If you paint long enough, you come face to face with who you are.
—MY ART INSTRUCTOR, GRANT SMITH
“Ouf! Trop de bagages.” My grey-haired new landlord grunts as he hauls my duffle bag from the airport bus to the trunk of his car.
“Oui,” I agree with a laugh and hoist my guitar case onto the backseat.
He steers onto the grand autoroute circling the town of Aix-en-Provence, like a boat entering rapids. Darting across four lanes, he veers onto a cobblestone road barely wide enough for his economy car. I stretch my neck to comb the sandstone walls, clock towers, archways and storefronts boasting bright sunflowers and herbes de Provence. Pedestrians yield as the car squeezes past.
Monsieur chats in French about his wife, and the Tunisian who rents the first floor of their apartment building (I will be on the second floor), and how he hopes I will enjoy Aix.
“Et voilà.” He waves his arm triumphantly to the right. “La cathédrale Saint-Sauveur. C’est beau, n’est-ce pas?” He pauses for effect. Stone walls reach up to spires and statues on this national monument. The wooden entrance door looks as if it would withstand a battering ram. Cars and people stream past, but the courtyard in front of the immense door is quiet. A few people tiptoe into this 12th-century church.
“Ah oui. C’est beau,” I agree and make a mental note to visit.
Just one building past the Roman Catholic cathedral, on the other side of the street, Monsieur brakes, slaps on the flashers, pulls the trunk lever and jumps out.
“On est arrivé.” He smiles as he yanks at my duffle. A car honks behind us. Monsieur leaves me on the sidewalk with my bags while he revs off to find parking, returning a few minutes later.
The apartment building grows straight out of the edge of the sidewalk, with ornate black balconies dressing the windows on each floor. Monsieur and I bump up the narrow staircase. One floor. Two floors. He rattles the key in the lock and pushes the door open into a roomy studio, living area and bed on the left and kitchen and bathroom on the right. Monsieur invites me up for a drink later to meet his wife and leaves me with a smile. Two windows face the street. I push open the shutters and stare across at carefully carved and placed stones that have been there for more than eight hundred years. My limbs are heavy and I feel grounded in the years of human experience. The Cathédrale Saint-Sauveur.
The bells sound as I close the shutters so I push them open again to listen, watching a small stream of people enter the cathedral. Carpe diem. I jam my feet into my sandals and clip down the stairs and across the street. The walnut door is three times my height and adorned with carvings of four giant men in robes, major prophets of the Old Testament. Above them are 12 pagan fortune tellers. Framing these men are all sorts of fantastical creatures such as dragons and basilisks, symbolizing the fight between good and evil.
I follow a young family in, grasp my cardigan closed at my neck and try to stretch my skirt further over my knees. The gothic stained-glass windows at the back of the cathedral bathe the pews in coloured hues. Walking toe to heel, I ease down the corridor, reading the information pieces outside each room. The cathedral was built and rebuilt from the 12th to the 19th century. The site first housed a Roman forum in the first century, followed by a church in the sixth. I catch my breath and slide into the baptistery, which was built at the beginning of the sixth century. Roman columns encircle me, and in the middle of the room is a hole, about the size of a manhole, cordoned off by a steel rope. Peering down, I see the bases of the porticoes of the first-century Roman forum. I move slowly and deliberately as if I do not want to disturb the past. When I am outside the cathedral, I breathe deeply and stand there for five minutes, waiting for my soul to catch up. I just walked on rock from the sixth century, and I breathed dust from the first century. Old rock. Old mountains.
After unpacking, I flop spread-eagled on top of the bed covers, my hair flutters under the fan and I sleep for nine hours.
At first light, I click on my Walkman and close my eyes to the soothing voice of my meditation tape. You have no one to please or to satisfy. Focus on your breath. Let your body relax. You are light, you are love and you are free. For several minutes I lie still after the tape has finished. Today I am grateful for the opportunity to paint. I am worthy of love. I will let go to being in Aix, let life unfold instead of forcing it. I will face the truth even when it is difficult. I will take care of myself. My fears today: I won’t be able to express myself in my art. I will be judged for who I really am and come up short. I will never love again. As I get out of bed, I remind myself that only 10 per cent of one’s fears come to fruition. Aix is only scary because it is different. Relax. Learn. Make mistakes. You have nothing to prove.
