Drawing Lessons

by Patricia Sands

  Jacques de Villeneuve had also offered similar advice. “Sometimes you need to use your artistic license. Add different colors to express your vision, rather than simply replicating the norm.”

  This was not news to her. But she beat herself up a bit for having lost touch with such basics. Too much time had passed since she had been connected with her artistic side.

  The hours blended into each other as Arianna was drawn into her work, oblivious to everything around her. She was excited to feel old familiar stirrings about painting. She had always loved the buttery consistency of oils—and the smell. She recalled arguing with friends about that when they disagreed and said oils didn’t smell. There was some odor she found inexplicably pleasing that rose from her color palette.

  She sat back and appraised what she had accomplished so far.

  It’s not close to being finished. But these paints are so forgiving. Because they dry slowly, I can take my time, correct mistakes, and plan my next move without rushing.

  As she studied her canvas, it occurred to her that those might be good steps to follow as she moved forward with her life.

  Arianna wandered downstairs at around eight that evening. Juliette had tapped on her door earlier to see if she would be down for dinner, and Arianna had replied she would find something for herself when she finally stopped painting.

  All the doors were open to the terraces. The warm evening air floated through the rooms along with a hint of citronella. Maurice had explained when they had first arrived that Mirielle would set out her special concoction to ward mosquitoes off with great effectiveness.

  She could hear Joan and John chatting on the terrace adjoining the kitchen, words and laughter mixing together.

  “Hey!” John called out as Arianna came toward them. Then he said something that sounded like, “Hayadoin? Jeet?”

  Arianna stared at him, not sure what to say.

  Joan laughed, explaining, “He’s talking Brooklynese! Y’know, how are you doing? Did you eat? Jeet?”

  Arianna laughed. “I get it! Kinda like The Sopranos.”

  “Yeah,” Joan replied, giving John a playful punch on the arm. “I think he’s having a moment of homesickness.”

  “Beer will do it every time,” John mumbled, looking psychedelic in a lime-green cotton shirt dotted with hula dancers.

  “Have you seen any mosquitoes?” Arianna asked. “I noticed the scent of Mirielle’s secret potion in the air. Oh . . . and nice shirt, John!”

  John pirouetted around to show off his shirt. “No mosquitoes! Come and join us! We’ve got some ice-cold 1664 in the fridge. Want a beer?”

  “That sounds good. I haven’t had one since I arrived. That’s a French beer . . . Kronenbourg, right? We carried it for a few customers at our restaurant.” Looking around, she said, “It’s quiet here tonight. Where is everyone?”

  Joan explained that Juliette had excused herself to work on a canvas in her studio, since everyone was doing their own thing. “She floats in and out every so often and is apparently making good headway on her painting. You know how it is when your mind gets in gear!”

  Arianna smiled.

  “Maurice is out with friends. He drove Barbara and Bertie into Arles to do some walking tour they had read about, and they’re having dinner in town. Cecilia took the bus to Avignon so she could write a blog post about that experience . . . said she’d be back around nine. Marti and Lisa went out for a romantic, candlelit dinner after revealing today’s the anniversary of the day they met. Cool, huh?”

  With a grin, Joan added, “Maurice insisted on calling a taxi for them so they could be truly on their own and not feel they had to chat to him or anyone else. He was un vrai romantique, Juliette teased him. Hey! How about that! I just parlayed Français!”

  “Trays beans,” John said. “I haven’t quite mastered the language. So there you go, dear Arianna . . . all the news that’s fit to print! Come join us and have one of these most-delicious-sandwiches-ever!”

  Arianna was quick to agree. “For all the mouthwatering, fabulous food there is in France and the culinary delights available to us, aren’t baguette sandwiches just the best? A simple, magic bread—never better anywhere else—with some ham becomes a taste sensation. Oh yes, I will definitely have one, thanks.”

  John went into the kitchen, and Joan got up to follow, rather quickly. “Excuse me, Arianna. Just thought of something. Be right back!”

