inside/outside

October 13, 2021

In Avignon to enjoy some architecture and some lunch sitting opposite the ramparts built as defence in the 13/14C. They circle the town with a running length of approx 4kms and were wrapped originally so the city was moated. In some places the double set of walls is easy to see . . .

. . . wandering into Place Crillon and gazing upwards at the Ancienne Comédie d’Avignon the composition in carved stone above the entrance is intricate in content as well as craftsmanship. Beside the theatre a charming but also modest balcony . . .

At the Collection Lambert the current exhibition is ‘How to Disappear’ . . . make of that what you will . .

but good to see that the kids haven’t disappeared from the classroom.

Interesting pieces from Cy Twombly, Nan Goldin and Sol LeWitt amongst others.

In a little while

I’ll be gone

The moments already passed

Yeah, it’s gone

And I’m not here

This isn’t happening

I’m not here

I’m not here. Radiohead  How to Disappear Completely and Never to be Found

In the cours the writing is on the wall and outside the cours in Rue Violette something left for . . . or ruinée and I’ve been here before

A morning looking for birds organised by COGard https://cogard.org. The group met at Lac de Codolet where the river Rhone meets the river Cèze. A lake created when gravel extraction was needed to construct the Rhone canal. Looking N/W Camp de César is visible above Laudun https://www.beyond.fr/sites/cesars-camp-laudun.html.

The research centre at Marcoule forms a landmark – it’s a nuclear site and power plant . . .

. . . we heard bouscarlede de Cetti (Cettis warbler), chiff chaff, alouette, and saw cerf volant rouge (red kite), martin pecheur (kingfisher), pic épeichette and pic vert (lesser spotted and green woodpeckers), cormorans, hérons cendres grandes, cygnes, mésange à longue blanche queue (long tailed tit) where poplars and hawthorns border the lake . . .

. . . we were well informed too by Marion who led us to the whirlpool and the Barrage de Caderousse where choucas (jackdaws) nested in the drainage holes. Flotsam decorated the edges of the old Rhone and a few locals scavanged the timber detritus.

Sorry not to have added photos of the birds but so busy with the jumelles – maybe next time.

When we first emerged, we assumed

what we’d entered

was the world,

and we its only creatures.

Soon, we could fly; soon

we’d mastered its grey gloom,

could steal a single

waterdrop

even as it fell.

Now you who hesitate,

fearful of the tomb-smell,

fearful of shades,

look up – higher!

How deft we are,

how communicative, our

scorch – brown wings almost

translucent against the blue.

Deserts, moonlit oceans, heat

climbing from a thousand coastal cities

are as nothing now,

say our terse screams.

The cave – dark we were born in

calls us back. Kathleen Jamie.

Arles encore

August 4, 2021

This new urban landscape is refreshing – renovated industrial buildings, new landmark tower and parkland accesible to all until early evening – and stimulating in conception and realisation. read about it here

” its nearly cubist geometry, coupled with the spectacle of its 11,000 stainless steel panels, inscribes it definitively in the Arles landscape. Conceived as an ode to the ancient town, Luma Arles has become like a tower of Babel for modern times” says fisheye. ” It’s clear Frank (Gehry the architect of the tower) hates the French” a comment on Dezeen.

Existing buildings have been refaced . . . the end of the Grand Halle will be covered with wisteria in a couple of years . . .

. . . and inside a work of Pierre Huyghe ‘After UUmwelt’ where worlds with animals, artificial intelligence and materials compose their own stories – sculpture and video – and manage to instil a sense of familiarity in an imense space (5,000m2). Interesting floor too . .

In La Mécanique Générale, I was taken with the aroma from the bands and swathes of eucalyptus forming the soft structure for Kapwani Kiwanga – Flowers for Africa – based on images that show floral arrangements and, in essence, that’s what it was which were present at a moment of historical importance when an African country gained independence. The flowers and foliage are left to dry so the decay evokes history, nostalgia and a sense of melancholy showing the failings of modernity and political degradation – social transformation, disenchantment and collapse. Stunning.

