My teacher, Ben Long is a bossy person. He’s a natural leader … decisive, demanding, forceful .. and also very loving. I tend to get along with people like that because I absolutely hate being the boss … I’m thrilled to be associated with someone who is willing to take the burden of leadership … and let me play with pictures and ideas and colors and numbers and words …. like a productive child.
We worked in the South of France one summer — five male artists (Ben’s usual disciples) … and me … the novice, come to painting late in life, non-French speaking, totally lacking in the requisite artist-ennui, horribly insecure, but simply too excited to give in to fear. We all encamped in Ben’s Roman era villa in tiny village of Foissac. I quickly realized that the time was rich with not just with art and culture, but also important rituals and requirements. I certainly didn’t realize it at the time, but it was my initiation into the life of an artist.
Within days after we arrived, Ben insisted on a group day-trip to Marseille … the official purpose of the outing was calamari at his favorite waterfront hangout. Bear in mind, traveling with Ben in the South of France is traveling with a famous person … there was always lots of attention, and fussing over him … also the best tables in restaurants, and trips back into the kitchen to watch the chef prepare something “special for the Maestro”.
But it turned out the other reason for the trip was to purchase two essential items for me — a beret and a knife — the compulsory uniform and tool. So after lunch we all paraded down the street to the little shop that sells one and only one thing — berets. We all crowded into a tiny, narrow, ancient store, high-ceilinged and dusty. All along the right hand side were windows with an unbelievable port view. On the left were floor to ceiling shelves with boxes arranged by size … and there was a creaky rolling library ladder so the shopkeeper could reach all the inventory. And Oh My God!!! the shopkeeper. He was an old man, stooped over and shorter than I. He was as grumpy as Ben … so naturally they greeted each other with hugs and kisses, pouty bottom lip snorts, and all sorts of chit chat. At one point I thought they were going to cry. Finally Ben instructed him to fit me with the proper hat (apparently that’s what happened … since they spoke in French I have no idea what was said). The merchant took the tape measure from around his neck, measured my head carefully, grunted, slid the ladder down to the end of the shelves, and climbed the old creature to its top. He brought down one beret … no, I did not have a choice … and fitted it on my head, pushing it down lower than I would have, to a place in the middle of my forehead and just above my ears, where it fit …. PERFECTLY.
We went to another shop for the knife … Laguiole sheppard’s knife .. with the traditional North Star and Napoleon’s Bee … and the non-traditional cork screw. Again, the precise item was selected for me … I had no say in the matter … I was simply told “pay the man, Cindy”.
My Lockhart StudioKitchen is chilly in the morning … we’ve managed to bring this little cabin a long way, but the heating problem is yet to be solved. Paint is harder to handle when the temperature is cool, but I can make that work so long as I can keep myself reasonably warm. Turns out, wearing a hat makes all the difference … along with my wooly gray sweater and magic Patagonia layers. And guess what … I happen to be blessed with a marvelous beret. Funny how that happened … I guess it’s true — the universe is perfect.
