Drawing Lessons

by Patricia Sands

  As Jacques wished them well, he had these parting words: “There’s no doubt that art is therapeutic for the spirit. Have you examined the state of your spirit lately?”

  Arianna wondered if he was giving her a message. Had he read something in my eyes, my demeanor? Is it that obvious I’m searching for my spirit?

  “Thanks—mille mercis—to all of you for your interest and for the enthusiasm you showed for the Camargue. Please consider accepting my invitation to come and see it for yourselves this weekend. Juliette and Maurice have my contact information.”

  The atmosphere was charged with enthusiasm after his departure, and the eager artists returned to their easels.

  Arianna walked slowly through the garden back to her easel and her morning’s sketches. She crumpled her paper and began again, after doing the warm-up exercises de Villeneuve had demonstrated. Slowly she felt more freedom in the movements of her hand.

  Her imagination was fired.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Their evening was free. Options were bandied about for dinner in town, and plans were made.

  Marti suggested they walk into Arles. “We’ll get some exercise and work up an appetite. Though it’s not exactly far . . . Never mind! Who’s with me?”

  Arianna did not take long to respond. There was something about the energy Marti radiated that made Arianna want to be in her presence.

  Lisa and Cecilia were enthusiastically on board. Joan and John were driving in with Maurice, who had offered to pick them all up around eleven.

  Barbara was staying in and having an early night.

  By the end of the cocktail hour, Bertram was in his cups. After delivering a lengthy monologue about van Gogh’s history in Arles, hiccuping loudly all the while, he gave everyone a detailed description of where the famous yellow house was located before it was bombed in World War II, and later demolished. Then he demanded they promise to go there and take photos for him as proof.

  “And no selfies! I abhor them!” were his last remarks as he began to stumble off to his room.

  “If that’s important to you, Bertie,” John called after him, using the shortened name he had begun calling the Brit in an attempt to break down his reserve. “We will most definitely carry out the task for you.”

  Everyone was a little uncertain as to how the very proper Englishman would respond to his new nickname. So far, his only acknowledgment had been a slight twitch at the corner of his eye.

  “Okay, walkers,” Marti said. “We’ll meet down here in half an hour?”

  The path leading to town was wide and well used. The women set off at a good pace, casually dressed and wearing comfortable walking shoes. A light breeze carried with it the aromatic scents of wild sage, rosemary, and thyme.

  Juliette had told them about these low scrubland plants she called garrigue as they headed out. “It’s found all through the Mediterranean countryside, along with dense thickets of kermes oak and juniper that contribute to the natural aromatherapy. As you crush the plants underfoot, you’ll release a fabulous bouquet. Be sure to stop and breathe deeply. The whole sensory bodhi is an ambrosial part of the hiking experience here.”

  Within minutes of their setting out on the path, Lisa had messaged the others: FYI—‘bodhi’ is a Sanskrit word meaning enlightenment. Make a note for Scrabble/Words with Friends! Thank you, Google. I had no idea.

  The others laughed as they thanked her. Arianna noted how they all had their phones with them. She realized she had become one of “them.”

  As they walked along the path, Lisa occasionally would put her hand up, motioning the others to stop. Then she would rest her hand on her diaphragm and take an exaggerated inhalation, pointing to each of them to do the same.

  “It’s divine!” Marti exclaimed as she let out her breath. She reached down and grasped some of the plants along the path, crushing them between her fingers and bringing them to her nostrils before releasing them into the air like confetti.

  Arianna closed her eyes and inhaled again. This worn path meandering through the idyllic landscape, combined with the lighthearted repartee of her companions, was just what she needed. She could feel even more of a release of the guilt that had plagued her the past few days.

  “Truly restorative,” she murmured to no one in particular.

  “Could we bottle this?” Cecilia asked as she excitedly described the experience into her phone.

  Winding past olive groves, beside vineyards, and through fields dotted with poppies and other wildflowers, from time to time they’d comment on the pastoral beauty. They could imagine artists through the centuries setting up easels along the way.

  Arianna fantasized about Vincent painting the very scenes through which she was walking. Was he right here? He must have breathed these same intoxicating scents!

  Lisa didn’t speak but shared the occasional nod. She continued to stop and brush her hand across the landscape as her subtle expressions relayed her pleasure.

  “I’m sorry I keep doing this,” Cecilia apologized after speaking into her dictation app. “I don’t want to miss recording how this walk touches all our senses. Listening to your comments feeds my descriptions.”

  Arianna felt herself grow more relaxed and cheerful in their company.

  After the trail led them down a small knoll, they exited a large olive grove. Suddenly the dramatic outline of the medieval buildings of Arles rose ahead of them.

  “There’s no denying this is France when we see a vision like that!” Cecilia declared.

  They stopped to take photos or draw in their journals, in between sighs and exclamations. It made Arianna happy to feel she was with people who were so like-minded about art. She had been away from it too long, she told herself.

  Breaking the spell, Cecilia said, “And knowing we’re in France also means that we can’t get dinner before seven thirty.”

  Marti continued, “I don’t know about you ladies, but we’re heading straight for the nearest coffee bar. A double espresso would hit the spot. Right, Lis?”

