Moissac: Filled with Dangerous Old Fogies

In the past two days, I have seen a dog get his paw run over by his master in a motorized wheel chair AND an old man drive his car into a tree. Obviously, there's one thing we can take away from this, it's that Moissac senior citizens need to watch where they're going!

Beware!

I've been in Moissac for two and a half days now. So far, I've been to the abbey three times and I plan on returning there again tomorrow to tour the cloister. If you're anything like me, you're wondering, 'What the heck is a cloister?" Well, contrary to what you might imagine, a cloisters are not those things that get removed when you have a colonoscopy, neither are they the clumps of grains found in Honey Bunches of Oats. Cloisters are, well, um...they're basically like a courtyard with a covered walkway surrounding it.  This cloister is especially cool because it is lined with amazingly detailed columns and beautiful arches (or a series of arches called an 'archade'). Nope, there won't be any Pac-Man at this arcade, just columns and carved capitals depicting various scenes from the Bible- which, in my mind, is pretty much as fun as pinball (and less expensive).

Columns lining the abbey cloister...forming arches that make an archade...make sense?

As I mentioned in the last blog, I am staying at a hostel here in Moissac. Most of the hostel guests are walkers en route to Santiago for the annual religious pilgrimage, navigating their way along 'The Way of Saint James'-. What started as a Catholic tradition is now a walk completed by people of all faiths (or non-faiths). The Way of Saint James starts in France and ends in Santiago, Spain and is 730+ kilometers (about 450 miles). Imagine walking from Spokane to Boise.... it's like that.

I've met several very nice people in my past two days, in particular, a woman from Holland (Gerda- sounds like 'Heerrrrrda', it helps if you hock a little bit of a loogie while you're saying it... that's what I do). We (Gerda and I) shared a nice little chat session at a cafe near the abbey. Gerda confessed that she loved ice cream and I told her about my love for sorbet, so we sat and ate dessert for about a half hour and then we were on our way back to the hostel. If there's one thing I really enjoy about about being on this trip, it's the people. I mean, art is cool and all, but the people make it so much more valuable.

Well, that's about it here. My sketches have been a little lack-luster, but I'm okay with that. There's plenty to see and plenty to draw and plenty to do, so I am happy (even if I am not pumping out a masterpiece every day).

I Don't Speak Japanese

Hello from Moissac, France- where white grapes are plentiful and architecture is muy bien (wrong language, but whatev.)

My train ride from Montcabrier was very uneventful- leaving Sally and having to say goodbye was sad, of course, but I comforted myself thinking that I’d come back and visit her someday. Ah, yes, promises to return are usually not fulfilled, but this was more like a ‘suggestion’ rather than a ‘promise’.

Oh, yeah- I almost forgot, my train ride was ALMOST very uneventful except for my giant art suitcase almost crippling me with a full-frontal attack to my ankle. I was just minding my own business, trying to board a train in Agen, when I picked up my bag and it caught on something and came right back and tried to kill me. It left a giant*, HUGE, ENORMOUS scrape that needed emergency medical assistance. (see footnote...no pun intended).

I arrived here early this afternoon and spent the majority of my day just getting to know Moissac. I walked to the famous abbey in town. The abbey is old- pretty much as old as the hills. The sculptures included in the Romanesque cloister and entry way date back to 1100- we’re talking about 1000 year old sculptures here… you sure can’t find these back home!  I got a glimpse at the entryway that has a scene from St. John’s vision of The Final Judgment: beautiful, kind of frightening, and really old.  Inside the abbey were beautiful arches, stained glass windows, sculptures. My favorite sculpture was made of wood- a life-size carving of two men lowering Jesus into a box after he’d been taken off of the cross. The solemnity and the craftsmanship combine to make something unique, touching, and memorable.

Tonight, I sat to eat my soy yogurt with a group of six other people when the hostel owners asked me if I would like the extra bowl of soup and extra pork chop they had left-over. I looked at my soy yogurt, looked at the soup and decided that maybe I’ll have my bland yogurt for dinner tomorrow.  There was a Japanese woman at the table, so I tried to wow her with my Japanese skills (I know two words) - I used them out of context and she smiled- what a polite lady. After impressing her with my skills, I showed her some examples of my artwork and she liked them- what a polite lady. I showed her artwork, she showed me pictures of her delicious Japanese food she eats back home, and we ate our soup together; we’re friends now.

I hope to get some sketches of the abbey done tomorrow. I might also go to a local café and get an espresso or even buy a souvenir to remember my time in Moissac. I know one thing for sure, I’m going to polish-up on my Japanese.

*stop listening because Vivian is exaggerating and blowing things way out of proportion.

Sad face from saying goodbye to Sally

suitcase, purse, Juanita, and a roll of canvas.

Juanita in her sleeping bag.

Part of the abbey entrance.

Inside the abbey.

My favorite sculpture so far.

Votives.