The park is only recently planted so work in progress and difficult and unfair to comment at this stage.  I shall return  . . .

. . and have lunch under here again.

In the Drum Cafe in the Tower, some walls are made of sunflower pulp and concrete and the pipes are exposed . . .

. . . and in The Main Gallery also in the Tower, Maja Hoffman’s Collection/LUMA Foundation is an eclectic grouping of conceptual pieces and labelled impermanent so presumably more to see in the future . . .

The interior reflects the exterior perfectly. Arles and the Arlésiennes are lucky.

 

In a house which becomes a home,

one hands down and another takes up

the heritage of mind and heart,

laughter and tears, musings and deeds.

Love, like a carefully loaded ship,

crosses the gulf between the generations.

Therefore, we do not neglect the ceremonies

of our passage: when we wed, when we die,

and when we are blessed with a child;

When we depart and when we return;

When we plant and when we harvest.

Let us bring up our children. It is not

the place of some official to hand to them

their heritage.

If others impart to our children our knowledge

and ideals, they will lose all of us that is

wordless and full of wonder.

Let us build memories in our children,

lest they drag out joyless lives,

lest they allow treasures to be lost because

they have not been given the keys.

We live, not by things, but by the meanings

of things. It is needful to transmit the passwords
from generation to generation.  Antoine de Saint-Exupery  Generation to Generation.

And a post from before.

a verge or two

May 5, 2021

Oh, such delightful eruptions of iris this year on the road side – starting off in early April and full on in recurring displays through to May. It’s the outward curve in the stem of the plant set off by the cascading flower en double tier that is show stopping . . . seen in groups around the most modest sentiers. Of course, they love the drainage that a bank offers up. All photos from the roads and sentiers around the village . . .   

 . . . in some points a garrigue type planting has taken hold – a tapestry of cistus, thymes, lavandins, rosmarin, euphorb and aphyllanthes that looks like sisyrinchium, merge in a tapestry effect which can look shrubby and rough – many plants in this habitat have aromatic foliage and thus oils and monoterpenes will leach into the soils from leaf litter. This asserts the dominance of a plant over its companion and ensures the characateristic open spacing and, so restricted flora in the garrigue. 

And sometimes opuntia (prickly pear) throw out an aria on a bank situation (drainage again) – soprano, so middle C to high A, methinks – just to disconcert and mix in the exotic. 

From up close of the verges into longer views and back to understanding what this small in size,  agricultural in commerce, landscape here ( St Pons la Clam) is about – vines, apricots and cherries and asperges . . . 

from dawn to dusk the gatherers are at it. Lifting asperges – green and white – for the marketplace. The plastic that is used to force is a horrid development – presumably in the past sacking was employed . . . or the produce wasn’t forced.

The fruit is turning red already and promises much. 

In another environment, but not far away, this little blue flowering gem was noted in the verge – buglossoides purpurocaerulea – it’s a borage – but the little sweet thing below remains unnamed. I think its lamiaceae . . . 

 . . . and saw it wandering around St Gervais, near Bagnols, on the route to discovering Les Célettes, a charming hameau with good vineyard, Domaine Sante Anne, and with a forgotten but discovered again feel.:

Of course the poem stands as it does and now the term ‘weed’ is known as the right plant but in the wrong place but my thought on selecting it is that ‘they move in and colonise, if the environment suits them, and that’s what I love. Ah plants, so much more beautiful than human beings. 

