She shook her head, recalling that she had seriously considered leaving the course.
And now . . . Funny how things can change in such a short time . . . can I keep moving forward on my own with the same positive attitude I reached yesterday?
She opened the shutters in time to see the landscape dimly lit in a predawn silver-gray hue. As the sun began rising behind the jagged Alpilles, the light rolled in like a gentle tide. For a moment, in the morning stillness, Arianna had a vision of a van Gogh painting precisely this view.
After spending so much time in the midst of his original works and hearing such personal details about his life, she felt the painter had truly come alive in her mind. The more she learned about him, the stronger her empathy for him grew.
The glowing embers of desire to draw and paint that Arianna had buried for so many years had begun to burn deep within her.
Thank you, Vincent.
The song that Lisa had played for them the previous night had haunted her. She had played it over and over after she got into bed. Then she had cried herself to sleep.
She wondered now what that had been all about.
Was I crying for Vincent? For Ben? For myself? For Barbara? For all of us? She conceded she was feeling very emotional.
Whatever it was, it had been cleansing.
Now she sensed it would be a good idea to spend time meditating before she joined the others for breakfast. She needed to calm herself.
The morning was taken up with an informative watercolor and water-based media presentation at the studio of a British artist who lived in nearby picturesque Eygalières. This was not a hands-on workshop but more a lecture where they all took notes.
The focus was how to capture light and atmosphere, starting from direct observation. Arianna was not surprised that several of van Gogh’s works were used as examples. The instructor quoted the painter often and reflected van Gogh’s feelings as he encouraged them to listen to the language of nature.
As soon as the workshop ended, a quick buffet was waiting for the group. It was served on the terrace behind the artist’s studio, where Juliette had a surprise to greet them as soon as they stepped outside.
A field ablaze with brilliant-red poppies swaying gently in the light breeze stretched before them. It was a compelling visual.
Lunch was initially forgotten as everyone drank in the view. Cameras and journals came out to record the splendid image.
“I didn’t want you to leave our course without having the pleasure of enjoying a dazzling field of coquelicots,” Juliette said as she was showered with thanks. “We haven’t had as many poppy fields in our area this year—most farmers don’t like them—and this one is kind of our little secret.”
Juliette was aware of the emotion on everyone’s face. “So please, take some time now to let this beautiful scene soak into your soul.”
Arianna walked over to the flowers and knelt down to feel the softness of the delicate petals. The rich color made her heart swell with something she couldn’t quite define. But it was powerful. She felt herself deeply touched by the fragility of the thin fuzzy stems and the exquisitely silky petals.
A moment of pure emotion rushed through her as she thought of Ben and the fragility of life. Absorbing the beauty of this simple bloom, she was reminded how quickly life can change. There is a delicacy to life that cannot be predicted. These poppies carried that message to her.
She wiped a tear from her eye and stood. She knew the vision of this poppy field would forever play a part in her promise to move forward with her life. She would embrace the fragility of life and believe in the resiliency that these humble blossoms have come to represent.
Still excited about their unexpected surprise, after lunch they climbed into the van for their final road trip. A half an hour down the tree-lined road, they arrived just outside the charming town of Saint-Rémy-de-Provence.
Their destination was the asylum, or sanatorium, the monastery Saint-Paul-de-Mausole, where Vincent had voluntarily admitted himself in May 1889. The people of Arles were fed up with his behavior. Here in Saint Remy it was said he was happy and relieved to find a peaceful and understanding atmosphere among the nuns and nurses who cared for him.
Although at times his mental illness took control, there were other times when he was inspired and driven to create. He had produced 143 oil paintings and over one hundred drawings in fifty-three weeks.
Maurice dropped them off at the gates to a long pathway. It was a dramatic setting with the eleventh-century priory attached to the hospital, the latter still used to treat psychiatric patients.
They walked down the pathway toward the Romanesque two-story square steeple rising above the trees. Arianna was disappointed that the massive flower beds were between seasonal bloomings. She could imagine the color and fragrance they would add to the setting, although she felt some were modern additions to the vast property. It had been a surprise when Juliette informed them the newer building was still an active health institution.
How many patients find interest in knowing Vincent himself was a patient? I wonder if art therapy is offered here? In many ways, it’s art therapy that is helping me now, the life-affirming pleasure of making art.
A tour of the premises did not take long. One room was a reproduction of Vincent’s room, with a window overlooking a wheat field like the ones he had studied and painted. There was lavender in one area now, and Arianna wondered if that had been added later.
Here and there a lone scarlet poppy stood out. Just to remind me, Arianna was certain.
She spent quite a long time at the window, consumed by her thoughts.
Bertram came back upstairs in search of her after the others had left.
“Are you all right?” he asked, slightly out of breath. “I suddenly noticed you were missing.”
“Oh, Bertie, I am so caught up with the ghost of this man. He has come alive in my mind, and I don’t want to leave him. Come look out this window. Can’t you just imagine Vincent leaning on a windowsill like this, contemplating . . . sometimes tormented, other times not. What thoughts did he have to create such powerful beauty in his work?”