Transition Time

It's been a while since my last post... a good four days or so, I think this might be the longest stretch that I've been silent on this end. To be perfectly honest, I kind of got sick of hearing my own 'voice' on here and went on a blog diet for a few days.
But now, oooooh now, I do have some things to report on.

First of all, I leave Montcabrier tomorrow. I seriously cannot believe that it's almost been a month since I arrived- time slipped through my fingers. Something about the weather, the food, the atmosphere here makes it seem like you're in a time warp. I didn't get nearly as much accomplished as I had planned but I am still pleasantly surprised with what  DID get done; I am excited at the progress that has been made here.

 If you've been following me on Facebook, you will have noticed that I switched mediums for a while. Along with painting, sketching, and my black and white drawings, I added collage to my collection of artwork. After painting for three months straight, I needed to switch things up for a few days. Collage has added a new dimension to my artwork- causing me to analyze colors and textures in a new way that will also help me with my paintings. Collages allow me to create images that I just wouldn't be able to with paint and canvas, and sometimes there's messages, feelings, and ideas I want to express that can only be communicated using collage. So, this allows me to interact with a larger audience AND I don't feel so burned out.

One of the collages made this month.

With that said, my painting style is evolving as well. I have returned to my style of painting using simplified shapes and lots of contrast. This style isn't as popular as the more drawn-out landscapes, but, I am not aiming to please an audience. I paint for myself and God and if people like it- great! If not, well... I guess I can add another painting to my wall back home. =)

Simplified shapes and contrast: my favorite.

So that's that in the art world. Thanks to all my favorite people for putting up with my constant barrage of paintings on Facebook and postings about art. =)

In other news:
A man in the village, completely drunk, barged into my apartment yesterday. He knocked twice and then let himself in- I stopped him and turned him around. He followed me into the courtyard when I tried to lead him away from the house (and me). Then he pulled a picture out of his pocket- a picture of himself hiking in the woods- he pointed to the picture and  said,  'Souvenier' and gave it to me.
 After he handed me the picture of himself, he pulled a small piece of paper out with a phone number on it and pointed to the number and then pointed to himself and then pointed at me (number, him, me). It didn't take a genius to figure out that he wanted me to call him sometime. Well, since I am leaving and all and since he barged into my apartment, and since he's about 60 years old AND since he seems to have a habit of being completely wasted at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, I declined his offer of his phone number with a, "Sorry, I can't."
I felt bad for having to turn him down as he obviously had grandiose plans for the two of us, but... a girl's gotta draw the line, right?

-I went to a Zumba class yesterday with Sally (the residency director). It was completely in French, but it wasn't hard to follow the moves: monkey see, monkey do. It was a good workout and that's a good thing since this whole baguette and sorbet diet I've been on has added to overall size of my, um... derriere. I tried on one of the dresses I brought from home and had a hard time getting it over my, um....derriere. It was right then and there that I decided it was time to get back into shape- right after I finished my lemon sorbet & compote dessert, of course.
The problem with being in Europe is that you don't want to be such a dietary stinge that you don't have any fun or enjoy the local cuisine. But then again, a person might go a little overboard with welcoming the cultural dishes and end up being a guest on the next season of 'Biggest Loser'.

-A couple of weeks ago, I walked into a pottery shop and heard some fabulous music playing in the background, I fell head-over-heels in love with it and asked the sales gal who the singer was. She told me and I immediately purchased her album. The lady's name is Melody Gardot- a little jazz a little..'jena se qua'.
I'm a fan. Maybe you will be too. If not, well, ok.

I bought this cool bowl at the pottery shop. 

- Two nights ago, I had dinner with Sally and one of her friends (Joselyn). First of all, I would like to say that Joeslyn is pretty much the funnest, coolest, greatest person ever. She and I were instant friends. She is 66 years old and works in the porcelaine  factory in Puy l'Eveque. Joselyn studied opera for years and, after a few glasses of wine, she sang a few songs for us.

Then, she asked us to sing something. My contribution to the evening was singing "Guess I'll Go Eat Worms" from Wee Sing Silly Songs- it ain't opera, folks...but it'll do in a pinch.

Well, that's about it. I am headed to a store today to buy some jeans- my khaki capris just aren't cutting it anymore and the rest of my clothes are, as Sally would say, 'tatty' (meaning- ugly, worn out).


-Let's see....my plans for the next month look something like this:
September 28-October 2: stay in Moissac and paint scenes around the church there.
October 2-29: Stay with my generous cousin and her family in northern France. I hope to help out and earn my keep there.... no mooching allowed.
October 30: Paris (I haven't been IN the city yet, just the airport).

Thanks for tagging along on this little adventure of mine!

Slow Food and Snail Mail

Fast food is convenient. Email is convenient. Drive-through espresso stands are convenient. Twitter is convenient. Facebook is convenient.

But...