Long live the weeds that overwhelm
My narrow vegetable realm! –
The bitter rock, the barren soil
That force the son of man to toil;
All things unholy, marked by curse,
The ugly of the universe.
The rough, the wicked and the wild
That keep the spirit undefiled.
With these I match my little wit
And earn the right to stand or sit,
Hope, look, create, or drink and die:
These shape the creature that is I.  Theodore Roethke

epitaph: roadside in the Camargue today – iris pseudoacorus in fosse plein d’eau. 

hope springs eternal

January 2, 2021

I hang my head in shame – refuse to blame covid or indeed political issues – and promise myself that in 2021 I must try harder . . .

to think about and organise and produce more posts to keep sane and hopeful. Today, January 2nd, it’s cold, windy and a tad grey – even here in the south of France – as the photo shows, but I appreciate the composition in the quickly snapped photo of the upper garden, the fore shortening and pixelation both of which have given the image an abstract quality. I appreciate and revel in the tones . . .

. . . as in the big view, the tones in winter are more beautiful and harmonious than in other seasons. The vines are mostly pruned and stand silently like battalions waiting to charge . . .

shame about the turquoise plastic collars around the new plants but they add a touch of something . . .

a cluster of poplars by the stream have the similar quiet attributes of clematis still now after scrambling along the verges – the fluffy seedheads still hanging on . . .

. . . returning home this winter musing is thrown up in the air like a jugglers ball when the persimmon greets me and shouts out ‘always to be blest’.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me. Emily Dickinson

bamboos and beyond

November 3, 2020

It’s been a while since the last post and, also, since the last visit to La Bamboueseraie a couple of years ago – how bizarre that the images are almost the same – eye to brain to camera to laptop to wordpress . . . and how strange that I selected a Neruda poem too. . . .

. . . and I see I mentioned the ‘endless photos of tall, upright” stems but I find them still so beautiful and evocative. The density of the spreading crop ensures complete shelter and seclusion from the surroundings. For a historical overview of this estate open the post of four years ago.

Installations from Pascale Planche using a few poles woven into ‘rhythmical dances that set a ‘ribbon of bamboo in motion. The ribbon rises and falls, sketching out its path and coils through space. It opens windows onto the landscape, providing an array of recollections in the minds and imagination of each person’. Materials used: phyllostachys bambusoides, viridiglauscens and Flexuosa; rubber and annealed wire.

The youngest member of our party working out how the bamboo water feature works  . . .

and he was sort of impressed with the laotian pigs in their well constructed, exotic habitat.

The Cornus controversa ‘Variegata’ never disappoints – elegant, stately, self assured – along with the bamboo tunnel which received a small thumbs up.

Then we took the steam train from the small Bamboueseraie station on the Anduze – Saint Jean du Gard line which runs across viaducts over the Gardon nudging the edge of the Cévennes and saw fire ravaged but spectacular scenery as opposite to the landscape of bamboo garden as possible. The poem, well, it reminds me how the touch of an experience simmers for a while and then can grow, and overwhelm, in a delightfully meaningful way.

“I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.” Pablo Neruda  If you forget me.

As of early May, we are allowed to walk for an hour or within 1 km from the abode. My usual pace is 4/5kms an hour and rather cheekily I’ve developed a walk in a quadrant that sort of fits the government rules as well as satisfying personal need. We are lucky here as interesting and absorbing walks are possible in all four directions and, as my habit is to look to the distance and so ‘far’, as well as to plants at close quarters, and so ‘near’, then I thought to catalogue an easy and favourite walk to look back at in the future. Out of the village to the east on Chemin des Rosiers/Chemin des Huguenots before moving south through the vineyards and noting on the verge Gladiolus (above) which I think is G.illyricus as against G. byzantinus and just a single clump. Plenty of Lathyrus clymenum (below), a member of the pea family, clambers wherever possible . . .

. . . from here the view to the village acros cereals and vines through the late morning haze. And then turning 180 degrees to view the statuesque fig orchards where foliage and fruit have suffered recent cold temperatures resulting in a late show . . .

. . . the elder (Sambucus) is very floriferous this year so opening up for gallons of elderflower cordial while, low down, clover romps attractively along the ground.

The old mill was accessible four years ago but now just a landmark slowly disappearing and seemingly going to sleep under encroaching ivy. However, it is here that the orchestra, chorus and prima donnas fill the air – frogs, woodpeckers, nightingales – a big presence this year – and hoopoes create the musical cloud around and overhead while below there is scuttling in the bottom of the hedges and a fluttering higher up. Stand and listen . . .