“When I think of him and all the devils he fought, there’s one thought that has stayed with me.” Bertram let out a sigh and his voice was full of reverence as he uttered, “Vincent believed that art consoles those who are broken by life.”
They stood quietly looking out the window for several minutes. Bertram rested his hand on Arianna’s shoulder. She laid her hand on top of his.
“He certainly was broken, wasn’t he?” Arianna’s voice was barely over a whisper.
“Terribly,” Bertram replied, his voice tender and filled with emotion. “And perhaps we all are in one way or another. Maybe that’s why we are all here. Maybe that’s why we want to draw and paint and create.”
Arianna turned and looked into his eyes, pleased they were no longer puffy and bloodshot. He had come a long way on his own journey on this course. She felt such warmth for him now, after their rocky start almost two weeks before. She wondered if he knew how helpful he had been by sharing his personal story and encouraging her to “come unstuck.”
“Maybe, maybe,” she replied, “but nothing close to Vincent. And guess what? I don’t want to feel broken anymore. The poppies freed me.”
He leaned toward her and gently planted a kiss on her forehead.
“That’s very good news. I’m pleased to hear it. Vincent would be pleased, I’m sure.”
Arianna chuckled. “You’re too much, Bertie. Thanks for making me laugh. Now I need to lighten up.”
For the rest of the afternoon, the group spread out through the property with easels and sketchbooks.
Some of them walked up the road to see and sketch the Roman ruins of Glanum.
Barbara had confessed to Arianna that she was feeling rather tired and was going to stay and paint in the cloistered garden.
Arianna had no desire to leave the monastery, and sh
e wanted to keep Barbara company. Cecilia was having a meeting to interview the woman who oversaw the tourism part of the property.
Being on these grounds brought Arianna to a new sense of contentment. She had turned a corner with her art and within herself.
As she and Barbara sat drawing by the tranquil courtyard garden, they shared feelings about the calm that the color palette of greens wrapped around them. The geometric patterns of clipped shrubs and boxwood hedges created symmetry and order in pathways that led to the softly cascading fountain in the center. They wondered if van Gogh had felt this too among his tortured moments here.
When Juliette stopped by to chat, Arianna happily confessed, “I’m taking enough sketches and ideas back home to keep me busy for years. I’m beginning to find my peace within, Juliette. I’ve begun the journey.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
This was it. Her last day at Mas des Artistes.
Arianna awoke well before her alarm went off. She gently stroked Maximus’s back and thought how she might have to get a cat when she got home.
When she got home.
That thought played over and over in her head. She had not reflected about home very much this past week. The day Bertie had confided in her over lunch—was it really just two days ago?—had been the last time she had spent more than a few minutes contemplating the situation with Ben. With her. Until yesterday, with the poppies.
Bertie’s vow to make a change from the horrendous truth of his homelife inspired her. While acknowledging that his pain was very different from hers, she knew his point was well taken. She needed to take care of herself.
There had been general agreement the night before that the group would gather at nine a.m. to share their paintings, sketches, thoughts, or anything else. Bertram suggested he might line up wine bottles. “Just being jocular!”
Juliette wanted them all to be completely relaxed about it. “It’s no competition. C’est pas obligatoire! It’s not mandatory. If you don’t want to display any work, don’t worry!” she assured them.
John piped up. “Are you kidding me? With this prolific group? You might have to rent one of the galleries in Arles to accommodate us!”
Fortunately, the terrace proved more than ample for everyone to set up easels or place paintings, complete or in progress, on the long tables. The day was once again cooperating, and the warm sun, clear sky, and still air, filled with sweet morning birdsong harmonizing with cicadas, provided the perfect setting.
It was a pleasant surprise, everyone agreed, when Jacques de Villeneuve appeared with Juliette. Her melodic voice undulated across the terrace as she announced he was joining them for lunch.
Barbara, still a little frail but mostly recovered from her fall, leaned close to Arianna. “I’m going to miss the spellbinding sound of her voice. Perhaps I’ll call her every once in a while to get my fix.”
Arianna nodded in agreement, whispering, “The sound of a Zen goddess.”
Joan nudged Arianna, as she had the first time they had seen Jacques. “As I said that first day, a très sexy dude! That assessment has not changed!”
Arianna nudged her back and grinned. “And I agree even more today. Now that we know so much about him.”
Juliette connected with each person for more than a moment, her face glowing with emotion. “This is always the most difficult part of our course. In bidding farewell to our guests, we want to convey that we hope you will return. We want to see you again!”
Maurice nodded his agreement as Juliette continued. “You probably think I say this to each of our groups, but this course truly was very special because of who you all are and what you brought with you: your unique personalities, humor, and willingness to experience and be open to change, and your creative diversity. Each one of you is a real artist.”
Arianna’s gaze rested briefly on each member of the group. She felt such warmth for all of them and gratitude for their individual roles in her transition.
