Back from England, Part 2: Traveling with Makeshift, Limited, and Unexpectedly Good Art Supplies

Faversham: How could anyone not paint?

In today's post I want to talk about what I painted, why I painted, and how I managed with minimal art supplies during my recent multi-week trip to Faversham, Kent.

One of my main reasons for going to England was to experience what my daily life would be like if I chose to eventually live there, even if only part-time, and that would include maintaining my daily writing and painting routine. With that in mind, I made sure to bring a few supplies with me:

Limited, but enough to get me started.

1. One Bic mechanical pencil with replacement leads stored inside the barrel. While not the best pencils in the world, these cheap little Bics are great for travel. There's no need to bring a pencil sharpener and the removable eraser actually works.

2. My beloved Sailor Fude Pen. I can't go anywhere without this Japanese fountain pen originally designed for calligraphy. The unpredictable wackiness of the angled nib lends itself beautifully to what gives any sketch a strong sense of energy: the element of surprise. Together with the pen I also brought a box of black ink refill cartridges.

3. One white Gelly Roll pen. You never know when you need some highlights.

4. Three water brushes: one flat and two rounds. The beauty of water brushes is a) they're self-cleaning, and b) you never have to worry about bringing, or finding, water for painting when you're on location, inside or out. There's no need for jars or cups, and certainly no worries about spillage.

5. Two torchons: one large; one small. These rolled paper stumps are wonderful for blending pencil marks and creating shadows.

6. One Faber Castell kneadable eraser in a cute little box. I rarely use erasers for actual mark-removal, but they are super-useful in the same way the torchons come in handy.

7. Two binder clips. For holding down the pages of my sketchbook.

8. Viviva watercolor sheets. The absolute star of the show. I had never used these before, but so many people had recommended them so highly I thought they would be perfect for my trip. And they were. The "pamphlet-style" design took up no space whatsoever; the colors were intense and required only a tiny drop of water to activate; and they lasted for days--weeks! I didn't run out of paint until the very end of my trip, a full seven weeks.

Just add water!

9. My small but trusty I Love Cats zippered pouch. Super-lightweight, sturdy, and made from recycled plastic bottles, it held all of my travel art supplies with room to spare. It also let people know how much I love cats.

The only thing missing from this whole set-up was a sketchbook, a decision I made on purpose. Besides not wanting to carry the extra weight, I thought it would be fun to buy something in England to remember my trip. What I didn't know is I would end up buying five of them.

The first sketchbook I came across was a small mixed-media spiral-bound tablet made by a company in Dorset: Coffeenotes, named such because their products are manufactured from recycled coffee cups. I loved the size, the cream-colored paper, and especially the strength of the smooth-textured sheets that took watercolor without excessive buckling. I need more!

 

The next one I bought wasn't quite as unusual, but highly necessary: a Moleskine A4 landscape watercolor journal. I used it every day and night for the entire duration of my trip.

 

One small snafu I encountered in Faversham was the lack of dedicated art supply stores and I was lucky to find what I did at the local bookstore, Tales on Market St.

 

 

Despite the small amount of choice, I did manage to buy two more sketchbooks when I popped into a pop-up store at the 1697 gallery (really built in 1697). Handcrafted by a Faversham bookbinder, Bindfulness, there was no way I was going to pass up these unique and very special concertina books.

As if I didn't have enough paper already, I also unearthed a pad of the best, best kraft paper I have every found--in a discount general merchandise store of all places. Tucked away on a bottom shelf, I saw it while I was searching for dishwashing liquid. Finding art paper was much more exciting than the thought of doing dishes, and I couldn't believe the quality, or the low price of this incredible paper. Made in India, the thick, grainy texture has an old-world feel missing from much of the modern kraft or "bogus" paper sold here in the States, a texture I'm always in search of. After a few initial ink sketches, I used the bulk of the pad for black-and-white acrylic background studies, something I wasn't planning to do, but the paint was on a shelf above the paper and I thought, hmm, why not?

After I found paper and paint, I realized I could get all sorts of cheap but surprisingly good supplies at a variety of discount stores: children's gouache and oil pastels; a set of twenty-four watercolor brush pens; a package of three synthetic watercolor brushes; three house-painting brushes; and two throwaway fountain pens. The prices were excellent; I don't think I paid more than $20.00 for the whole bundle including the black and white acrylic paint, which meant that I used every purchase with reckless abandon--the exact way paint should always be used, regardless of price.

