Drawing Lessons

by Patricia Sands

Maurice stood and looked at his watch.

  “It’s ten o’clock, and there’s a concert beginning in the main square, Place de la République. We’ll walk over together, but then everyone is free to explore as they wish. D’accord?”

  Before they left the mas, Juliette had given them each a throwaway phone with Maurice’s number already in it. “There’s a minimal amount of time on each one, but enough to call us for assistance or directions if you don’t find a local to show you the way. You will find people friendly and helpful here.”

  Taking Arianna’s hand, Juliette tucked it under her arm as they began to walk. “Is everything all right?” she asked, her voice gentle with concern. “You vanished this afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry,” Arianna apologized, her anxiety somewhat calmed by Juliette. “I had no idea I would sleep through the entire afternoon. I told the others I had a migraine.” She paused.

  Juliette gave her hand a comforting squeeze but said nothing. The evening air was still and a comfortable temperature for strolling. The streets were quiet in this part of town. There had been enough wine with dinner for Arianna to feel a little less vulnerable and more open to disclosing what she had been keeping locked inside.

  She continued. “The truth of the matter is I simply don’t know what to do. I didn’t have a migraine. I had such hopes for this course . . . that I would find my way back to my art. So far it’s not happening. Nothing is happening. I stare at my blank paper . . . I feel nothing.” She let out a long sigh.

  Juliette answered softly. “My sense is you are in a difficult place in your life. I hope you don’t mind me getting too personal.” She paused, looking for approval.

  “Not at all,” Arianna answered, wishing she could release the tightness in her chest. “I probably should be talking about this.” She knew in her heart that she needed this. She had been denying it for too long, as Faith kept telling her.

  With that, she revealed to Juliette, in brief snapshots, all that had transpired over the past two years. She was surprised at how she was able to hold her emotions in check. It was easier talking to a stranger somehow. At least to this stranger.

  “And so here I am, at the behest of my children and my mother, on a quest to rediscover some of the life I seem to have lost.”

  They walked along in silence for a moment before Juliette spoke. “Désolée. I’m so, so sorry for all you and your family have been through. It’s not the story I anticipated. It’s heartbreaking. I understand why you are struggling. Eh bien, it’s a strange thing. Some people throw themselves into their art when something like this happens . . . and others turn away.”

  Arianna continued. “I was certain that once I was here, I would slip right back into my artistic self. In fact, I was hoping to lose myself in my art as I once did. Maybe I was too excited to focus . . . Perhaps my expectations were too high.”

  Nodding, her voice thoughtful, Juliette slowly chose her words. “There’s a Buddhist saying that guides my life. ‘Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.’ I want to give you those words as a gift.”

  Arianna took it as a sign. Juliette was offering her the same thoughts that Faith had for so many months. It was time she began to heed them.

  They stopped walking and stood looking at each other. Arianna swallowed the emotions filling her throat. She murmured, “I know I shouldn’t expect this course to change me. I have to want that change and make it within myself. I know that. I’m trying.”

  “Precisely. Take your time this week and next, my dear Arianna. Listen to what is within you, and you will begin to find your way. Life throws things at us when we least expect them. All we can do is try our best to make good choices. Having friends and family to help is an added bonus. I hope you already feel you have friends here.”

  Arms linked, they began walking again. The moon was high now and cast a soft light into the narrow streets.

  “Please know you are not alone,” Juliette assured her.

  “It’s a good group here from what I’ve seen so far,” Arianna replied. “And as for family, I’m blessed. I have a wonderful son and daughter-in-law who have given us two sweet grandchildren. I have a daughter”—her voice caught here for a moment—“a daughter who truly is a gift. And also an amazing mother—in her eighties, for heaven’s sake—who has such strength and quiet wisdom! They’ve all been tremendous supports—to Ben, to me, and to each other.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. You’re fortunate. I trust you’ll continue to feel support here too. Be open to it . . .” She repeated softly, “Be open to it.”

