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De Clergue à Picasso at the Musée Réattu – Arles

While many iconic modern painters have been drawn to the South of France solely for the quality of its light – Van Gogh, Matisse and Cezanne amongst them – Pablo Picasso also found in Arles the possibility to enjoy a favorite pastime from his Spanish youth. He came for the corridas or bull-fights presented in the Roman Arena during the Ferias and often brought famous friends such as Jean Cocteau along with him. There are photographs of him posing casually with his wife Jacqueline at the Malarte café and parting the crowds in the stands as if he were a toreador himself. 
In 1953, an ambitious young photographer, Lucien Clergue, cornered the maestro as he was leaving the Arena to show him a portrait that he had done. Picasso approved so heartily of the piece that he signed it and so a friendship between the two began. Clergue would go on to reach national acclaim with the presentation of his sumptuous nudes shot on the beaches of the nearby Camargue. In 1965, he masterminded the first collection of photography in a French museum for the Musée Réattu and was instrumental in launching the Rencontres Internationales de la Photographie four years later. 
With time, a true dialogue developed between the two men. Ideas and themes were exchanged – both shared a fascination for harlequins and gypsies for example – as were works or art. Currently, over sixty pieces from Clergue’s personal collection of Picasso works are being presented for the first time to the public within the exhibition titled, appropriately enough, “De Clergue à Picasso.” 
Picasso and the museum have shared a link for some time. In 1971, the painter very generously donated 57 numbered and dated drawings to express his fondness for Arles, something that was quite a coup at the time. Those works, in addition to the painting Portrait of Maria Picasso Lopez which was donated by Jacqueline Picasso in 1985, are on permanent display (as well as being featured in the exhibition) and add a vibrant character to this small museum perched on the banks of the Rhone River.
If, like me, you have a preference for later periods in Picasso’s work, you are in for a treat. In the drawings, etchings and linocuts presented, there is a simplicity and yet distinct lushness of line. The  interplay between the centuries old architecture of the museum and the electric modernity of the works is also attractive. Plus, the factor of discovering an unknown treasure is breath-taking. I was completely blown away by the richness and diversity of this private collection and I apologize as I was so intent on looking that my snap-happening was not (plus this is the precise moment when my little Canon G12 bit the dust). Admittedly, I have little to show that is convincing but please trust me and by all means do go if you are in the region as the exhibition is running until January 4th. 
It is also most certainly worth the effort just to see the Musée Réattu itself. Initially constructed in the 15th century, it was named a Grand Priory for the Knights of Malta in 1652 (I love to just casually toss out such facts about Arles…”Oh yes, that happened here too…”). Gargoyles loom overhead and I can always hear the knights footsteps marching up the wide stone staircases. But we have the painter Jaques Réattu to thank for it was he who bought the entirety of the property (27 lots in all) when it was sold during the French Revolution. In 1868, it became a museum that initially featured only his works (some of which are more successfully orchestrated than others). Slowly, the collections have grown and due to the active participation of such local heros as Clergue and the designer Christian Lacroix (whose wildly successful show in 2008 was a watershed moment for the museum), its future is far brighter than its past. I always suggest for visitors to go, for I am really fond of what it has become. No one listens to me but they should and certainly right now in order to delight in the exceptional viewing of “De Clergue à Picasso.” The bond between them is evident and it is a delight to peek inside the more private creative lives of these two artists and their love of this corner of Provence.

A sad UPDATE: Mr. Lucien Clergue passed away the day after I posted this at the age of 80 years old. I often saw him strolling the streets of Arles and it was evident that even if he no longer was carrying a camera in hand, he was always searching for an image with the eye of a true artist. His battle was to prove that photography be recognized as valid art medium rather than being considered a “lesser art” both in France and abroad. In 2007, he was the first person to be elected to the prestigious Académie des Beaux Arts for photography and for 2013 he was its chairman. He published over 75 books during his career and his work has been featured at numerous galleries and museums, including a solo exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City that was curated by Edward Steichen in 1961. His friendship with Picasso lasted thirty years, until the painters death.