Added to my stash of store-bought supplies were the items I gathered on my daily walks and took home to use as impromptu art tools: sticks and stones, leaves and acorns, flower petals, tiny apples, and best of all: seagull feathers.

Not dinner.

Before leaving home I knew I wanted to take some kind of a drawing class during my stay, and the one I found, Mindful Drawing taught by Nicole Antras at Faversham's Creek Creative couldn't have been better.

Entrance to Creek Creative studios and art space. Cake and hot chocolate, too.

 

The class was only for a single Sunday morning, but I learned so much in a few short hours that I continued to use Nicole's techniques and advice for weeks after.

My Faversham mini-studio with a sample of my classwork.

Switching to drawing from painting sent me once again to the discount store (they were beginning to know me by now) for more supplies (yes, I have a problem): this time a spiral-bound pad of heavy-weight white drawing paper (technically the fifth sketchbook I bought) and a generic set of both graphite and color pencils that turned out to be as good, if not better, than fancy-brand pencils I've paid a fortune for in the past. Unfortunately I then had to buy a rather bulky pencil sharpener; so much for bringing my "convenient" Bic pencil from home.

Sketching, and especially painting, in the English climate definitely had its challenges, starting with the constant cold and damp preventing me from doing anything on site. Worse yet was trying to get my paint to dry, even when indoors. It was the same with my brushes; always wet and soggy no matter what I did.

I overcame the "can't draw outside" dilemma by doing my best to memorize colors and abstracted landscape features every time I went out walking, which was every day, and usually twice. As I walked I would also try to give what I was seeing an emotional context that I could explore once I got home. As soon as I got out of my coat, cardigan, scarf and gloves, I would immediately set to work in a sketchbook.

Watercolor brush pens in my Coffeenotes book.

Dark and gloomy. Sheer gothic joy!

At the end of the day I think I did pretty well with minimal supplies and a lot of improvisation; discovering that "makeshift" doesn't always mean "inferior," and in fact can be a high road into a myriad of creative possibilities. Every time I came across new and unexpected supplies I asked myself, "What if . . . ?" the same question I ask whenever I sit down to write, and my answers never disappointed me. Especially when those answers then turned me toward an entirely new direction: a brand new book manuscript inspired by my dark and stormy sketches.

And that's what I'll be covering in Post #3: Writing the Book I Wasn't Supposed to Write. (I tell you, I was busy in Faversham!) Until next time--

Tip of the Day: After buying all those pens and pencils I needed some extra storage and Faversham's numerous thrift stores were the perfect place to buy mugs, jugs, cups and trays for everything from mixing paint to holding brushes. I got what I needed within minutes of entering the stores, but there was one thing I totally overlooked and didn't think of until I was back in Albuquerque: buying art supplies in those same stores. It never occurred to me that thrift stores have art and craft sections and I bypassed what could have been some genuine opportunities. Next time that's precisely where I'll start first.

 

Back from England! Part 1

 

Faversham! Grey skies and all.

Hello, Everyone! The last time I posted it was about my art retreat journey to France and the artwork I did (and didn't do) there. Several months later I'm now back in Albuquerque after a seven-week visit to England where I stayed in Faversham on the southeast coast. 

 

 

Although I confined my stay to a town the size of a bread box, I managed to do so much that a single post won't cover it all. With that in mind, I'll be writing some future posts about not only what I painted during my visit, but also about starting a brand new manuscript inspired by my surroundings. So please consider this current entry as a general overview of what got me motivated to "stay creative every day" and how much fun I had discovering that same motivation.

 

Returning to Albuquerque during the holiday season gave me plenty of time to regroup and go through the pages and pages of manuscript and sketchbook studies I brought back along with three new sweaters and a set of the best drawing pencils I've ever owned (roughly the equivalent of $5.00 from the discount store. Go figure.). It also gave me some time to think about how on earth I had the fortitude to make such a lengthy and productive trip.

The only explanation I can come up with is that in the three years since my husband died I've encountered so many challenges related to loss and grief I've become much braver than I ever could have imagined. Going to France only weeks before leaving for the UK was another confidence-builder. Admittedly, staying in a French art retreat was hardly a grueling test of will-power and determination (other than surviving for nine days without my luggage). Instead, I traveled with a group, many of whom were friends I already knew, and our days were exquisitely pre-planned with food, transport, sightseeing, and art instruction served on a plate, usually with a glass of wine.

