The French countryside this past week surprised us with warm-ish weather, bright sunshine, and an enthusiastic soundtrack. The birds sang with all their might. At 4:00 every morning, it was the birds that woke us up. Before the sun. Before the first toll of the church bell. Before the desire for coffee. This morning, was no exception. A perfect musical backdrop for getting up, packing and driving—sadly—away.
NOTE: Turn up your volume, or even better, use earphones.
OK. A very quick note. The flurry of comments at the end of my last post are too good not to comment on. It seems that my romantic notions of a carpenter signing his work were slightly misplaced. The “name” I saw scrawled on the beam was, in fact, the name of the beam itself. However, it also seems that it was the tradition in greater and more important works for the carpenters to sign their constructions. So, there you have it.
In any case, I stand by what I said about signatures. And I love seeing the word scrawled on the wood, right there in the middle of my summer home-to-be. I thank everyone who knows more about French than I do for their comments. The whole exchange was a perfect example of how an ex-patriot sort of happily limps along in a foreign world, learning by feel and bumping awkwardly into things that aren’t well understood.
When we started tearing out the rotten guts of the barn for renovation, we were able to see for the first time some of the old woodwork laid bare to light for the first time. The beams that support the roof would have been previously visible only if you were on the upper floor, and the flooring wasn’t strong enough to support weight. What we discovered, other than the beautiful old structure itself, was the signature of whoever made it on one of the lesser beams. I can’t make out the name, but I love the fact that it’s there, and that it will remain there for as long as that roof is over our heads.
I wonder how long signatures will last. How long it will take for iris scans and digital passwords—minimum 8 alphanumeric characters—to wipe out the need for that flourish which is as individual as each of us. Without paper, where do we sign? If there are no credits to roll after the show is over, who takes credit and when?
I can’t help but think, too, that if we had to sign everything we did, it might be better. If we had to take credit, openly and clearly, every time we put something out into the world for the consumption or use of other people, would we be more careful? Would we make it better? More beautiful? More delicious? I’m not talking about self-promotion here. Far from it. This man’s signature was on a beam, tucked up in the roof, in the shadows. It wasn’t placed there out of egotism, I’m sure, but out of pride and correctness.
Assuming no foul-play with photoshop or other means of forgery, a signature means so much: I made this. I am responsible for this. This work—no matter where it ends up—is mine.
There are in this aging house, as I suspect there are in almost all the houses in this little Burgundy town, old things that our eyes have grown so accustomed to we hardly see them. And yet, if you were to take them away, the loss of their presence, texture, and “story” would be profound. Who knows who acquired them first or how? Who knows how many generations they have seen? Or what human ridiculousness has played out before their passive object-ness? Who could place a value on them?
They sit in the middle of layers and layers of living. Picture frames from the sixties and seventies. Walls from the 1800’s. Lavendar, dry and faded, that was picked just last summer. The decades blend together, and with them the memories of the various generations—inherited, edited and re-remembered by successive ones.
This clock was never in my family, though there’s a similar one back in New York that is. But somehow it has become part of my story and I part of its. Who knows when it stopped telling time, when it decided that from “now on out” it would be eternally slightly after 6. I imagine that it was a perfect day. Pink was beginning to tinge the early autumn sky. People were out in the courtyard, drinking wine and laughing. The clock decided—right then—that things needed to stand still. And so it stopped. And the funny thing is, we don’t value it any less for the fact that it no longer tells the time. It tells something much more interesting.
I write this at a desk that sits beneath a window in an upstairs window. From it, I see the stacked triangular shapes of ancient rooftops one behind the other. It’s a composition of diagonal lines, stone-colors, chimney pots and a single ornate light post.
The desk is slightly wobbly; this is the thirteenth year that I’ve written on its back. And yet that is nothing compared to the years of labor it put in before my arrival. There’s an old ink well that testifies to that fact. And the open drawer reveals rich cream writing paper from the house’s previous inhabitant, a relative of my husband. I wouldn’t dare touch it or use it. It’s still his, even though he’s gone. And next to the paper, a fossilized rock. I wonder if he held it in his hands when words failed him. Or did he just look out the window, as I am now, and think that perhaps what he was writing was meaningless in the best possible way.
It’s our fourth day in France; the vacation is more than half over. I’m overly aware of the modern dictum to “live in the moment,” but it’s almost impossible not to anticipate with sadness the final days—days of packing and leaving. It’s so relaxing to be surrounded by sights, sounds, textures and thoughts that aren’t the same ones that make up the every-day. Yesterday, for example, I spent much of the day thinking about two elemental substances—flesh and stone—which don’t often cross my mind in Italy in quite the same way.
I. Stone
We’re renovating a modest barn here, and it is my greatest pleasure (as if I’m living a life that isn’t really mine) to watch the work unfold. Much of it is done by hand, and much of it concerns the renovation of old materials in existing walls and roofs. At 8 a.m. sharp, the men arrive, and within minutes the cold winter air is filled with the sharp metallic ringing of mallet against stone or the grisly chipping away of old mortar. Perhaps it’s just the romantic in me, but I feel as if there is a love that exists in this process—in the stone masons as they manipulate their material, in the original “bones” of the building, in the insightful intents of the architect, and in our own watching and waiting. Love and respect. I look at the stones and touch them often. They are not, somehow, inert. They seem alive. They tell stories. I love it that many of them are old, original, and that they are being given new life.