Pour mes amis francophones, il y a un video intéressant sur son façon de travailler: ici.

And if you don’t believe me, just look at the comments in the guest book below…Ginette, who is 102 years old declared that it was fabulous…
De Clergue à Picasso
Musée Réattu
10 rue du Grand Prieuré
13200 Arles, France
Tel.: (+33) 04 90 49 37 58
Open 10am to 5pm, Closed Mondays
Until January 4th 2015
Tickets are 7€ per person
I just found this, it is a little wonky but gets the basics across:
I hope that your weekend is filled with inspiration…Olé!

A bit of Provençal perfect

I have been quite lucky in my life.

There have been dreams that have come true, much love shared and bouquets of incredible experiences. But when Marsha at Splenderosa asked that I describe one of my very best days for the By Invitation Only series, my mind immediately darted to that of my 35th birthday…in Botswana…helping to produce an ad that Remi shot so amazingly for Apple amidst a herd of elephants…followed by champagne and my spotting the lions on a safari before heading home to France. Yep, that happened. But there is one wee hiccup in that I have already written about that day (you can read about it here).

So…that got me thinking…what if I didn’t talk about one of my most important days – such as meeting Remi – but just a really good one instead? Does best necessarily mean biggest? Nope. Living in Provence has changed my outlook utterly on that subject in that opportunities are nearly everywhere to live something wonderful if only we slow down enough to let them happen. And they are often tucked into small corners. I am learning not to chase after happiness with the determination of a toreador hunting down a bull but rather to just enjoy the surprise of it when it arrives. The “Oh, there you are” moment. And yes, this land is propitious for that particular prosperity…but I secretly suspect that it is the case nearly everywhere. Non? 
We have had many picnics with our friends M and B. Since quite a while. Now, I know that I sound like a broken record…“Oh no, not that again! Picnics? So quaint, so ‘charmingly’ Old School,” you might be thinking with an exasperated sigh…but have you ever noticed that the skips on a broken record always happen on the best songs? A-ha! With our friends we share an unspoken agreement that there is nothing finer than getting together in a beautiful environment with delicious food and wine to spend a few hours relaxing and enjoying each other’s company. There is no technology involved and beyond securing the basics, money doesn’t come into play (for I have been to heavily catered affairs with crystal and silver and they don’t necessarily make a picnic better, just more elegant). Plus, that une sieste is practically a given at some point during the gathering doesn’t hurt…
On this particular day, Remi suggested that we meet up at a secret endroit that he had discovered in the Alpilles…
Some kind soul had constructed a table and benches out of massive stone blocks under the shade of bending trees in the middle of an olive grove. The setting is exceptional, even by Provençal standards. The sole stipulation is scrawled on a sign asking that we “respect the nature” and to clean up after we have gone. Mais bien sûr, pas de problème. I clapped my hands with delight when I came up over the hill to see that the spot was ours for the taking. 

It wasn’t too hot nor too cool, nor was it a particularly sunny day but then again, sometimes cloudy days are best. The light left dancing dalmatian spots on the carefully spread cloth. M and B brought most of the provisions, many of which had been carefully selected that morning from the vendors at the excellent Les Halles market in the center of Nîmes. 
I watched the pleasure spread over their faces as they unpacked each item, especially those which they know are our favorites such as the tangy caviar des tomates, flaky fougasse, olives brined with garlic, cherries that leave stains on fingertips…eh, oui…des délices!

