It’s very rare. Maybe only three times in the last 10 years. We live in one of the sunniest places on the planet. So when it happens, when the clouds disappear the entire mountain, the Sainte Victoire, it is extremely disorienting. My heart knows it’s there, but my eyes send a wobble to my knees.
Growing up in Minnesota, the seasons were very clear. It didn’t take long. I’m not sure I completely understood in Kindergarten, but by the time I transitioned from first grade to second, I got it, the seasons would change. They would always be there, one waiting to lift out of the next. I probably worried when I was only five. That was my nature. I would have asked my grandpa in the field. Then ran to my grandma in her kitchen. Then nestled by my mother’s knee for final assurance that summer would come again. And it always did.
Each day when I make my morning walk, when I see it, the mountain, I know the love will always be there. Strong. Sturdy. No cloud or change of season can take it away. Oh, I still look, not so much out of worry anymore, no, I still feel nestled…but just to feel it a little more, with heart over eyes I see it. Love remains. Ever.
I used to claim that my feet would never leave the sidewalk. City girl. Through and through. Such pride in that. And it was fun. It was great. I loved that girl. Brisk steps. Heels on cement. Click, click, faster and faster. Starbuck’s in hand. Purse on shoulder. Phone in other hand. Grand.
I baked a cake in my French kitchen. Not just any cake. It was Italian, or maybe Spanish, or both… I don’t know, I’m an American in France now…it was something deliciously different. It was slow and deliberate. My phone doesn’t work in the kitchen, no need for that. No Starbuck’s across the street. Take the time and bake a cake. I do that now. And I love this girl too.
I separated eggs, and creamed half and beat the others, and crushed the fresh picked almonds, and stirred, and folded and pre-heated, and waited. Patiently, almost. And I won’t claim I am only this girl — patient international cake girl — but I am this girl. And I can be. And I can still love New York, and Chicago, Paris even. And I can be fast. And I can be slow. And I love it all.
I want to try new things and gather them up with the old and create fresh realities, every day. I don’t have to be one girl. And I won’t judge any other girls, or women, or mothers or workers or friends. Nor men either. We are put here to explore. Explore streets and forests and lives and kitchens and cultures and humanity.
So I celebrate this girl. (Sometimes with cake!) I celebrate this day. This she. Knowing I am a part of it all. Learning, trying, becoming…forever on my way.
The first time I visited New England was with my mother. I was just out of college. Up until then all of my “vacation” time had been used to have surgery. To say we both fell in love immediately would not be an exaggeration. The main street was lined with seemingly freshly painted white houses. Porched and welcoming. A street sweeper (by hand) waved us in. Washed windows revealed the contents. Clothes. Beautiful clothes for sale lived in this house. My mother looked at me and beamed. We walked the white stairs and opened the door. Was that the slight hum of angels singing? Or just my mother’s heart.
It was all like this – this understated elegance. Lobster on paper plates. Lawns mowed. Cars washed. Nothing gilded. Nothing shouted – it wasn’t necessary, it showed.
I visited again. Several times. I have never harbored a New England address. And though I may have never actually “there,” I have lived in it, here.
There are so many gorgeous places around the world. I have been lucky enough to visit so many of them. And as the saying goes, “if you’re lucky enough to be here, you’re lucky enough.”
I have, in the past, been guilty of waiting — waiting to be happy if I was in the right place. I’m learning, daily, to create those places, those feelings, that joy, that comfort, in the exact place that I am. Making the hotel breakfasts. Dressing up to go to the grocery store. Eating slowly. Seeing the day for the first time, because, aren’t we all? Today is really our vacation from yesterday. Our journey towards tomorrow. I’m going to take those photo opportunities along the way.
The electrician was here the other day. He finished his job. I don’t know his name. But I invited him inside. He vacationed for a few brief moments at our kitchen table. A cup of coffee. A plate of cookies. I smiled, hoping, for these few moments, that maybe I was his New England. He asked where I was from. And, as so many people do, asked which place I liked better, the US or France. How could I explain that I was trying to live in the best of places. That I carried a piece of it all within me. That I was a French breakfast in a New England town. A relic of Rome. Dancing to the joyful music in Spain. Dangling my feet in a summer Minnesota lake. Standing in front of my own painted “Mona Lisa.” My heart jimbled at the thought. I could hear the angels softly sing, my mother now one of them. “I love it all,” I said. And meant it.
My grandfather was perhaps the first to teach me about color. Each year he planted in the black dirt. He worked under blue skies. Prayed under gray. And with the daily stroke of his hands turned the field from green to gold. It was the most beautiful canvas I had ever seen. Were it not for him, would I have seen it? I can’t be sure.