. . . unassuming dogwood flowers now and the view to the village is framed with dwarf oak. Onward down to the river Tave – more a stream here – the track is sheltered and shaded with overhanging branches of ash, walnut, alder and poplars . . .

. . . it’s a delightful track and very welcome after the open areas in full sun. Onwards to the west and the banks supporting the fields are full of a country style mix of coquelicots et chardons – early summer is sublime n’est-ce-pas?

Retuning up to the north and views in the distance of the village and church – and then the place, or the square filled with plane trees, empty now but maybe soon – filled with folks – where I live (house in background) and home again but off out again tomorrow.

On lockdown, I’m back reading One Art Elizabeth Bishop Letters, for possibly the fifth or sixth time – I love her work. And her fragility is so close. EB revered Marianne Moore having met her in her early 20’s while she was at Vassar and the friendship and mentorship continued for decades. I find M Moore’s poetry challenging on the academic level but revere it and the fascination remains. So:

is some such word

as the chord

Brahms had heard

from a bird,

sung down near the root of the throat:

it’s the downy little woodpecker

spiralling a tree –

up up up like mercury:

 

a not long

sparrow-song

of hayseed

magnitude –

a tuned reticence with rigour

from strength at the source. Propriety is

Bach’s Solfegietto-

harmonica and basso.

 

The fish-spine

on firs, on

somber trees

by the sea’s

walls of wave-worn rock – have it; and

a moonbow and Bach’s cheerful firmness

in a minor key

It’s an owl – and – a – pussy –

 

both –  content

agreement.

Come, come. It’s

mixed with wits;

it’s not a graceful sadness. It’s

resistance with bent head, like foxtail

millet’s. Brahms and Bach,

no; Bach and Brahms. To thank Bach

 

for his song

first, is wrong.

Pardon me;

both are the

unintentional pansy – face

uncursed by self – inspection; blackened

because born that way. Marianne Moore  Propriety

 

 

 

 

what’s happening = not much and no excuses. Me, and the cat, have been lolling around trying to fill our days. He’s much better at it than I am. I was brought up in an industrious household where folks were always busy doing six things at once and shame on you if you didn’t follow suite.

We have had serendipitous tulip planting in the pots in the garden.  Interesting as I thought I bought soft pink and dark burgundy tulips but have ended up with strong reds and yellows . . .

. . . no matter and it’s good to be shaken up. The Bengal crimson rose is in full throttle – the cane and plant pot hood denote the position of a dahlia – such a jolly rose and marvellous value. Really I love it to bits.

Am also totally gone on the combination of Hardenbergia violocea (tender as an Australian native and so needs fleecing up in cold months) scrambling through Solanum laxum ‘Album’ (a South American native), evergreen, fast and easy to manage. It’s a romper.

Other containers are in party mode  – well it’s easy before they suffer from high heat  – before drying out – and there’s the perfume too. The osteospermum has a strong aroma thats reminds me of a lovely spliff . . .

. . . Iris ‘Bel Azur’ from Cayeux  – the only really decent Iris suppliers – with Solanum rantonetti, a marvel – goes on and on – and easily manageable.

At the allotment or ‘jardin’ across the square/ place,  I notice that I should contemplate hanging a new gate . . .

. . .  but we’re all ready to go. Although it looks bare under the earth  potatoes and sunflowers waiting to thrust through. Never have my grass paths received so much attention . . .  but looking upwards to the boundaries, my neighbour’s plot has espaliered pears that are showing beautifully . . .

. . . but the other neighbour needs to do some pruning here.

Across the small path, Chemin des Jardins by the lavoir, a plot that has always until now been a home to a couple of horses. However,   no more – what is this instead? some discussion on a possible art installation or just new trees . . .

. . .  good news to us all is that the lavoir is full.