With old mortar removed.
With new mortar.
Old stones. Newly cut stones. Awaiting mortar.
The same column, mortared.
The scars left by the saw are visible.
Old slabs from the floor—to be reused.
II. Flesh
Two days ago there was a small notice in the local paper, l’Yonne Republicaine, about Jean-Paul Gautier’s show in Paris featuring French comic actress, Valérie Lemercier, in his collection dedicated to anti-jeunisme, anti-youthism. Familiar with her recent performance in the charming film Le Petit Nicolas, 2010, based on the beautiful children’s book series by René Goscinny and Jean-Jacques Sempé, I went immediately to the internet to catch glimpses of her on the runway. What I saw was an accomplished woman, born in 1964, wearing her age like the fabulous accessory it is. Proud. Self-assured. Witty. Charismatic. And I felt gratitude to Gautier for having the vision to put her there, in front of the fashion world. The vision, and again, the love and the respect.
Lemercier heads down the runway, head held high.
Flair, wit, intelligence, fun.
Could "newer," younger have been more beautiful?
III. What has the one to do with the other?
Perhaps it’s a stretch, perhaps it’s not. But in both cases, I kept responding to the same principles at work: Loving the way things are. Letting them remain true to themselves. Preserving them with respect and observing them in their best light. Acknowledging life and purpose as long as they’re there. Valuing what things are, what we are—as much for how we are now as for how we were “then.” Seeing the innate beauty of things, of people. In fact, really seeing.
OK. Yes, technically I’m in France. But today is a special day in Italy. It’s Women’s Day. A day designated for the general appreciation of women. And the sign of this appreciation is the mimosa flower. Two weekends ago when we were in Liguria, I shot a quick picture of this ape full of mimosa by the street. The vendor was sitting out of sight, under the shade of an overhang. I set it aside for today. So, ladies, this is for you! Gentlemen, I need to research when your day is, and do something special for you as well. Stay tuned…
How you experience any place is a complex tapestry woven of many threads. Weather. Light. Language. Culture. Food. It’s the last of these—what I eat—that puts the finishing touches on coming back to France. When I go to Italy, it’s the first proper Italian cappuccino that lets me know I’m back in my adopted home. When I come to France, it’s the bread. And the butter.
The baguettes made by the town baker, Gérard, are my favorite. I’ve never had one I like better than his. Crusty on the outside. Soft, airy and full of the flavor of wheat on the inside. Given the reputation of “white bread,” his is a miracle. There is nothing—nothing—insipid or weak or undecided about it. It tastes like “the staff of life” should taste.
After Day 1, I try not to indulge too often in the combination of bread and butter, but I have to give in during the first hours. This is, after all, a ritual, and a ritual loses meaning if it’s not performed properly. The butter is to this native bread what a fine olive oil is to pasta back home. But this isn’t any old butter. This is Breton butter aux cristaux de sel de Guérand. The secret, although it’s no secret at all, lies in the salt—large crystalline grains—embedded in the creamy, sunny mass.
If feeling loved, safe, warm and happy had a taste, it would be this. No wonder it is impossible to resist…at least every now and then. At least to celebrate being back.
[If you liked this post, you might also like “Salt.”]
As I’ve mentioned before, the transition for me from Italy to France and back again is a magical experience. There is nothing to compare to that complete shift from one culture to the next, with that quiet voyage in the dark—underneath a mass of rock—punctuating the change. Here’s a little movie I made about the experience.
Italian song: Fabio Concato, “Guido Piano”
French song: Barbara, “Les Voyages”
[If you liked this post, you might also like “The other side.” If you had trouble seeing or hearing this video, please let me know.]
Monday
“Your lucky day”
In which everything you thought was unlucky
turns out to be very lucky indeed.
(Read this.)
Tuesday
“Seductive is the night”
On the magnetic draw of Milan
after the sun has gone down.
(Read this.)
Wednesday
“Luna Park: A kick in the seat of adulthood”
On the ability of an amusement
park to turn back the clock.
(Read this.)
Thursday
“Confession #3: Tutto or nothing”
On the near-disastrous
pronunciation of a single word.
(Read this.)
Friday
“Postcard #10: Helvetia”
In which we spend a morning
in Lugano, Switzerland.
(Read this.)
[Took a 1/2-day trip to Lugano today. Arrived early. The lake was haunting in tones of gray, white and black despite the warmness of the still-winter sun. Astonishing contrast between the old-world look of the lake front and the ubiquitous snatches of Swiss design. (Hence the stamps.) Missed the Man Ray exhibit. Too bad. But had to come home to let the dog out.]
[If you liked this postcard, you might also enjoy “Wilde Posting.”]
The Daily Cure 