  They walked together through cramped, cobbled streets. Surrounded by medieval history that came alive to her, Arianna reveled in the atmosphere created by the doors, windows, and weathered stone walls of the buildings. She could visualize inhabitants of the past, from the poorest villagers to wealthy aristocrats, hurrying along in the darkness. The visuals never stopped in her mind. She chose to omit the negatives of that time, like mud streets, lack of sanitation, and the abundance of poverty and disease. The romance of it all was what called to her.

  Arianna did not want to sound like some silly schoolgirl, so she kept her thoughts of Vincent to herself. But she saw him. In shadows, down moonlit lanes, she saw him.

  Her spirits lifted after her chat with Juliette.

  Wooden doors with enormous and ornate keyholes, handcrafted lifetimes before, bore witness to the centuries of history that had crossed their portals. They fascinated Arianna, and she was surprised to feel the urge to sketch them. Perhaps something was stirring in her after all, she mused.

  Voices tumbled from the ancient town’s houses, shutters and windows open on this warm evening. Arianna found it difficult not to peer inside, curious about the spaces and occupants.

  Soon, lively music filtered down the street. Turning into Place de la République, they saw that the square was jammed with people of all ages. Many were dancing in front of the stage, while others in the crowd swayed to the rhythm and sang along. The atmosphere was akin to that of a large, friendly party.

  A full moon softly bathed the crowded square, in contrast to the glaring spotlights on the stage. Ancient buildings surrounded this heart of the old town, with the Romanesque church of St. Trophime a highlight. Juliette offered a few details about the intricately carved twelfth-century sculptures around the façade and the tympanum over the door.

  “This is another UNESCO World Heritage Site,” Juliette said. “Rest assured we’ll spend some time here in the coming days and also in the attached cloister, which offers a meditative and prayerful atmosphere. Hard to believe with this party going on!”

  The thought of exploring these mystical buildings excited Arianna. She would set aside some time to do that on her own, so she could dally as she wished and puzzle over the cryptic and esoteric symbolism created so long ago.

  Maurice pointed out the obelisk and fountain in the center of the square. “We’ll meet right here at eleven thirty. Is everyone okay with that? If you are not here, we will look for you at the gates where we parked. That’s the backup plan.”

  There was a buzz of agreement as they all looked around to note their surroundings. Bertram pointed to a nearby bar and said he would be waiting there. “Time for a nightcap.”

  Maurice held their attention for a few moments, while the band was between songs. “Originally fabricated in the fourth century, this obelisk was abandoned and not discovered again until the fourteenth century. In the 1600s it was installed in this square. Through the ages it’s become a popular meeting place. See you in a bit.”

  Juliette turned to Arianna. “Do you mind if I hug you?”

  Arianna smiled, and before she could say anything, Juliette had her arms around her. “I have adopted the hug from my non-French friends. There are times when it is the only thing that feels right.”

  Her eyes teary, Arianna thanked Juliette for encouraging her to let down her barriers. Then she repeated the Buddhist quote, saying, “Thank you
for the gift of those words. I will work on that.”

  As others meandered away, Arianna and the Mitchells strolled off together. “Join us for the best ice cream in town,” John said in an attempt to entice her.

  “Seriously,” Joan muttered, rolling her eyes, “he has built-in radar for it.”

  “We just finished eating an enormous meal,” Arianna protested with a laugh.

  “So? Ice cream is a completely different matter. We all have separate ice cream compartments in our bodies. Don’t worry! You’ll see I’m right.” John chuckled heartily as Joan nodded at Arianna and smirked. Arianna couldn’t help but laugh too.

  The streets were crowded now, with late-night diners walking off their rich meals, concertgoers heading to the Place du Forum for a nightcap or, like them, a visit to the glacier.

  “You weren’t joking,” Arianna said to Joan as her husband soon had them joining a long line at a busy glacier artisanal on the far side of the square.

