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It’s that time of year when quite a few of us have antique-hunting on the brain. For Remi and I, it is a regular activity and has been as long as we have been together. When we first met both of us were starting over and so each piece that we acquired had a story, a provenance. At the time, we lived a short walk away from the Porte de Vanves flea market in Paris and would scour the rows of sellers each weekend, occasionally on both days. It was a wonderful introduction to French design for me as every conceivable period was represented. More often than not we couldn’t afford to buy, but would go for le plaisir des yeux, a feast for the eyes. After our first visit to Arles, we both started being attracted to things that were very different from our Art Deco style. More Louis XV and much lighter. We realized eventually that we were buying for a new life, one in the South of France. It took us two years to actually make the move but when we did we were already well-equipped, almost as if we had forced this major life change into being.

And that process is already happening again with our next move. Yesterday afternoon, I pulled Remi away from his computer and we drove out to Troc-Soury. A little bit of everything is crammed under the tin roof of a hangar that is stiflingly hot in Summer and freezing in Winter and yet I love to go–namely  to be fussed over by Michel and Jean-Philippe. Sure enough, Michel pushed Remi out of the way jokingly when we arrived saying “Excuse me, I need to say hello to a beautiful lady.” My hair was pulled back in a bumpy bun, I was floating in enormous wrinkled lined shorts and yet I gratefully offered up my cheek to be kissed. Let’s just say that unlike our experience this weekend, the welcome put me in a shopping mood. 

And it didn’t take long. Within fifteen minutes, I spied a gorgeous mirror stuffed into a crowded wooden chest. Napoleon III in shape, it has an air of the 1920’s with its delicate etchings scratched into a gold frame. The mercury mirror is completely faded and splotched. En bref, patina. I haven’t had such a coup de coeur (think love at first sight) for a piece in a long time. And to top it off, it was a true steal. Vendu! 

Other pieces tempted me. The wall sconce with its lovely pampilles could be charming if given a Gustavien touch. Maybe with candles in it for a hallway? Not bad for 30€. Sadly, all of the chandeliers need to be rewired but again for 40€, the delicate Marie-Therese could be interesting as a candelabra. For the furniture, I was initially drawn to the massive teak Indian bookcase. Remi nixed it as kitschy. We both felt that the Henri II buffet (only 120€!) would be quite something if well painted, not that we need it. Just fun to imagine.

Once home, Remi set to work. Look how the mirror glowed once he stripped away the black layers of dust and grime. 

I had a little “aha” as to why I had wanted it so immediately. Its rough around the edges-ness reminds me of one of our very favorite pieces–a fantastic lithograph of Henri IV riding back into Paris that is currently pushed off to the side due to its heft since we are not allowed to put any holes into the walls of this Monument Historique building (and yes, there is a very good story to go with the crocodile skull beside it, in case you were wondering). I have been missing Henri and all of the other unusual characters parading about. Hopefully, they will return to the spotlight soon. As for our first purchase for our next apartment, it is sitting on the bedroom mantle, reflecting the headboard that we made out of old shutters.  The mirror isn’t appropriate for the room and suddenly everything else is starting to  look awkward to my eyes. Out of place. A sure sign that I am getting ready to move on if ever there was one. 

Remi and I went looking for inspiration yesterday late afternoon. Nap-deprived, we both felt the weight of Summer’s first wave of humidity. But were off to a fail-safe destination, one that always cheers me–the Depôt-Vente in Eygalières. Call it a consignment shop for antiques and bric-a-brac, somehow there is always something that catches our eye. The owners of the regal stone farmhouses in the area, one of the wealthiest in the Alpilles, are often willing to cast off porcelain and paintings for a song. And it is hardly a secret. The parking lot was so full that we had to squeeze into a spot that wasn’t. Immediately after, a finger-wagging woman shot out of the shop–“You can’t park there!“. Now, the Depôt-Vente is run by a lovely gay couple who know us by name and welcome us with bisous, not because we are big buyers but because we have always gotten along. The wagger chased us down until Remi gave up and manoeuvred the Range Rover into a precarious spot that also wasn’t but that pleased her. I often have to struggle against the “expert” attitude in France but wagging is outright rude and I couldn’t soothe my ruffled feathers, even after the owners came out from the back and explained that their friend was just trying to help. And with antiques hunting, you have to will the good pieces toward you. There is no room for crankiness. We left with nothing, not even ideas for our new apartment. Time to try another path.