Slow food is delicious. Hand written letters are special. Coffee in a small cafe is memorable. A note longer than 140 characters to a friend  is thoughtful.

Fast food might fill you up but slow food is good for you. Email might offer plenty of opportunities to communicate with friends, family, and colleagues, but a letter with a stamp on it brightens a person's day. A caramel latte from your favorite drive-through might wake you up for work, but when was the last time you sat down to drink your coffee? Updating your friends with your latest photos and statuses is a great way to keep people informed, but have you taken time to see how someone else is doing?

In an age of  'quicker, faster, easier, and instant', I'm starting to see that filling our lives with these things is like filling our lives with fries and McNuggets...they fill us for a while but they have little 'nutritional' value. I believe these things that are created for our convenience cause us to be a little more self-absorbed. We don't take time to eat good food, we don't take time to sit and think, we don't even take time to make a phone call instead of sending a text message, and the majority of us don't take time to write a note to a friend and send it through the mail (no wonder our US Postal Service is going belly-up).

One thing I've learned this month is that good things take time and energy. I have had the luxury of being removed from a 'faster, quicker' world for a month and, although it was frustrating at first, it's felt so good to slow down and choose what I invest my time in.  Food, conversation, relationships, commitments, personal projects, artwork, and friendships- they all take time and energy to create- but they're worth it.

I am making a proposal to all my blog readers, a challenge to those who are ready for it:
 Write one letter to one person this week.  Write a note in a card or scratch out a letter or on a piece of lined paper. You can use legal pad paper, computer paper, cardboard, whatever you have handy, just as long as it is a couple paragraphs and written by hand (don't worry about your handwriting or spelling errors). Giving someone a hand written letter versus sending a short email is like the difference between  pot roast with potatoes and a  Hungryman TV Dinner.

Good things take time and energy. Can you put a little time and energy into sending a note to a friend or family member? Let's take a second or two out of our busy schedules and write something that a person can open with their hands and physically hold and read- something tangible-something that can be stored  in a drawer or a file or a pocket, to be read over and over again..

A letter, written in your own handwriting, signed with your own signature, absent of emoticons and 'LOLs' will only take about 7 minutes to write (at the most). You can either hand deliver your letter or send it through the mail- with a stamp on the envelope. You can send your mom a letter, your dad a note,  or your sibling a 'hello'. You could write to your friend from college, your husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, wife, daughter, son, cousin, aunt, uncle, niece, nephew, friend from elementary school, an old colleague, and so on. The person you decide to write to is your choice, but I guarantee the recipient's response will be the same, they will appreciate the time and energy you put into something- more time and energy than it takes to click 'send' on an email, click 'update' on your Facebook, pay for your drive-through mocha, pick up a value meal from the second window, or get a Hungryman from the freezer to the microwave to the TV tray.

*Personal note: It started with sending postcards from Sweden, Iceland, and  France, now letter writing is becoming one of my favorite ways to stay in contact. I have found that a simple gesture like a letter or note means a lot to people- and I am sure you'll find it the same with whoever you write to. Happy Friday!

The Results Are In

Three days ago, I asked my fellow Facebook friends and family to vote for their favorite French painting so far. Thirty-three people voted. It was great to read all the comments and  responses. I want to thank everyone for their input and their feedback, it is so encouraging to see everyone commenting on the artwork!    Here are the voting results:

These three paintings tied for 5th Place:

4th Place:

3rd Place:

2nd Place:

1st Place:

The 1st place painting needs a name.

That's my next project. =)

Interview with a MOMpire.

Hello and welcome to another edition of Vivogue Magazine. This month's edition of Vivogue was delayed as all of our employees have been busy working on other projects, some have been on vacation and others just didn't shown up for work. Because of this delay, I had a chance to think a little longer about what this article should be about. As Editor in Chief, owner, designer, and author of Vivogue, I pretty much get to call the shots- so I summoned myself to a meeting and tossed out some new groundbreaking ideas that might just grab the attention of some of my most skeptical readers out there. After a heated conversation, I decided that maybe it was time to feature an interview with someone other than myself. It takes a humble person to step aside and let someone else take the spotlight...um...incase you didn't get that, I am calling myself humble...now, where's my Humility of the Month award?!?

I scoured high and low for a worthy subject to be featured in Vivogue and, after much deliberation, I decided to interview my own mother. I mean, she DOES deserve a little recognition for bringing me into this world- without her, one might even say that you wouldn't have the privledge of reading Vivogue Magazine! Mom: a worthy subject indeed.

