Drawing Lessons Page 7

  Then she fell back onto the thick, soft duvet and looked around with pleasure. Yes, she would like it in this room. For a moment, she succumbed to the comfort of the bed before she quickly picked herself up and unpacked.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  At the appointed time in the evening, the group reassembled in the grand salon.

  “Magnifique! Everyone is here à l’heure! It’s a good sign for our time together! Now let’s go to the back terrace and enjoy dinner.”

  Passing through the French doors, Arianna commented to Joan, “It’s like walking into a photo from a French version of Better Homes and Gardens.”

  Joan’s eyes sparkled. “Omigosh, yes—like a dream! It’s all amazing! I can’t believe I’ve lived this much of my life without coming to Europe. We’re loving every minute of it! Have you been to Europe before?”

  Joan’s enthusiasm generated easy conversation. The two women were laughing together within minutes. Arianna shared some of her experiences in Greece, something she had not thought about for a long time.

  Maximus lounged contentedly on the nearby stone wall, overseeing the gathering and happily accepting rubs and scratches.

  Pausing, John stroked the cat’s back so vigorously that the loud purring was interrupted by a throaty bawl. “Whoops! I think Maximus just had a purr-gasm!” he whispered to Arianna and Joan, which resulted in more giggles.

  Once everyone was assembled at the table, Juliette asked them to find their names. Then she collected the place cards when seats were taken and she had the group’s attention.

  “We’re going to switch twice during dinner, so we all have a chance to chat with each other,” she announced. The sweetness of her smile and her direct, bright gaze left no doubt this was a fine idea.

  While she had their attention, Juliette shared a few words of welcome. “Maurice and I are thrilled you have chosen to spend the next little while with us. We want to welcome you to the Mas des Artistes and to one of the most special parts of France. You are about to have a most unique experience in the area of Les Alpilles, Arles, and the Camargue. We trust you will create memories that will last a lifetime. This evening we will eat, drink, and be merry and get to know each other. Tomorrow we will begin to make art.”

  Arianna found herself between blustery Bertram Lloyd-Goldsmith and bouncy Joan Mitchell. It didn’t take long for her to sense a strain between the two. Joan kept her engaged in lively conversation, as Bertram concentrated on refilling his wineglass.

  “La grande charcuterie!” Maurice announced as the young kitchen staff appeared with three large platters. Each bore a colorful display of meats.

  Maurice gave the diners a guided tour of each artistically arranged platter. “We have thinly sliced prosciutto and jambon cru . . . local uncured ham that will melt in your mouth. Here we have our very special saucisson d’Arles, native to our area in particular. It’s a dry sausage that used to be made a century ago from—don’t gasp, please—donkey meat.”

  In spite of themselves, there was a slight gasp.

  “It is nowadays made of beef and pork fat with some garlic and black pepper. Magnifique! Only certain local charcutiers make it—c’est authentique! And finally, there are grilled lamb chops, seasoned to perfection. We are famous for lamb in Provence. You will see why!”

  His hand moved on to the end of the platter, and his level of enthusiasm increased even more. “Pâté maison, la recette de mon arrière-grand-mère! Very smooth. It’s made with chicken livers, lemon, onion, and herbs de Provence. Plus”—with this, he raised his fingers to his lips, as if sharing a secret—“what makes hers special is . . . a touch of fromage de Neufchâtel.”

  He nodded conspiratorially, the gleam in his eye never fading as he continued. “And also her even more famous pâté en croute. It’s a coarse and rich terrine of mixed ground meats with peppercorns and pistachios. After being cooked in aspic, it is wrapped in a rich, buttery crust, coated inside with lard. C’est vraiment extraordinaire!”

  “And ever so fattening!” Bertram interjected.

  Maurice responded with humor. “Don’t even think about calories or cholesterol when you eat in France. Simply enjoy! A little bit never hurt anyone! Even too much on certain days never hurt anyone. We only live once!”