This latest trip to England, on the other hand, couldn't have been more different, and that was exactly how I wanted it. Apart from the freezing cold and having to constantly boil kettle after kettle whether for filling the hot water bottle I carried close to my chest like a beloved pet, or for making endless cups of tea just to wrap my hands around the cup for the warmth alone (drove me nuts, people. Drove me nuts.) I learned I could, well, cope and even be happy about. Good thing, too, because it wasn't the weather alone or never quite understanding the recycling system that forced me into a learning curve. I had to learn to not leave the house without an umbrella or my own shopping bag. 

 

My Halloween-themed bag I wanted to use every day! Boo!

 

I had to learn to accept and not go on and on and on about the weather (or at least no more than anyone else), or about never seeing the sun or never being warm enough to sketch outdoors. I had to learn to cross roads without pedestrian markings and never being certain which direction the British "wrong side of the road" traffic would be coming from (impossible for someone who when told to turn left turns right).

I had to get used to near-daily food shopping because my very-typical under-the-counter refrigerator couldn't hold more than six eggs and a cauliflower, and I particularly had to get used to not having access to a clothes dryer because there weren't any. In the end and more than anything else, I simply learned to be resourceful--the most British trait of all! Even on the rare occasions when I was consumed by homesickness: "England is such hard work! It's so cold! My clothes won't dry! Why is the sky so dark? I wanna go home!" had me laughing at the absurdity of my situation and looking for a solution, e.g., wear more clothes! That, and speed dry them with my hair dryer.

And once my fingers thawed out enough to hold a pen, I filled notebook after notebook with what felt like a wealth of material: the perpetual sound of inland seagulls crying overhead; the unexpected rumble of passing trains; the melancholy non-stop patter of rain hitting my windows; a cat slipping through its own swing door fitted into a gothic archway. Over the weeks most everything I did or saw turned into a story-line and I couldn't stop painting or writing about every piece of it, including:

1. The town being so pretty, especially at twilight (which by November arrived very early). Little medieval or Tudor shops and inns, narrow winding streets, green spaces and water in-between made every exploration memorable.  

2. Pops of color. Often I'd be walking along thinking the world couldn't get any grayer than an English afternoon when suddenly I would see a surprise burst of color. The combination of bright oranges or pinks against a moody sky gave me some interesting sketchbook ideas I'm still experimenting with.

Yes, I know the sun is out . . . lasted only a minute or two . . .

 

Quick ink and gouache sketch using a twig. (Brought indoors, of course!)

3. Coffee shops. It took me longer than I thought it would to find the English equivalent of the type of coffee shop I'm used to here in Albuquerque, one where I can sit and write without feeling I'm taking up space or staying too long. Eventually I discovered the cozy, brick-lined basement at The Refinery where I was able to get coffee AND toasted crumpets (we don't have that in the Duke City). I'll be discussing the manuscript I wrote there in another post, but I will always remember writing, writing, writing by hand and with a fountain pen in that little basement. 

 

This ISN'T The Refinery, but I like the bricks!

4. Speaking of little . . . The attic flat I rented was worthy of a novel of its own. Up several flights of stairs in a lovely Georgian home, despite its miniature size and sloped ceilings it turned out to be the perfect creative space for when I wasn't exploring coffee shops. In all honesty I was a bit tall for rooms I'm assuming once housed a much-shorter serving class, and I was in constant danger of splitting my head open like a melon. What made up for having to remember to always duck if I wanted to go through a doorway was the fact the rooms had recently been painted and refurbished and the abundance of light that came through the windows provided much-needed morale. Another benefit was being so well-situated, smack in the middle of where I wanted to be and I could go absolutely anywhere within minutes. 

The view from my bedroom.

 

5. If you look closely at the photo above you will see the unintentional inclusion of a dog, and my goodness, but there were a lot of dogs. Before I go any further, let me say that most people know I'm not what you'd call a "dog person," being a committed member of Team Cat, but after seeing the huge variety of beautifully groomed, well-behaved silky, fluffy, and sleek breeds parading through the streets (Whippets! Collies! Chows! Terriers! Poodles!), even I started to see the charm in owning a little oodle-doodle of some sort. Never in my life have I seen so many sophisticated animals in one square mile. 

