Fanjeaux, France, 2004

I’ve been fighting a bad mood for two weeks. No one reason. I can’t sustain a smile without the inducement of chocolate or wine. I bark at the TV screen, I snap at the newspaper. I smack the keyboard a lot! The dog cowers and the cats won’t cuddle. There’s a real danger of someone else catching my negativity so I stay in, draw the curtains, make pots of green tea, as if I have the flu and might be contagious. The real cure for what ails me is to get out, ideally, to get away to some place warm with color. I feed on color. I really do. And I’m cranky because I can’t have what I want. Unfortunately this is like a rich man whining about needing another Bentley. I mean, hello? Is this little girl spoiled or what? I just got back from an amazing vacation to the Caribbean, and everyone’s seen the pictures. Nope, not going anywhere; no one is booking my pity party any time soon.

When the blues get this deep, I sign up for a workshop. Living in the Hudson Valley as I do, within driving distance to NYC, some kind of learning experience is always going on, about any subject you can imagine. Me, I like art workshops. A spark of creative newness does wonders for my sluggish brain and spirit. There are many great things to say about the artist workshops I’ve done, but this isn’t the week. Anyway, can’t do a workshop just now. Not on this year’s budget. Instead, it’s time for a Mind Movie. (Sorry, best I can do without a nap.) What you and I need is a break, so let me take you inside my memories, which are free, require no passport, no clothes (go naked if you wish), no reservations. These images are still fresh in my brain as I stop and remember the locations which have influenced my art most recently:

Paris in April
Yes, there is pink in all the trees. Sounds come up from the street to the windowed balcony, laughter and whispers, the clip-clip-clip of running high heels, rain hitting the pavement, the piercing hiccup scream of a police van, the cherry lights of an emergency vehicle. And there’s music, always music. By morning, the sidewalk is all movement, fast walkers, bodies in dark colors, blacks, browns, buzzing mopeds, an occasional flash of a red glove. There’s that sandy grey of buildings, stained weepy black and green. Apart from the icons and art, of which much is cliché, I remember more the melodies of various languages, the scent of cumin, the perfume of the street foods, the sharp tang of burnt coffee, fresh baked bread, the way those smells follow you right down into the Metro. The faintest aroma of chocolate is on everything. There’s the reflected metal glare from so many bicycles, the flurry of silk scarves blowing in the wind, the gentle glide of the quiet boats cruising the Seine, the berry brown faces of gypsies, the rainbow array of fat yellow lemons and long wet carrots, of frilly cabbages and flowers put outside. There’s the tattered wind-whipped paper notices posted up and down the street looking like feathers in the distance, the sudden hit of smoke from an unwelcome cigarette, the exhaust and bellows from the too fast compact car that jumps onto the sidewalk to park. There’s the applause from heavy bellied men in the park, celebrating a well played game of boules, the shouts of “salut”! There are the trails of uniformed school children moving along like baby geese, giggling, humming something happy. I remember smiles and scowls. And a lingering sense of the past. I think kaleidoscope.

Languedoc, the South of France, Spring There’s the torn, knitted together look of the pastel colored clapboard houses, propped on top of each other, sliced here and there with fenced in courtyard driveways. The hilltop town is like a big cake. And it’s decorated with rich blue painted doorways, potted geraniums, nasturtiums. There’s that undercurrent of lavender and cow manure in the breeze. I think of the cool floor tiles, the yellowed stucco walls, the red poppies on the gleaming wood table. There’s that nutty smell of broiled goat cheese, of roasted vegetables, the fragrance of a thick soup, the burn of my first aperitif. There is this sense of heaviness, especially up at the top of the hill in the church yard. The church itself is a stone tank, tall, imposing, meant to be seen from miles away. Inside it is cave dark with weak candles struggling to stay alive. There are dry wooden pews, a simple altar. I can see thin, nearly forgotten watery paintings and the frail relics on the walls; the dampness makes me think of ghosts. There are endless stone stairs, sharp cold ribbons of wind, the views that end faraway at the Pyrenees, those mountains that seem to float in space, all by themselves. The patois is different here and I can understand the spoken French; it feels like the local wine they serve, warm, smokey and taken slow. There’s the funny questions children ask in their tinkly English- why do American’s like war? Then the way strangers relax when you tell them the truth. There are the hanging pink hams turning like musical chimes, sharing windows with chestnuts and apple tarts. There are the little markets, plain, save for the labyrinth of clustered barrels splayed out onto the square, holding gladiolas, limes, big bald melons, some kind of small silver grey fish splashing about in cloudy water. There are the rosy cheeked teenagers speeding down the steep cobbled hill towards you, kicking a soccer ball between them so effortlessly that they appear to be one athlete instead of two. I remember the way their shouts echoed off the old buildings and disturbed the crows.