The wine, a surprisingly dry Muscat harvested near Uzés, was popped and then sipped slowly to take in our environs with the quiet regard that it deserved. One bottle later and we were ready to tuck into a tender roasted chicken along with B’s crunchily sweet German potato salad. Such a treat and yet classic picnic fare. Do I remember what I brought that day? I have no idea. But I can bet that it was good.
We nibbled…at the food…at the conversation…at ideas floating and jokes landing hard. 
Ben and Kipling were with us of course, stationed at our feet, pretending to be asleep while keeping an eye out for any morsel that happened to fall off the table. I let a few fall on purpose and I wasn’t the only one.
We came equipped with glasses and plates, wine openers and cushions. We are picnic professionals, you see. In our comfort, we stayed in the unforced way that only comes about with true friends, those who are patient with contentedness. 
An angel of silence flew over our heads without a ruffle or a snore. We all know by now not to plan anything else for the rest of the day as these get-togethers can last for hours. This one did. The sun came out, it ducked behind again. The clouds were listening in and mopping up the birdsong.
At times, even after all of these years, I still need to give my brain a rest from translating into French. Remi and our friends are used to my taking a break from the conversation and continued on without me. I smoothed my wrinkled thoughts by looking, occasionally getting up to take a photo or two, until I found my words again.
Being amidst company who accepts you just as you are is a boon in itself and Ben wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stop smiling. Besides, a toothy grin makes it all the easier for that sneaky devil happiness to catch me unaware and hold me tight. Remi recently described such moments as ones “that you want to float in” which couldn’t be more apt. There were many of them that day.

 
If I had to pick a reason why, I would be left with a Gallic shrug but somehow, it was pretty much a perfect picnic. We joked about it at the time, “How can we possibly top this?” Psshh...why try? We knew our good fortune and it is one of the reasons why we all get along so well, because…we always do. 
That was a few months ago. The temperatures have finally dropped and most likely we will have to wait several months before our tradition continues. But when I gaze at these photos now, such solid talismans, I can still hear our laughing as it rebounded against those protective trees. Perhaps that was the final, magic ingredient needed to alchemize one day of good into a sweet little Best.
to listen:

I am sure that there are going to be some really lovely posts on this theme. To see what the other members of our international blog party have cooked up, please click here.


Thank you for being here and for the overwhelming response by comments and emails for my very first giveaway!

I am happy to announce that the winner of Ann Mah’s fantastic book “Mastering the Art of French Eating” is:
Wendy Wong of Vancouver, Canada

Wendy, would you be so kind as to email me with your mailing address so that I can send it to you?

I am taking a moment to thank all that have served on this Veteran’s Day, Armistice Day and Remembrance Day…

With my very Best from Provence,
Heather

Chicago ink

The trains hummed us into Chicago and sang us into a trance while we traced its streets. It was too quick of a trip but one of necessity. My eyes were focused on the need to do and so, in squinting, the city’s background bled into ink. The rain, the fog, the curving steel haze; all shining surfaces lit from within.
We missed our return train despite our best intentions, despite having arrived at what we thought was an hour ahead. Not wanting to simply wait, we decided to roam.
 I like Chicago, I always have. I remember my Mom’s reassuring hand on my shoulder as I peered into the Thorne Miniature rooms at the Chicago Institute when I was about ten or so. And here she was at my side once more, her presence as loving as always. “Take the photo,” she encouraged. I did so over and over, blinking back to stay present. To be with her and on my own, grateful for both. Then as now, our gazes eventually lifted upwards. It is that kind of town.
My bag was heavy and I shifted it from shoulder to shoulder. Walking on, we were stuck in the Loop. But the city’s buoyant energy pushed back against the clouds, a mid-western expansiveness snaking between the buildings like the L above. We tucked into a coffee shop and from our perch behind a plate glass window watched the crowds. We exchanged gossipy guesses as to what each individual story might be, printed on the inside in that indigo blue. 
My Mom slowly flipped the pages of a magazine as the train rolled out of the station, through the tunnels pummeled with commuters until Chicago pulled away. I gazed out the window, tired but content, as the night fell to black. My heart echoed the wheels on the tracks…thump thump…bump bump…thump thump…bump bump…how wonderful it had been to be in a big city again.

I am going to mix in some of the stories that I photographed while in the States with my regular Provence-y business until my camera situation is worked out…I hope that you will stay with me…

And you still have time to enter in the giveaway for Ann Mah’s wonderful book, “Mastering the Art of French Eating” – just leave a comment below or email me at robinsonheather (at ) yahoo.com to express your interest. Thank you for all of the wonderful responses so far! A winner will be announced next Tuesday.