  They all laughed as Lisa held up her phone and showed them the Google map that led directly to a café.

  As they sipped their espresso and café crème and chatted, they each formulated their own plans. In so doing, more bits of information surfaced about their respective interests and personalities.

  Marti’s primary interest was in supporting everything Lisa wanted to do. “As I told you all before, she truly is the finest artist. I am the dabbler.”

  Their affection was obvious as Lisa took Marti’s hand and kissed it. Marti’s always-bright eyes twinkled deeper.

  Lisa texted a longer message than normal. Marti read it to them. “I want to drink it all in. To see everything. Every nook and cranny. Every ancient stone. To feel everything. Then I hope I can express that in my art.”

  Cecilia’s youthful exuberance shone through.

  “In this short time, I’ve already got articles and blog posts galore planned! I’m so happy Granny convinced me to come here with her. She hasn’t really shown her true personality to you yet, but she will, and you will love her even more!”

  Arianna spoke last. She took a deep breath, pushed through the urge to avoid being honest, and was surprised she was so forthcoming.

  “I’m on a bit of a spiritual search here, looking for something I’ve lost. My art, mainly. So I will probably fumble my way forward for a while, but I want to thank you for the friendship we’ve shared thus far. You’ve no idea how you are helping me. But if you don’t mind, I’ll wander by myself for a while when we’re through here.”

  The others shared compassionate looks with her. She suspected they were waiting for her to reveal more. All in good time, I hope.

  Her comments had stilled the conversation momentarily, until Marti chirped, “So how about Monsieur de Villeneuve? Is he a hottie or what?”

  There was enthusiastic agreement. Lisa gave a decisive two thumbs up.

  “And his presentation was awesome, wasn�
�t it?” Marti continued. Everyone eagerly agreed.

  “So are any of you going to go to the Camargue this weekend?” Cecilia asked.

  Marti and Lisa nodded, already having decided. They all chatted about it some more, pondering the logistics.

  Marti said, “We’re kind of torn, though, because we also want to sample the cuisine and seafood of the area—don’t know if there’s time to do it all in one day. Arianna? Are you going?”

  “I think I would like to go. I was intrigued by the art from the area and by that history of the gardians, the horses, and the bulls. It sounds like something different from anything I’ve seen.”

  Cecilia agreed. “I think it will be quite an adventure. I’m always up for that!”

  And maybe it’s time I was up for an adventure too, Arianna prodded herself.

  The Place de la République was just around the corner, and soon they strolled over to the fountain in the center. Already acknowledging a certain familiarity with the old town, they all agreed to meet back up there at seven thirty.

  “I’m off to the Fondation Vincent van Gogh. Can’t wait!” Cecilia said. “I know Juliette has organized a visit for all of us on Thursday,” she explained, “but I want time there on my own. So I’ll slip in now, absorb everything in the special exhibit, and do all my reporting. Imagine! Thirty originals of his work!”

  Arianna nodded. “I know! That was part of what convinced me to come to this course. I can’t wait to see it.”

  Cecilia continued, “Us too! So if I take in the exhibit now, when I go back with all of you I won’t disturb everyone by mumbling into my phone through the whole tour.”

  Arianna politely declined an invitation to join Marti and Lisa in their explorations. She agreed to meet them back at the fountain at seven thirty and waved good-bye. She had her own plan.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Arianna lingered in the square, entranced by the intricate sculptures over the portal of the Romanesque twelfth-century church of St. Trophime that had attracted her their first night in town.

  Seeing it in daylight for the first time, she found the rich detail overwhelming. The work had lasted through so many centuries. Sculpted stone figures of tormented souls being taken to hell in chains and others being taken to the saints. She decided the religious meaning was lost on her, but she appreciated the artistry.

  Sitting on the edge of the fountain, she added a page in her journal, taking in the square from three perspectives.

  Maurice had told them the recent cleaning of most of the town’s antiquities had given them all new life.

  She peeked through the entrance that led to the quietly elegant cloisters attached to the church. Beyond the columns, which were topped by elaborate carvings, an eerie darkness intrigued her. She felt a strong desire to return another day and explore what lay beyond the pillars that surrounded the intimate courtyard.

  For a moment, she pictured crowds of pilgrims gathering there through the centuries, preparing to set out on the Via Tolosana to Santiago de Compostela.

  Checking the map in her hand, she turned up the narrow Rue du Cloître leading toward the Roman coliseum. Simply strolling the cobblestones gave her a sense of connection to the history around her. She couldn’t stop imagining the centuries of footsteps that had preceded hers.

  On her left, a busy terrace caught her eye. Delicate vines zigzagged their way up the uneven stone walls, skirting around shuttered windows. White-shirted waitstaff, their long black aprons tied around their waists, bustled about organizing metal tables and chairs in preparation for evening diners. Crisp white tablecloths were set with round, emerald-green chargers that matched the gemlike bubble-glass goblets. The details appealed to her.

  Sumptuous aromas wafted out to the street. She paused at the blackboard leaning against the gate to read the dinner choices. It was printed in the typical French style that made every chalkboard an individual piece of art. Several dishes tempted her. She made a mental note to come back another day.