  Giving her a knowing look, Joan nodded her head and pointed to the long list of ice cream and sorbet choices. “We were here Saturday afternoon. Never tasted better—”

  John interrupted, a rapturous expression on his face. “In fact, we came back again that evening too. This is the work of a true master, a gold-medal winner in any competition. The classic flavors are divine, and the original creations even more sublime—lavande, figue, rose, violette, cassis, passion . . .” With a theatrical pause, he cleared his throat before ending in a dramatically dulcet tone, “Et la spécialité de la maison—caramel au beurre salé!”

  Joan laughed, fanning her face with her fingers. “Oh là là! There’s almost nothing sexier than Johnny reciting ice cream choices in French.”

  He grinned with exaggerated false modesty. “It’s my best French. No question.” He lowered his voice a few octaves and growled, his eyes blazing with melodramatic sexual desire. “Joanie, mon amour, mon coeur. I’m saving a few for our boudoir, to whisper in your ear.”

  Joan’s laughter ended with a loud snort, and they all cracked up. “That might have broken the spell,” she sputtered.

  When they got their orders, they sat at a table trading superlatives as they savored the flavorful ice cream.

  Arianna noticed the couple exchange a questioning look, and then Joan said, “I hope you don’t think we’re being nosy . . . but we noticed your absence this afternoon, and we were concerned. Is everything okay?”

  Flushing with embarrassment, Arianna felt like a child who had misbehaved. She knew she was not ready again tonight to articulate her emotions. “I had a migraine. It came on suddenly, and I knew I had to lie down in a darkened room and take some meds. I’m fine now.”

  Her new friends expressed sympathy, asking if they could help. Arianna was touched by their concern. They talked briefly about migraines in general and the art course in particular, and then changed the subject to what was happening around them in the square.

  The Place du Forum was still filled with activity punctuated by the squeals and laughter of children who had not fallen asleep on laps. Watching the lively commotion, they commented on the number of children still up. “It seems to be the French way, we’ve noticed,” Joan remarked.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Arianna spotted the yellow awning of Le Café La Nuit, much as van Gogh had painted it, at first glance anyway. He had spent a lot of time there, misbehaved there. She would go to the café on her own soon.

  Arianna’s eyes fluttered with fatigue, and she was struggling to stifle her yawns. “Aren’t you starting to fade?” she asked her companions. “Jet lag is quickly overtaking me!”

  “We spent five days in Paris before we came down here on Saturday. So we’re pretty much over it,” John told her.

  Joan took Arianna’s arm. “Your eyes look like they’re about to slam shut. Let’s go back to the fountain. It’s almost time anyway.”

  By the time the van arrived back at the mas, in spite of the fact that Bertram was snoring in the backseat, Arianna was sound asleep. The Mitchells gently woke her before they each took an arm and guided her to her room.

  It was all Arianna could do to strip off her clothes and pull on her nightgown before falling into bed, groggily conscious of how good it felt.

  There’ll be no meditation tonight . . .

  As she lay half awake, her thoughts returned to the feelings of guilt that had brought her down that afternoon. She had worried that she should not have left Ben. She had berated herself for being selfish about coming on this trip. She had given in to defeat at painting again. Clouds of regret scudded through her mind. She wanted to shake off those misgivings.

  Talking with Juliette had been therapeutic, no doubt about that. For the first time, she had uttered words long held inside. She was thankful that Juliette’s warm sensitivity had drawn those words out.

  As her eyes began to close and sleep wrapped around her, she felt an understanding begin to settle inside her. One she had refused to recognize before. There are two realities in my life at the moment: Ben’s is one. Mine is the other. Until I come to terms with seeing them separately, I cannot more forward.

  Peace comes from within. She thought about Juliette’s words and promised herself that that would be her focus.

  Tomorrow will be a better day was her final thought as she drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The morning breakfast table was irresistible to Arianna. Just looking at it brought a smile to her face. Fresh pâtisseries and still-warm baguette, accompanied by local conserves and a large bowl of colorful fruit salad, brought back happy memories.