  The pale moonlight bathed the view from the terrace in a soft blue glow. Sitting by herself, Arianna felt pulled into the calm of it all. Her thoughts seemed to float out and dance among the olive trees as she considered how this course, this setting, and these moments were slowly bringing her peace.

  She felt a familiar rub against her legs and reached down to give Maximus a scratch. He flopped down and rolled over for a tummy rub.

  The quiet was broken as the Mitchells returned to the terrace with sandwiches and beer.

  “It’s a party!” John announced.

  “So, Arianna Papadopoulos-Miller . . .” Joan began. “Oh, it is such fun to say your name out loud.”

  Arianna grinned. “My proud Greek father was so sad that the family name would disappear when I got married. I promised him I would keep it alive as best I could. He was so thrilled and touched that there’s no way I could ever stop using it. And my kids have kept their last names like that even as adults.”

  Smiling back at her, the Mitchells asked Arianna to tell them about her childhood in Greece. “Now that we’ve started to travel—”

  John laughed. “Yes! With our one trip so far . . .”

  “But this is just the beginning, sweetie pie. You even said so!”

  “I was teasing you. For sure, we’ll take a trip every year, and Greece sounds like a good destination. But there are a lot of problems there now, right, Arianna?”

  They talked about the economy and politics in that country right now. And, of course, about the migrant situation.

  “Remember, though, I haven’t been back for a very long time, so my memories are not today’s realities. But, you know, talking with customers in our restaurant through the years, I still always felt it was a beautiful place to visit and that troubles could be avoided.”

  She told them briefly how a family rift had stopped their visits. “It’s so ridiculous when I think of it now. Anyway, my daughter recently reconnected with extended family there, and I think she may visit them. I hope she does.”

  “Would you go back now too?” Joan asked.

  “Seeing how I’m loving this trip so much, I just might. You never know. Recently I even have entertained thoughts about taking my eighty-five-year-old mother back with me. Barbara has been a good source of inspiration for that idea.”

  “She’s amazing,” John said. “And a great example of how age is just a number when you have your health. Fifty, sixty . . . eighty . . . just numbers!”

  They talked about Greece some more, before the conversation segued into a focus on food. Arianna found she could talk about the restaurant and life before Ben’s illness with much more ease than when she first arrived.

  The Mitchells shared more of their history. They had three children, all married, and four grandchildren. They chatted about their children’s various lives and professions.

  “Though our older daughter and son had moved away for work, our youngest daughter and her family lived just a few blocks from us. We were very close and saw them all the time. Those grandchildren are in college now. Amazing how time flies.”

  John’s voice began to fill with emotion, and Joan got up and hugged him. “Here’s where our story gets difficult,” Joan continued, “and I’m going to skip the details. Nothing bad had ever happened to us. Even with our older daughter and son moving far away, we were happy for the lives they were building. But then, Debbie . . . our youngest daughter . . . had stage-4 ovarian cancer . . . and she passed very quickly.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Arianna said softly.

&nb
sp; Joan’s sad smile showed her acknowledgment. “Then her husband remarried and started a new life. I mean, that’s what happens, right? Married a nice lady with two younger children. But they lived in the same house as Debbie, and we just found it so difficult. That’s when we started thinking about moving to Florida.”

  John joined in again. “At first we beat ourselves up, saying we were running away. And maybe, at first, we were.”

  “But we were close to retiring, and the more we thought about it, the more we convinced ourselves we were making choices for us. Not for our kids. Not for our jobs. But for us.”

  John said, “Yeah, it was like this big lightning bolt suddenly zapped us.”

  “I’m telling you, Arianna, within six months we’d moved. Retired, sold the house, got rid of tons of stuff, and . . .”

  “Bada bing, bada boom!” John said. “There we were, moving to south Florida. Just like that!”

  Joan chuckled. “We couldn’t believe we had done it. We lived there for six months and looked around. We knew we wanted to be near Sarasota because they have such an active arts community. Then we found the perfect retirement development for us.”

