Using the side of her pencil, she created some contrast in the feathers. It felt right to use her pencil now, rather than the charcoal she might have used long ago. It gave a clarity she had not found before that made sense in that entirely new setting. She could thank Jacques for helping her to see that too.
As Arianna moved her pencil across the paper, she thought about the contrast between the setting that surrounded her now and that of the Camargue.
The differences did appeal to her. She liked that it was possible to move from one environment to the other so easily.
She thought about everything that had been new to her yesterday. Not the least of which were the moments of pure enjoyment that frequently surprised her throughout the day, in spite of the few surges of guilt that pushed into her thoughts. Every once in a while, an image of Ben would slip into her consciousness. But now she was able to think of him lovingly, and then set the thought aside. She was here now. He was not.
She was beginning to feel like this drawing was reaching completion when Barbara stopped by.
“Arianna, that’s looking beautiful. I’ve learned quite a lesson about the power of the graphite pencil on this trip. Before Jacques set up his presentation last week, I paid little attention to that medium.”
“I have to agree, Barbara. It just didn’t call to me either, apart from for preliminary drawings, outlines, and things like that. Now I’m intrigued, although I know I’m going to do some watercolors of flamingos too. Those colors are lurking in the back of my mind, and this course has definitely opened my mind to considering all options. More so than I ever would have before.”
Barbara smiled and gave her a knowing look. “I had a student throw me a line once about art being an adventure that never ends. The more I thought about it, the more I agreed.”
Arianna chuckled. “Too true. Let’s go have some lunch.”
A strong urge to meditate overtook Arianna after lunch. She knew she needed to listen to that voice before getting involved in anything else that afternoon.
She slipped out of her clothes and into a long silk robe.
After opening all the windows, Arianna arranged her pillows into a nest on the bed. She settled herself cross-legged on one cushion to raise her back to a comfortable level and went through the rest of her routine.
But today she felt her breathing wasn’t quite under control. She wondered if she was having some guilt after feeling so free and happy. She decided to count her breaths, an ancient remedy to the problem. On her outbreath, she silently counted one, then two, then three, then four. Then returned to one on her inhale.
With her focus on her breath, Arianna gently let go of her thoughts. The silence was healing. She concentrated on allowing the outer quiet and her inner silence to meet. Her goal was to rest in the moment.
Fifteen minutes later, she began to slowly bring herself out. Her body seemed to know when it was time.
After a silent thank-you to Faith again, she stood and stretched.
For the rest of the afternoon, she worked at her drawing from the Camargue until she felt like it was close to complete. She was reminded that the precision required in working with pencil was as time consuming as creating in paint. She needed to step back from it for a day or so.
Checking her e-mail again, she wondered why she had not heard from any of her family. She hoped it had not been a mistake to write them so candidly about how she was feeling. They would just be starting their day. Maybe they hadn’t opened their e-mail yet.
Then she picked up her Kindle and went to find a shady spot to sip a glass of wine and read for a while. It was that time of day.
By four p.m., she couldn’t stand it any longer and went inside to check for messages again. Everyone had responded. Faith, Tad, and Christine had e-mailed her. Sophia had sent a message via Faith.
A surge of love moved through Arianna. Tad and Christine had each written to say her message had made them very happy and that the way she felt was even more than they had hoped for. Faith was exuberant. “Blossom on, Mom. Blossom on!”
Sophia, too, had expressed pleasure that her daughter was discovering happiness once again.
Arianna knew she had made the correct choice in sharing her feelings with them. And with their voiced support, she felt even more justified in wearing that new outlook comfortably.
She lay on her bed, thinking of all that the past ten days had brought into her life. The whole picture was so important: her surroundings in the mas, the settings in which she found herself, the history, the thrill of creating art, the food, and the people—oh yes, the people. And the stories they had shared.
Before she knew it, the dinner bell was calling her downstairs.
Maurice announced that dinner was going to be a bit of a potluck, courtesy of the Camargue. He had arranged for a gardianne de taureau to be delivered from a restaurant near Sainte-Maries. He wanted his foodies to have a taste of this dish, since they had not the day before.
“Well,” Bertram said, “it may not be quite up to Madame LeClerc’s standard, but it’s more than acceptable. Now let me try that fish!”
The elusive Bruno had sent a cooler full of fresh fish as an apology for not being available the day before. Maurice baked it in a subtle but flavorful sauce of cream, garlic, olive oil, and potatoes, and Juliette cooked riz rouge de la Camargue. A simple green salad and fresh baguette completed the dinner.
As they enjoyed the standard cheese selection after dinner, Maurice had words of praise for everyone. “I must say, I’m impressed with the progress of this entire group when it comes to your appreciation of le monde magnifique des fromages français.”
They all congratulated each other and agreed it had been pure pleasure to have the tutelage of an aficionado such as Maurice.
A few of the group decided to go into town after dinner to have drinks and hear some music.
Arianna and Juliette took their coffee into the grand salon. They settled into the comfortable chairs and chatted about the weekend and how all the individual experiences would impact the work they were doing.