Have a fantastic weekend…

Anniversaries and an Ann Mah giveaway

Tick tock goes the clock, whether we are listening or not.
For you see, it happened on October 24th.
And so it was with a blip of a giggle that I realized that I had wizzed right by the fourth anniversary for Lost in Arles, just as I had already zoomed blindly past my 500th post, whoops! Does this really mean that I have spent four whole years of wandering and looking, of trying to put meaning where it should be and taking it out where it shouldn’t? That is a lot of time following around my own shadow. But so much has happened…we have moved (twice!), adopted Kipling, Remi accomplished his dream of being published in National Geographic magazine, I was interviewed about this blog both for a magazine and live on national television…it has grown to about 20,000 visits per month…and that is just the big stuff…the mind reels!

 If I had originally zapped the date it was because I had been fixated on that of October 27th, which it turns out, was not the beginning of this particular endeavor but of a greater one in my moving to France thirteen years ago to be with the man I love, Remi. Lucky me, lucky thirteen. So today I am celebrating two anniversaries and they are intertwined as they should be. There are so many, many sweet memories that are diving into an interesting present with a hopeful gaze towards the future. That is about where I am at right now. 
Do other bloggers look back at their work? I don’t. I admit it. As with my professional writing, it is the tap, tap, tap that I enjoy. When I hit publish after a swishy wipe of my palms, I move on. And yet, anniversaries are made for reflecting and so I poked around in the archives. Provence, Remi and the puppers, beauty and patina are all there – of course! But, after having gone through them a bit, I can also safely say that I am proud that I stuck to my guns by making all of the content myself. Plus, I realized that I have learned so much from this blog – about writing, photography and how the two can work together – as well as that there are certain ideas that keep attracting my interest and have from the beginning. 
In March of 2011 for Something like Heaven? :
“Grace. To be touched by something greater than ourselves. Missing for so many of us, myself included, in this world of noise. How lovely to want to believe, to believe in general, to believe in everything. I could feel my heart.” 

In October of 2011 in the post Traces: 
“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…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.”


From September 2012 in The weight of a cricket:
“Just in the simple act of seeing, something shifts slightly. With the acknowledgement that beauty surrounds me, a door starts to crack open. The shape of the irises,  their bended elegance, draws me in until I spy perched on one ever so lightly, a bright green cricket. His antennas stop wiggling under my gaze but he does not flee. I slowly lower my face towards him. He is not alone. Nor am I. Inexplicably, I am filled with utter joy that expands to shake the clouds down. How giddy I become in remembering that hope repeats. What a fool to forget. My clock starts ticking at twelve. Anew, anon. The scales have been tipped and all with the weight of a cricket.”


From August 2013 in Suspended in Amber:
“The streets of Arles are solid but also shady and shaking. I have lived here for eight years now, quite some time for a nomad like me. I walk them in patterns and loops, where the dogs lead, I follow. That too can be dulling blind until the light shifts and on the wall in front of me and an angle aligns or a sign is revealed, one that I had somehow never seen. A bit of magic and blink are the must of these little gifts. It is a moment that inevitably makes me smile and snaps the amber quick to set me buzzing free.” 
From this past September for White bird in the snow:
“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…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.”
If you have been reading for a while, you might know that I struggle with my memory. So there is that too, a trigger for the repeat. But for me, these are also little connecting lines of electricity that keep the wires alive…and hopefully they do for you as well. For while I started this blog for me, it has become a path to all of you. I feel like we are in this together now, which is really wonderful, non? 
And so to thank you for being here these past four years, I am so excited to be offering my very first giveaway. 
I loved Ann Mah’s “Mastering the Art of French Eating” when I was generously offered an advance copy to review last year. You can read all about it here…and below:
“The premise is as follows–Ann is finally able to spend a three year stint in the city of her dreams, Paris, when Calvin, her diplomat husband, is transferred for a year in Baghdad, leaving her alone in the City of Light. Now, it is harder than one might think being an expat, yes even in Paris and yes, even if Ann already had plenty of experience in moving from country to country. It would take as strong a woman as she is not to fall into a whimpering series of “Whyyyyy?”‘s…a strong woman like, say, Julia Child? Ah ha. Inspired by Julia’s efforts to document la cuisine française in the legendary “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” and fueled by her own insatiable curiosity, she decided to visit ten different regions to get to the heart–the how’s and why’s plus the je ne sais quoi’s–of each area’s signature dish.” 