  Looking around, she chuckled as she noticed so many of the group busy drawing in their art journals. She took hers out without worry of embarrassment. She was happy to be reminded that this is what artists did. Quickly, she drew the display on the table, including a vase of flowers that looked like they had come straight from the garden.

  Ever since that month in Paris in her university days, Arianna had admired the French art of baking pastries. Once back in Toronto, she had made it a priority to locate an authentic French boulangerie not far from her home.

  She smiled now, remembering how her father had felt she was being disloyal to her Greek heritage when she began bringing the sinfully rich and buttery treats home.

  “What’s wrong with tiganites?” he would ask, refusing to eat her pastries. She had liked those little pancakes as a child, especially the ones Sophia had made with yogurt, but once she had tasted French pastries, there was no going back.

  Now she alternated among the choices at the mas, finding them all equally melt-in-her-mouth delectable.

  She slipped into a chair and set her plate down at a small table with Joan and John. After fibbing about her migraine the night before, she felt she owed them an apology.

  They both were understanding as she explained how she could not get her creative juices flowing, although she did not tell the whole story.

  “Oh, I’ve had mental blocks before,” John said sympathetically. “Not Joan, though! She never seems to get stuck! Right, Joanie?” He raised his hand to his wife, and they high-fived in agreement.

  Then John became serious for a moment and spoke in a more philosophical way about how he thought Arianna might ease back into her art by using watercolors. Joan gave him a lighthearted punch in the arm and accused him of “waxing lyrical”.

  “Come on,” he encouraged now with a chuckle, “watercolor is fun. It’s Joan’s poison. She’s a master at layering! Right, Joanie?”

  Joan nodded in her spirited way and patted Arianna on the knee. “I know sometimes it’s difficult to get started. Trust me, I’ve been there so many times. But I’ve got an exercise that is incredibly helpful and then I just power through! I’ll show it to you later. Honestly, I’ve never let the dreaded block stop me!”

  Arianna grinned at them both, grateful for their encouragement and good humor.

  She reached down and gave Maximus a scratch behin
d the ears. To her delight, he’d been searching her out.

  Juliette reminded them a guest would be visiting after the morning break.

  “Jacques de Villeneuve is well known internationally for his commitment to the Camargue area. In addition to being a respected artist, he is also a member of the ancient Brotherhood of the Camargue Horsemen—quite a dying breed. So you’ll have the unique opportunity to not only study certain aspects of his approach to art but also have an intimate introduction to the life and philosophy of these gardians.”

  Juliette went on to explain how the Camargue was the Wild West of France and the gardians were the cowboys. They rode the wild horses that still roamed there, and they tended the storied black bulls.

  “There are not many true gardians left. They are talented riders, proud of their métier, at one with the animals and the land. Monsieur de Villeneuve is truly a man for all seasons.”

  There was much murmuring among the group. Everyone had read about this man in the notes about the course. They all eagerly anticipated meeting him and learning from him.

  After breakfast, the plan for the first part of the morning was for each person to return to the location they’d chosen the previous day.

  “Take your time,” Juliette instructed. “Put something to paper: a sketch, color blends, however you wish to begin. Think about texture, shape . . . what you want to communicate. Last night you all confirmed you had found your spot and the subject matter for your work, but do you have an idea of the why?”

  Before she had given up on art the day before, Arianna had considered the texture and subtle shades of the stone wall. But she was also drawn to the olive trees with their gnarled and twisted trunks speaking to her of survival through centuries. The silvery blue-green colors of the slender, tapered leaves shifted in the morning’s gentle breeze and challenged her to define their hues.

  Even more, she felt a sense of tranquility in the midst of these aged trees. She could see the ghosts of generations of workers who had nurtured, harvested, and protected their precious bounty. Perhaps this was her “why”: to capture that feeling, that history, the struggles, and the passion.