 

Stole this off the Internet. No idea who to attribute copyright to, but thank you! Also note summer clothes: not my experience at all.

Besides mistaking the town for the Westminster Dog Show, I basically spent the vast majority of my time as I've already mentioned: writing and painting, plus visiting wonderful people (probably shaking their heads in disbelief now that I've gone: "Yes, she was very strange. Obsessed with laundry!") and walking. I did a lot of walking.

Walking, wherever I am, has been my most reliable grief "go-to" and by now I'm sure I've circumnavigated the entire globe no less than twice, all the while thinking about my husband with every step. This time as I walked through quaint and bustling streets filled with as many prams as pups, or out toward the marshes where all I could hear was the wind, I thought about how much he would have liked being there with me. I thought about how much he, being English himself, would have laughed at all the silly and surreal moments only life in Britain can provide. I thought about how many of the same places I loved he would have also enjoyed stopping in to have a drink, a conversation, a piece of cake (he loved cake!). At the same time I felt confident that going it alone was exactly what he would have wanted me to do at this point in my life, and how very proud he would have been of me for doing so.  

(OK. Not crying. It's a stuffy nose from all that cold weather. Right.)

Next post: What I painted, how I painted, and why: 

Traveling with Makeshift, Limited, and Unexpectedly Good Art Supplies. 

Here's a glimpse of what's to come. See you soon!

  

Back from France, Part 2: Lessons from an Art Retreat

Entry to the Le Vieux Couvent Studio. Don't let the cats in!

Bonjour! Today's post is a follow-up to my last entry listing my top twelve highlights while visiting Le Vieux Couvent, a rural art retreat situated in France's Dordogne region. In this post I'll be talking about my main reason for going: the art instruction!

Ever since my first art class and subscribing to my first art magazines with their colorful ads for international painting holidays, I've been hooked on the idea of signing up for one. I remember studying intently the photos of rosy little villages set against dramatic mountain landscapes, artists at their easels capturing light and atmosphere and everyone looking so happy--probably because of the many bottles of wine, wedges of cheese, and picnic baskets featured in the backgrounds. It looked wonderful and I would spend hours imagining what it must be like to be on one of those retreats.

Now that I've had the chance to actually find out first-hand, I can report the ads are true. Everyone is happy! The scenery is incredible. The wine and cheese? The best! Did I paint until I dropped? Well, let's just say I tried; because the number one lesson I learned from going on an art retreat is, it's all about:

Inspiration, not completion.

Here's why:

1. Travel is tiring. Although we were offered the opportunity to stay home on sightseeing days, there was no way I was going to skip 29,000 year old cave art or visiting a medieval village carved into the mountain tops. Often when I got there though, I didn't have the energy to open my paints and sketchbook and begin to work. No problem: I took beautiful photographs for future reference; bought scenic postcards; walked and walked and studied the sky, the hills, the architecture. I didn't need to sketch any of it to remember it.

2. The art instruction for the retreat I chose centered on splash ink, a Chinese technique I love for its randomness and sense of surprise. Our instructor, Ming Franz, made the class easy and supportive, even fun as we ran in and out of the studio trying not to drip paint and ink on the tiling, making sure the doors were closed behind us to keep out flies and inquisitive kitties, and waiting for the results while hoping it wouldn't rain (or that no one would turn on the garden hose). We worked hard for those papers, I can tell you! But by the time I had a workable and completely dry stack of pages, I was struck by the thought of "ruining them." I couldn't think of a single thing to paint.

Sumi ink and the 4 traditional watercolors that create a splash ink page.

Dried in the sun: now to figure out how to finish. So many possibilities--

More choices, choices, choices . . .

3. It's a bit difficult for me to paint or draw in a group setting. With the exception of some long-ago pastel studies, anything I have ever produced inside an art class ranks amongst the worst work I have ever done. I need to be home in my own space to truly feel comfortable. I need to stand up, pace, view pieces from varying distances, make cups of tea, flip through sketchbooks, do laundry (setting and working to the timer on both the washer and dryer is a great creative exercise), and clean up my work space while I "think." When I'm in a group I struggle to stay still and buckle down to what we're supposed to be doing.

