One cannot be comfortable without a thorough exploration of one's environment - not if one is a predator. The shadows must be prowled through, explored, kicked open and then back closed again, and every scent on the wind sniffed for signs of trouble and food alike.
     It is no different with Hansl.
     He has come down from the castle, peering at what he passes with a casual eye, intent bristling beneath the surface as if he might meet strange cats or dogs on this exploratory ramble. Each shop window is peered into, each alley peered at, with two eyes; one attuned to the artist's vision, the other to the hunter's.
     So where is this, and where am I? I am not lost, except in my own mind, hein? It will be an interesting thing to see - if I can find my way through myself while finding my way through this village...
     Art. What is art? Who am I? These burning questions. Why not add a universe on top, as the cherry atop the existential sundae of my wandering philosophical crisis? What is love; is it knowable, findable? What stories do I have to tell, images to show through the open window? Is the window open or am I painting through the glass - or on the glass? Life... don't talk about life, Hansl, you will only confuse yourself.
     And so, obedient to my final instruction, I shut down the intellectual war machine and I go to work. I will find what I will find, and then I will return, placid, blank and empty, the eternal canvas, ja? I have been reading too much philosophy and religion. It is time to stop, Hansl. Or time to drink. Ja, a drink would go very well.
     He is clad discreetly and impeccably, in his favored black and white and grey. Black linen trousers in deference to summer's heat even after the sun has set; black jacket to match and a grey silk shirt. Black shoes, and a single white silk handkerchief tucked away loosely, casually, in the breast pocket. That it is casual is an improvement. It has not been ironed and creased...

     For all things, there is a Beginning...
     For old things, there is always rebirth. What might have become another small ville on the edge of extinction -- its children gone to the city or to war, never to return as has happened to many European hamlets -- is, instead, a thriving community. Though the hour of the hunter-artist's stroll is after sunset, as it must be, he does not find a sleeping ville. Dinner is several hours away yet. The hours between the small afternoon snack, a small (nearly imperceptible) nod to the concept and civility of the British afternoon tea, are filled with people closing their shops, reacquainting themselves with their loved ones, and enjoying the cooling of the afternoon's progression into early evening.
     It is the hour of the Familie, and they are all together, in their homes and out of them, wandering the swept alleyways (they are the cleanest alleys in Europe) and the equally swept by-ways that allow pedestrians to come and go as they please, and in the most French of ways to savor all of the experiences around them.
     The restaurants Trente Ans and L'Orangerie are cleaning their exterior tables, preparing for those who will join them for dinner. Neither restaurant is large; they do not need to be a supermarket. They do not wish to be. They will see the regulars that they see every Thursday night. That is who they cook for and serve, though the wandering tourists -- and the city in summer is full of them -- are welcomed.
     There are no shortage of tourists. The rebuilt chateau, once a series of half-dismantled towers and walls removed by Richelieu and other vagaries of Time, now stands as a beacon to the adage: All things old can be new again. Its cream-stoned limestone towers and blue slate peaked roofs speaks to the Americans of Sleeping Beauty -- though Sleeping Beauty's Chateau d'Usee is nothing like this one and is some kilometers away in another part of the Loire Valley altogether.
     They come here for Jeanne d'Arc, though the fireplace she once knelt before, in the presence of the Dauphin and court, now stands in the owner's bedroom. Some come for Rabelais. Others, merely to see yet another castle on yet another river in the Loire Valley. There are so many. Scarcely one trip is sufficient. But this is now the grandest, and it shines with a vitality that the others lack as they sit vacant on the plain.
     The vibrant mortal community has attracted, over the past twenty years, a vibrant immortal community. Mortal men and women have relocated here for the good schools, the low crime, and the small ville feel that Chinon provides. The immortals have come, pulled to a bright light like all moths. Of these, Frederic de Champenois is one. He is one of several artists, old despite his face and young despite his years, who have come to call Chinon home.
     All things old may be new again...
     Frederic sits not at a bistro, bar, cafe or restaurant stoop, but in the center median of the Rue Voltaire, the main road that passes down below the Medieval Quarter and serves as the major avenue across the bridge over the Vienne. In the median there is a statue of Voltaire, and he is perched at Voltaire's feet, dressed in blues and whites -- blue jeans, white shirt, blue jacket. His hair is dark, curled with indifference, and he is smoking. And sketching.
     Ahead of him is the traffic moving on the two lane highway, this Rue Voltaire, going to and from Tours. There is the Bank of Lyon and its always busy ATM. There is the convenience store that is not at all convenient. And there is another, smaller road back up the hill that leads to the butcherie.

     I am on the outside and I am looking in. But then, that is the role of the artist, ja? Strangely, I do not mind. Much.
     He is wandering. A tourist himself, even if now he is living here, come to stay until - who knows? Hansl wanders; he meanders, he allows his feet to carry him wherever they will, until they slow to a stroll, to a stop.
     An interesting place to be. In a way, it is Art, ja? To sit at the feet of immortal Voltaire, in and of itself - but perhaps I am mistaken. Still, why not find out? If I am to remain, then I must learn. And an education comes from a wide variety of places - ja?
     He is slow, Hansl is, watching the traffic move across the highway. At this time of night, traffic is less than it might otherwise be, and thank whichever god one believes in for that; he threads his way through gaps with studied speed only. No ungainly sprint and sprawl, here, but the measured pace of someone who has had to cover ground before. And it is thus, unruffled, in no disarray that a German too arrives at Voltaire's feet, with a cool, calm nod that is not unfriendly.
     "Bonsoir."

