooshing Ben into the bedroom then reaching for a towel in the bath. By the time I returned, the pigeon had gathered up enough strength to pop onto the log pile. He then strolled into the kitchen as if looking for a mug of coffee and with a whiff was out through the open door. 
Taking off, taking away to find something different, something new. 

Second purchase…Hmm…

Blame it on the rain or my being in a funk but when I passed these pique-cierges, or candelabras sitting on the sidewalk in front of the local junk shop, my heart went out to them. I know the owner, he gave me an incredibly low price “for you. Of course for anyone else it would be much, much more.”  Thigh high candelabras of this quality are getting increasingly rare and increasingly expensive so I was surprised. I also appreciated the sloppy lion’s paws and that the carvings were gossiping angels, not a cross or flaming heart in sight. He assured me that they were made of bronze and had come from une grande maison provençale, a home of consequence. Très bien. My arms hurt as I lugged the pair home, getting soaked in the process. 

I called out to Remi excitedly when I finally closed the front door behind me. As he approached, the corners of his mouth turned down ever so slightly. Uh oh. Pause. “I thought that you wanted to be more stream-lined, less Baroque for the next apartment?” he asked gently, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. “Yes, but…” I floundered, gesturing with floppy hands at the pair that we absolutely have no need for whatsoever. He was right and on top it, he confirmed what I had feared, that they weren’t indeed bronze, only metal and a very dirty metal at that. “Should we take them back?” I pestered him with the question throughout the afternoon. “Let’s wait and see.” 

Thunder and lightening cracked above the roofs all through the night. Little to say no one slept well, least of all poor petrified Ben. So what better to do on a dreary day after than to take another look at my purchase? Two hours later and here we are. Too impatient to post once the job is done. Silly girl that I am, I chose to start with the “cleaner” of the two and so imagine that I have many, many hours still ahead but I don’t mind. It has been so soothing to just focus on one task at hand. Simple movements, revealing. A little like rubbing Aladdin’s lamp without any hope of a genie. I am most definitely still on the fence about this pair but I do feel like I am discovering as I go and that is always positive. They certainly have a pretty patina. To be continued…

Where we are now

Remi and I signed the contract for our new rental on Friday and so we will soon be moving on. Before we do, I think it is worthwhile to say a few words about our current rental as it is truly something exceptional. We first started making trips down to Arles with the prospect of moving here in 2003. We visited several astonishingly inexpensive houses to buy (oh, if we had only known how much the prices would go up!) but the real estate agent wanted us to see one rental that was on the market because it was so unique. “You will never see anything like this again,” she said and she was right. We fell in love with the space but did not yet have all of our ducks in a row enough to move. Back in Paris, we told all of our friends about the most incredible apartment that we had seen and that was–gulp!–the same price per month as our tiny duplex. We never forgot it and it became a symbol of what the quality of living in the South could be. It ended up taking nearly two more years for us to find another possibility, which we pounced on. That was the house that we ended up buying and then selling with a heavy heart. Can you imagine our surprise when shortly after, another real estate agent started to describe a new rental that just come on the market? “It is in a hôtel particulier and has a garden attached to the back of the Frères-Prêcheurs Church.” Remi and I turned to each other in disbelief, it was the very same apartment that we had visited all those years ago!

At the time, it seemed as if life was giving us a gift, an encouragement to ease the transition of leaving our house behind. And we settled in so quickly, celebrating with a garden party for 35. We lit a million candles everywhere as night came on. Actually the photo below of the font in the hallway is from that evening. I had filled it with rose petals for the occasion. So many happy memories. 
There are many things that make this apartment special. And to think it was in ruins when it was bought in 1993! Luckily, the owner took the greatest of care in the renovation process, including hiring experts to restore the hand-painted wooden beams that top the two bedrooms and the hallway. There are one of the reasons why the building is listed as a Monument Historique. He once told us that the delicate flowers actually graced the beams in the living room but that the process was so lengthy that he couldn’t afford to save everything!

Ben loves to recline on the cooling dalles de pierre, the large stone blocks. They are quite rare today, even in Provence.

There are many interesting details–the woodwork in the bedroom, the mosaics and the vaulted ceiling in the bath. The cast iron hearth in the fireplace is marked with the date “1777” but we do not know if it is original to the house or not. 
But, what makes this apartment so very special is a feature in the cave, the lower level. A group of archeologists were brought in when vestiges of Roman ruins were discovered during the renovation process. The owner decided to construct a glass flooring above them so that would remain visible. Sadly, the thick glass panels have become slightly fogged with time but we can still make out what was the road leading from the Rhone and the remains of what is thought to have been a market building. This makes for a rather dramatic movie room for us!

Back on the ground floor, arched glass doorways lead from the first courtyard into the house (where there is a well that purportedly once led to a tunnel that ran under the river as an escape route) and from the house into the garden.

I took the final photo below the night that we signed the contract. Ironically, the light had never, ever been more beautiful. So why are we leaving this special place? Because dreams and reality are not the same thing, as we all know. We are going for me. I am incredibly sensitive to light and there isn’t any here. Even now, at 3pm on a June afternoon, I have to have the lights on while I type. As we both work from home, we are forever in the dark. The thought of spending another Winter here is unimaginable. The street-facing rooms all have bars on them for security, leaving us to feel as though we are, if not in prison, then at least in a gilded cage. And so we are moving on to a smaller, humbler apartment (an aspect that also pleases both of us enormously) but we will always, always have such gratitude for this special place that brought us to Arles and comforted us when we most needed it.
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