There is no need for an alarm clock. At 7 a.m. the bells of the cathedral resonate in happy discord, enticing me to the open window where I do yoga in my short silk nightie. Inhale. Long exhale. Stretch. It is as if I say good morning to each cell in my body. My blood flows more easily, as with nature. Imbalance is only tolerated for so long in nature before the dam breaks, before the snow slides, and flow is once again achieved. My mind strains to jail the sadness, pain and grief within my body, but if I keep doing this, eventually these feelings will turn to disease. When the good and bad feelings roam free, they dance wildly. I breathe them in and out so that the energy is not trapped. Letting go takes concentration and effort. The emotion scares me.
The street cleaners come and go. More window shutters open. A bald man holding a guitar unlocks the door to the charcuterie across the street. The swallows scream and dive-bomb from the sandstone towers of the sun-kissed cathedral. As the day heats up, a slight odour of garbage hangs in the air, dripping over everything. Cars buzz by more regularly. There is a rhythm to a day in Aix-en-Provence.
I slather on sunscreen, pull on a light dress, catch my hair in a ponytail to keep my back from sweating and wander the cobblestone pathways of my new neighbourhood. At the daily open market, I taste fresh goat cheese, sausage, olive oil and tartinade. A friendly madame bags deep-red Roma tomatoes for me and a long-stemmed bunch of sunflowers (called soleil for short). After several hours of weaving in and out of the maze of streets, I feel more comfortable getting lost. On the way back to my apartment, I look into the local rock-climbing club, buy two mountain posters, a basil plant and a chocolate éclair. Six weeks will be enough time to sample each delicacy at the patisserie.
My apartment begins to feel comfortable. Sitting on the bed, I try on several outfits and finally lie down and squeeze my eyes shut against the idea of meeting the other students in my art course in an hour. I practise answering the questions I am certain to be asked.
“So, where are you from? What do you do? Are you married? Kids?”
How do I respond to these normal questions? What is the truth? Am I married? No. My one-word answer hangs like a storm cloud.
I rehearse my reactions to their reactions, their potential discomfort. Smile. No. Keep my face relaxed. If I stay relaxed, they’ll feel more relaxed. I don’t want to stick out. I want to belong. But this is part of my challenge: to accept what makes me different. Twenty-two of us meet for our briefing at the famous sidewalk café Les Deux Garçons, where Zola, Cézanne, Picasso, Cocteau used to go, on the classic carriageway Le Cours Mirabeau. Great plane trees shadow the walk. One of the students, a beautiful woman who I saw at the airport, smiles at me and gestures for me to sit beside her.
“I’m Cathleen. When I saw you at the airport and found out you’d be in the art course, I said to myself, ‘She has such pretty hair, I wonder if we’ll be friends.’ ” Her smile beams and I want to stay close to her warmth.
“Thank you. I’m Sue.” I smile back at her and hope we will be friends.
People introduce themselves around the table and I brace for further chit-chat. But the meeting begins right away.
The art instructor, a good-looking, charming, middle-aged artist from North Carolina who has lived here for over 30 years, outlines the learning outcomes and expectations. Our art will be graded on the basis of how much we improve. I stiffen at the impending judgment because I need a safe environment in which to shed my skin. Inside my head a personal goal formulates: take more risks in my art and express my uniqueness. If I achieve this goal by the end of six weeks, I will have earned an A. If not, maybe I need more time.
We all listen carefully to the comments about French culture: drinking until you are sick is incomprehensible; the home is a very private place; do not place your hands on your knees during a meal; reading is very important; exercise is not a priority; lunch happens after noon and dinner happens after 8 p.m.; French people work to live as opposed to many North Americans, who live to work; avoid being the smiley tourist (a smile to a stranger is an invitation); be polite and if they are rude back call them on it; begin conversations with, “Bonjour, madame/monsieur. Comment allez-vous?”
We move next door as a group to the art store, where I practise my cultural learnings.
“Bonjour, madame. Comment allez-vous?” I speak to the saleswoman. She smiles broadly and moves forward to help me. It works. I leave the store with a bag full of art supplies. Tomorrow we begin to draw.
Wake with the sun, meditate, write my journal in French, do yoga using the 15th-century cathedral as a focal point, drink my hot lemon tea, dress, visit the boulangerie downstairs to buy lunch, walk to the art studio, paint, play guitar. This is my rhythm, and day by day I feel more at home, less discombobulated.