Arianna described how she had worked on pencil sketches in the Camargue. “I think I’m going to focus on that medium for now. It feels right. My oil work is coming along, and I may even wait to finish it back home. I’ve become energized by the challenges of the graphite pencil. What do you think about that?”
Juliette looked amused. “Ahhh, the lure of drawing.” She sighed. “Have you examined van Gogh’s drawings from the Camargue and in Arles? I find them as intriguing as his paintings.”
“Memories are returning from my early days as a student. I first learned how drawing was a necessary beginning to everything I worked on,” Arianna recalled. “As you have shown us here, it’s a process different from painting. You’ve helped me remember that most of it is exploratory. That part of it feels so good to me right now.”
“Does it feel like you’re going back to your artistic beginnings? Starting over? And, if you don’t mind me asking, is this return to those beginnings helping you to better contemplate starting your life over . . . moving out of the ‘now’ that you so aptly described to me?”
Arianna took her time to reply. “In terms of my art . . . right now, my focus is on observation, problem solving, and composition as a means of preparation for a painting. It’s all about discovery, and I think that’s where I need to be right now as an artist. Oddly, when I move those thoughts into how my life might change, all of this also applies.”
Juliette raised her eyebrows in a slightly quizzical expression as her gaze met Arianna’s.
Arianna’s face clouded briefly, and then a hint of a smile returned. “My life is also about discovery now too. I’ve learned that here, and I’m making progress. I know that.”
Juliette murmured, “Petit à petit. Little by little. As Oscar Wilde said, ‘Life imitates art more than art imitates life’ . . .”
They sat quietly for a moment before Juliette steered the conversat
ion to a lighter topic.
“You’ll have a chance on Wednesday to see van Gogh’s drawings at the Fondation . . . or you can google some tonight.”
Arianna smiled. “Nope! I spent so much time, so many years ago, studying his work. I’ll wait to see the real deal. I’m looking forward to it. Right now, I’m going to go to my room and read. I think I’ll probably nod off pretty quickly. Yesterday was exhausting . . . but inspiring.”
“That’s the Camargue. People either hate it or love it. From what I gathered listening to all of you, it won everyone over yesterday!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
They were off to an early start the next morning. Juliette cautioned she had a full day’s excursion planned, with several surprises. The twinkle in her eye and the way she struggled to keep her grin under control had everyone guessing just what was in store.
Cecilia waved the rest of the group off as they climbed into the van. She had opted to remain behind and write. “Deadlines loom,” she moaned, “and time is slipping by!”
Once on the road, Juliette pointed out the location of the ruined Montmajour Abbey, where van Gogh had loved to draw and paint. “He often walked the hour-long stroll from town, and in late spring he drew and painted over a dozen landscapes there. It’s said this was one place where he found poppies. However, there don’t seem to be any there now.”
Juliette shared the medieval history of the area, embellishing with colorful details about invasions, plagues, and religious wars. Maurice skillfully navigated the hills and curves. Around each bend another enigmatic hilltop village or hamlet appeared.
“Ah, look at that,” Joan murmured. “I’m never going to get over the thrill I feel when I see these beautiful villages. They just seem to tumble down the hillside into the valley. How the heck did they ever get built? That’s what I want to know.”
“And what if you had to go from top to bottom and back again every day?” Barbara asked. “I hope they used donkeys.”
As they passed through one tiny cluster of buildings, Maurice made them laugh as he informed them, “I know for a fact there are forty-five inhabitants in this village—and five hundred goats.”
Soon, the tree-lined road brought them up a steep grade and into the parking area of just the type of perched village they had been admiring.
“With a castle ruin on top!” Arianna exclaimed. “The perfect finishing touch!”
They walked up a short but steep flight of stairs and found themselves in the classic heart of the village. Chestnut trees bordered the small square, with a warren of narrow lanes leading away in all directions.
“Just as on your first morning with us, we are sending you off on your own. Your task today is to find a small detail, the smallest you can find, that calls you to paint. If possible, try to discover something entirely new to your eye. We’ll reconvene at the Café André, next to the boulangerie, in an hour and a half. Perfect timing for a caffeine break, n’est-ce pas?”
As the group dispersed through the beckoning narrow alleys, Bertram and Arianna began walking with Barbara. “I know we’re supposed to be on our own, but either one of us would be happy to accompany you,” Bertram said, and Arianna nodded.
“No, no, no!” Barbara shook her finger at them and chuckled. “I don’t want you peeking at the treasures I’m going to find! Off you go on your own separate ways! I’ll see you at the café! This will be fun.”
“Promise you won’t climb to the top without someone with you. Please,” Arianna pleaded, hoping she did not sound overprotective.
“I promise. I may be old, but I’m not stupid!”
They all grinned and headed down different streets. Arianna wondered if anyone else was going to walk to the top of the village. That castle ruin was calling to her.
As she climbed through the maze of streets and stairs, she felt like no one else was around. She had become accustomed to exploring by herself, and somewhere along the way on this trip, she shed the feeling of loneliness. She was enjoying her own company.