The hills outside of Eygalières remind us both of the “backs of the dragon” that we love outside of Huê in Vietnam. There is something Asian as well in the heavy layering in the plants and minerals that shift the senses in sight, smell and touch. Remi gathered up bouquets of rosemary and thyme, I slid across the rocky terrain in a pair of poorly chosen Prada mules, Ben lifted his nose to the wind. From the grandeur of the horizon to the microscopic spiders clambering over the purple bud of a flower. Best to stop talking for awhile and just take it in.

I have already been through the end of the world once. So I can’t say that I am afraid if by some, eh-hem, miracle that wacky preacher is right today. Remember Y2K? Where were you for the New Year’s Eve of the millennium? I was in my apartment on 51st Street in New York City, a mere two blocks away from Doom Central. Decidedly célibataire, or single, though certainly not by choice, it was up to me to face destruction alone. So I did what any wise girl would do. I filled up the tub with bubbles, opened a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, put on my all time favorite Sarah Vaughan album and settled in for the long good bye. At some point I heard the cheers rise from the crowds and realized that midnight had passed and we were all still here. 

Cue Artie Shaw and his orchestra and put on your dancing shoes. For with every end (perceived or real) comes a new beginning and I have a bit of news. We are moving! Now, no, I won’t need to change the title or content of this blog as we are just hopping over two streets in Arles. But I am so excited. I’ll properly tell the story of our current apartment soon as it is truly worthy of its own post and explain why we are leaving. Remi and I are wanderers, we live for the new and of course love to create our environment. And we will have our work cut out for us as these are decidedly less glamorous digs than our current residence–which is part of the point. We will be heading to another rental but it is an entire floor of a hôtel particulier and one that is filled with light. Sadly, no garden but imagine what it could be after we paint and clean and uncover. Light up the chandeliers! 

Kind of cranky. It happens, even in Provence and I have to say that Remi, Frederique and I were all in some sort of funk as we found the trail leading up to the ruins of the vieux village at Ongles. The day hadn’t been going as planned. We had an excellent restaurant recommendation for Forcalquier, only to find it closed. The only other option was decidedly mediocre and the service moyen. At the end of the overly long meal, thunder clouds rolled in and we were caught in a down pour before we could blink. Not exactly the best conditions for Remi’s photography. But don’t give up. Keep moving. At the very least. This we know from our travels where you have to bring back the story no matter what the weather conditions. “Il ne pleut pas au paradis!”— how many times have we declared that, fist shaking towards the heavens. “It doesn’t rain in paradise,” at least not for the magazines who publish nothing but blue skies.

No one spoke as we picked our way up the path, indicated only by a yellow slash mark on the trees, stepping gingerly over the fallen stones that had once been homes. An oppidum, or fortified site, had topped the hill since Roman times. A village was formed in 1074 then abandoned after the Royal Army  beat the Huguenots in 1586. As in Oppede-le-Vieux, its occupants moved further down the valley, no longer needing the high vantage point to protect them from invaders. 

The view was rewardingly stunning as we arrived at the summit. The Luberon opening up before us with a bow. Each of us still in our own world, lost in thoughts. Remi furious when he realized that he had forgotten his battery charger, so the day, despite the two hour drive to get here, would be cut short. At some point amidst the grumbles, I laid down in the grass, giving up. Eventually both Remi and Frederique did too. Each one in their corner. And we slept. 

The light had changed when we woke up but that wasn’t all. Something had shifted within us. A link had been cut. By letting go of our expectations, we found that they weren’t that important after all. It was a relief, a weight lifted and it seemed as if it was the ghosts of the ruins that were behind it. Or if that is too romantic, the trumping of time over an obnoxious and overly insistent in-between, neither now nor  the past. 

I didn’t want to move. A grillon, or cricket was clinging to my ankle. It seemed like a good omen. When I finally did shake him off and we moved down the hill, the clouds had cleared and the town took on a rosy glow. Silly me, silly thoughts. Bells clanked as a flock of sheep grazed. One lifted its lips to me in a mocking smile.

Finding ourselves liberated, we all wisely chose to be in a fine mood and the light followed us willingly. The Prieuré de Salagon, which had seemed so sad only a few hours earlier, now presented us her best side front and forward as we retraced our route. Remi’s batteries even held out for the tiny but unique Chapelle Saint-Paul de Saint-Michel-L’Observatoire, the last goal of our day.

Imagine a wonderful place where you laugh and open champagne bottles with a sabre. You feel protected and cared for even in the heat of Summer. The air is redolent with jasmine and roses. I know of such a place and feel very lucky every time I visit this very special garden every time I visit, such as I did this week. But as every gardener knows, it is not the plants that make a garden unique but the people that inhabit it. Just a little thank you to all of the incredible friends that I have in Provence who make my living here so very worth while.