Fumitory abounds in the verges and a delicate low sedum over the walls. I will do better. Somehow . . .

It was a perfect day
For sowing; just
As sweet and dry was the ground
As tobacco-dust.

I tasted deep the hour
Between the far
Owl’s chuckling first soft cry
And the first star.

A long stretched hour it was;
Nothing undone
Remained; the early seeds
All safely sown.

And now, hark at the rain,
Windless and light,
Half a kiss, half a tear,
Saying good-night. Edward Thomas Sowing

 

In the Soulages rooms at the Musée Fabre – a retrospective ‘(Re)découvrir Soulages. Montpellier is where he studied and he has given works to be hung and kept in the city . . . .

. . . there are many ‘outrenoirs’ – paintings that have evolved from applying layers of paint – some textured – where the light is reflected. The intense weight and deepness of tone magnify the effect. Interesting to see the exploration of technique and result.

I am still obsessed with figures in space but I become obsessed with the canvases too.

Other colour tones are shown – this shows the use of brou de noix (walnut ink) – ‘L’acrylique et le brou, plus fluides tous les deuxque lapeinture à l’huile, permettent un étirement, d’où cette qualité spontanée de la trace’.

L’accord noir/bleu est un classique de la peinture, qui a toujours retenu Soulages: ‘Le rapprochement d’un noir et d’un bleu, me confiait-il en 1996, toujours quelque chose d’assez sensuel, on s’y livre avec une certaine volupté”.

Now I feel ashamed to stick the camera up to the canavs to take details – what was I thinking – how crass. But, perhaps I could learn something from the composition . . . . such vital, joyful work – so positive hence the choice of poem.

 

The days of our future stand in front of us
like a row of little lit candles —
golden, warm, and lively little candles.

The days past remain behind us,
a mournful line of extinguished candles;
the ones nearest are still smoking,
cold candles, melted, and bent.

I do not want to look at them; their form saddens me,
and it saddens me to recall their first light.
I look ahead at my lit candles.

I do not want to turn back, lest I see and shudder
at how fast the dark line lengthens,
at how fast the extinguished candles multiply.  Constantine P Cavafy

At the collection lambert in December looking at works from the permanent collection.

The breakthroughs that occurred in the 1960’s and 1970’s and the new ways of considering art that they led to, fostered artistic practices in the last 60 years and nurtured Yvon Lambert’s vision

‘Minimal art, conceptual art and land art, fields in which Yvon Lambert was one of the very first proponents in Europe, start off this new itinerary at the museum, in the company of some of the main players in these foundational artistic movements’.  – from the website.

For me the interior and exterior compositions are as compelling as the installations, photography, video and small amount of figurative painting . . .

     

. . . in front of the window, a minute silk pillow (Pillow for the Dead by Rei Naito) in a glass case shrouded in reflection of the plane trees in the entrance courtyard and close up of a pile of wooden masks dumped on the floor of one of the rooms . . .

. . . looking again into the courtyard, a grandmother walking and holding a small baby in her arms – she looked charmimg in the space.

In a corner, smashed tea glasses tea vases  (Erratum by Latifa Echakhch) and a glass sphere in the right angled gallery on the top floor where most of the figurative painting was hung. It was a relief to get here – the circulation is problematic but interesting . . .

. . . a few installations use sound. This very large head (Kamoya by Marguerite Hummeau) groans  – I preferred it in reflection . . .

. . . looking down at some pots in a courtyard and yes, it is an installation,  and looking up at the canopy of planes so hence the poem by Alison Fell.

In the ghost-mist above the rooftops

planes stalk one another

 

in spirals, punctilious,

Like the rakings of a sand-garden

 

In which someone might sit

and count his blessings.

 

Some bits of luck these last

Few days: ground has a good

 

fell to the heels, hair

Likes to crouch under it hat,

 

fingertips nest nicely

In their woollen gloves.