Just over an hour later, Arianna was on her way back to the village square. She laughed as she made her way down the hill in so much less time than it had taken her to go up. And without becoming breathless!
Her journal was filled with drawings of the panoramic patchwork of orchards and vineyards that stretched across the valley, which she simply had not been able to resist. She had plenty of small details as well: from ancient rusted hinges on what was left of a door among the ruins, to random poppies poking up alongside a rocky path, to her pièce de résistance, or so she thought: an ornate sculptured detail from a small, crumbling fountain she had discovered in a hidden cul-de-sac.
The scene in the square was like something from an ad for an artists’ retreat. Arianna smiled as she approached.
Marti, Lisa, and Joan were perched on the edge of the village fountain concentrating on drawing or adding color in their journals.
Bertram was busily sketching, his pad on his knee, as he sat on a bench in the shade of a chestnut tree.
John was sitting with Maurice, both sipping espresso, while John was recording the scene in his journal.
The artists were at work.
Juliette appeared from a side street with a concerned look on her face. “Has anyone seen Barbara? I’ve been strolling around trying to meet up with her.”
The others looked around, and slowly they each indicated they hadn’t.
Juliette tried Barbara’s cell phone.
No answer.
Everyone got up to begin searching the village. Maurice organized them into small groups, each of which was to look in a separate quadrant so they weren’t duplicating their efforts. “We should all be back here in ten minutes easily. I will go up to the ruin. Juliette will remain here at the café. Do we all have our phones on?”
As they were about to start off, a young boy of about ten came running through a small archway. He stopped at the group and began speaking in a frantic voice.
“Au secours! Au secours!” he shouted, asking for help.
Juliette calmed him, her jaw dropping as she listened, Maurice at her side.
“I think Barbara is down this way,” she said to the others as Maurice began to follow the lad. “It sounds like she may be hurt, and the boy’s mother has called les pompiers.”
They all fell in behind Maurice, who was now running.
“Pompiers?” Marti asked. “Doesn’t that mean firemen?”
“Yes,” Juliette answered over her shoulder as she hurried along. “They are faster than the ambulance and have a vehicle that can get down these narrow streets. They’re also finely trained paramedics, and, in fact, they are our first responders in health emergencies and accidents.”
Now the group moved as one, puffing and panting from keeping up with Maurice, trying to move quickly but not panic.
At the end of the street, they saw a woman bending over a mass on the ground. Barbara was lying there, absolutely still. The woman had put a pillow under her head and had covered her with a blanket.
Maurice immediately kneeled down and confirmed that Barbara was breathing, but she appeared to be unconscious. He inspected the area for blood and saw none. Taking her pulse, he announced it was very low. “I believe she has fallen and injured her head. If she had a heart attack, her pulse would be higher.”
He then used his fingers to make sure her airway was clear and that she was not wearing dentures. “Excusez-moi, Barbara,” he whispered as he checked.
The rest of the group huddled together in a worried state. They could see that Maurice had the situation well in hand. They knew from a conversation during their mistral dinner party that he was certified in both first aid and CPR.
The piercing claxon on the pompiers’ truck could be heard drawing closer. Maurice continued to hold Barbara’s hand and speak to her in a muted voice. She wasn’t showing any response.
The pompiers were professional and efficient. After asking a few questions of Maurice and carefu
lly checking Barbara’s vital signs, they gently placed her on a stretcher. The slim red-and-yellow vehicle left for the Arles hospital, with Juliette going along inside, saying silent prayers.
The rest of the group hurried to the van. Pale and shaken, they were solemn, chatting little on the way back to the farmhouse.
Maurice called Cecilia to update her on the situation. He assured her that her grandmother was receiving the very best care and tried to calm her worry.
“I will come to the hospital as soon as I drop everyone back off at the mas. Stefan will take you to the hospital now. I’ll call him right after I hang up with you. You may even get to the hospital before your gran. Bring her passport and any health insurance papers.”
As he drove, he apologized to them for canceling the rest of the day’s events.
They all assured him it was completely understandable, and that they wouldn’t be able to think about anything but Barbara anyway.
Once everyone was back in the mas, they all settled around the long kitchen table. There was something about that space, ever since the day they had cooked and baked together, that felt comfortable and welcoming.
Bertram plopped a bottle of pastis on the table and got some ice and a pitcher of water from the fridge. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I know a calming beverage would do me quite a lot of good. Anyone else? Shall I get some wine out as well?”
“I’ll join you in a pastis, please,” Arianna said. John and Marti also agreed that would be a good idea. Joan and Lisa opted for white wine.
“A toast to dear Barbara,” Bertram said, his voice cracking. “May this be a small blip in her lovely life.”
Everyone toasted, and then they speculated as to just what might have happened.
They nibbled on the baguette sandwiches and croque monsieur that Mirielle had quickly prepared after Maurice had called Stefan. Like some food fairy godmother, she had them waiting on the counter when the group had returned, though she was nowhere in sight.
Drawing Lessons Page 22