Colle d’Elsa, Italy, October. There are day trips to Florence, to Siena, to Volterra. I think of airy hard bread soaked in fragrant olive oil and garlic. There is the hardened, mustard brown mud in the fields, the brushed gold of the hills beyond, the varied shades of green: the lean Cyprus, squat rosemary trees and waxy bay leaf bushes, the tan and red colored stone in the patio, the yellow ochre of the sun-bleached masonry walls, the tiled roofs on all buildings, the way fresh cut basil clears your sinuses when inhaled deeply, There is that pop of joy in your mouth when you are tasting your first genuine gelato, there’s the warm rush down your throat of a local Chianti, the smell of ripe grapes just before harvest, the cottony grey of a long line of sheep being self-herded down from the barn, the bleating in unison, the tinkle of their brass neck bells. There is that intense bloodiness of a hot day’s sunset, the sharp black of a Tuscan night sky. There’s the bite of a gunshot in the early morning, the scream of a party of guinea hens in the trees, the way the sandy earth moves right in front of you, as dirt mingles with zigzagging lizards and strange hard beetles. There’s that fresh slice of mozzarella with chunks of cold salami, there’s the remembering of my grandparents and summers long ago. There’s the faint whiff of sulphur in the water, the way the solid cold and ancient stone walls never get warm, there’s the lack of screens in windows carved into foot wide walls and flies that come and go as they please. There’s pasta on every table, and drunken smiles at a Sunday festa. There’s the dry heat of a full sun, the lack of shadows at midday. There are cats sitting in doorways.

Venice, October, I think of always wet wood, stinky piers and boats of a thousand colors, boats everywhere, a huge bathtub.There’s the purple blue of the canal water, the way it can look like pistachio mermaids swimming through it in certain light, there’s that glittery patchwork of sun kissed buildings that hits you the first time you sail into the Grand Canal, the harsh shiny black of the gondolas, the flashes of gold in the Rialto bridge shops, the multi-toned Byzantine patterns on the outside walls and inside floors of the great cathedrals, the iron and soot stained pinks, the raw umbers and chalk whites of the century old buildings, the marine marks on their sides, the permanent mustiness in the air, the brick in the wide open piazzas, the sound of a thousand wings in flight in Saint Mark’s Square. There is a surprise in the unexplained fear when looking at Carnival masks in the shop windows, there is the echo on marble of uncertain shoes upon entering a church, the timid flicker of prayer candles, the deep baritones of the Gregorian chants, the way the mass spoken in Latin moves you to tears, the sound of reverence beneath the high altars, the way your eyes burn from the incense ball swung before you, the giggle of young children playing in the pews. There is the delightful sound of people walking, the way you notice what they wear on their feet. There are the old women in black dress, thick shoes and pastel cardigans sitting in doorways in late afternoon, watching. There is that unique Italian way pairs of people stroll arm in arm after a meal, and how observing them opens up your smile. There are rainbows in glass jewelry, hung in stalls, in shops, on fine skin. There is the sparkle of wet laundry hanging over streets and alleyways, shirts and pants and dishcloths strung from one window to the next, There’s the distant dance of accordions or guitars playing somewhere, there’s the patterns in the very, very tall iron gates, which sometimes, let you peak inside secret gardens. There’s the deserted alleys to no-where, the plain, flat doorways that stand firm against knowing what lies behind them, the prettiness of a paradise discovered within hidden courtyards, should you be invited to dinner. There’s the handsome waiters and fat cooks in the back, there’s the black blue of squid ink and the way it oozes into your spaghetti, there’s the jewel tones of creamy risotto, the wet green of escarole cooked in wine, the brick red sausages and pale yellow cheeses hanging in windows, the dark warmth of an evening expresso. There’s the lull of the canal water lapping against tied up boats, in constant motion in the dark shadows under a million bridges, There’s the sharp way everything goes dead quiet when businesses shut down for the night, the emptiness of every street. There’s a feeling of overbearing history and sadness, the weight of time. It makes you very sleepy.

There are other incredible places that have touched me deeply as an artist and as a person. There’s Wellfleet, Massachusetts on Cape Cod, there’s the length of the Jersey shore, Mendecino, Napa, and Marin County, California. There’s the Gulf Coast of Florida, there’s Karmoy and Skudenshavn, Norway. There’s London and the Lake District of England. And there’s more. Perhaps I will take you there, too. Someday. In the meantime, don’t we both feel rested, our pockets full of visual souvenirs? It’s back to the easel for me. You go and have a good week. And thank you for cheering me up.

© 2010 Ann Haaland

To see a few of my travel sketches of France and Italy, check out my album on Facebook! http://bit.ly/95E5a7