“Bon matin, madame. Comment allez-vous? Je voudrais une quiche aux épinards et une mille feuilles, s’il vous plaît. Merci. Au revoir, madame.” I place the savoury and sweet goodies in my knapsack and begin the 45-minute walk through the town and along the more rural Route de Cézanne to the Marchutz art studio. Climbing the gravel driveway alongside poppies, wildflowers and flowing long grasses to the simple white building nestled against the hillside, I breathe to myself, “I may never go home.”
The students sit in a semicircle around a chair draped in silky cloth and softened by pillows.
“Today you will practise observing the visible world. What do you really see? First the model will pose for five minutes at a time, and then we will move to two-minute poses.” The art instructor calls to the model that we are ready and a waif of a woman, ribs sticking out all over, enters.
“This is Dorothea.” We nod our heads in her direction. Some say, “Bonjour.” I sit with my pencil poised, waiting for the start gun. Five minutes will never be long enough to get a finished product. She assumes a pose and lead scratches on paper. I hold my pencil out in front of me and use my thumb to measure for accuracy. A body is made up of eight heads. The ears are in line with the eyes. The nature of the line of the neck to the head is revealing. Look up. Look down and draw. Look up. Look down and draw. Shade in the armpit. Leave the face for last.
“Change.” The instructor orders and the model morphs into a new pose. Not finished. My pencil continues to draw the first pose. Finally I let go and move to a clean page. By the time we do two-minute poses, my whole arm moves to sweep the pencil across the page. I have drawn her torso and one arm when the call “change” comes. Ugh. Faster. Just the essential: where her hand reaches out to grasp the chair, the weight of her front foot as it supports her lean, the tilt of her head, light coming from the side. The finished drawing looks like a figure, if only just. I coach myself. Don’t forget, your goal is to take risks, make mistakes and explore the limits of your imagination.
I draw through lunch.
Our seminar in the afternoon is about lines. Lines do not hold the figure separate from the environment but rather encourage a connection to the greater whole, as in nature. Light and air move through the drawing freely. This allows the drawing to be illuminated from the inside out. How does the artist achieve this effect? By letting go. I shift my eyes around the room of attentive faces and wonder if everyone notices the thick solid line encasing my body.
In theory, I agree. Human nature tends to control, cling and contain. Yet human spirit – compassion, faith, hope and love – is not bound by lines or bodies. Human spirit connects us all to something bigger as it flows from space to space, sharing its energy. When the spirit is blocked and disconnected from the greater whole, it withers and cannot illuminate. It follows that art must be connected to the greater whole. And the artist breathes life into her creations by creating with an open heart. The more the artist lets go to the process, the less she tries to control, the more energy and spirit will flow. We cannot create as islands, just as we cannot live as islands. We are here on earth to feel that connection with one another, with the universe.
That night I sleep heavily.
After my morning routine, I mosey along the streets, gazing at whatever catches my eye, lulled by the caresses of the warm air. By the time I reach the studio, my dress sticks to my back and chest. The model stands at the side of the room in a silk dressing gown.
After a warm-up five-minute pose, the instructor explains the next challenge.
“You will have three minutes to draw the next pose and then the model will cover up and you will have three minutes to draw the same pose from memory.” I gulp. I try to focus on the essential but still only get half of the figure drawn. Reluctantly, I turn the page, keeping my drawing from view. Memory. I can’t even remember the pose. Was her right hand up or her left? Should I peek? No. The point is not to get it exact.
“Okay, you have three minutes.”
Scratching. Paper rustling. Some groans. For a few seconds my pencil hovers over the paper because I am not sure. Time is wasting and finally I think what the hell and start to draw. I get a bit of an endorphin rush. When time is up, I flip back to my original drawing and compare it to the blind one and have a good chuckle. I am learning to be brave, to be less perfect. Feel the fear and do it anyway.
The next pose is seven minutes, and I use the time to add as much detail as I can. My figure looks like a woman, and I lean back so that my drawing is in full view.
