Local artist falls deeper and deeper in love with Provence

By Jo Anne S. Wilson
Sun contributor
In the winter of 2003, I fell in love. I was living in one of five stone cottages on an old restored lavender farm in the Provence region of southern France. Several weeks ago, I returned from residing for 10 months at that same farm, and I’m still in love.
Like the human form of a love affair, this one started with subtle attraction and has had its ebb and flow for almost three years. I suppose you could say that the courtship is over and the flame of love burns with the steady heat of a mature relationship. I met wonderful people, both expatriates and native French, and the depth of my adoration for the country remains solid. I learned to separate the French from the government of France and fact from travel brochure hype.

My extended stay gave me time to paint the scenery, write about the people in the village, and truly experience life in France. In June and July, fields of lavender bloom with a luminosity I cannot describe. The rows of blossoms seem to vibrate in their brilliance. The air is filled with the sent of lavender and the buzzing of bees. Carts piled high with bunches of harvested flowers often block the narrow roads as they transport the crop to the local distillery for processing into lavender oil. These slow moving carts impeded my progress, if I were dashing off to meet friends at the café, but they served to remind me about taking time to stop and smell the roses, or in this case, the fragrance of lavender.
No place on earth is a real Garden of Eden, ask any Leelanau County resident what Glen Arbor is like in mid-February. There are inconveniences and tradeoffs in return for experiencing the beauty and culture of any area. Even the most handsome of all princes has his froggy warts.
I came to this region of southern France for many reasons, but mainly for the climate. In winter, there’s almost constant sunshine and virtually no snow. But non-stop sun and provençal blue skies come with a price, and it’s called the Mistral. This cold, northerly wind swoops down the Rhone River valley and clears the air, but it often blows with gale force, for days on end. The incessant wind can be most unsettling, as shutters bang, windows creak, and doors slam shut. I began to understand why legend has it that this interminable wind drove the artist Van Gogh to cut off his ear. In schools, children are given added leniency, when it comes to matters of discipline, during prolonged visits from le Mistral.
On April 30, I left Provence and headed a few hours north to the Ardèche — a region in the foothills of the Cevennes Mountains on the edge of the Massif of Central France. Here’s where Robert Louis Stevenson wrote of his Travels With A Donkey. I first came here, about eight years ago, with now deceased Glen Arbor artist, Suzanne Wilson.
I stayed the month of May in a centuries old farmhouse where Traverse City artist, Jean Larson (www.jeanlarson.com), spends most of her year. Her studio was once the barn where silk worms spun their filaments. The Ardèche region is more wild and rugged and much less touristy than Provence. No more fields of lavender, just miles of vineyards and limestone rock. As much as I love sunny Provence, the Ardèche will always hold a special attraction for me.
Since my return to my home in Traverse City, I’m adjusting to my own culture and tripping over the Frenchness that has grown on me like a third foot. I’ve stopped the automatic greeting I gave new acquaintances and friends in France: a kiss on each cheek instead of a hug or hand shake. Last week, I was invited for cocktails with friends. My hostess circulated with a lovely tray of appetizers. About to help myself, my eyes momentarily widened in dismay and confusion as she said, “Would you like a canapé?” You see, in France, a canapé, is a sofa!