  “Can you tell my husband is a true ‘foodie’?” Juliette interjected with a grin.

  He bowed with an extravagant flourish as applause reverberated around the table. “Champagne goes very well with this meal, if you care to continue, or we have a fine Châteauneuf-du-Pape red—and, of course, always there is beer for those who prefer.”

  After he slipped his arm around Juliette’s waist, they wished everyone in unison, “Bon appétit!”

  During the meal, Maurice answered questions about the difference between a boucher, a butcher who sells raw meat, and a true charcutier, someone who prepares the foods they were eating.

  “Of course,” he explained, “you will discover we can thank the Ancient Romans for many of our traditions.”

  Large olivewood bowls, lush bicolored swirls creating patterns in the grain, were placed on the table, filled with a simply dressed green salad.

  When all the food from that course had been consumed, Juliette clapped her hands lightly. “Levez-vous, s’il vous plaît! Time to change seats.”

  She scattered the place cards back on the table. Chatter and laughter filled the air as everyone helped each other find their spots.

  This time Arianna was at the end of the row with Marti on her left and Maurice at the foot of the table. The conversation soon became food oriented as the women discovered they both came from family-restaurant backgrounds. Delighted, Maurice encouraged them to talk about their experiences.

  Marti modestly explained she was the chef in a small Napa Valley restaurant her hippie parents had begun in the 1970s.

  “They became followers of the great Alice Waters. Yup! Nothing but the finest seasonal ingredients, grown locally and sustainably,” she explained. “I grew up weeding and picking and always knew what I wanted to do. My parents are still around and involved, but they turned the kitchen over to me ten years ago.”

  Initially, Arianna felt anxious knowing she would be talking about Ben as well as her father. However, her pride in her family history and the success of Papa’s on the Danforth soon had her sharing stories and happy memories.

  “And is your husband keeping the restaurant going on his own while you are here?” Maurice asked.

  Arianna decided to sidestep the issue. “Actually, we sold the restaurant last year, and the new owners are doing a great job.” And then she deftly changed the subject.

  “How does your interest in art tie into your career as a chef, Marti?”

  Her eyes crinkled with laughter. “I’m really an illustrator. I’ve designed all of our menus and restaurant posters since I was a kid. I’m the queen of drawing fruits and veggies. Lisa is the talented artist in our family. In fact, I fell in love with her vibrant seascapes before I fell in love with her.”

  Marti’s enthusiasm made Arianna smile. She was about to ask another question, when a two-tiered wooden cart was rolled out with a cheese platter on each glass shelf, evoking gasps and applause.

  Everyone’s attention focused on Maurice as he circulated around the table. He described every selection with a brief history that made it difficult to resist sampling each one. Meanwhile, Juliette made her way around the table with a silver tray containing an assortment of fancy pastries and luscious chocolates.

  “Et, bien sûr, vive le chocolat,” she sang gaily. “It’s my belief that every day should end with chocolate. Please indulge.”

  In spite of the ongoing feast, eyes were noticeably glazing over, and attempts to stifle yawns were not succeeding.

  “So, it appears we’ve kept you up long enough,” Juliette said as she circled the table with her tempting chocolate.

  “This evening we commenced our adventure together. We’ve talked about art and what it m
eans to us. Tomorrow we will begin to immerse ourselves in our en plein air workshop. We will live and breathe the life of an artist in the Provençal countryside. Drawing will be a focus. Watercolor, acrylic, oil, pastels, or pencil. All will be embraced. I know that, every day, each of you will discover something that speaks directly to your artist’s heart. And now, bonne nuit! Sleep well!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  After a fitful sleep, due to the time change more than anything else, Arianna awakened with a start to her alarm.

  As usual, she had given herself a fifteen-minute window to lie in bed before rising. This was a lifelong habit, a time in which she liked to think about her plan for the day and sort through any possible complications.

  For a long while after the diagnosis, it had been the most painful part of her day. It was so easy to wake up in the past for a few brief seconds before the truth took hold.