So, I tracked down one of my mindless minions, who was just sitting at her desk checking her email and writing nonsensical updates on Facebook,  and told her to go interview my Mom. After a good 12 hours, she returned with this:

Vivogue Rep: Well, I drove for what seemed like days until I got to some part of rural eastern Washington- I pulled up what I thought was a driveway and found a red house guarded by a pair of lick-happy dogs: a Black Lab and a Sheltie. I got out of the car and knocked on the door of the house. I was greeted by a gray haired gentleman dressed head to toe in grease stained camoflauge military fatigues.
"Lacie will be down in a second," the man said. He must have noticed the ovbious look of disgust on my face because he looked down at his dirty clothes and apologized "I just got done putting new hydrolic fluid in the backhoe."
Like that means anything to me.
I said "Oh, ok" and made a mental note never, EVER to change hydrolic fluid in anything ending in the word 'hoe'.

A few seconds later I heard the 'click, clack' sound of high heels descending a staircase. A woman dressed in a navy blue linen suit came into view and stepped towards me.
"Hello, I'm Vivian's mother." She extended her hand and I couldn't help but notice the turquoise blue bangle bracelets on her wrist.
This woman's got style...she must get it from her daughter.

I introducted myself as a Vivogue Representative and showed her my badge- a large cardboard cutout of Vivian's profile, dusted in gold glitter.

Vivian's mom led me out onto a deck that overlooked a field and some medium-sized mountains in the distance. After sitting and chatting for a few minutes, we started the interview.

Vivogue Rep: So, Lacie, how have you been doing without Vivian around?
Vivian's Mom: ((uncontrolable tears, sobbing, and wailing)).

Vivogue Rep: Ok. Next question. What is it like being Vivian's mother?

Vivian's Mom: It rocks! Vivian is the sparkplug of this family.

Vivogue Rep: I'm sorry, did you say 'stinkbug'?
VM: No, hun.

VR: How would you describe your role in the Abell family?

VM: Our powers are divided; I am the legislative/judicial branch.

VR: I actually have it on good account that you are judge, jury, and most often executioner. Do you care to comment?

VM: Don't push it.

VR: What is the best part about having Viv out of the country?
VM: I get to hear about her adventures from afar, and believe it or not, I probably talk to her more often.

VR: I bet it's nice to not have her eating all your food either... I mean, she can be kind of piggish at times, can't she.

VM: Yes, but pigs are smart.

VR: What does that mean?
VM: If you were a pig, you'd know.

VR: Ok. Whatever. Speaking of food, if you could eat one meal for the rest of your life, what would it be and why?
VM: Probably poached salmon with pesto, white beans, and salad. Followed by some terrific dessert.

VR: ((mumbles something)).

VM: Speak up and sit up straight- and let's have a little more eye-contact, shall we?

VR: Yes, Mom... I mean, Viv's Mom.

VM: That's better.

VR:What's your favorite painting or artwork that Vivian has ever done?
VM: No fair. I can't answer that; it is like which kid do I love the most.

VR: You love Vivian the most, right? 

VM: ((Rolls eyes))

VR: What's your biggest pet peeve?

VM: I don't like being tapped on the shoulder. And the word "congradulations" makes me cringe.

VR:We hear you're turning 60 this year. If you could sum up your past 60 years in three words, what would they be?
VM: God Is Good

VR: Well, I can't make a joke about that one. Next. What is a favorite memory you have of just you and Viv?
VM: Floating in Twin Lakes one hot summer day, on our noodles, singing "Ode To Billie Joe" at the top of our collective lungs, and LAUGHING!

VR: Hmmm. Never heard of it. I'll have to check that one out. Describe your hopes for Viv as she travels.
VM: I hope she brings back new, larger parameters for her life and that she discovers that people are people, everywhere.

VR: I bet she'll bring back new, larger stretch pants.... Um... If you could pass piece of wisdom on to our readers, what would it be?

VM. Floss.

VR: Floss? That's it??

VM: Dental hygiene is very important. Do you floss?

VR: That's none of your beeswax.

VR: Samoas or Thin Mints?

VM: Ick. I don't like Girl Scout Cookies.

VR: Well, I guess that leaves more for me- that is if Vivian doesn't eat them all first...

VR: Last Question. What is your favorite thing about  Vivogue Magazine?

VM: I love Vivogue, because there are never smelly inserts in the magazine, and I don't get subscription reminders.

VR: Well, it's been a pleasure. I love your outfit. Now, how do I get back to the freeway?
VM: Go out, down the road, turn left, another left, another right, two more lefts and then go straight for about three hours.

VR: Can you draw me a  map?

VM: No, but my husband will...right after he's done changing the oil in the CAT.

VR: Cats have oil?

VM: Yes, dear. More coffee?

Well, that sums it up. A great pair of parents for sure. I'm definitely going to come back and interview Viv's dad next time- he seems like an interesting guy. Now, I'm off to go see if I can find  a copy of "Ode to Billy Joe" somewhere.

Busy.

There are a couple of topics that have been running through my mind lately- one of them is how busy Americans are- including myself. Here's a little note about busyness, it is in no way intended to sound preachy, but is intended to challenge you and me. 'Busy' doesn't necessarily mean 'productive' and it hardly ever means 'fulfilled'.

