Arman in his New York Studio 1993
My mind and body raced from London to Paris to Rossiniere, and south to St. Paul de Vence. It was an exciting piece of my life. I seemed to be living a lifetime of nano seconds. I felt as if I was static. The earths’ rotation was circling faster with every revolution. It must have been a dizzying sight to see from outside the universes’ snow globe. In another way, it was like tumbling down a one hundred foot wave into depths unknown. Neptune empowered every fish in the sea to freeze. The stars in the universe, the ocean’s stillness, allowed my mind to focus on the important things: Taking moments with my camera.
When my mind finally rationally slowed, the world slowed. I was standing across from James Baldwins’ home. I was waiting for him to peek through his window. But my taxi arrived first. The twelve minute ride from St. Paul de Vence to Vence was riddled with esses. These road trips no matter how short or long always remind me of George Orwell. I conveniently borrow parts of his titles: ”The Road to…”, “Coming Up for Air”, “Homage to…”, Down and Out…”. The adventures and the self examinations seemed to stir my heart and stimulate anything I have left in my brain.
With Orwell in mind, everything seemed to slow and fall into focus. Not just my eyes but what my day might be like. Sadly I did not know what to expect. So I anticipated the return to my little hotel on the hill of St. Paul de Vence. My favorite soupe de poisson with a saffron Rouille and Gruyère would be my reward.
Father and Son: #Antonio and #Arman Fernandez
When I arrived at the estate/studio of the famed French artist Arman Fernandez (Arman), I was greeted by his father Antonio. He walked me into the property. Everything about me seemed electrified. I was realizing that not only was my drive a spectacular visual, but my photo session was going to be thrilling.
Most people don’t realize that as a photographer in foreign territories I am alone. Alone has a massive appeal, because it is like facing a dinosaur: You only have what you know and the rest you will learn over time to fend for yourself. If you are right now asking, “Does the author talk to himself?” The answer is “constantly”. Thank god I am the only one who can hear my thoughts.
Arman in his Vence, France studio
#Arman #artist #french
Arman introduces himself. He acknowledges the introduction from the New York Times critic John Russell. Though I have traveled thousands of miles for this photo opportunity, Arman seems anxious and in a hurry. So we begin.
The morning dew winked at me from the tops of just about every garden delight. We began our session inside one of his studios.
Most of my subjects deflect questions about their worlds. They beg me to fill in the eloquent emptiness between two artists. So I talk about the artists I have photographed. I feel if it keeps the session flowing then why not.
I continue my snippety snap snaps and share moments that I am particularly aware that Arman would appreciate: stories about New York and Andy Warhol, Cesar, Kurt Schwitters and Pierre Soulages.
After a bit of time, the father (Antonio who lives on the property) invites us for a bite. We share a cold burgundy and nip at fresh Tuna Nicoise. We seemingly talk for hours. We are acutely aware it is time to call for a taxi.
Arman leads me over to a dark wooden box. He suggests that I close my eyes and place my hands inside. It reminds me of when I was at the Menil Collection in Houston. The curator invited me to place my hands inside various Joseph Cornell boxes. She urged me to move pieces around. It was an extraordinary feeling of power and imaginary forces at work.
So here I am in Vence, France, playing a similar game. Arman suggests I pick out what I can’t see but what tactilely sensationalizes the moment. I lift Achilles’ sword from the box. Yes there is no truth in this. I am today a fabulist. But a sword I did hold. Apparently I raised a warriors sword! Why not assume it was Hectors’ or Achilles’?
Arman explains that he and many art world “talk of the town” personalities went on an archaeological dig. The dozen or so travelers brought back treasures from another time in history, from another time in fiction.
So today I won the battle. I was a photographer alone in the French wilderness. I had a memorable day. I stepped into my taxi. I began to dream of Trojans, Greeks and Persians as my taxi hit the curbs around the esses. My dream vanished like Barbara Edens’ smoke in “I Dream of Jeannie”.
I stood in front of James Baldwin’s home with my Trojan weapon from antiquity in hand. I yelled. “Jimmy I will find you one day”. I took a nice long shower. I sat sipping from my spoon a delicious “Soupe de Poisson avec Saffron Rouille and Gruyère. I dreamed of The Trojan Wars. I dreamed of Homer’s Paris. I was momentarily Achilles. I was in the most inestimable way a chronicler of our cultural history.
One more glass of regional red wine allowed me to sleep with my dreams.
#Arman #ArmanFernandez