I often speak of the Sainte Victoire mountain. It rests in our daily view. Cezanne was perhaps the first to point it out to the world. Painting it again and again. Showing its beauty in every light. Dominique was the first to point it out to me as he drove me from the airport. Would I have seen it? Would I have felt it? Would I have painted it without either of them? Probably not.
Georgia O’Keeffe had her own mountain. Her own “Sainte Victoire.” She painted the big mountain (as she called it) again and again. Braving the heat and the cold. The solitude. The doubters of women. All to show us the beauty of what was around her. The beauty of what she saw.
I suppose all of it was unlikely. Seemingly almost impossible at times. But this is what gives me hope. This is what enables me to put my grandfather, Rueben Hvezda, alongside Paul Cezanne. Alongside Georgia O’keeffe. To write about him. To write about my grandmother making kolaches and quilts. My mother dressing in the crispiest of whites, even on her most crumbling days. OH, my beautiful mother! Were they artists? (…a rose by any other name…) They took what was in front of them, inside of them and made it beautiful. Not only showing me, but showing me how.
So I make the pictures with paint and words. Each daily stroke, with brushes of Rueben and Elsie and Ivy — my open fields, my sturdy mountains. What are we here for, if not to show each other the beauty? The beauty of living.
You have something. Right here. Right now. Live it. Something beautiful will come. The world is waiting to see.
Slipping and clinging to the silky nyloned leg of my mother, slowly navigating table by table of no doubt excellent food in this potluck feast, still searching, longing, hoping to pass somewhere near the comfort of my mother’s dish — this is perhaps the best way I can explain what it’s like to begin navigation in another country.
In so many ways, you become a child again. Everything is new. You struggle to form grade-school sentences at the grown-ups table. Some will speak slowly, loudly, like your handicap isn’t limited to just the language. You’ll hear the dreaded, “It can’t be translated…” — the equivalent of “one day you’ll understand…” And you wish for the speed of this understanding. And within that wish, without your childish knowledge or permission, time passes in a blur. And suddenly your new wish is that it all slows down.
I continue to learn the language. Set the table. And I taste the food. Even make the food. And I can see it now, not as a handicap, but a gift. I get to be a child again. It is not out of fear, but joy, that I get to say, “Everything is new!”
We visited the Sainte Victoire Mountain again the other day. Climbing to Cezanne’s viewpoint, complaining about the noise of the nearby weed wackers, step by step the park didn’t seem all that special, and I turned around to say something to Dominique, but the words were sucked away by wonder as I saw it, again and for the first time, this beautiful view! The Sainte Victoire! Not only was it so very special, but I felt special, because I got to, get to, see it as a child. The struggle is the gift. And for one slow and glorious second, time had no hold, no power, I breathed, blinked, and I thought, “Look, Mommy, I’m here!”
I have climbed the Sainte Victoire mountain twice. Quite an elevation for these Minnesota legs! I suppose most people would think the hardest part is going up. Maybe I did too. But it wasn’t the case. Sure my muscles struggled, strained, even sang out a little, but it was on the way down that I cried, both times. Maybe it’s the weight of responsibility. This having “been to the mountaintop.” This knowing what it took to get there — not legs, nor muscles, but the heart, the will, the courage of all those that carried me before. Grandparents and mother, teachers and friends. Poets and preachers. Teammates and competitors. Painters and authors. Stories in every every voice and color. We don’t get anywhere alone. So I cried on the way down, fumbling, stumbling toward grace — not sad — it’s just that view, that view from gratitude is pretty spectacular!Dominique’s grandson had a paper to write on Martin Luther King. In English. Finally, I thought, I could be of assistance. I had seen these mountaintops. It’s difficult to find your worth in another language. When the children around you have a larger vocabulary. But this was my territory. School. Writing. An American story. In English. We worked through his paper together. Word by word. Step by step. He did well. What a view!
I think we focus so much in this life on how to climb up. And yes, that’s important. But we must not lose sight of what needs to be done once we get back down. What do we give? What do we share? Whose hands do we take as we turn around to make the climb again?
I stumble through this language, this life, certainly, even scrape my knees on this promised land, but oh, the view, this glorious view from top to bottom, spectacular!
I’ve often wondered if Cezanne hadn’t seen the beauty in fruit, in the mountain, would I have seen it?
My grandma didn’t have matching dishes. I don’t remember the table ever being “set.” We knew the contents of the cupboards, and we grabbed what was needed. A plate. A fork. A glass. As children we drank out of these multi-colored aluminum tumblers. They were indestructible. You could dig a hole with it in the dirt to bury a treasure, wash it out with the garden hose, then fill it with milk and Nesquik – chunky style because you didn’t have the patience to keep stirring. The color of tumbler chosen worked as our first “mood rings.” Blue was sad. Red, you had a temper. Green was kind. Gold, surely a winner! They could be swapped, dropped, thrown, and fit perfectly into our sweaty, chubby hands. So much adventure. So much beauty.
