Before I settle down to a summer’s work it’s good to do a little gypsy roaming.  I just had a great break from my routine, exploring Provence.  At first I enjoyed the companionship of wonderful friends at Le Beaucet in a delightful country home. We saw the sights, enjoyed the regional foods and wines, and were expertly guided, tended and fed by Mary James and Xavier (www.maryjames.net) .

In my journal I made a list of sounds and sights and smells that were especially vivid.  And of course, tastes.  There were many.  It was a sensual feast from morning until night.  Lavendar and garlic in the markets, wild thyme disturbed by my feet on a hike up the hill,  patinas that were rich and complex, cicadas in the heat, a tomato reduction dressing an eggplant that I will not soon forget.

The second week of my journey I took off by myself with my tent and sleeping bag to explore more unknown territory.  Mary James equipped me with a giant map that I’d stop and consult about 40 times a day.  Thank goodness France’s signage is very logical and finding one’s way is made simple.  The un-simple thing is navigating a 10th century road in a car if anyone else decides to come from the opposite direction.

I circumnavigated Mont Ventoux and walked the streets of more hilltowns than I can recount.  I also took some afternoons to sit beside swimming pools in the intense heat.  I chose campgrounds with pools that had splendid views so I could swim and paint and rest all at the same time. I’d paint a while, then fall asleep in the heat, water  sounds lulling me.  Then I’d wake up and paint some more.  Camping allows for a lot of intimacy with the nature of a place.  I loved going to sleep to the sounds of the cicadas, and waking to the dawn birdsong.  Or seeing the moon through my tent’s little window.  In the hotel  at the airport all sound was muffled in thick carpet, and all moonlight masked by drapery.

What did I bring back?  Recognition of how I love to sit by water.  Recognition that French food is wonderful, but in the same way that North Carolina food, or any food grown and prepared with love is wonderful.  I brought back a fascination with the textures of ancient surfaces– the way a thousand year old piece of cypress used as a supporting beam gets eaten away, but stays strong;  the surface of stucco when it chips and peels and changes color;  the immense shade cast by trees when they’re allowed to grow as tall as they want without being cut down for “progress”;  the elegance of women who listen to their own inner voices instead of enslaving themselves to some kind of commercial standard of beauty and rightness; the energy,  imagination and wildness of Cezanne’s landscapes, which made me feel timid by comparison;  the brilliant engineering of the Romans, seen up close and still functional;  the logic of good national road planning;  the kindness of strangers;  a few new words added to the vocabulary;  a newfound love for the afternoon glass of French rose– if you’d told me I’d love it six months ago I wouldn’t have believed you.

But waking up this morning, thinking I was still in France, I realized I took away something else.  Because I traveled alone, in the absence of conversation–in silence– I took into my body a group of  kinesthetic impressions from the hundreds of miles speeding by under my car, the arcs of the many roundabouts, the textures under my feet, the buzz and  hum of the life around me, the cyclical movement of the sun and moon.

Because I stopped each day to paint the place where I was, to examine it with care and attempt to represent the feeling of it, I brought it deeply into my consciousness.  There was a kind of oneness that occurred between me and that lovely place  that went deeper than tourism.  This all came to me in a rush, before I’d really opened my eyes to the day, believing I was still in France .  Swinging my feet out of bed  I  felt the smooth texture of my bedroom’s heart pine floor and that texture told  my body I was not in France.  Returning from a camping trip when he was 3 years old , my youngest son Stewart announced “I miss my tent”.  I know exactly what he meant.

On Saturday I went to Atlanta to attend a party for my friend, Becky.  Becky was retiring after an illustrious career in business.  We’ve been friends since high school, and for some time she has been a major collector of my work.  Going to Becky’s was going to be an interesting trip back in time and experience for me– seeing intimate moments removed by a number of years and hung on unfamiliar walls.

I left home early so I could stop at the High.  It had been 40 years since I’d visited that museum  so it was overdue.  I arrived so late in the day I only got to see half the museum.  Highlights:  the Oldenburg peach and pear sculpture.  The pears had been removed for some reason, but the peaches were terrific and memorable all by themselves.  The museum had a three panel Waterlily on loan from MOMA, and  judging from the way it was hung, in a kind of curve,  I would guess it was originally intended to hang in a curved space, as were the 22 panels in the Orangerie.  I enjoyed falling under the spell of the Waterlily panels.  I found myself wondering if Rothko was similarly affected by the Waterlilies.  The mood that comes from communion with the Waterlilies and with a Rothko have a lot in common, not to mention the similar experiences of very pure color.

The High had a strong collection of African American work,  and in several cases I was seeing the work of these artists live for the first time.  I loved the three pieces I saw by Tanner, strong, sophisticated and lyrical.  The Elizabeth Catlett bust was a knock out, with its clarity and cool geometry.

The party was wonderful.   By the end of the evening there was lots of laughter and story telling.  The food was wonderful– beautifully made or carefully chosen.  To cap it off there were grapefruit and blueberry sorbets, homemade by Mike.  My paintings seemed to have a harmonious home, just right, as if they’d been intended for those spaces.  I visited with them like old friends, and felt just as much at home.

home-- photograph by Mike Carroll

It’s been a quiet week of work,  so quiet I lost track of what day it was by Thursday.  Looking for a hook to hang a story from, I’d  resigned myself to not writing anything this week, it seemed so mundane.  Later I realized that the reverse was true. It was a  week lived on the highest plane.  It was a week spent as an artist.  Nearly all my hours were wrapped around a painting I’d started last week.  It was a reflection of the intense beauty of the land around here, plants growing exuberantly, the sky deeply blue, the patterns in nature more complex than any oriental rug.

Between stints in the studio I enjoyed visits from  friends.  John, who lives in California, surprised me by appearing at my doorstep.  John has been a part of my life for a long time, all the way back to driving me to the church on my wedding day.  We talked for hours, sharing who we are now and remembering who we used to be.  On Sunday  Linda, whose laugh lights up the room came by, and she and I sat in the ruin talking well into the night.  At the end of the week my step-brothers John and Tom and my mom came for a summer supper.    The food at the end of this artist’s day is a final act of art-making.   The dinners this week have all included my homemade mozzarella cheese with Grier’s organic tomatoes, Kim’s basil, and a bit of my best olive oil.  There was organic cabbage made into cole slaw and Bradford Store corn which has its own fan club.   We dined in the ruin, Cat rubbing against our legs, hoping for a handout.   John described a funeral he’d attended in the Sandhills last week, of a venerated family friend.  It ended in a meal of chicken salad.  So many occasions I’ve attended in that region culminated in chicken salad, including my own great aunts’ funerals.  When Grier and I were little we went to visit our great aunts in their intricate Victorian homeplace.   Beneath the glow of a stained glass window they served us tiny lady plates of chicken salad, pickled watermelon rind and little biscuits.  Growing-boy Grier was somewhat amused by this meal.  But I will always associate chicken salad with the Sandhills.

Blackberries are ripening on the edges of the woods.  The cantaloupes are coming in.  It has been a wonderful week , after all, of art, friends and summer food, enjoyed in the best of places– home.