Somewhere in the South of France

My first painting in France wasn't on a canvas but on my Volxwagen Camper Van.

The van is ugly yet beautiful, small but perfect, loud yet peaceful. Its outside shell is spray painted with long streaks of colour, so when seen from a distance, you'd see the best of France, a field of wheat and lavender, which always felt like freedom to me. Distant trees, vibrant green, and a rugged cypress, alone and out of place, tall like a tower. I'm a painter in Europe who lives in a Volkswagen. "A hippy lost in France, trying to find San Francisco," as some locals have teased; Un hippie perdu en France, essayant de retrouver San Francisco. I just laugh along and think to myself, I would never go back.

An afterthought: but I'm so alone.

So I paint, become lost and stop, and wonder if I'm trying to make something profound out of nothing. I find myself wondering on lonely evenings; how to capture life's seemingly meaningless moments. I look out the windows, it has a lot of those, and I see that France is altogether beautiful, large yet intimate, loud but peaceful, and I'm in the middle of it all. Me.

Just pick a window.

The one straight ahead of me, a framed image of the setting sun. It was just beginning to sink below the sea, spreading its last bit of colour across the sky before turning dark. While out the front window, I could see a bit of the road curving up a hill and becoming lost in the distance. I turned around and looked behind me. Framed by the window on the side double doors was a woman, caught in the remaining light of the day. I picked up my pencil and started by drawing a square.

My second painting in France was done on a canvas. It was of a woman framed by the window of my van. She was glowing almost gold with her hand on her head, trying to keep her sun hat from blowing away. Is she beautiful? I thought, or was it just the moment? Was it her eyes, which looked like precious amber, that brought me to that word? Or was it the way her pale yellow cardigan took flight behind her, billowing and flapping like wings. Maybe it was how she reminded me of a Barn Owl, with her hauntingly elegant beauty. The way her sharpened eyes accentuated her cheekbones, which mimicked her jawline, lifted and strong. She made me wonder;

was she admiring or judging the sun?

She lowered her head and walked, and despite the spot she once occupied now being empty, I continued to paint as if she was there, and I finished and named it The Barn Owl. But the question remained as I leaned back to look at what I had made,

was she admiring or judging the sun?

With strained eyes and dark views, I went to bed. I curled up under heavy blankets stained with paint. Morning soon came, and as I stretched and rose up from the covers, in the space a woman once occupied, a father and son now sit on a bench.

It's sunrise.

My third painting in France was of a man and a boy, presumably father and son. Upon first glance, it seemed as though they were just sitting side by side, watching the sunrise, perhaps on an early morning walk. But the boy lifted his hand to rub his eyes, from what I assumed was tiredness. He did rub his eyes, but instead of dropping them by his side, he kept them pressed to his face. A tear rolls over the hills of his fingers and down to his wrist. His father turns to him and gestures strength with his eyes.

Or was it pity? Why were they there?

The man was crying too. I began to paint with the assumption they would only be there for the time it takes the sun to rise. I mixed skin tones with golden yellows and peachy browns for each stroke that made up the boy's hands which covered his face, and sparkling whites, for the tear trail. For the father's eyes, a spectrum of blues and greys, and browns for the strands of hair in his raised eyebrows. The sun had risen, and they were still there, and throughout the day, the sun rose higher and higher, it's above their heads now, and they are still there. I moved on to paint other things. I painted the trees that were around me. I painted a yellow balloon caught in one of the bushes, low to the ground, tugging on its string, wanting to lift off and float upwards. I painted the view that people stood and admired, and a barn owl inspired by the woman who admired or judged the sun. Now the sun was setting, and the father and son were still there. I thought of painting them again, but the sky was getting darker, and I needed somewhere new to wake up to in the morning. So I drove an hour east. Perhaps if I had stayed a moment longer, I would have seen the woman again. She'd hold onto her hat and look up to the sky while her cardigan fluttered behind her, and I'd take note once more of her haunting beauty. Perhaps if I had stayed for a few more days, I would have seen the father and son come back. Maybe I would realize it's something they do every Sunday.

Something would click, where I would wonder if this is someplace that people come and go for reasons unbeknownst to them. Like a breath of fresh air, I'd realize that's exactly what I was doing.

Had I stopped there to understand something? Did they see me as I saw them? But I left. I didn't stay.

It was dark now, and without thinking too deeply, I pulled off the road and stopped for the night. I'll see where I am in the morning. The yellow light in the van's center was on as I turned the car off and climbed into the back. As I situated myself amongst the blankets, I attempted to gaze out the window. But with the sun far gone and the moon hidden behind trees, I caught a fleeting glimpse of my reflection. The light dims, and with it, the defining lines of my face. I had seen the beauty in France and painted it on the outside of my van. I had seen it in the woman with precious stones for eyes and wings made of a yellow cardigan. I saw it in the boy who cried with his father on a bench, but had I forgotten about myself?

I must ask; am I a part of this beauty? Have other eyes gazed upon me and thought as I do for them?

What are you thinking?

What are you feeling?

How are you?

Are you okay?

What brought you here? To this moment, right now.

France continues to whisper its beauty,

And the woman either admires or judges the sun,

And the boy who has tears in his eyes leans on his father shoulder,

And I struggle but lay down a line on an empty canvas that would soon become the memory of my face, as a reflection in the window of my camper van.

Am I a part of the beauty someone else sees in the world?

For now, as I sit alone, I can only hope.

But...Celui qui vit verra; He who lives will see.