4. Despite the charm of my "princess room" there was nothing remotely like a desk or table and chair for me to sit at and work in the evenings. It was impossible to draw or sketch other than sitting propped up in the bed, and if you've had any experience with French pillows, you might agree they are the worst in the world. I had five, including the bolster, and each one was too heavy for me to easily lift and place behind my back, let alone shift into position. I especially didn't want to spill paint or get ink on the sheets.

Those lead-weight pillows . . .

Inside the studio: not just for painting. Drinks were served promptly at 6.00 every evening. I could move and mingle as much as I wanted!

Despite the lack of a drawing board or similar in my bedroom, I did find a brilliant alternative: the sitting room assigned to the building I stayed in. Nice and quiet, lots of room to sprawl, a view of the beautiful gardens outside, it became the natural gathering place for what they called our "pod," i.e., the other four people residing in the building with me. (There were several throughout the premises; this one was ours.)

My "pod's" sitting room; one of my favorite places to be.

Every free moment when we weren't driving, eating, or sleeping, I looked forward to what became a daily ritual: tea and madeleines interspersed with conversation and shared art tips while I and the others practiced in our sketchbooks. There was even  a washing machine in the kitchen a few steps down from where we sat, so we could do laundry while we painted--just like at home. Listening to the chatter around me while I laid down casual, loose watercolor washes in my sketchbook helped me to relax. It wasn't splash ink per se, but it followed the same principles we learned in the studio and gave me more ideas and confidence for using my papers once I got home. 

And when I did get home, I was so ready to begin painting:

Experimenting with gouache and ink on a splash ink page at home.

I also couldn't wait to start some monochrome studies of Le Vieux Couvent for a more traditional watercolor approach down the road.

Art Graaf (water-soluble graphite) in my Canson mixed-media sketchbook.

Conté pencil on drawing paper.

Most of all I couldn't wait to start some experimental abstracts from memory, a practice someone in my pod suggested I try. My preferred mediums for that turned out to be my super-favorite Sennelier oil pastels along with Art Graaf, Neocolor II's (fancy water-soluble crayons) and Japanese sumi-infused shadow watercolors:

On the road to Saint-Cirq Lapopie.

 

Abstracted views of Cahors.

View from the bridge at Cahors. (With the help of a reference photo.)

I don't know of anything in life that ever works out exactly as planned or imagined, and "splash ink" couldn't have been a better metaphor for this particular trip. Every day I had to improvise: wearing strange clothing thanks to my missing luggage; finding my way through the rain when I thought I'd got lost in a total maze of a village where every medieval shop front looked the same; painting with borrowed and unfamiliar brushes because the ones I'd packed were in that same delayed suitcase. Some days it seemed I was splashing too hard, others not enough. Eventually I learned to simply throw my artistic expectations into the air and let them fall where they may. A solution that in the words of my dear friend and mentor, the late artist and author Gordon Marlow, "couldn't have been perfecter."

Eat, sleep, purr . . . treats at 6.00 . . . 

Tip of the Day: Life is short--just go! (That was easy.)

Au revoir et merci, Le Vieux Couvent!

 

Back from France! Part 1

Entry courtyard, Le Vieux Couvent (LVC), Frayssinet.

Back home from France! Too soon, too quick, too much to write about. It was an amazing trip, even if some days seemed as if there was too much food (impossible to believe, I know), too much to see (all awe-inspiring), and far too many angsty-hours waiting for my suitcase . . . Air Canada managed to misplace my luggage (with many of the required art supplies I listed in my last post) for a whole nine days. However, thanks to the emergency wardrobe my LVC hosts had on hand because "this sort of thing happens all the time," I easily survived, and with an unexpected bonus when I returned to Albuquerque:

The "secret" path from my room to the art studio.

The easiest unpacking of my life: everything went right back into my closet. No laundry!

One of the many LVC gathering areas.

Which then gave me extra time to think and write about all the quirky, unexpected, and quite wonderful things that happened. There are so many of them that I've decided to write two posts: one on my top 12 happy memories, and a second post next week about the art side of the retreat. So here goes: 

The back road to the church and convent buildings.

1. Meeting the rest of the tour group. It was such a pleasure to meet up again with people I had known from an earlier trip to Taiwan, but equally special was meeting so many new friends. Our backgrounds were as varied as the many places we came from, and I absolutely loved listening to the different voices and accompanying accents around the dining table. So much so that I often caught myself saying odd phrases like, "Bonjour, y'alls," or thanking people with "gracias" rather than "merci" whenever we were out and about. Hopefully the French thought I was just one more crazy American and didn't give any of it a second thought.