     His fingers are blackened with charcoal. His nails are cut quite short, to give the charcoal dust nowhere to hide. The ash of his cigarette is likewise employed. Where it falls, his fingers smooth it into the grain of the paper. His features are more modern Gallic; there is no thread of the barbarian in him, nor none of the Norman's largesse. There is nothing outwardly grand about him. He is a student of Then and a student of Now, with an academic build and a carelessness that speaks of intellectualism.
     He glances up not because he hears you approach (though he did) or because you speak (though he heard that, too) but because you are in his frame of picture. Leaning back against Voltaire's bronze leg, Frederic de Champenois halts his drawing. "Bonsoir."
     His eyes are brown, dark like espresso at the bottom of the cup. And though his face is not remarkable, there is an energy behind it, a brain behind it which could be called compelling. He appears to be a young man in his early 20s. But you know by the look in his eyes, by the energy that is around him that looks are deceiving.
     He does not halt drawing for long. You are simply worked into the foreground. "Are you visiting Chinon," he says it more than asks it, glancing up and down even as he did before you arrived, only when he does his attention is on you more than on the buildings and street behind you. "Like everyone else right now, mais oui? The traffic is always bad in the summer, the lines are long, and all you want is a coffee." He smirks a little at the native's rant on tourism. "I am a cliche, non? A French artist complaining about tourism. Ah well, we have made our capitalist beds, ne c'est pas?"

     "A tourist who has been invited to stay, rather." He is German and he is incapable of hiding that he is German. His voice, even if not his accent, betrays it; his posture, his coloring, his everything. His clothes at least are Italian, but the contents could have come from Berlin at the height of the Great War.
     Is it disturbing to you? He does not assume so. It is not in his demeanor. But he watches you, as he watches everyone, to see how he is met, how he is received. He smiles, though, hands folded now behind his back. "If it is any consolation," Hansl offers politely, "I am a German artist. Perhaps not a very good one - but there it is, ja? I like coffee. Tourists - I have not made up my mind on them. But I suppose that they are a necessary evil."

     There is a confirmation in his face and he sets his drawing aside. His blackened hands are folded without regard for his clothing. They are unimportant in the grand scheme of things. "You are Hansl." Do not look surprised, his eyes say, It is a small village.
     "I am Frederic of Champenois." He looks to his hands and gestures with a charcoaled wave. "I would shake your hand, but then your hand would be as black as mine. Pull up a leg of Voltaire," he offers in invitation. "He is bronze, he will not mind." He does not smile to excess, but his voice carries a constant level of dry humor.
     "I believe we are... related." He speaks of blood, of Familie, but not of mortal lineage. He leaves it at that. "It does not take long for word to get around. It is, simply, a matter of proximity."
     Frederic unfolds his hands to knock the ash off into the grass. He breathes in the smoke, lets it curl just above his curling lip and then he blows it away. "I have been here myself only a few years. We are all tourists. Do not let anyone else tell you any differently."

     "I am Hansl." There is confirmation in the repetition, awareness. He is recognized. Whether this will be good or bad in the long run remains to be seen. He takes the offered seat on the bronze, acknowledges the offered but not offered hand, and in contemplation he sits.
     "Many are related, ja?" Hansl offers mildly. It is a neutrality. Until he knows how he will be regarded, he makes no overt moves, no overt maneuvers. "I have been ... settling in. When one lives somewhere, one needs to have an idea of where one is living. Even if it is a form of - tourism of longevity, a long-lived but still temporary thing. How are you finding it, here?"

     "Chinon... is like a kind of Elysian Fields for artists. I stop short of calling it paradise, but it is close." He twists, putting out his cigarette on Voltaire's foot with a whisper of apology. "In Chinon, there are no guilds. There is no one telling me what I should paint or what I should draw or how much my work is worth. Or not. The Benefactor," his eyes point to the chateau, "...that is what we call him, he subsidizes studio space. We can work, free of charge, in a space, with materials. We have formed a co-op, very egalitarian, to manage shows. All of this, without any interference. Chinon asks of us nothing but to create."
     When he speaks, he becomes animated. His eyes shine in excited light, and his hands gesture, pinpointing and punctuating each emphasis. There is a sudden passion to his energy that enlivens him. He does not blush -- he does not know the magic -- but his passion, his feelings are evidenced in his energy and expression.
     "It is not like Paris. In Paris, my work may be seen by many more thousands, this is true, where there are fewer eyes in Chinon. But what difference does that make if I cannot get a show? If I cannot please this guildmaster or that guildmaster? If I have not kissed the right cheek. Or the left cheek. There is less grandeur here, but there is more freedom. I did not fight the revolution for anything less than that freedom."
     Frederic de Champenois reaches into his jacket to fetch another cigarette. Dark eyebrows lift and he gestures to you. Care for a smoke? "We can afford to be open, oui? We are not competing with one another. There is no contest, nothing to win. There is only our own ...need to create that pushes us. There are eighteen of us now." He lights a cigarette for himself. "All of us refugees from Paris. Who knows, in a hundred years? Maybe there will be no more artists in the capitol."