“All right, now you have another seven minutes to do the same drawing but with your opposite hand.” Groans. Several minutes in, most people are laughing. I catch myself with my tongue half out of my mouth, concentrating. The instructor asks us to display both drawings on the wall side by side. I rub my earring between my thumb and forefinger as I silently compare and critique. My right-hand drawing is anatomically correct and my eye recognizes it as a naked woman reclining. I am satisfied. My left-hand drawing does not look anatomically correct. The bum and thighs on which her weight sits are much too large. But the more I look, the more I like the left-hand drawing. It feels less sterile, more alive. The figure is distorted and by no means perfect, but I relate to it more as a human being. I stare at the drawings on the wall after the class has returned to their seats. Why is the more perfect one less appealing, less alive? Perfect is good, isn’t it?
A lively discussion ensues in response to Rembrandt’s statement on drawing, which is that physical likeness is recognized and appreciated by the masses because it perpetuates the illusion that we are all separate, perfect, independent beings. But one of the most important roles of art is that it reveals truth: we are all connected; we are not perfect; we are not the most important in the universe. This can be a disturbing truth. An artist distorts in order to find this truth. But first the artist must know the truth. You have to know and understand something in order to let it go.
I fill two pages of my artist journal with notes.
Voices rise and fall with the opinions of the group, and I raise my hand several times. After I reread my notes, I bow my head and slump my shoulders. You have to know and understand something in order to let it go. I knew Jim. I understood him. But can I face the truth so that I can let him be dead?
In my perfect memory, Jim was perfect and we were perfect together. Being perfect makes me lovable. If I remember the argument where Jim called me a bitch and asked, “Do we need to split for awhile?” If I include the image of Jim yanking me to my feet when he lost his temper after I’d bugged him just a bit too much. If I uncover the conversation of me crying and leaning on Jim for support when I felt insecure. If I reveal these imperfections, people will be appalled at the real me.
Jim courses through my veins, but I can only paint part of him. And so I can only let part of him be dead. And I can only paint part of me so only part of me can be alive.
People judge my recovery by how much I move on, let go of my old life, of Jim. New job, new place to live, new puppy, new relationship. I crave external praise and reinforcement so that I know I will be okay. How can I move on and take Jim with me? I will try to repaint Jim in my mind and in my heart as “dead Jim,” not “alive Jim.” But how the hell do I do that?
When the cathedral bells clang the next morning, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. My irrational, deeply ingrained belief is that if I paint my imperfections, people will not love me. And what if I paint something incredible? Then what? It’s almost as scary. I skip yoga and dress for a day off. No painting class today.
At the American University, one block from my apartment, an expert offers a seminar on wines from Bordeaux and the Rhône. Cathleen, Jennifer and I sit in the classroom along with 75 other students, mostly younger. The hum of chatter eases when the middle-aged Frenchman at the front of the room turns his ample nose to his audience to introduce himself. He moves with the calm enthusiasm of someone fully engaged in his job. His even tone and odd, innocent humour remind me of l’Inspecteur Jacques Clouseau in The Pink Panther.
He holds the foot of a glass and swirls the wine before inserting his whole nose into the glass and then gulps a mouthful and swishes it around, almost like mouthwash. You must hold it in your mouth for at least 10 seconds. The first flavour is called l’attaque. After four or five seconds, l’évolution develops. The third flavour hits after eight seconds and is labelled la finale. Then you swallow. The fourth and final flavour comes after you swallow and is called la persistance. Seventy-five novices mimic his actions: lift, smell, swirl, taste and burst into a babble of commentary.
After the fourth tasting, the lecturer raises his voice considerably to get the audience’s attention. Cathleen, Jennifer and I stumble off to dinner at a Moroccan restaurant.
The maître d’ shows us to an inner courtyard lit by candles, surrounded by lush greenery. Elbows on the starched white tablecloth, we gaze at the stars and giggle when the waiter comments on our beauty. My thoughts race to interlock with theirs as we talk about creativity, writing and the relationship of art to all things. Four hours pass easily as the wine makes us friendly. Jennifer talks of a potential boyfriend who will visit; Cathleen talks of her husband, who is in Spain; and I listen and ask questions. My body is warm with wine, and even though I think I know what is coming and I try to steer the conversation, the drunk part of me thinks Bring it on, I can take it.
Cathleen veers off in a surprise direction.
She leans forward and rolls the beads of her necklace between her fingers, looks both ways as if she is going to cross a street and lowers her voice. “You guys might think this is crazy, but I feel something in my apartment, a presence, and some stuff has happened.”