  “You sound very happy,” Arianna commented. “I love how you laugh so often. It’s contagious! That’s a gift.”

  “We lost our laughter for a while when we lost Debbie,” Joan said as John gazed at the moonlit landscape. “We worked hard to get it back . . . mostly by reminding ourselves of all the good memories. We lost our Debbie and our life with her. We didn’t want to lose ourselves and the rest of our life.”

  Arianna got up and hugged each of them. John said, “You know, the French are missing something important by not hugging. That felt good.”

  Joan and Arianna agreed as they settled back into their chairs.

  There was a lot of talk about change and about seeing possibilities in life. “And at the same time, we’re in touch with all of our kids and grandkids—thanks to the glories of the Internet. And they love to come to Florida. We couldn’t be happier.”

  Arianna was absorbing all of this. She knew there were messages in this conversation that would stay with her.

  “Yoo-hoo!” Cecilia appeared in the kitchen, followed by Maurice, Barbara, and Bertram. Juliette soon joined them, eager to hear about their adventures.

  The time passed quickly, particularly after Marti and Lisa arrived home and related their splendid evening to the group.

  “Never a dull moment with this crew,” Arianna said as they wished each other good night. Maurice had reminded them of the early-morning departure for the Saturday market.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  On this calm, sunny morning, the sky was as impossibly blue and clear as before the clouds had assembled and the wild wind had blown through three days prior.

  As the group climbed into the van, Juliette said, “I always feel it’s as if the mistral was a crazed artist whose wild brushstrokes swept away the white clouds and gray haze to create this vibrant color.”

  Market day proved to be as Juliette and Maurice promised: big, boisterous, and beguiling. The parking lot was already full when they arrived, and people were disappearing into the depths of the market.

  A forest of stalls stretched among the trees down both sides of the main thoroughfares of Boulevard des Lices and Boulevard Georges Clémenceau. Some were covered by brightly striped canopies or shaded by large multicolored umbrellas, while a few were uncovered. The atmosphere was a riot of color, smells, and sounds—and people! Even though the group arrived just after the market opened, there was already a crowd.

  Before waving them off to explore, Juliette said, “Keep your cameras handy because this is a visual feast, bien sûr, but follow your nose. It will lead you to even more treasures! And watch your wallets. Pickpockets also love markets!”

  Maurice added, “And watch for les crottes de chien—dog poop! That problem is getting better, but . . .” He grimaced apologetically.

  Although they started out together, Arianna noticed that within minutes their group had dispersed. She had been to enough markets to know that the best approach was to go it alone. She relished this intimate experience.

  Of course, there were the inevitable memories from home. Owning a restaurant had meant regular market visits in Toronto with Ben. But those vendors spoke English, and, after so many years, Arianna and Ben had known precisely which ones they needed to visit. There was little lingering, and most times they had split up, each with a list. Then they would meet at a small coffee bar on the edge of the market and watch the bustle.

  Arianna realized that she was becoming more accepting about the return of memories as the days passed on this trip.

  Familiar memories in unfamiliar places seem to be easier for me to work through. Just as I’m finding it easier talking to these new friends in my life. But this market is really going to make me think of Ben. How he would have loved it. I’m not going to let it be a negative.

  She saw here how colorful Provençal fabrics—some already made into tablecloths, placemats, or napkins, some simply bolts of material—were stacked and hanging. Some vendors were selling goods from North Africa, including exotic spices and carvings in polished dark wood. Local soaps in all sizes and shades were exhibited in vibrant displays.

  And, of course, lavender, even though it was not in season yet. The number of balms, salves, perfumes, condiments, as well as dried bunches and bottles of the pure essential oil was clear evidence of its versatile and popular use.

  Arianna watched locals stopping to chat in the midst of the activity. Woven market baskets, panniers, were set down for a few moments as bises and greetings were exchanged. Laughter and banter floated above the busy scene, the language spoken so quickly it was impossible for her to pick out more than a few words.