Be open to change. Of everything I’ve learned here, that’s the most important. My renewed commitment to art has been secondary, even though that was my purpose in coming. Every one of these people, strangers to me almost two weeks ago, has shared a personal story that has impacted me. How could I ever have imagined I would be so fortunate as to find myself here with them?
The group mingled for a while longer, studying the paintings and sketches, along with a series of simple caricatures Marti had whipped up at the last minute. Hearty laughter hung in the air.
Arianna found herself trying not to watch Jacques as he paused at her work. Her pulse beat rapidly as he made a few comments to Juliette, who was standing beside him. She noticed Juliette smile and nod as they moved on.
“What do you think, Arianna Papadopoulos-Miller? Have we learned anything here?” John asked, sidling up to her and using her full name as he always liked to do. And always making her smile. “There’s some mighty fine-looking works of art here! Wouldn’t you say?’
“I couldn’t agree more!” she replied. “I know I’ve gained so much from being here. How about you?”
His head bobbed enthusiastically.
The soft ringing of a bell drew their attention back to Juliette.
“And now for the awards ceremony,” she announced, eliciting a lighthearted applause.
At the mention of prizes, Arianna briefly felt anxious. No one had said anything about that! She hoped she wouldn’t be too embarrassed. When she saw some of the art others had done during the course, she felt humbled. But where she had felt nervous and inadequate at the beginning of the course, she now had a new confidence and pride in her work.
She was displaying her Olive Grove with Stone Wall oil. It was not quite finished, but Juliette had praised her grasp of the subtleties of shades, patterns, and textures in the leaves, wood, and stone.
She also was showing the flamingo sketch from the Camargue. “Had I known de Villeneuve was appearing today, I might not have been quite so brave,” she whispered to Barbara.
The prizes—certificates made with elaborate calligraphy and graphics by Juliette—turned out to be thoughtful and funny. And they had nothing to do with art.
Joan: best laugh and ability to have others join in
John: best connoisseur of ice cream and finest French pronunciation of flavors
Barbara: best role model for proving age is just a number
Cecilia: best artist in a non-painting category
Marti: brightest smile and generator of positive energy
Lisa: technology expert and text sender extraordinaire
Bertram: most impressive vocabulary and rosé consumption
Arianna: most improved and winner of Maximus’s affection
Once they had finished congratulating each other, Maurice directed everyone’s attention to the field just beyond the stone wall and the olive grove where Mirielle, Louis-Philippe, and Stefan waved from a cleared space in the freshly cut grass. They obviously had been hard at work there.
Shaded by substantial umbrellas, tables were set with white linen tablecloths topped with colorful Provençal fabrics. Large ceramic vases filled with showy combinations of wildflowers punctuated the tabletops. Wicker baskets, olivewood boards, and multicolored ceramic bowls hinted at a delicious picnic feast awaiting them.
Maurice walked over to a tub filled with ice in which bottles of champagne were chilling. “We began with champagne on our first evening, and we’ll begin our last afternoon together with a coupe or two. This is our final official meal together. Juliette and I want to toast each one of you for all of you have accomplished this week and for the memories and friendship you are leaving with us.”
Many toasts were proposed before they began to eat.
Arianna found herself standing next to Jacques as she planned her attack on the buffet.
“This is quite a feast, is it not?” he asked.
“So classically French.” Arianna sighed. “I’m going to miss this food.”
&nb
sp; Marti was on the other side of Arianna. She turned to both of them and said, “We’ve never had a meal that wasn’t absolutely scrumptilliumptious! I’m sorry I don’t know how to say that in French.”
They all laughed, and Jacques told her, “I don’t think we can match that. Perhaps if we could figure out how to join these words together: ‘délicieux,’ et ‘époustouflant’!”
They all focused their attention on the dazzling choices displayed on the long table.
The centerpiece consisted of a deconstructed salade Niçoise to be put together as each diner desired: a large bowl of greens surrounded by several platters with artistically displayed small fillets of seared tuna, hard-boiled eggs, al dente green beans, boiled potatoes, thinly sliced onions, plum tomatoes, olives, capers, and anchovies. On each side of the display were small pitchers of lemon vinaigrette.
Bertram was exclaiming over the tarte à la moutarde, which he explained to Joan and John was actually a tomato-and-mustard pie. “Once you taste this, you will develop an instant addiction and make it at least once a month when you go back home. I guarantee it! It’s a good thing there are two of them on this table.”
A large, creamy quiche Lorraine; a platter of grilled lamb chops; and another of grilled sardines completed the main dishes. An enormous dish filled with colorful sliced crudités surrounding a vinaigrette dip looked like it was straight off the cover of a gourmet magazine.
At the dessert end, there was fresh fruit, chocolate, and cheese. “Ah, the cheese!” Joan exclaimed. “Will I ever go a day without it again? I think not!”
“Arianna, where do you go from here? Directly back to Toronto?” Jacques quietly continued their conversation.
“You know, I’m not entirely certain. I’m renting a car, and I have to return it to the Marseille airport a week from today. I was going to head straight to Nice and the Côte d’Azur. I’d like to experience that area in person.”
Drawing Lessons Page 25
