THE THREE R'S contd, - 23 October 2011
BLOG # 100!
23rd October 2011
People often ask: how do you know if you're an artist? My answer is: You have no choice. By that I mean you can't turn it off - and believe me, I've tried! As an artist you are continually taking in the world around you and then trying to digest and reduce your experience of it into something worth expressing. It's the same process whether you are a painter, sculptor, dancer, actor, musician, photographer or writer. The upside to being an artist is that every day, every place, every relationship, every feeling is possible creative material. The downside is there is no down-time. Being an artist is not a part-time job, nor even what is considered full-time as in 9 to 5, five days a week.
It is a way of life.
And so it is that after 2 hours of relaxing in the sun with our books we are both impelled - in the same moment - to get to work. So off to the car we go. Coucuron is a nearby village we haven't yet explored so we head in that direction. Within in a mile a patch of landscape calls to us both. We park and get out to look deeper. What is it that's so attractive to us about this patch consisting of perhaps an acre's worth of random, untended land bordering tilled fields? Apart from the fact that it is bristling with autumn color and texture, and as such is vibrantly alive, I think perhaps for me what excites is the sheer, defiant, forward energy of nature. It is willfully determined to spring up in the face of human negligence. It doesn't care if it's by the road or for how long it will get to exist before man once again inserts his will. It is this irrepressible energy, so evident here, which almost gives me the giggles. In its adolescent growth and garish attire this patch of land has a sort of "look Ma, no hands" attitude. And in a way, reflects what Joel and I are doing at this moment in our lives. We're springing up in defiance for as long as we have left, flinging ourselves along roadsides and into strange places, bursting with vigor. This is our autumn.
A few kilometers down the road is Vaugines, one of those blink and it's gone villages. Except this one gives us a glimpse before we blink. We make a left turn and park by an old Roman church whose perfect proportions are enhanced by the late afternoon sunlight.
Opposite the church a narrow road passes over a small bridge before continuing up into the village. We stand on the bridge looking over and down to a brook. Again there's something about scale that pleases: the width of the brook, wide enough to have spirit, narrow enough to feel friendly; the way it laps at the base of that little house, the invite of its grassy bank.
A small car parks just across the road. A man and his little grandson slowly emergy. Grandad is carrying a small bag of vegetables. We say Bonjour. I ask him if he lives here and when he says yes, tell him he's lucky. Yes, he know. He speaks much better English than we do French and shares with us that he is from Paris, but with the advent of the computer was able to relocate here 4 years ago with his work and his wife. He's enjoying the stress-free life of this village, but also appreciates how much culture and art is available in the valley.
He invites us to his home which looks out to a mini-Parisienne view of rooftops and chimney pots and beyond, to the vast countryside. We tell him what we're up to and exchange emails and blog sites. Back in the car we continue on to Coucuron which looks convoluted and enticing, but is also undergoing a lot of roadworks making it difficult to find parking. So we decide to head back to La Feniere where we make a cup of tea, bathe and relax with our books once more before it's time for dinner.
Dinner is in the Bistro tonight, a separate building across the courtyard. It couldn't be more different that the restaurant which is all glitz and sophistication, style and wit. The Bistro is old country French: red and white check tablecloths, candles and lanterns everywhere. At one end of the room is the open kitchen, again, an old country kitchen with a lot of copper, where Reine seems just as at home as she was earlier in the day in her hi-tech stainless steel, restaurant kitchen. At the other end of the room, stretched across the entire width, is a black curtain, which at 10pm., will be slowly puled back to reveal...
But first, dinner. Those beef cheeks we saw at lunch are now the star ingredient of an otherwise traditional daube, served over tagiatelle and completely devoured by Joel - after he downed a bowl of squash soup so earthy it made one wonder if Reine had found a way to incorporate a little local dirt into the pot. I had bream on a bed of vegetables roasted with ginger.
By now the room was hopping. Friday night at La Feniere is party night. The tables are filled with locals of all ages and styles, all dressed up and ready to go. The center table has been reserved for 5 young women in their luscious mid-20's - 3 of them receptionists at the Inn. A veritable circle of rosettes. The 3 waiters - 2 men and an extremely sexy and mischievous young woman, plus Benoit, the Maitre d' are all in the pocket. The room is happy and lively and soon, well-fed and wined and then at 10pm on the dot, Benoit walks toward the stage. Benoit's walk is French. Head held high, light-footed, and capable of pirouetting without femininity. He just has that je ne sais quois and combines it with a seemingly nonchalant attention to detail. Actually, he has a quality I've come to observe and admire here in Provence. It's the self-assured quality of a healthy ego, as opposed to the arrogance of the egotistical.
He reaches the black curtain and ever so slowly pulls it back to reveal a 5 piece rock and roll band already in their opening number: Dylan's "Knocking On Heaven's Door." The place goes wild. These are French rocker-dudes in their 60's. The slide guitarist has a shaved head and a wild-pitched voice. The drummer's got long blonde waves, white gloves and a sleeveless T-shirt. The rhythm guitarist and bassist are tight with each other and the lead vocalist/harp player has shades and a Leonard Cohen pork pie hat. And he is Reine's husband!
For 2 hours plus they rock us with Dylan, The Stones, John Mayal, Tom Waits...We're all up on our feet, most of us dancing. No-one is drunk. No-one is on their cell phone. We're just all happy to be there. And there goes Reine, jive-dancing with a silver-haired man. The same one I'd noticed earlier in his elegant jacket and scarf. The two of them are in sync and swinging. The waiters are singing and dancing between serving. A little girl is pulled up on stage to rock-out with the band. A man in his 80's perhaps too old to dace, waves his arms in the air and once in a while reaches for the old brass bell over the kitchen entrance and gives it a good dong.
We fall into bed at 1 am., the whole place now as silent as the night itself. We're in the middle of the countryside, but it obviously ain't the sticks. Viva la France!