Imagine:

A frail man lies in bed with his family around him. Gathering as much strength as he has left, the old man lifts his hand to summon everyone closer- he slightly lifts his head and opens his eyes to see all of his loved ones near. He takes a shallow breath and forms one last sentence:
“I wish I would have spent more time working at the office.”

And then he dies.

If you’re having a hard time getting this to play out in your mind, that’s probably because things like this don’t happen. Men and women don’t ever reflect on their life and say that they wish they would have worked more-  worked later, harder, more frantically, no one every says “Gee, I guess I could have used a little more stress in my life.” It just doesn’t happen. Instead, what happens is that people work their fingers to the bone, sacrifice their relationships, their health, and their sanity only to regret it later.

Have you ever heard a mother complain about her kids’ hectic schedule? “Joey has soccer, Anna has ballet, and Madison has piano…I just don’t think we’re going to get home before 9 o’clock.”  

 Have you ever heard someone brag about how many miles they put on their car? “Dude, I put 2000 miles on my car last week” it’s like they’re looking for the ‘I Drove the Wheels off My Car Because I Am So Busy’ Prize.

What about the guy that brags about how many hours of work he put in? “I worked 60 hours this week and then went home on the weekend to help remodel my friend’s house- I haven’t slept in two and a half days.”

Have you ever heard a college student say “I just read fourteen chapters of biochem. and now I am off to study group…right after I finish typing this twelve page paper.”

If you answered yes to any of these, or maybe you’re finding that you are the one saying them, you’re not alone- Americans are busy- too busy. Why are we doing this to ourselves? Is someone forcing you to be so frazzled or are you filling your schedule with things that only add to your stress? Is it worth it?

I recently got into a conversation with a friend back home who was trying to decide whether to drive across the state of Washington right after work ended at 5pm or to wait and drive back the next day. I encouraged him to spend the night and make the 8 hour drive that next morning. He seemed to have  a hard time with the idea- like NOT being in a rush made him uncomfortable. Somewhere along the line, this friend of mine has been convinced that being busy is noble and that taking time for himself is ‘lazy’.  

Raise your hand if you’ve ever heard:
“You gotta work hard if you want to get ahead in this world, Son.” This bit of advice is usually passed down from generation to generation and, to some extent, I totally agree. Yes, it does take hard work to get ahead- but that’s not the only requirement for success. Notice that the statement is “You gotta work hard…” not “You gotta be really, really busy…”

The old man in the scenario written at the top didn’t say “I wish I would have spent more time working at the office” because when a person has a chance to reflect on what life is all about, he or she will find that life is about the relationships that are made- not a paycheck or a promotion.

Emotional Leftovers

Last night, I stumbled across some news that stopped me in my tracks. I was doing my evening cruise through Facebook to catch up on the latest from back home when I noticed a little heart shaped indicator on my screen annoucning that my ex husband is now engaged to be married. I tried to act like it didn't bother me, but I admit that it did.  My stomach dropped. The feelings I had were unidentifyable- it wasn't jealousy, it wasn't anger or bitterness but more like a slight mixture of sadness and confusion. Just when I think that the last part of me stopped hurting and stopped caring, I find residual emotions that reveal themeselves over time- last night was one of those instances. 

Finding these tender spots inside is kind of like picking up glass off the floor after you've dropped a mug: you pick up the large pieces first, and then you sweep with the hand-broom. Even after those two steps, a person still finds little shards here and there- under the toe space, next to the door. A person never gets it all at once, and somtimes even hours, or days afterwards, you might find one or two little pieces glinting in the light. 

I found a little glinting piece of tenderness last night.

 I layed in bed for what seemed like forever, just staring at the celing, thinking and wrestling with conflicting emotions,. With the seconds and minutes ticking steadily by, my brain tried to make sense of everything that has happened these past several years with Matt.  Like any sort of complicated situation, however, it's not easy to wrap everything up in a nice little package and put it on a shelf along with the rest of life's biggest scenarios. Life is not simple though, it is not sterile- it is often complicated and messy.

This is one of those complicated and messy moments.

"You know... CHAMPAGNE!"

Yesterday was one for the record books. Sally, Tom (a fellow resident writer from South Africa), Juanita and I piled into Sally's little black Twingo and drove to see the 30,000 year old Pech-Merle cave paintings. Sally brought up the idea of going two days ago and I nearly jumped out of my skin from excitement. I originally learned about the prehistoric cave paintings my sophomore year of college and found them facinating. I remember Google searching the web to see if I could get posters of the paintings- their simplicity as well as their history combine to put these primitive works of art on my top 5 favorite artistic pieces.
This might all sound a little dry to you, but for an art history nerd like me, it was kind of a big deal- like a football fan going to the Super Bowl or a NASCAR fanatic going to the Indy 500.