 

It’s the nose’s luck to be

stuck so firmly to a face,

 

it’s the mind’s luck to live

in the limitless house of the head. December Lightyear  Alison Fell

 

Son oeil, à l’horizon de lumière gorgée,
Voit des galères d’or, belles comme des cygnes
Sur un fleuve de pourpre et de parfums dormir.

(He sees, on the horizon filled with light,
Golden galleons as lovely as swans,
Moored on a broad river of scented purple.)

Je me mire et me vois ange! et je meurs, et j’aime
—Que la vitre soit l’art, soit la mysticité—
A renaître, portant mon rêve en diadème,
Au ciel antérieur où fleurit la Beauté.

(I can see my reflection like that of an angel!
And I feel that I am dying, and, through the medium
Of art or of mystical experience, I want to be reborn,
Wearing my dream like a diadem, in some better land
Where beauty flourishes.) Stéphane Mallarmé

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back to visit a project designed some years ago (previous visit and related post is here). The estate sits on the edge of town, Monte San Savino, with the majority of the productive land – vines and olives – to the south west. The drive sweeps around climbing up through the land . . .

. . . to the main courtyard. These clients have rather exquisite taste and furnish and decorate their house unusually and perfectly.

The old orto/ potager/vegetable garden sat behind these imposing gates. It’s a walled plot . . .

. . . and 15 years ago became the pool garden.

Lines of Acer campestre (field maple) originally planted for the functional attribute of using the young twiggy branches to tie in the vines. It has decorative attributes too, of course.

I see I was very taken with the cork oaks previously. Obvious functional uses but what glorious trunks . . .

. . . and the cupressus make fine full stops. We planted these below to make a screen from the town but also to allow views through from the house. These have been shaped . . .

. . . the rounded canopy of mature pines contrast the vertical habit of the cypress. Irrigation canals run discreetly around the site which is terraced.

Long breaches make air spiral

as tangibly as the heartwood.

Its’ only human to think the olive

speaks, that there are mouths

singing, screaming, even, in the gashes

and you can’t help but see a figure

twined in the trunk or struggling out.

Layers of xylem and crushed phloem

are other ways we see ‘tree’:

there are always these speaking

gaps to put a fist or a heart. Jo Shapcott  Trasimeno Olive

 

We also went to assist in the olive harvest and gathered 500 kgs over the weekend which made 90L of oil. Hundreds and hundreds of litres will be made from the 10,000 trees.

The youngest member took some time out on the odd occasion . . .

. . . but was very interested in our visit to the press ,Frantoio Mazzarrini, working 24 hrs at this time of year. Lovely trip, friends.

 

Close to the gates a spacious garden lies,

From storms defended, and inclement skies:

Four acres was th’alloted space of ground.

Tall thriving trees confess’d the fruitful mould;

The reddening apples ripens here to gold,

Here the blue fig with luscious juice o’erflows,

With deeper red the full pomegranate glows,

The branch here bends beneath the weighty pear,

And verdant olives flourish round the year.

The balmy spirit of the western gale

Eternal breathes on fruits untaught to fail:

Each dropping pear a following pear supplies,

On apples apples, figs on figs arise:

The same mild season gives the blooms to blow,

The buds to harden, and the fruit to grow.

Here ordered vines in equal ranks appear

With all the united labours of the year,

Some to unload the fertile branches run,

Some dry the blackening cluster in the sun,

Others to tread the liquid harvest join,

The groaning presses foam with floods of wine.

Here the vines in early flower descried,

Here the grapes discolour’d on the sunny side,

And there in autumn’s richest purple dyed.

Beds of all various herbs, for ever green,

In beauteous order terminate the scene.

Two plenteous fountains the whole prospect crowned:

This through the gardens leads its streams around:

Visits each plant, and waters all the ground:

While that in pipes beneath the palace flows,

And thence its current on the town bestows;

To various use their various streams they bring,

The people one, and one, supplies the king. Alexander Pope (mod version G. Greer)     The Gardens of Alcinous

 

 

 

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