When I woke up the sky was just beginning to fill with light. Quietly getting ready and sneaking down to the living room I walked my bike into the street and saw Thaddeus descending on his bike from the Goat Gate. The bike I was borrowing from Thaddeus looked like a bad sampling of pastel and metallic colored swatches applied to an outdated and unwanted design. Everything about it clashed with the environment of Provence, but at this hour of the morning I didn't care I was just happy to get out into that landscape. Thaddeus had a short ride planned just to get us out into the valley and around to some nearby villages. We descended through Lacoste and went faster and faster through the cold air as it condensed over the white taped grips on my bike chilling my face as we descending into the valley. Getting further out into the valley the sun had risen enough that we were entering into its warming rays and the ride became much more enjoyable.

 

We were completely alone in those early hours except for the occasional passing farm truck or Paysan working in his field. Being down in the flatness of the valley I could really feel the landscape as it turned around us and I continually tried to orient myself to the majestic and distant Mt. Ventoux. It was the one thing that remained constant as we rode through the changing landscape. Its top appeared to be covered in snow but Thaddeus explained that it was completely barren and only covered with light gray stones. "It's one of the toughest stages of the Tour de France where a rider had died one year from exhaustion. The accent is 12 km and very steep. Its a full days ride to the bottom of the mountain and back from Lacoste." Thaddeus explained. From our position it looked so far away that it seemed inconceivable to get there by bike. The barren austere summit stood out like a beacon over the entire Luberon Valley.

 

Being down in the valley you felt different about the landscape. It was immediate and textural, full of fluxuations and the villages appeared to be less grandiose then what you would expect sitting on the steps of the chateau looking out on the valley. As we continued past the neighboring village of Lumieres on our way back to Lacoste we dipped in and out of pockets of shade and began our accent back up to Lacoste. Despite having worn the wrong type of shorts for biking I was very happy with the ride so far but now it was time to head back up to the village and Thaddeus told me I had to get "out of the saddle" to make it back up the hill to the village. Taking his lead I stood up on the pedals and really got my weight behind every kick back up to the village. Arriving near the post office on the lowest street of the village I thought I would never make it back but the satisfaction of accomplishment was great enough to keep me going all the way to the Assistants house where Thaddeus and I parted ways. Getting into the house some of the other Assistants were just beginning to stir around the kitchen as I came in flushed and glowing from the ride. Dropping the bike off in the living room I rushed up to my room to get undressed and shower before classes started. I left the house with my hair still wet and had enough time to go to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee before heading to the painting studio.

 

The classes in Lacoste were different each year as the faculty was invited from different institutions with the exception of Soulange and Denis Brihat who were respectively the French teacher and Photography teacher. The painting professor that I had to work with was a nice enough guy but another career professor without much to really inspire students with. I guess that wasn't his job though, he was here to teach the techniques, Provence would do the rest. Half the students were either Liberal Arts majors, which meant that they didn't know what they wanted to do and decided to play it safe, and the other half were being sent away by their families for the summer for various reasons. It was a mixed bag to say the least. After feeling nervous about the beginning of classes I realized I was way ahead of the game when some of the students had never even stretched a canvas before. Tristan was in my class and he had brought his music box with him although he wasn't playing anything yet. Everyone was setting up their space and my job was to take orders for canvas and gesso. The clatter of easels, stretchers, paint boxes, staple guns, and the typical art room chit chat filled the studio with growing volume. Gradually the familiar odors of turpentine and acrylic broke open the official seal of Art-Dom and the creative juices were ready to flow. The first assignment was to paint a landscape with a foreground relationship which was a view in abundance from the height of the village especially from the terrace of the studio. As the students set about positioning themselves for the best view I noticed Tristan stayed exactly where he was only changing his angle slightly to suit the task at hand.

 

There was so much excitement going on and no one seemed to have any of the inhibitions I felt looking out at the landscape the first few times. Everyone had clamored for space on the terrace and set up their canvases while sizing up the painting with a brush held out at the ends of their reach. Compositions began to take shape and brushes of oil and turpentine washed color over large areas establishing the artwork in its formative stages. Some students had been very strategic about positioning themselves with the perfect angles to create the perfect composition, other students were making clever interpretations of foreground by including their own easel and canvas in the painting, while still others were struggling the idea of foreground in general. The early stages of any painting provided a certain thrill. Before you start painting you have all the potential in the world, that gessoed canvas that you labored over will become the resting place for a great work of art that you can envision with great clarity. Then you start the process and realize that that great work of art is steering drastically off course. Later you lean into the work really ready to take control and get the painting back on course to what you wanted in the first place, but now your not quite sure what that painting actually was to begin with. Besides this there are certain qualities of paint and washed turp that settle nicely on the canvas for which your professor congratulates you further confusing your goal and removing you from your idealized work. Painting is a continual process of bartering and negotiation between your vision and what is actually on the canvas. Gradually with experience you gain more control of the materials but you never achieve what you expected, anyone who tells you otherwise is a stone faced liar.

 

Breaking the tension from the vexed exasperations of students realizing that they were not achieving their dream paintings I decided to step back into the classroom where music was coming from a mixed tape Tristan was playing while he worked. I stepped behind him to see how he was progressing and as I turned around him all I saw at first was a large grey area of paint and brushstroke on the left hand side of the canvas. When I backed up I could see what he was actually painting. There was a dramatic and abrupt wall of stone painted directly vertical to the edge of the canvas and off from its edge in the remaining two-thirds of the canvas there was a bright and rich landscape view that was unstrained and natural. I didn't say anything to him because I hated to receive comments while painting but later at lunch I told him that I thought he had a nice painting going.