Les Rencontres D'Arles

Prior to Swan suggesting we meet in the South of France

before going to Barcelona on holiday

I had never heard of the annual photography festival in Arles.

Every summer since 1969, this Provencal town has been the meeting place for the fine art photography community.

 Last year, 100,000 curators, researchers, collectors

and enthusiasts made the pilgrimage.

Even without a festival, this ancient walled city on the banks of the Rhone is quite extraordinary.

The famous light and 17th century architecture inspired Van Gogh and Gauguin to set up residency.

I see the tortured genius' thick brushstrokes

in fields of sunflowers and the ochre walls of a sidewalk cafe.

It is here his madness lead to a severed ear and near death at the local hospital.

Today, Arles' layered history has a refined veneer and provides a  magical backdrop to

the evolving field of contemporary photography.

One of my favorite aspects of the festival is the unique venues, twenty five in all.

Thick stone walls, vaulted ceilings, stain glass windows juxtaposed with visual narratives. 

This morning we took a shuttle to a majestic11th century abbey on the outskirts of town.

Tomorrow, a defunct 1840s rail yard, home to Gehry's LUMA Foundation's new resource building,

is on the itinerary. 

L'art est partout

Spilling out of restaurants, galleries and pop up venues into the narrow streets of Arles

are artists, curators, and photographers -- professional and amateur.

Whimsical gold sculptures of animals adorn random corners.

No signage or information about these gilded forms are given. 

Art is literally everywhere, every surface a canvas.

In the dappled afternoon sunlight,
even with the onslaught of tourists, tranquility hangs in the air.

Voices are subdued, art is appreciated.

Life is damn good.

A Dip in the Fountain

After snapping a picture at Place de la Republique.

I found shelter on a shady ledge around the center fountain.

A few seconds later I heard a gurgle:

my camera, which I had set down next to me, slid into the pool of water behind me.

Who knew the stone surface was slanted, creating a perfect slide for DSLR?

Incredulously, I fished it out, water dripping from every surface.

Arles is teaming with photographers this week for the festival so lucky me

one quickly came with instructions on how to salvage my water logged device.

My camera sits in an air tight bag of white rice, a moisture absorbing grain.

Unfortunately, the process could take days or weeks.

It dawned on me that France and my camera are not suitable.

This is the third consecutive time I've been in the country and have been unable to use it.

First time was a focus malfunction,

last year it fell from an unstable cafe table shattering a part, and now this.

Warped sense of humor you have, universe.

C'est la vie.  I will adjust.  All is perfect as is.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

After two planes, one taxi, two trains and several delays I arrived in vibrant Arles.

With no taxis in site, and eager to be at my destination,

I yanked my luggage down the cobble stoned promenade along the glittering Rhone.

I expected to be greeted with a gush of hot humid, July-in-the-South-of-France air,

but a cool dry wind welcomed me instead.

Lily, the delightful owner of the house we rented on AirBnb, met me

with an offering of fresh fruit, chilled water and wine.

The early evening sun was still high in the sky as I explored the town's narrow passageways.

Deep shadows were cut into Roman ruins and streetscapes made famous by Van Gogh.

Ah, a much needed vacation has arrived.

The pause button on my routine has been pressed.

Cinespia

In a movie montage, June in LA would be depicted by an outdoor screening

at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery.

A veritable summer marker:

picnic on the Fairbanks Lawn while listening to a top DJ's latest mix.

This is just a precursor to the main course, the opening credits of a beloved Tinseltown flick.

Last night we screened The Usual Suspects.

Some find the event creepy, even sacrilegious, but I find it an apt way to pay tribute

to those who came before us to this strange city in the desert in search of telling visual stories.

Heidi Duckler Dance Troupe

Weeks ago, on Kim West's Instagram feed,

I saw arresting photos of her canvases in an abandoned swimming pool.

Curiosity piqued, I learned she was preparing the scenery for a dance performance.

That's how Scotch and I found ourselves trekking to Agoura Hills on a Saturday night, cooler filler with provisions, for an unexpected evening of experimental art.

Tucked into the Santa Monica mountains,

the round pool at the Peter Strauss Ranch was at one time the largest west of the Mississippi.

Drained, long ago, of water and frolicking children it remains a beautiful eyesore,

a relic of its former self.  

The unconventional setting was magical.

As the sound of ethereal bells filled the sunken amphitheater, 

three dancers, cloaked in bright robes and vintage bathing capes, 

descended the hill above the fenced in structure,

and made their way into the pool.

A stunning splash of movement and color as the sun set,

a flawless summer kick off.