“What do you mean?” Jennifer and I both lean forward.
“There is this covering on my skylight and it moves at night, on its own. There’s no wind or anything. And I just feel as if I am not alone there.” She sits up and picks up her fork.
“Are you scared?” My skin prickles and I rub my forearms.
“At first, yes. But it doesn’t feel like a scary energy.” She raises her eyebrows and nods her head. She is so beautiful, so openhearted, I want to believe everything she says. Jennifer adds her own ghost story. It feels risky talking about ghosts. I have my own ghosts. There is a pause as we drink and eat and ponder. Here it goes, I think to myself.
“I don’t know if I believe in ghosts, but I believe in something spiritual.” I look down before continuing. “I was married to a wonderful man. His name was Jim. He was killed in an avalanche four years ago.” I shove these sentences out and wait as they fall with a thud on Cathleen and Jennifer. Wide eyes. Horror. Hand covers mouth in shock. I don’t like to be the bearer of bad news. I shift in my seat.
“I’m so sorry. That is awful.” Cathleen has tears in her eyes. Jennifer’s mouth quivers.
“Thank you.” I'm learning to say thank you and move on. “So, I understand when you talk of seeing ghosts, because I feel Jim, his energy. I believe when you connect with someone you share some of his or her energy. A channel opens and there’s a flow, an exchange that is vital for life.” I take a breath and sneak a peek at their warm, open faces. Encouraged, I keep talking. “The more you connect with people and nature, the more your spirit lives on. Jim was a very connected guy. He was a good guy.” I finish my speech, clear my throat and wait.
“So, how are you doing now? Have you met anyone else?” Cathleen looks at me with hopeful eyes. I feel my body start to float, but I expose more anyway.
“I was seeing this other fellow, Scott, for two years. He’s a mountain guide like Jim was. He asked me to marry him last summer.” I pause here because their faces light up. “But then at Christmas he got cold feet and we went our separate ways.” Their faces fall again.
A minute passes as all of these feelings bounce around between us and find a place. I bend over my stewed lamb and couscous. It’s uncomfortable at first to peel back onion layers. But as you get used to being connected to someone more deeply, a tenderness develops in the relationship. Cathleen, Jennifer and I venture to the next level.
The next morning, I walk to the weekly marché where stalls fill the cobbled square. The smells hint at where I am before I’ve arrived: the meaty smokiness of the sausage stall where oblong casings hang from above like a fringe framing the smiling white-aproned vendor, who balances a fresh sample between his thumb and a sharp knife. The earthy, humid, sweet lingering of the fruit and vegetable stand where the plump, ruddy-faced farmer’s wife convinces me to buy the best field strawberries ever. The pungent, salty assault of fish at the slippery seafood section, where a man dressed in waterproof overalls sprays the floor with a hose regularly. The sweaty-sock smell of fresh cheeses. Within half an hour, little plastic bags hang from my arms like Christmas-tree ornaments.
Back at my apartment, I survey my loot and consult the cookbook I’ve just bought, The Best of Mediterranean Cooking. On the counter, I line up the main characters: egg, eggplant and onion. Cathleen and Jennifer will arrive for dinner at 7 p.m. I hum as I cook, and when the dish is ready, I play guitar and sing until my guests arrive.
On Sunday I force myself to meditate, do yoga and write before I pull on my stretchy capri climbing pants and a tank top. In my knapsack, I stuff a windbreaker, a water bottle, snacks, money and sunscreen. The local climbing group is waiting outside their clubhouse on the other side of town. Inside my head I practise my French greetings. I’m quite fluent in French, but I am nervous. I coach myself. Good for me – I found some people I can go climbing with. I’m stepping out. That’s brave.
“Bonjour. Comment ça va? Je m’appelle Sue.” I set my pack down to shake hands. The two fellows are in their late 20s. Gérard is a clean-cut, motorcycle-riding accountant who started out training sled dogs and Michel is a gentle, brown-eyed architect who smiles shyly when he grips my hand. Christine shakes my hand vigorously, “Bonjour, bonjour.” Her green eyes sparkle and her spiky blonde hair does a jig. Her leg muscles bulge under her skintight climbing shorts. As we drive to the climbing crag, they burst into laughter every few minutes. Pretty easy audience. I relax into my seat and do my best to follow the quick dialogue. When they speak to me directly, they speak more slowly.
