Comment: Letter from Provence

Hudson Review, The, Summer 2003 by Wilkin, Karen

Dear H,

It's February, and I am in the Luberon, in the village of Lacoste, home of a venerable art school now part of the Savannah College of Art and Design. I'm here as a visiting critic for part of the winter term. We will be an intimate group. The staff members who picked me up at the Marseilles airport told me that only five students, all women, braved the unpredictable weather-the male students who signed up lost courage at the last minute. I paid enough attention to their en route explanation of the setup to notice that Craig Drennen, the young American painter who is the term's resident instructor, was articulate and bright, while his colleague, a young Mexican sculptor named Tirso Sigg, thanks to an expatriate Swiss grandfather, was shy and less verbal, but mostly I was fixated on the landscape. I haven't been in this part of France for a while, so I needed to concentrate on the familiar bony hills, the sparse vegetation, the ruined watchtowers, and the clumps of pins parasols. I was even glad to see the industrial zone west of Marseilles and the polluted Etang de Berre, glittering in the winter light.

Lacoste is tiny and austere: a handful of severe stone houses lining stony streets zigzagging up a steep slope, with occasional stairways between levels. Cars can negotiate only the lowest streets. Above the town, at the end of the uppermost street, is the ruined castle of the Marquis de Sade. Below is a wide flat valley, disciplined by the geometry of grapevines, punctuated by scattered farms and houses-prime tourist and expatriate country, these days, but from this vantage point still seemingly rural and unspoiled. In the distance are snowcapped mountains, and across the valley, a slightly larger town, like Lacoste reflected in a magnifying mirror. Founded in the seventeenth century by Huguenots fleeing violence after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, Lacoste doesn't appear on maps, unless they are very local indeed. It is not, I am told, considered to be of any architectural significance. The refugees first sheltered in the caves that riddle the steep limestone hill, later building houses around them. Most of the structures, including the studios, include caves-ideal for installations, although none of the current group of students seems tempted. (Tirso, who, as resident technical director, coordinates restoration projects on school buildings, tells me that he finds most of his material for sculpture in their abandoned caves-with the approval of the administration, he quickly points out.) The larger, mirror image town is Bonnieux, the Catholic counterpart of Lacoste; it appears on maps.

Soon, the vines will have reddish sprouts and the almond trees will begin to bloom, but now everything is bleached, brown, monochromatic. The enormous, cold blue sky is filled with scudding clouds. Craig walks me through the town, from the house where I am lodged, by the Porte des Chevres, down a steep descent to the studios near the clock tower, then past a building with a courtyard garden (a school residence). We veer right, just before plunging further to the post office (open irregularly), to note a former restaurant now used for school meals. I try to remember where it is. We retrace our steps-a steep climb-then head downhill again, at an angle, past the boulangerie, its sign faded almost into illegibility, and up a stone stair to the lounge. We disturb a student prone on a sofa, watching a taped movie; she untangles herself from her quilt, stands up, politely introduces herself as Jessica, and welcomes me. (When I meet the rest of what I christen l'equipe Lacoste-Dana, Magen, Natasha, and Katie-I discover that they are all as well-mannered and engaging; I discover, too, that-unusually for young artists-they have clear notions of what their art is about, which makes me think well of their instructor; he proves to be a thoughtful, ambitious painter who is notably clearheaded himself, so it makes sense.)

Heading downhill again, we pass another school residence and a narrow building with nice detail around the windows and "1600-something" carved above the door (the school office); opposite, more studios and school buildings undergoing renovation. An affable, proprietary dachshund sits by a massive door. "This is Leonard." As polite as Jessica, he escorts us to the end of the street, where we double back to the center of the village. "It took me a few days to figure it out," my guide says, kindly, sensing my disorientation. Later when I set out on my own, I find it's easy to navigate, despite the apparent sameness of the blank stone walls and forbidding doorways. There are only three streets. The Lacostoix, with whom I exchange greetings on the rare occasions when I see them, mostly stay indoors, apart from the small knot of children who riot daily in the schoolyard below the village. The few local shops and restaurants catering to summer visitors are closed for the season. Only on market day in the post office square-meat, cheese, and confit de canard-do I see more than three local inhabitants at once. Lacoste seems stage-set-like, slightly unreal, especially since competing bells with differing opinions strike each quarter hour twice, eight minutes apart.