  Feeling relieved with the way her first evening had unfolded, Arianna felt her nervousness about mingling here diminishing. Goodness knows I’ve conversed with strangers most of my life. But this is different. I never really had to talk about myself before.

  Her thoughts turned to the loneliness that had consumed her life over the past year. It’s okay to feel good about this trip. I know that. I just need to buy into this workshop and not wish Ben were here. I’m becoming quite used to being alone.

  I miss Ben, our life, real laughter. I miss my heart and want to put the pieces back together. That’s my goal here.

  Without thinking about it, she grasped her left hand. Bringing her hands out from under the covers, she ran her fingers over her rings. Looking at the small diamond simply set in white and yellow gold that had belonged to Ben’s grandmother and the plain gold wedding band next to it once again caused Arianna sadness.

  A woman in the hospital support group had said she felt better without her rings. Arianna had tried to go without them, and that only brought her more sadness and confusion. The conflict was one she had yet to resolve, but in the meantime, she’d decided to keep wearing them.

  I am still married to Ben. I know that. I feel that.

  She fussed over the dilemma for a few moments and then allowed it to fade, as she had many times before. It was time to get on with her day.

  Still in bed, she stretched her arms wide and then brought her hands to her knees. Bending her knees, she pulled them up to her chest, holding them there for a count of sixty, letting herself feel the pull in her lower spine. Since her back had seized up a few years before, every morning began with this stretch repeated six times. Her doctor had stressed the importance of this exercise, and the problem had seldom returned since. Arianna knew keeping her back strong was important, along with staying in decent shape.

  Her friend Karyn Spencer had made a point of picking her up for Zumba class once a week, and Arianna would always be grateful for that. In spite of the number of times she’d wanted to quit, she recognized the good it was doing, especially during the most trying times . . . on a lot of different levels.

  Daily walking had also been part of her regimen, and for the past months, Faith had accompanied her to the gym twice a week where they would swim for an hour.

  Thank goodness for Faith. “Mom, after all those years I drove you and Dad batshit, I’m doing my best to make up for it,” Faith would tease her.

  “That you are, my girl. That you are.” Arianna knew that the conditioning had gone a long way to keeping her sane as well as fit, although she knew she still had a few pounds to shed.

  Another gift Faith had given her was an introduction to meditation.

  Now, Arianna made a nest with her pillows on the bed. She settled herself cross-legged on one to raise her back to a comfortable level. Then she elongated her spine, brought her shoulders back, and placed her hands together at her chest, in a namaste pose. Tucking in her chin, she opened and closed her mouth a few times to relax her jaw.

  Dropping her hands to rest palms up on her thighs, she brought her gaze loosely to a spot about three feet ahead of her on the bed. Focusing on her breath, she let herself slip into a peaceful space for about ten minutes. Her body told her when the time was up.

  Thank you, Faith. Namaste.

  She showered and dressed quickly, eager to see what the morning would bring.

  In the front salon, she saw “On y va” painted on a piece of wood with an arrow pointing to the front terrace.

  Everyone converged about the same time. Enthusiastic greetings were exchanged. Wicker baskets brimmed with warm croissants, pains au chocolat, and pains aux raisins, accompanied by bowls of locally produced fruit preserves.

  While Maurice tended to espressos, cappuccinos, and assorted teas, Juliette spoke about the atmosphere they hoped for that morning.

  “Our desire is to introduce the influences that inspired earlier masters. The unique light that changes throughout the day is key. But the history and culture, the scenery and architecture, must also be considered. Tomorrow, we are excited and honored to welcome Monsieur Jacques de Villeneuve, an artist and gardian of the Camargue. On Thursday, we will spend a day at the Fondation Vincent van Gogh and be treated to the expertise of several of their staff.”

  At the mention of van Gogh’s name, Arianna’s entire body tingled with excitement. She smiled inwardly, thinking how close she was to realizing a dream.