We arrive at the treed river that borders the smooth, steep gorge known as Chateauvert. Climbers dot the rock face like coat hooks. My palms sweat; I run my tongue along my lips. At the base of the climb, we sit on boulders in the dust to yank on our snug climbing shoes. Climbers call in French to the right and to the left of us. I stand up to buckle my harness, my “natural laxative.” My bowels rumble from the impending fear. The rest of the group laughs at some joke.
I breathe deeply when Gérard hands me the sharp end of the rope and asks if I want to lead. I ask to borrow a helmet. More laughter. Apparently helmets are not à la mode. I hand the sharp end back and tie the other end to my harness. I’ll belay. Gérard squeezes my mousqueton (carabiner) to make sure it is locked and I file the new word. As he labours up the face and reaches the hardest move, the crux (named after le crucifix), I call encouragement.
“Je suis vaché,” he cries, which I learn means exhausted. I use the term frequently that day. The rope goes taut, and it is my turn. I rub my hands together to dry the sweat, double-check my tie-in and place my hands on the warm rock. Breathe. The trillions of grains of sand and water that have formed the rock push strength into my limbs. “Je grimpe!” I call out as I leave the ground.
At the crux, my arms burn and fear takes over. What if I fall?
“Vas-y,” Gérard cheers with a grin. His spirit feels so light that I finish the climb. Up and down we go all morning. I even lead a pitch sans helmet, and sweat puddles in my cleavage. At lunch we wade into the river and float in an eddy, spouting water comme des baleines. After a siesta under the willow trees, we walk to the nearby château for ice cream. Vachée from a morning of climbing, I take a long break in the shade and paint. At 9 p.m. we pack up our climbing gear and head home.
Good for me.
Tomorrow we begin to paint in class.
“Van Gogh copied the masters’ paintings for 12 years before he adopted his own style. Today, you will copy a master.” The art teacher motions to a cupboard full of poster art prints. I choose to copy Paul Cézanne’s rendition of Mont Sainte-Victoire, done right out the back door. My perfectly detailed, perfectly mountain-like pencil drawing peeks at me from my sketchbook. It takes another hour to transfer the sketch to my larger canvas. Oil colours ring my palette, waiting. I jerk the flat palette knife from one primary colour to the next, mixing. All of nature is made up of red, blue and yellow in different combinations. Sunset, sunrise, autumn leaves, Mediterranean Sea. Everything. Several times my brush ventures to the canvas, but it never makes contact. I huff, wheeze, cock my head from side to side, back up to get a different perspective.
Like a jittery hen scratching in the dirt, I swipe at the canvas. Too dark. Try again. Still too dark. In one hand I hold a rag that threatens to smudge my strokes, in the other my brush floats in the air, pecking every so often. Most people have painted at least half of their canvas. I breathe faster and slap my brush down on the palette, push my hands across my apron and flop back against the chair.
Cézanne’s painting stands regally beside my pitiful attempt. His Mont Sainte-Victoire is faithful to nature in its colour relationships and full of his own expression – balanced, peaceful and harmonious. Mine looks like crap – broken, divided, incomplete. Is that who I am? Broken? Fearful? Full of pain? I grit my teeth and think of ways to hide my mountain, to destroy it. I want to cover it up or throw paint at it. What am I angry at? The mountain? For killing Jim?
This mountain where Jim died, how can it be harmonious? How can I weave together muted greys to join heaven and earth? How can I express peace and calm when what I feel is anger and discord? How can I give colour and life to this mountain when I see it as death?
I push aside the oil colours and place my sketchbook on my lap. Today, I will give my anger permission to surface. Without looking at Cézanne’s work, I pick up my brush and slash watercolour paint on a clean page of my sketchbook. I gaze around to see if anyone notices the tears welling in my eyes. No. Keep going.
“Oh, what do we have here?” my art instructor whispers over my shoulder.
I shift so that I can see him and laugh nervously. “I couldn’t paint the mountain that way. I have to do it this way first.” I feel like a kid who has done something wrong, who has failed.