     He listens without judgment and with little comment, searching your expression with pale blue eyes and little animation of his own. Stolid. Observing. Unyielding, perhaps, but not unfriendly. When he speaks, it is sudden, almost abrupt.
     "I have been in Paris before. I did not care to remain. I do not choose to return."
     Three sentences. He has said them before - written them, in fact, to someone who made so bold as to inquire if he were considering it. Now one hand comes up, raking absently back through the close-shorn blonde locks. You have given with your words an idea of your age, your 'place' in time and space, in history. He has a notion, now, the context from which he might act, speak.
     "Sometime if I may," Hansl offers mildly, "I would like to see this co-op. Only if it would not be intruding. I am a guest; I am very blessed by that. But I am not unaware of the responsibilities of the guest, ja? Tell me, what is your preferred medium?" Let us talk about Art.

     "Of course," Frederic nods, his energy relaxing yet again. He puffs on the cigarette a moment before knocking ashes to the grass. They will disappear in the soil or on the cement. "I am sure the others would like to meet you. You have been here a few nights, yes?"
     You are staying with the one they call The Benefactor. Prince Plantagenet. There is only one ruler in Chinon; there is no council of elders. Just the one. And you are in his auspices, his good grace. Such would get you an invitation regardless of the city.
     "Perhaps next week, if you are available. I will give you a tour of the studio spaces. Introduce you to the others. We all live near to one another. There is an old manor house, I believe it belonged to a mistress of a king at one point. We live there, each with a separate apartment. It is like an artist commune," he grins at that notion, smoke silking between his lips.
     Very egalitarian. Fraternity. Freedom. Yes, he is of his century, there is no doubt about that.
     "My medium? I started out as a painter, oils. Then acrylics. Now, I am more and more in illustration. Graphic pamphlets, novels. I have illustrated de Sade's Justine. It looks like it will be published. Illustration is a way to convey both art and information. Politics. Intellect. That appeals to me. And what about you? What is your preference? Your medium?"

     "A few nights," Hansl agrees quietly. "Five nights, ja. Not yet a week, though," he smiles a little, "I will probably be here a while yet." He nods to the idea of 'next week'. Again he absently brushes his hair back from his forehead. You are all for the egalitarian. He, contrariwise, has a belief in the rank and file. To each his epoch.
     "I have never visited a commune," he continues, casually for him, drawing one foot up along the bronze absently. "I am a painter, myself. Watercolors. Oils. Acrylics. A bit with computers, ja, but mostly with acrylics and oils. I like working with texture. I have done some sculpting as well - and I miss it, but paints are more portable."
     Not since he smashed his last marble piece in his frenzy of grief in Paris has he touched the stone. His fingers twitch slightly, then still again; the thought is put away.
     "Even with painting, sometimes it feels there is something missing. I do not know what, yet. Perhaps someday."

     "I have never tried sculpting," Frederic ruminates upon the smoke that leaves his mouth. "I do not know that any of us will ever be complete. Completion is perfection. Should any achieve that? Well, then it will be time to go to heaven, yes? There will be nothing left to do." He smiles in his dry way, a scratch in the sand to go with his dry humor. "I do not think any of us on this earth are in danger of that."
     "Meet me at the Trente Ans," he nods up the hill, again to the chateau and to the restaurant in the Medieval Quarter. "It is not far from there. There is a good bar nearby. It is old, small, and on the edge of ruin. It is a complete delight. We want it to remain open, so we meet there like in the old days to do business. As if we were all still students at university." That amuses him.
     "I will be there at eight." And so the date and time is decided and an introduction is to be made. Frederic glances at you, the burning end of his cigarette becoming like a flashlight. He can see your features in the low light it provides. "Did you ever attend university? It is much like that. Only the drinks are better. There are men, women -- all artists, various media, one roof. It is interesting. We pool our resources together to rent gallery space or spaces at an art show. Like an appellation for wine. It is not so different."

     "All right," he agrees without smiling, nodding. It is strange to him. He will meet you, but it is strange to him. Egalitarian does not work for him - but he will observe, and see what there is to be seen. Clearly, it works for some. It works for you. "I will be there."
     He rises to his feet, bowing stiffly, slightly. "For now I will continue my walk. I bid you good evening, monsieur. Good luck, ja? As we who pursue art must all have." Hansl almost smiles at that. "Good evening to you."

     "Bonsoir," Frederic de Champenois nods as you rise. He takes up his pad and his charcoal again, his cigarette lighting his way. And he returns to his sketching. In the foreground, a figure takes shape. A tourist approaches the statue of Voltaire, facing the past and the future in the same moment. Behind him, traffic moves in shadowed blurs, punctuated by sudden illumination...

Posted by rowan at June 03, 2007 08:56 PM