  She stood by the edge of an olive vendor’s long counter for a few minutes, out of the way of the bodies milling around her. Staring off at nothing in particular, she was lost in contemplation and memories, reminded of words Faith had said when Arianna was packing for the trip. She couldn’t recall now who her daughter was quoting . . . she chuckled thinking about all the books on positivity Faith slipped to her. But she did remember the sentiment.

  “Step out of your comfort zone.” “Become at ease with the unfamiliar and the unknown.” I guess that’s what I’m doing.

  A voice interrupted her thoughts. “Bonjour, madame. Vous désirez quelque-chose? You like something? Here! Goûtez! Taste this, if you please!”

  The grizzled face of the olive vendor smiled invitingly at her as he stretched an olivewood ladle toward her. A delectable-looking large green olive was stuck on a toothpick.

  “Oh, merci, monsieur! Mmmm, c’est delicieux!”

  She promptly purchased more of those olives, along with some smaller black ones sprinkled with rosemary and some green ones mixed with oil and walnuts.

  The entire display was irresistible. The vendor proudly posed as she captured several photos, once again confounding herself.

  I’m not a picture taker . . . or maybe I have to put that in the past tense now. It appears I am becoming one . . . .

  The colorful, sizable ceramic bowls, each filled with a different selection of olives or tapenade, were too inviting to resist. Multiple shades of brown, green, golden, purple, red, and black olives sat in seasoned variations. Rustic clay jugs and glass flasks with olive oil, cider, or vinegar lined the top of the counter.

  Images of still-life paintings filtered through her mind’s eye. Inspiration was everywhere. Arianna could feel the artistic flame deep inside her growing stronger. She was coming alive.

  Arianna was surprised as the vendor weighed each olive bag carefully, told her the price, and then added a few more olives to each bag. “Un petit cadeau, ma beauté—a little gift.” As her visit to the market progressed, she saw that this was quite a common practice among the sellers, adding even more friendliness and camaraderie to the business at hand.

  She chuckled to
herself, observing as she strolled that some of the bonhomie might have been enhanced by the bottles of rosé or pastis next to a torn fresh baguette that could be seen on a table behind the main counter of many stalls. Sharing a glass or two with a neighbor or regular customer seemed to be the norm.

  Dogs were also very much a part of the marché. There were few stalls where Arianna didn’t see one sleeping under the counter or on a cushion conveniently placed to allow greetings from customers. Arianna noted some people who were obviously very familiar with offering them treats. As she had on many occasions, she wondered how French dogs were always so well behaved. Even those visiting the market with shoppers fell into that category.

  And how do they get the dogs to follow so obediently without a leash?

  Whiffs of organic perfume accompanied her through the market. Juliette was so right about using our noses.

  Whether it was the sweet smell of lavender, local herbs, and freshly cut flowers or the pungent aromas of cheese, they were all irresistible in their own way. As she roamed past stall after stall, she became familiar with the particular scents of specialties of the area: Camargue salt, goat cheese, and saucisson d’Arles, bull-meat sausage.

  Sausages of all sizes and shapes were displayed on stalls decorated with bulls’ horns. The tufts of hair still attached to the horns were disconcerting initially. A few photos of those displays would be added to the file she was putting together for Faith. She could just hear Faith laughing at those.

  More than once, she tucked herself safely out of the main walkway and quickly captured some drawings and notes in her journal. She thought if she never took another trip, she was taking home enough drawings and information to keep her painting forever.

  But this trip is reminding me that travel must be part of my life going forward. Now I’m kicking myself for so many memories I’ve missed making with my family.

  Arianna munched on small spring strawberries, sweeter than any she could recall eating before. Their irresistible perfume had insisted she buy them.

  She needed to keep reminding herself she was there to observe, sample, and enjoy, and not to stock up. It was difficult to pass by the temptations of the rotisseries strung with golden-skinned chickens, as potatoes and onions cooked in the drippings below. The air was thick with a smell of such roasted goodness that Arianna thought it should be bottled.