I decided to bring Juanita along for the trip as she's been pretty bored just sitting in the room and waiting for me to come back in the afternoons from my painting expeditions. I told her she could go as long as there wasn't any monkey business.  I was happy to pack her a banana or two for the road since it kept her quiet on our hour long car ride.

We arrived at Pech-Merle and went on the 50 minute tour, which was completely in French. It was a really good thing that Sally came to translate- I kept hearing 'buh-tum' whenever the tour guide took his laser pointer over a certain part of a drawing. I asked Sally what he was saying... turns out that the drawing he was pointing to was a shilouette of a woman- with a very large 'buh-tum'. One thing I noticed about the drawings of women was that the artists didn't seem to care to include heads on the ladies- they just drew very fertile looking women with lines for heads.... kind of makes me think that these primitive men didn't really value their women's brains too much. They definitely put of a lot of emphasis on the physical attributes vs. anything else. I won't be too judgemental of these artistic men, however, I mean, they did do some works of art that lasted a lot longer than any of my paintings will- and I am SURE a woman played a large part in the cleaning of his animal skin clothes when he returned from his cave expeditions- covered in iron oxide and charcoal.

After we got done with the tour, I asked if we could do it all over again. Sally said 'no' because it was well past lunch time and we were due to have a bite in St. Cirq Lapopie- noted the most beautiful village in France. St. Cirq Lapopie is famous as the gem of the Lot region of France and, in one tour guide, it was referred to as one of the most beautiful places not just in France, but in their entire world. Well over 800 years old, this town is built on a rock outcropping that looks over the gorgeous Lot river. It once had three castles in the village- just ruins are left now, but a lot of the other buildings in the town are almost a thousand years old... which makes our puny little stick homes back in Ferry County look like short-term investments. If you really want something to last, it's gotta be build out of limestone, have a roof of limestone, and be build on a foundation of limestone.
On our way to 'Lapopie, we passed a massive field of sunflowers. Tom and I begged Sally to pull over and let us take some photos.  When I think 'France' I think 'sunflowers', and I admit I was disappointed to hear that they'd all bloomed by September and the locals told me that I probably would only see one or two individual flowers still yellow... but this patch proved the locals wrong. I joked that walking on the road above the sunflowers, with them 'looking' in my direction made me feel like a rockstar going on stage to face adoring fans.
"HELLO SUNFLOWERS! I LOVE YOU! Here's a new song I wrote, just for you..."

There's no real use in my trying to desribe the town of St. Cirq Lapopie to you, because I just won't do it justice. Let me just say this: if I could pack things up and move there, I'd do it without hesitation. There are just some places in the world that actually do take your breath away- St. CL is one of those places. You might want to Google it if you want some really good photos. I am just showing you one of the best ones I took.. and I will post more pictures later.

I had a little Cassis Sorbet in the village, just to celebrate my being there. The server gave me a metallic plastic spoon. It looked so real that I asked him if he wanted it back when I was finished with it. He looked at me like I was a weirdo and said 'No."

Another gentleman I met at the panini shop told me he used to be a bank manager in Champagne and then said "You know... CHAMPAGNE!" and then pantomimed popping a cork- he and I got along really well after that.

Juanita looks over the Lot River with St. Cirq Lapopie Church in the background.

Well, I have to go to bed. It's 10:19pm here. I have a full day of painting in Puy l'eveque tomorrow- I hope to do one good painting of the city. Wish me luck.

My First Day of School

School started back in Curlew this week.  Last night I had an anxiety dream that I was frantically preparing to teach a combination class of high school seniors and first graders. Even though I am not back home in the classroom, I can't help but feel the buzz of Back to School excitement.