Ann’s writing is incredibly immediate, warm, funny and not to mention very well-researched. She puts all of her hard-won experiences on the page in a truly delightful manner devoid of both flippancy or heavy-handedness. Plus, she is just a genuinely lovely person and that shows up too. If you like food, travel and love (and something tells me that you do if you have been hanging out here)…then quite simply, you will like this book.

Interested? I thought that you might be. Ann’s book has just been released in a paperback edition. Hallelujah! This makes me seriously happy because I don’t know about you but the only time that I can afford hardcovers is when they are gifts. And (hint, hint)…it has been released just in time for the holiday season.
As you can see, Ben and Kipling won’t go anywhere without their copy. It makes them dream, “…fromage…cassoulet…steak frites…ahhh, oui…”
To find out more about “Mastering the Art of French Eating” and to read an excerpt, please click here.
If you would like one of your own you can find it on Amazon in Kindle, hardback or paper: here.
*OR*
You can enter the giveaway by either leaving a comment below or sending me an email at robinsonheather (at) yahoo.com! Hooray!!! Make me proud peeps, feel free to spread the word and I promise to be 100% objective when choosing the winner. Really. 🙂
I am sending a huge thank you to Ann and all of the nice people at Penguin for making this possible and to YOU for following along and making Lost in Arles so worthwhile…
With all of my Very, Very Best from Provence…
Plus a couple of bisous thrown in just for good measure,
Heather

Pop the champers kids, it’s my Happy Fourth!
PS. You have one week to enter…go, go, go!

PPS. EDIT: I updated this post to include the original photos that went with the selected texts. Honestly? I have no idea what I was thinking…

A ghost story

I believe in ghosts because I have seen them. Well, one actually, the same night after night. He would wake me up, hovering over my bead. Pale skin, dark black hair and beard, a mark on his cheek, shiny teeth, menacing. My screaming would wake my Mom, who would come in running and he would be gone. And suddenly that little room under the eaves would be returned to me but it is little surprise that I developed first a fear of sleeping alone and then chronic insomnia. It was as if he was trying to get at me but couldn’t quite break through and whatever it was that he was trying to communicate was not pleasant. It still makes my blood run cold to think of that face from a past without time.

My Mom, feet firmly rooted in the ground, did not believe me. Even though it happened repeatedly. My Sister thought that she saw him once but eventually, finally, he left me alone and the idea was abandoned. As I was as fanciful then as I am now, it was agreed that I had just been dreaming although I knew that wasn’t the truth. Not that many times in a row, always the same and absolutely, undeniably “real.”

And then one night, years later, my Mom was home alone and getting ready for bed. We, the kids, had already moved on, my Dad was out of town on a business trip. Just as she was slipping under the covers, she heard two people having a conversation. Just a normal, back and forth conversation but it was odd…at night…so far out in the country…but our house was on the road so maybe someone’s car had broken down? And yet it continued long enough to make her curious. She woke up our two Great Danes and took them with her downstairs. And it was there that she realized that the voices were coming from the living room, inside the house.

She had no choice but to advance, to know what was going on…for her own safety. The calm conversation continued, back and forth, back and forth as she inched her way forward through the kitchen in the dark. She reached just beyond the living room wall to flip on the lights and…silence. The room was empty. End of the conversation. For years afterwards she could remember what had been the subject of that discussion but now both she and I have forgotten. It is interesting what the mind can hold and cannot.

True story.

It turns out that the house had a hidden trap in the stairway leading up to my Sister’s and my bedrooms and that the house had been used as part of the Underground Railroad. Even my Dad only went down to explore that cellar once in all of the years that they owned that horse farm and never again.

I have more stories. Anyone who lives in these ancient houses in France (our first house in Arles had Roman stone blocks in its foundations) knows that we share them, that we aren’t alone. But that is enough for today, I think.

Happy Halloween.

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