 

2. Splash Ink Lessons. As I mentioned, next week I'll be posting about the art that came out of the retreat, but before that I want to say a huge thank-you to Ming Franz for making the trip possible. It wasn't easy organizing all of our tickets, rooms, individual requests, or bringing the vast amounts of paint and paper we needed every day. Without Ming, there wouldn't have been a trip and I can't imagine any of it without her.

 

Adventures in splash ink: Thank you, Ming!

 

3. My room. I felt incredibly fortunate (and a bit guilty) to have one of the best rooms in the house. It was so nice we called it "The Princess Room." What no-one realized though is that if you're going to live like a princess, you have to walk like one. If I fell over the ledge dividing my room from the doorway once, I fell one thousand times. I simply couldn't see where the ledge ended and the floor began. Eventually I got the hang of it: there is a drop--think before you fly, and I learned to hold onto the door frame before stepping into space. Awkward but life-saving.

 

Le Ledge of Death.

 

Le Princess Bed Extraordinaire.

4. Furniture Shopping in Collonges-les-Rouges.

One of my most unforgettable days was a morning spent helping one of my travel companions shop for patio furniture in the village of Collonges-les-Rouges--far more interesting than wandering around reading historical plaques: "built in 1564 . . ." Except halfway through sales negotiations, re: shipping details and what color chair cushions to choose, I suddenly DID notice a plaque. And not just one--an entire roomful straight from Albuquerque, NM. In the front of the store every wall was plastered with metal plaques and New Mexico license plates featuring Route 66 and the joys of riding a Harley down the highway. I was speechless until I was able to tell the shop owner that I and several other members of our group were from Albuquerque, leaving him as stunned as I was. He then led us outside to show where he was cooking lunch on one of the Mexican clay stoves he sold--the type of ubiquitous clay fireplace found in almost every backyard here at home. I still feel as if I were in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

 

Everything in this village was made from red sandstone.

Except for the clay stoves from New Mexico.

 

5. Kitty Boy (or at least that's what I called him). Although there were several cats on the premises (with strict instructions they were not allowed into our rooms), I've always been a push-over for gingers. Despite the language barrier (I'm assuming the resident cats only spoke French) this chaton was happy to sit on my lap and be smothered with affection whenever possible. On our last morning I just had to know what his real name was (Pierre? Jean-Luc?) but no one could tell me because it turned out he didn't actually live there--what a little cad! He'd only been visiting for the treats and attention.

 

What's for lunch? I hope it's not foie gras AGAIN . . .

I'm ready for my close-up, Monsieur Rousseau . . .

 

6. The "school bus." Which took me forever to understand was really, really for tiny school children. I'm sure I wasn't alone in thinking when we were first told a school bus would be picking us up from the airport that a school bus meant, well, a big yellow school bus. So when I saw the small white van that was to be our ride for the rest of the trip, I didn't understand. I became even more confused when I took my seat; it was so tight. Surely I hadn't eaten that much on the plane. All I could think was, "Gosh, the French are skinny. What's wrong with them?" Finally one afternoon after sitting in my usual sideways position receiving numerous bruises to my rib cage and kneecaps I saw the yellow triangle on the windshield warning oncoming traffic of les enfants on board. The other drivers must have been astonished to watch us full-grown adults tumble out when we reached our destinations.

Skinny little road just right for our skinny little bus.

Side street in Cahors too skinny even for us.

 

7. Les Picnics. The food was exactly as you would imagine French cuisine to be: first-class. Servings and courses were numerous. Wine in abundance. Presentation, beautiful. I ate every bite, usually while promising myself I would never eat again. And then dessert would arrive and my plans would mysteriously change. But despite all the country charm of the LVC dining room, my favorite meals were the outdoor picnics under the trees and with no mosquitos--ever. (Flies, yes, but they were a pretty gold color and didn't bite.)

 

One of my favorite picnic sites: the Water Gardens, Perigord.