In honor of all those students, parents, and teachers back home I thought I would share an exerpt from an essay I wrote a year ago about my first day of school at Inchelium. The essay was in response to the question "Why did you choose to be a teacher?" I wrote about my trouble fitting in at Inchelium and how I went on to discover that standing and teaching at the front of the class was the only place I truly felt like I belonged....anyway, it's directed towards an audience of officials in Olympia who were in charge of grading my professional portfolio, so I won't bore you with the whole essay, but here's the part about my first day of school and why it is burned into my memory:
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            A white girl born and raised on an Indian Reservation has very little chance of ever fitting in. Although not impossible, the odds of having a sense of belonging are rare.  Basic outward appearances automatically create an obvious division among people that is extremely difficult ignore. In order to fit in, a girl must play her cards right. No, she must play them perfectly and a certain sort of luck must be involved as well. For instance, if a girl were born with dark, straight hair and deep-brown eyes, it would definitely help with the fitting-in process. If her natural behavior was similar to those around her, if she was to think and act and react like the rest, she might have an easier time being accepted by her classmates. Let’s say that, hypothetically speaking, if she were significantly gifted in the area of athletics, the people in her community might be willing to accept her for her ability to contribute to the local sports teams. With matching physical characteristics, similar mannerisms, and a supernatural athletic ability, a white girl just might possibly fit in. Unfortunately, for me, I struck-out in all three areas and have spent a large chunk of my life searching for a place where I truly belong.
            If I ever stood a chance at fitting in at Inchelium (the tiny reservation town where I grew up) I blew it- big time. My one chance to fit in was shot to pieces the minute I stepped foot on the bus- headed to school for the first time, my first day of kindergarten.
            Mom had spent extra time that morning combing my blonde hair and dividing it into pig tails. She talked gently to me as she finished my hair, tying each pigtail with a bright ribbon. She spent the rest of the morning trying to make sure that, in all my excitement for school, I had not forgotten to pack my box of Crayolas, my new PE shoes or my sack lunch. I’d heard so much about school from my older brother, Hunter, I anxiously awaited the time for him and me to go out the door and catch the bus. The time finally came. Mom walked us out the door, led us out onto the driveway, turned us to face the sun, and took a photo of Hunter and me- hand in hand, ready to start school.
            The bus’ diesel engine grew loud as it rounded the far corner of our dirt road.  A cloud of dust trailed behind it and, as it approached, I felt scared and excited at the same time. As it arrived at our stop, the bus lurched to a halt, the air brakes let out a hiss, and the bus driver opened the doors for us to come aboard. Hunter let me get on first. I climbed the three giant steps and waltzed down the tiny aisle to find a seat- a big brown seat for my brother and me to sit in.
            The bus pulled away from our stop and rolled down the road, my azure-blue eyes grew wide as I began to look around. My world had instantly expanded. I couldn’t get enough of looking around at the interesting sights that surrounded me. There were so many sounds to listen to, my ears felt overwhelmed. My hands instantly wanted to touch everything- the windows, the rugged metal siding, the vinyl seats. I was awe-struck. I’d heard that school was great, but I had no idea that the ride to school would be this incredible. I know now, that it was at that exact point in time that I realized life was worth celebrating- and each moment in it, even the small ones, were worth celebrating too.

            I could hardly sit in my seat as we traveled from house to house, picking up more kids. I’d hardly noticed the rest of the students on the bus since I’d been preoccupied with the wonders of the ride. We had one more stop to make before making the trip down hill to the school parking lot. At this stop, a grumpy high school student stepped on the bus, shuffled to her seat, threw her bag down, and sat with an obvious frown on her face. Her body language communicated a very clear message that she was not at all pleased with the fact that school had started again.
            After making the remarkable discovery that the school bus offered innumerable wonders to be cherished, I could not figure out why this girl looked do displeased. Didn’t everyone else see the wonders I did? Didn’t this girl see life, full of new opportunities, was offering her an opportunity to look around and be amazed? 
            It was at that moment that I, with eyes wide, looked at her, trying to interpret the expression on her face, hoping she would find enjoyment in the bus ride like I did. I gazed curiously and she returned the gaze. It took me a split-second to realize that the look she gave me was not friendly but rather one of bitterness and disgust.  Her eyes narrowed and her lips let out a low growl as she spoke.
            “Stare hard, retard.”
            I don’t remember much about the rest of that day.

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Side note: Most people in Inchelium are a lot friendlier than this girl ever was. Her cutting words, however, left a scar that has remained ever since- reminding me that the tongue is a dangerous weapon. This fact alone is one of the most important things I've learned. If we look at it that way, this girl played taught me my very first lesson on my first day of kindergarten, and for that I am grateful. Maybe I'll send her a postcard.

Joe Artist

My computer absolutely refuses to upload any Joe Artist pictures this week. I am not sure why. Until I can figure it out, there will be no Joe Artist cartoons on this blog site. Sorry!

I am spending tomorrow painting in a near by village that has castle remains from the 12th century... I'm sure that I can find SOMETHING to paint there. =)

Gotta go to bed.

When to Walk Away

After spending two full days in a sort of dream-like state, the time came for me to paint. Yesterday, I got out my easel, mixed my paints, put in my headphones, and started a small 8"x10" landscape. All went well for about 75% of the painting and then I ruined the entire painting with too much 'noodling'- just adding details, taking away details, getting nit-picky, etc. I ruined it or, as Sally said "you over-cooked it".

I usually have the sense to stop myself from getting too obsessive with my paintings- I usually reach a point where I put down my paintbrushes and say "I am happy with this one!" and walk away satisfied with the finished product. Yesterday, however, I just couldn't stop. There was so much to see, so much to put into the painting, so many details I wanted to include- so I crowded my painting and ended up with a muddy, confusing, quite hideous picture.

All artists struggle with knowing when to stop. Painters fight the temptation to add just one more flower, or one more leaf, or one more tile on the rooftop. Writers have to walk away from their stories and stop adding adjectives and juicy adverbs. Sculptors resist putting another finger print impression or dimple in their projects, and interior decorators have to stop scooting furturniture around. But WHEN to stop is the question.