  Juliette motioned to a stack of folding canvas chairs and stools leaning against a thick stone wall, which was partially covered by a lush vine with delicate leaves and soft blue blossoms that resembled morning glories. About three feet high, the wall separated the garden and olive grove from the breakfast area.

  It was difficult for Arianna to take her eyes off the timeworn wall, which Juliette commented was around three hundred years old. She was startled to see color calling to her from the stones that at first glance appeared dull and achromatic. The longer she held them in her gaze, the stronger the attraction became. She locked in the memory, determined to come back to the power these stones seemed to hold for her.

  “Please pick up a chair or a stool. The early artists in this area would fashion a leather strap so they could sling a chair like this over their shoulder and carry it to their chosen spot to work. They’re surprisingly comfy. If you did not bring your own easel, you will also find some there.”

  After collecting their seats, everyone followed Juliette into the olive grove and set up in a semicircle, shaded by a large, gauzy beige canopy. Maximus led the way, his long tail waving proudly as he skirted around the plants and clumps of grasses.

  Maurice had placed a flat screen on an easel under an umbrella to control any glare. He proceeded to click through a slide show of paintings, as Juliette led the group through a retrospective of work by Cézanne, van Gogh, Gauguin, Picasso, Signac, Matisse, Braque, Derain, Dufy . . . and so many other revered names.

  “These artists, among many others, all spent time in Provence. They loved this land that is so generous in a multitude of ways to the artist’s soul. Color, light, subject, history, and culture combine in endless variations in all of their work.” Juliette paused and looked around with a luminescent smile, her deep affection for her surroundings clear.

  “These masters found their inspiration in many different ways and from a variety of sources. We will investigate those factors. Of course we must always consider how emotional stability—or instability—also impacted their work. Please stop me when you want to spend time with a painting so we can discuss one aspect or another.”

  As she had been from the first, Arianna was captivated by Juliette’s voice. Her words seemed to float into the air, sparking thoughts and ideas.

  “What we hope to do with this course is not to focus on how you ply your craft or on what your subject matter is but rather to encourage you to consider why you are making the choices you are. The ‘why’ of your art.”

  The discourse became animated as thoughts were expressed, questions asked, answers debated. Arianna found herself becoming e
ngaged as the morning went on. It had been a long time since she had immersed herself in these subjects she so loved.

  She felt encouraged, excited at the possibility she might truly taste colors again.

  There was a break for water, coffee, and fruit. Then Juliette posed her first challenge.

  “For the rest of the day, consider subjects, color, and light on the property. Move around. Use cameras, your journals, sketch pads . . . however you prefer to plan a project. This is an expeditionary task. Go for a walk. Nap under a tree. Feel the earth, the air, the light, the vegetation. Please promise you will stay out until at least four o’clock and return with journal pages, sketches, or even a preliminary drawing you are ready to share. We will have apéros in the garden for a while and relax. After that, do as you wish until we gather for dinner at seven. We’re taking you into Arles.”

  Maurice smiled at the group as he said, “For lunch, there will be freshly made baguette sandwiches on the dining table and bowls of salad and fruit. If you would like something different, just ring the bell on the sideboard, and one of the great kitchen staff will be happy to help you. Help yourself whenever you feel hungry. There will also be fruit and petites pâtisseries on the table all day.”

  Then Juliette stepped forward once more. “The other component to your task today is that you are not to talk to anyone until we meet for apéros . . . rosé, pastis, wine. We’re going monastic for a few hours. Revel in the silence. Feel at one with your surroundings and be inspired. See you when the bell rings.”

  A silence settled around them. Everyone bought into the challenge quickly, after exchanging wide-eyed looks.

  There was no problem finding secluded spots in the vast gardens. Arianna found herself moving from one place to another, discovering images she thought inspired her. But for the most part, her sketchbook and paper remained blank.

  She had been certain the stone wall would waken her muse and was disappointed when it did not. The hint of inspiration she previously felt was gone.