 

8. Chaud Chocolat on a rainy day. Our visit to the mountain-high village of Saint-Cirq Lapopie was one of the days lunch wasn't provided by LVC. It was also a day when we were told families ate out and it might be difficult to get a seat at a restaurant. None of this meant anything to me because this was the day I planned to skip lunch. Instead, I went shopping for new clothes as by now I had given up on ever seeing my suitcase again. The streets were steeper than steep and we had been warned that "if you go down, remember you have to climb up." Things worsened as it began to rain. Yet up and down the cobblestones I went, my shopping bags becoming increasingly soggy with every step until I had nowhere to go but to a cafe. By this time I was also longing for not coffee, but my preferred chaud chocolat. To my dismay, when I entered the only restaurant I could find all the tables had "reserved" signs on them. Within seconds, however, no problem--a waiter took me to the best table overlooking the best view, removed the reserved card, sat me down and insisted I stay as long as I wanted. The chocolat was steaming hot and even came with a package of biscuits. Sitting there watching the rain fall and feeling so peaceful is something I will always remember.

 

Rainy day, Saint-Cirq Lapopie.

One shop wouldn't let me leave until they demonstrated how to style my new dress three ways. Only in France.

9. Before I bought clothes though, I bought a berry bowl.

I've always wanted a berry bowl and this one with a matching plate was obviously waiting for me. Handmade in Toulouse out of glazed terra cotta, I've been using it every day--not just for berries, but cherry tomatoes, rinsing spinach or draining a serving of pasta--it's a keeper!

10. Rocamadour and the Black Madonna. Prior to leaving Albuquerque I didn't pay very much attention to what our daily itinerary would be. Part of me wanted it to be a surprise, another was too busy collecting "12 plastic spoons" etc., etc. Visiting Rocamadour and the Black Madonna was the last thing I ever thought we would be doing, so it came as a genuine gift when we went there for the day. Black Madonnas have always been important to me, with a visit to Montserrat being one of the highlights of my life. As soon as I got home from this last trip I couldn't wait to re-read the memoir written by my friend Elaine Soto, My Journey to the Black Madonna. In her book she includes a chapter describing her own visit to Rocamadour illustrated with her artwork. Reading this section again added an entirely new, and shared, dimension to my feelings about being there.

Somehow I walked from top to bottom.

The main street at last.

11. Les Milandes. Another surprise was going to Josephine Baker's home, Les Milandes. You can't go to Europe and not visit a castle and this one was definitely worth seeing, especially as it had on display a full array of costumes (the banana skirt!), photographs, and furniture. The woman in the gift shop issuing tickets was impressed with the way we said "caaa-stle" as opposed to her British-inflected "cah-stle." "We wanna see the caaa-stle!" "Oh, I do like way you say 'caaa-stle,'" she said. "It's so much more . . ." Here she paused. As I was in a hurry to get inside the caaa-stle--no dilly-dallying for me--I suggested: "Jazzier?" "Voila! That's it! It's much more jazzier! Oh, I do like that too!" Always happy to help.

Les Milandes; Josephine Baker's home.

12. The Caves at Pech Merle. Were cold and drizzly and one of the most interesting--and moving--places I have ever been to. The wall art dates back 29,000 years and from the minute I entered all I could think about was how much I miss working in clay (temporarily on hold until I have a studio again). From early childhood when I was given a book on Neanderthal and Cro-Magnum cultures for Christmas I've been hooked on clay beads, bison and woolly mammoth figurines, and especially wall paintings made on damp earth and rock. Walking underground and seeing these creations was, without exaggeration, a dream come true.

 

No photography allowed so I "borrowed" from the website.

13. And one more: Swimming lessons. The two items I most wanted from my missing suitcase were my flip-flops and my bathing suit. Every day I would pass either one of the two pools and wish I could go swimming. On the day my case finally arrived it was late and nearly time for drinks and dinner but when I saw the sun sparkling on the water, I knew if I didn't take the opportunity to swim I would regret it for the rest of my life. Within minutes I was ready to go. What I had completely forgotten, though, was that I hadn't been in a pool for close to ten years. Worse yet, this particular pool was shaped like a soup bowl with rounded walls; no stairs or railings. Regardless, I thought I could just walk in (how hard could it be?) when of course I promptly lost my footing and fell ingloriously into the deep end. At the same time I immediately realized I had forgotten how to swim. Oh, great, I thought. I get my suitcase at last and now I drown. After a few micro-seconds of near-panic instinct suddenly kicked in and I found myself floating on my back, looking into the beautiful sky and thinking how perfect the whole trip had been. Just float, I told myself. Just float. And so I did.

Next post: It's all about the art! See you soon.