“That’s great. You do what you need to do.” He looks at me with a slight query but no judgment. On my paper, blood-red colour flows down the mountain like lava, outlined in black anger. I have painted the words “discord, death, red, fall, broken heart, pain” in the stormy blue sky. One more time, I think to myself. This time in black. In a few minutes, my second watercolour is complete. Black with words scattered about: anger, why, empty, hopeless, fear, alone, sadness, tears. I flip back and forth from one painting to the other and smile. I did it.
After we have all struggled to put paint on paper, the art instructor leads a seminar on colour.
“What colour is this leaf?” He sits before us holding a simple, oblong green leaf against his white palette. Silence, as it seems like a trick question.
“Green, right? It’s green,” he answers himself and squeezes some green oil paint onto the palette. Holding the leaf beside the colour, he asks, “So, is it green?” The leaf looks nothing like the colour.
“Okay, so it’s not green. What is it? It’s grey. That’s right. The world is made up of shades of grey. And how do we get the grey of this leaf? We add its complement.” He leans over his palette, carefully mixes red in with the green until he has matched the colour of the leaf. Several ah-hahs sound from the audience.
We paint all afternoon, but my unfinished painting of Mont Sainte-Victoire is so imperfect, I purse my lips at it. On the way home I try to be patient and look at my surroundings with a keener eye, to see the truth. But my thoughts return to the chocolate éclair and the ice-cream bar waiting at the corner store. I am scared of discovering all of the colours in nature because I am scared of discovering all of the pain in my heart.
Painting is going to open something for me, I’m sure of it. Keep going. Be patient and gentle with my brave heart. When confronted with uncertainty, do not get afraid; learn. You have to let go. You must commit to painting the truth.
How do baby birds know when to learn to fly? They wait in the nest until it is time and they take off. Why don’t I know when to fly? Maybe I do and I’m just not listening for the cues.
The next day is “fieldtrip Friday” and my skirt sticks to the back of my thighs as we bus to the hilltop medieval village of Gordes, popular with famous people and the world of Peter Mayle, who wrote A Year in Provence. Narrow streets spiral past white and grey stone houses to the top of the heap where a 12th-century fortified castle encloses the city hall. We prattle on about the view of the Luberon Hills, compare purchases from the village market and sample the local jams, cheeses and olive oil. I buy a wide-brimmed straw sunhat and some olive-oil soap. Some of our sweat dries in the air-conditioned bus from Gordes to a Cistercian monastery, l’Abbaye de Sénanque.
Our chatter dies down as we wander between rows and rows of blooming lavender to the massive limestone archways of the monastery. We stop to suck in the sweet smell. Inside, I pull my shawl over my shoulders and tilt my head back to follow the square rooms up to arches and finally into round domes. Monks dressed in earth-brown robes glide by. It’s quieter and slower than a library.
En route back to Aix, most people sit in silence, gazing out the windows at the golden hayfields, limestone houses under burnt-red clay roofs, lavender fields and dark-green cypress trees illuminated by the sun. No wonder so many people come to Provence to paint.
Back at the art studio we pack up our rickety, foldable easels and clamber into a van to drive along the same route Cézanne clipped along in his carriage one hundred years ago. It is a 10-minute drive to our destination, the town of Le Tholonet, where we unload beside a small creek surrounded by giant plantain trees. Across the road, hayfields run into crags of rock in the foothills of Mont Sainte-Victoire. This is painting en plein air.
My eye catches a footbridge leading over the creek into the forest. Flannery O’Connor writes in her essay “The Nature and Aim of Fiction” that painters should see the subjects in their paintings as characters in a story. As I tighten the screws on my easel, my eyes dart around, seeking the essential in the scene. Do I leave the ferns in? How do I know what to leave out? I pinch my eyebrows together to observe honestly with all six senses, to find the movement in the scene. Water moves, that seems a given. In my journal I list the possible characters and their personalities:
Bridge: stately, solid, protective, scarred, bossy, anal
Creek: energetic, happy, young, athletic, noisy
Ferns: wild, wanting, talkative, thin, tough
Plantains: tired, motherly, achy
Ivy: needy, unsatisfied
Sky: calm, peaceful
Sitting on the grass, I muse over the storyline. What happens between these characters to create heat and movement? The bridge momentarily bars the water on one side, causing an eddy, but the water escapes with a raucous laugh. The plantains scold the bridge while the ferns race the story from one to another. Where is the water going and why does the bridge want to stop it?
