Finding Jim (31 page)

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.