Leonardo Da Vinci said "Art is never finished, only abandoned." My students back home have heard me preach this over and over again- and yet I still have trouble 'abandoning' at the right time. People often look at me funny when I say 'abandoned' like my paintings are somehow orphaned or uncared for. But the truth is, I think 'abandoned' means leaving a work of art to stand on its own strength- that a painting reaches a point where it can effectively represent what the artist is trying to communicate and adding unnecessary extras is like over-watering a plant: you think you're doing it a favor but your actions end up slowly killing it instead

I 'overwatered' my painting yesterday by adding details that didn't belong. Doing so, however, reminded me to practice a little artistic self-control. Today, my goal is to work until I can step back from my painting and say "it's ready to stand on its own". Then, I will put my brushes down, take my apron off, and go eat a croissant.

This is it.

The sun shone through an arched doorway- spreading sunlight across the courtyard. I could hear pigeons making their pigeon-ey sounds behind me. And then the centuries-old church bells rang that 7pm had arrived on time- signaling that my first full day in a midevil village was drawing to a close.
Sally entered the graveled courtyard with plates, utensils, and wine glasses.
"I'm afraid that dinner will be about ten minutes late. Would you like a glass of wine while you wait?"

The moment will forever be cemented in my memory as the moment in which I was pretty sure I'd died and gone to Heaven.

As you can probably tell from my description above that I am basically the luckiest person alive. When I applied to stay at this residency, I had no idea that it would be so incredible. Yesterday, after a long day of travel, Sally- the residency director- and I pulled in to the drive of a home straight out of a travel magazine and when she said "This is the house", I instantly burst into tears of gratitude. All this? For me?

After unloading my bags, Sally showed me my beautiful room and then the studio- my reaction to seeing all this was stunned silence and a heart full of appreciation. I kept telling myself to get a grip as I fought back more tears- but when Sally led me to the terrace to sit and watch a brilliant display of lightning that flashed from cloud to cloud across the valley, I lost it.
"Mom would love this.... She'd have a cow!!" I said as I wiped tears away from my cheeks.

For the first time in the two months I've been away, I felt embarassed that I have it so good. In my head, I know that I worked hard to plan and pay for this adventure, but I had no clue that it would be like this- you can't plan this, you can't pay for it. It is like...like a bottle of the most brilliant blessings has been opened and poured over my head. All I can do is sit in a sort of daze and realize that this, THIS is it.

The only thing that could make this better is if my friends, my family, my blog readers, all my encouraging loved ones were right here with me to enjoy it too.
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Before I post pictures, here's a summary of my travels yesterday:
3am: alarm went off
3:30am: I finally got out of bed
4:00- out of hostel and drug luggage down the bumpy Reykjavik streets
4:30- stood in rain until shuttle to airport arrived
5:20: arrived at airport
7:50: boarded plane to Paris
7:51: realized my seat reservation was in Business Select Class
7:51-8:00: repeated "leg room! leg room! leg room! leather seats! leather seats!" over and over again
8:00-1:30(Paris time): asleep-including drooling and twitching
1:35: chose to follow a large group of people getting off my plane.
1:36- realized that the large group of people had led me to baggage claim.
1:36:10- realized that since I was at baggage claim, it would mean that I would have to go out and around and back in to the airport and go through security and customs all over again.
1:37- hated life for a brief moment.
2:15: made it through security (again) and found my gate. Deliberately did NOT follow any crowd of people.
3:55- plane to Toulouse scheduled to leave
4:20- plane still hadn't left
4:35: plane took off- I silently panicked because our late departure would mean that I might miss my train to Cahors.
5:00: Chinese man next to me spilled orange juice all over his friend's lap.
5:50: touch down, baggage claim.
6:10: sprint to bus
6:38: Sprint to train
6:38-6:55: looked like an idiot trying to communicate in a language I do not speak or understand...attempted to tell the conductor that I needed to buy a ticket and didn't know what to do. All she said was "You're American, right?"
6:58-8:30- Train ride to Cahors- conversed with two friendly gals.
8:30-9:00: Car ride to residency
9:00: lightning show and Viv cried.
9:05: called Mom.
10:00 shower, photos with Juanita.
10:10: sound asleep.

I got up this morning to the sound of the 7am church bells. Sally brought coffee and breakfast to my little apartment, and I spent the rest of the day sketching and trying to wrap my mind around the fact that someone brought me coffee and breakfast. This is it.

Here are some pictures:

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 4am

I called him "Bongo and Baguette Dude"

I had just found out that I was in Business Select Class

When you fly 'Business Select' you can ask for two drinks... and they automatically give you two creams and sugars.
Chapter 3 begins
Tired after a long day of traveling.
My breakfast this morning.
Before.
During.
After.

My room.

The studio.

A few of my favorite supplies.

A view into the courtyard.

My first attempt at sketching here.

My second sketch for the day.