I’ve seen them now, these tumblers, in antique stores. Over priced, surely, but never overvalued. I smile because I did see it. We saw it together — before anyone told us it was beautiful, that they were beautiful.
My grandma never went to France. I doubt that she knew of Cezanne. But make no mistake about it, long before I studied in school, she taught me about art appreciation. How to see the beauty of everything. My real education.
When I paint the most simple still life, (my long lost treasure uncovered) I think, yes, I would have seen it. Not because of Cezanne, but because of Elsie. My grandma Elsie. I hang the painting, my heart knowing, she did make it to France after all.
To date, being only six years old, it was probably the furthest any of us had seen, looking out over the surrounding plains of Inspiration Peak. It was our debut field trip as first graders in Washington Elementary. True to its name, we did feel inspired, gazing at nature’s finest (within busing distance of Alexandria, Minnesota.)
Then Mrs. Bergstrom sent us down the steep hill. Wait…what? Before I had even decided I was swept up in the descent. Once a few of the boys began tumbling down, we all seemed to fall like dominos. Nervous laughter filled the air. Bumper tennis shoes above our heads. Dirt in pony tails. Skirts flying. Arms flapping. “Had I gotten the word wrong? What was the meaning of inspiration?” I thought as we clumped together at the bottom of the hill.
Mrs. Bergstrom waved her hand, beckoning us back. Some flew up the side like gazelles. Others struggled. I remember thinking, “this isn’t so bad,” as I reached the 90 percent mark. I could see Gerald Reed sitting on the top edge. Maybe I relaxed too early. He was saying something and I slowed to listen. I began to slip. I spun my legs faster. Like a cartoon character, I remained in place while my legs circled frantically beneath me. The only thing rising was the dust. I could see his mouth still moving. “Why was he talking???? I was fighting for my life here!” Others passed me. I was so close…why wasn’t I moving??? With each breath I sucked in a little more dirt. Gerald cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Sloooooowwwww Dowwwwwwwnnnnn!”
In all of our classroomed days, he had never lied to me, so I stopped. Surprisingly, I didn’t fall. I put one foot in front of the other. Slowly. Firmly. And reached the top of the peak. He shook his head and smiled.
It may not come as a surprise, but I can still work myself into a panic. Getting caught in the whirl and twirl of the day. Kicking up way more dust than necessary, I remind myself, “a little less fighting for my life, and a little more living it, please.” I smile. Brush the dust from my legs. And breathe. The view from gratitude is always inspiring!
We pass by the Sainte Victoire mountain almost every day. I can see why artists like Cezanne painted it again and again. Every day it changes colors. The shapes are magnificent from every angle. I want to capture all the variations, but the problem I face is finding the unobstructed view.
There is an angle that is absolutely stunning on the road to Meyreuil. We have pulled over so many times, trying to capture it with different lenses, but something is always in the way. The freeway. The road. The poles – oh, the poles. The poles with their wires. If I want to create the image, I will have to paint it. See beyond the obstructions and paint what I love so dearly.
I’m willing to do that for my art. I hope I’m willing to do that for my life, for the lives of those around me — see beyond the obstructions. And there are many. It’s easy to get lost in the politics, the religion, the language, the color, the age, but I want to see beyond, into the hearts and minds of others, and even myself. Because look, just look at the view, beyond all those poles and wires, it’s pretty amazing! YOU are amazing! Can you see it?!
“Inspire” is a tricky word. I think a lot of people want someone or something to inspire them. They want the “other” to do the work. But I’m not sure that can really ever happen. You have to want to be inspired. The receiver has to do the work. For example: living here in France, I can say that I receive a lot of inspiration from the Sainte Victoire mountain. Now, this giant rock isn’t really doing anything. It sits there. But if I watch it – watch it change colors in the different light, watch it turn black and gray under a cloud, turn so white that it’s almost lavender in the summer sun – if I do this, really see it then I am inspired. If I climb up its steep and rocky slope, breathe from my belly to my toes, rubber my legs, pump my arms, reach the summit, then really let it take my breath away – then I am inspired! If I paint it. Photograph it. Wave at it as we drive by – I receive all that it has to give. Inspiration is in the work of the receiver.
Cezanne painted the mountain countless times. He painted a simple apple again and again. He created his own inspiration. Some might look at my sketch book and ask, Why are you painting so many apples? Paint something different. But you see, I am. Every apple IS different. Every apple is unique in its shape and color. But you have to want to see it. And I do want to see it. I want to see the extraordinary in the ordinary. I want to find the inspiration in everything – every day. It is on me to find it. Feel it. Use it. Enjoy it.
Today’s yellow sun jumps from the sky into my hands and onto the page. Nothing wasted.