Great, so I’ve got my characters and a scintillating storyline. Now for the master creation. Every few seconds, I check to see that my painting looks like the real thing so that people can tell me what a good bridge I’ve done. After one hour of careful, deliberate, faint paint strokes on the canvas, I am pleased with my well-behaved, content characters. It looks like a bridge over water. But I don’t sense movement, or heat, or a mysterious sixth sense, or much personality. There is nothing confrontational or committing about my painting. I am absent. Frustrated, I assault a clean canvas with paint, raking my arm back and forth as if to heavy-metal music. Sometimes it’s easier to find the essential, the hotspot, the personality, if you paint quickly, because the ego does not have time to override creativity. My second painting is an unrecognizable mess of colour. Good grief.
My story percolates in my brain while I prepare my paints and root to my spot.
When the instructor gives the cleanup warning, I cannot believe three hours have gone by. I was in the zone. Rock climbers describe “the zone” as intense concentration on a task that cleans the mental slate of extraneous thought and demands pure reason. Somehow I forget myself when I paint, and there is a certain beauty and timelessness in forgetting yourself. Flannery O’Connor writes that the only way one can discover the spirit, the essence, of something is to “intrude upon the timeless, and that is only done by the violence of a single-minded respect for the truth.” I hold my painting at arm’s length to see if it is truthful. I can’t tell, but something feels different.
Seeing the truth takes reason, courage, time, practice and an open heart. Maybe being open to seeing the truth is just as important as actually seeing it. Someday I want to experience the reality of the world with all six of my senses and paint it in a way that is true to my heart and soul. Dante describes life as the relationship between “substance” and the “accidental.” Perhaps if I study nature enough to see its grace, I will see how life, death, love and compassion join everything in the universe, and I will be aware of the essential in life – the substance – and what is not essential – the accidental – and present their relationship truthfully.
Seeing the real world through spirit and mystery requires a deeper vision and understanding. There are feelings I cannot face right now.
My time in the zone organizes my thoughts, settles my ego and gives me perspective. I don’t want a part-time relationship. I don’t want to drive back and forth from Vancouver and Whistler. I want one home in Vancouver with an art studio. There are three weeks left for me in France.
For hours every day I paint in order to complete the required 30 canvases. In 40°C heat I walk for one hour to the exact lookout where Cézanne painted to capture Mont Sainte-Victoire. At the end of the course, we host an exhibition of all of our work. Two of my rock-climbing buddies come, and I lead them through the studio and point out my paintings, saying they aren’t very good. They linger on one of my paintings but not as long as on others’. I want mine to be the best, to get accolades, to be the most popular, but I feel a certain pride that they are mine. I have still not quite grasped the lesson that it is not all about me.
Two days before my flight leaves for home, I meet with the instructor for a one-on-one evaluation. As I wait outside the studio for my turn, I overhear the instructor complimenting one of the other students. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. You’re on the right track.” I rock back and forth and consider making a run for it. I ache to hear that I am on the right track.
“Hi,” I smile and sit down next to him. He looks up briefly and returns to his Rodin thinking posture in front of my paintings all lined up in a row.
“Hey, Sue. How’s it going?”
“Good,” I lie and match his pose.
“So, there they are.” He waves his hand at six weeks of my work.
“Yup.” I raise my eyebrows and nod my head. I sneak a peek at some of the more vibrant works belonging to other students around the room. My paintings look pale, one-dimensional and ghostlike, and I look down and clear my throat. If I reached out to grab the substance of my art, my hand would pass right through like mist.
“You know the way you paint, such small detailed brush strokes, reminds me of Renoir.” He mimics painting holding his hand up very close to his face. “Renoir was arthritic, you know. Near the end of his career, he painted from a wheelchair.”
Sweat builds behind my knees. “Oh, right, well, I am very detailed,” I confess. “I look at Elly’s painting and she seems to say so much with so little, like Cézanne. I wish I could paint like her.” I press my lips together in hopelessness.
“But that is Elly. You have to paint like Sue.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” I mumble.
“That’s why you must keep painting. It will come.” He smiles and begins a technical discussion about one of my portraits. I nod and agree every now and then, but my mind skips to images of my next painting. When my report comes, I receive an A+. I know I’m not the best painter in the course, not even close, but I made progress and tried hard.