  Farther along, she passed under a timeworn arch and had a vision of van Gogh frantically rushing through these streets. The thought sent a shiver through her. He really did! And I wonder where he and Gauguin had their loud arguments and fights. Maybe one night it was right here! So much to discover . . .

  Rounding a corner, she arrived at the jumble of ruins, all that is left of the antique Roman theater. Assorted large stones dotted the grounds in front of curved rows of tiered seating. They were the remains of thirty-three rows that seated an audience of nearly ten thousand. Two tall Corinthian columns kept lonely watch over the grounds. She could only imagine its original grandeur.

  She had read that, after the fall of the Roman Empire, many of these historic sites had fallen into disarray. Stones and other building materials were stripped away and used to build churches and monasteries, and the theater became a quarry.

  Posters advertised upcoming performances. A large movie screen indicated mixed media was used with some of the listings. She liked how theater continued to live on in the original spirit of the ruins.

  The gates to the grounds were locked at the modern entrance and ticket booth. She noted the times when she should return.

  Looking beyond this ruin, the two-tiered amphitheater or coliseum—Les Arènes—imposed its graceful presence just steps away. She made her way there instead.

  She had been fascinated by the Roman structure when they’d passed it on the way to dinner on Monday evening. The moonlight that had shone on the two-thousand-year-old limestone arches had created a graceful, haunting visual. Vivid images of the ancient-Greek ruins of her childhood were revived from the back of her memory bank.

  The ticket office was still open, but she wouldn’t have much time before it closed. She paid her admission and walked through the gallery that ran under the arches. In the main arena, she climbed the stairs to the second level and sat on a stone bench. She ran her fingers lightly across the stone, sensing the ageless time preserved in its patina.

  There in the fading light, surrounded by thousands of years of history, Arianna experienced an overwhelming moment of clarity.

  She missed Ben . . . more than ever. She wanted him there, and at the same time she was ever more aware that he was not there. Would never be there again. She was on her own.

  She had to keep all the good memories of the past alive. They had made her who she was now. That was her history. She never would let go of it. But she had to be open to new beginnings, to see if that black hole of a future could become bright again.

  A haunting voice accompanied by a guitar filtered through the galleries. The deep, rich tones rose and fell with the emotions of the woman singing. They swirled up the tiers and took flight into the air. Arianna determined the words were in Spanish. Somehow it didn’t matter. The passion of the song came through without any translation necessary.

  The ambiance of the moment floated like a cloud around her: the history and redolent beauty of the surroundings, the setting sun painting the sky and washing the stone in shades of pink, the absence of others, and the emotional power of the song. Arianna promised herself this would be the beginning of moving forward. She closed her eyes and made a silent vow. Peace comes from within.

  She took her journal from her bag. Drawing, and moving from one spot to another, she worked to capture the shadows cast by the setting sun. She felt like she was transferring shadows that had been clouding her thinking for too long. It was as though being in this mystical setting was pushing the darkness inside her away and allowing light to shine on the peace she was seeking.

  She was sorry she had to rush now and vowed to return.

  Before too long, Arianna followed the dulcet sound of the distant voice as she exited the arena. Sitting on a chair by one of the arches was a woman of indeterminate age. She was dressed in a colorful collection of mismatched clothing, and a floppy hat shaded her face, even though the sun was no longer a factor.

  Her fingers danced across the strings
of her guitar. Attached to each foot was a tambourine, providing a rhythmic percussion as she tapped. A small dog was curled up, asleep, on a mat tucked under her chair.

  Arianna stopped at a distance. Leaning against an arch, she listened intently and felt mesmerized. The woman sang of pain, sorrow, hope, and joy. It was all there.

  Although Arianna could not understand a word, she understood the emotions. There was no mistaking them. She wondered if this woman was aware of the power she possessed. A large crowd had gathered around the woman.

  Suddenly, a voice spoke next to Arianna. “Are you under her spell?” Arianna found herself looking into the deep-blue eyes of Jacques de Villeneuve.

  “Oh, hello again! You surprised me! And . . . yes, yes, I am totally enchanted.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me intruding. You looked so lost in thought, but when I recognized you from the group today, I thought I would say hello.”

  “No, of course . . . I’m happy to see you. I’m Arianna . . .” She held out her hand instinctively.

  “I remember your name,” he said with a smile, reaching to shake her hand just as she began to pull it back.

  “Oh!” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “That was . . . um . . . awkward. Handshakes aren’t very French, are they? But they’re an automatic reaction for us.”

  He smiled. “Pas de problème! I’ve spent a lot of time on your side of the Atlantic.”

  Her perceived faux pas slipped away. “And thank you for today. It will take a while to process everything you shared with us. It was wonderful, enlightening . . .”

  Now she felt embarrassed for gushing.

  “Merci! I regretted I had to dash off for a meeting, and now I’m on my way to another. It’s a crazy day. But this woman singing . . . I’m so glad you came upon her. She’s a special character in Arles.”

  Arianna smiled her agreement. “Her voice is hauntingly beautiful. I don’t understand a word she is saying, yet I feel the meaning of her songs so deeply. It’s quite remarkable.”